The courtyard smells of wet cedar and old blood. Dawn's mist clings to the statues of long-dead gods that ring the forest citadel, their blank eyes watching as five trembling children are herded barefoot onto polished stone. Rainwater pools across the tiles, turning every step treacherous.
A masked master steps forward, twin blades crossed on his back. His voice is calm, almost bored.
"Strength is a fool's lie," he says. "Leverage, timing, and balance—these are the truths. Today, you learn how a body breaks."
He does not wait for readiness. A wooden blade whistles through the air—one of the older boys has already leapt at Aru, desperate to prove himself.
Aru pivots on the slick tile. The boy's momentum becomes a weapon against him. Aru snags his sleeve, drops his weight, and turns—using his own hip as a fulcrum. The world flips for the boy. He slams into the mud with a crunch, water and blood spraying across the stones.
Another child rushes him from the flank, blade sweeping low for his legs. Aru hops over the strike, twists midair, and lands with his hand gripping the attacker's elbow. A quick shift of balance and a sweeping leg sends the boy skidding backward. Aru pins him with a shoulder lock, twisting just enough to draw a sharp gasp but not enough to cripple. The masters murmur quietly among themselves.
The largest child bellows and charges like a bull. Aru sidesteps, catching the boy's wrist as he thunders past. With a spiral turn, Aru wrenches the joint and uses the boy's weight to hurl him headfirst into a mossy pillar. The wooden sword clatters to the ground.
A final opponent—a wiry boy with quiet eyes—feints twice, then attacks with speed and precision. Aru parries the first blow, slides under the second, and steps into the boy's guard. In one fluid movement, he hooks a leg behind his opponent's knee, grips his collar, and sends him spinning to the floor. Aru ends the exchange kneeling over the boy, wooden blade at his throat.
The courtyard falls silent except for the hiss of rain. The masked master's head tilts slightly, the faintest sign of approval.
"You've learned to borrow their strength," he says. "Remember—survival is not power. It is patience."
---
That evening, Kenzai calls for Aru. They climb the winding stair carved into the roots of an ancient tree. The forest spreads beneath them like an ocean of shadows, lanterns flickering far below.
"You move as if death is already familiar to you," Kenzai says, leaning on the railing.
Aru shrugs, his gaze locked on the black horizon. "Death is the only honest thing I've met here."
Kenzai studies him for a long moment. "Honesty will not save you. But it may slow your dying." He gestures toward the forest. "Remember—jujutsu is falling and rising. The forest will throw you harder than any blade."
A shape shifts among the distant trees—too smooth for a man, too silent for a beast. Aru feels it watching. The same whispering presence he sensed before brushes his thoughts like a cold hand.
---
Night falls heavy. The masters summon the children to a stone altar carved with runes that glow faintly in the moonlight. An obsidian bowl waits in the center, slick and black.
One by one, the children prick their thumbs, their blood dripping into the bowl as the masters chant in a low, droning hum. The air thickens; the forest seems to breathe with them.
When Aru steps forward, he doesn't hesitate. He drives the blade deeper than necessary, letting a stream of blood flow freely. The bowl glows—a red pulse that fades to a sickly green.
A voice slides across the wind, soft and predatory: Little wolf, you fall well.
Aru clenches his fist, the cut still bleeding, and looks toward the darkened forest. The wind howls low through the trees, as though in answer. He does not bow to the forest's power—he greets it like an equal.
The boy in chains is already becoming something far more dangerous.