The house smelled faintly of herbs. Dried mugwort, sage, and bitter senna hung in bundles from the ceiling beams, their scents mingling in sharp, soothing harmony. A small hearth crackled, its smoke threading through the thatched chimney. Beyond the shutters, the Land of Fire's capital stirred with its daily heartbeat—vendors calling out fruits and cloth, smiths hammering glowing steel, children laughing as they ran through narrow alleys.
And within this rhythm, in a modest home near the market quarter, Retsu Unohana raised her son with quiet devotion.
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Year One: The First Steps:
The boy grew quickly. By his first birthday, his hair was already thick, black as ink, falling in soft tufts that refused to be tamed. His eyes, deep and sharp, carried a duality that unsettled even his mother—warm in one moment, calculating in the next.
One evening, after lulling him to sleep, Retsu held him close and whispered, "Keiji… your father gave you nothing but absence. I will give you everything else."
The child gurgled, reaching clumsily for her face. His tiny fingers brushed her cheek, and she smiled despite the heaviness in her voice.
Inside, Keiji's mind stirred with the clarity of a man reborn. Though his body was weak and unformed, his thoughts were not. He remembered the hum of neon lights, the humdrum of an office cubicle, the rush of anime openings. He knew this world now belonged to him—its history, its tragedies, its possibilities.
And more than that, he remembered things his mother could never teach him:
The flowing strikes of Kalaripayattu, India's ancient martial art.
The discipline of lathi staff combat, learned from dusty books he once admired.
The rigid stances of kenjutsu, glimpsed in dojos he had visited as a hobby.
The medical diagrams he had read for fun, blood vessels mapped like rivers.
All this knowledge lay dormant within him, waiting for the day his hands could wield it.
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Year Three: Wooden Blades and Gentle Lessons:
By the time he was three, Keiji could walk with a surety unusual for a child. His steps carried balance, not clumsy stumbles. In the markets, he moved with wide-eyed curiosity, tugging at his mother's hand to point at spices or toys.
But at home, Retsu saw something more. He observed. Always watching. Always studying with a patience far older than his years.
One afternoon, she placed a shortened bokken into his hands. "This is a wooden blade," she told him. "Not for killing. For control. Remember that, Keiji."
The boy's small fingers curled around the weapon. He nodded solemnly.
She guided him into his first stance, knees bent, sword angled downward. "Balance is the soul of a blade. If you cannot balance yourself, you cannot balance life or death."
His muscles trembled, but he steadied himself. Memories of martial arts manuals whispered in his mind. Back straighter. Grip firm but loose. Shoulders down. Focus on breath.
Retsu's sharp eyes narrowed as she watched him hold the pose far longer than expected. "You learn quickly," she murmured.
Keiji lowered his gaze, masking his awareness. "Mama teaches well."
Her lips twitched into the faintest smile. "Clever tongue. Don't flatter me. Earn your praise."
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Year Four: Healing Hands:
The capital was a city of scars. Farmers with calloused hands sliced by scythes, smiths burned by sparks, children weakened by fevers. Lady Retsu's name spread quietly—her clinic was where hope lingered when others failed.
By four, Keiji shadowed her constantly.
"Here," she said, handing him a small mortar. "Grind these leaves. Clockwise. Gently. Oils release, don't break."
His small hands moved with surprising care. He remembered both her teaching and images from his past life: sterile pill presses, grinding machines. He understood pressure, rhythm, release.
When she treated a wounded soldier, Keiji leaned close. Watching her bind the bandage above the wound, he whispered without thinking, "Tourniquet… slows blood flow. Pressure above the wound."
Retsu froze. Her hand stopped mid-wrap. "Where… did you learn that word?"
Keiji blinked, his heart thudding. He shouldn't have spoken. "I… just thought it."
Her brow furrowed. After a long moment, she kissed his forehead, hiding her unease in tenderness. "You are too strange for your years."
But in her heart, she felt both pride and fear.
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Year Five: Mother and Son:
Though steel and medicine shaped their days, tenderness wove itself deeper still.
Retsu's rough hands, once stained with blood, now held her son's whenever they walked through the lively markets. She hummed lullabies while he pretended to sleep, her voice breaking into softness that her past self would never have believed possible.
One night by the low fire, Keiji asked in a small, steady voice, "Mama… did you ever love someone?"
The question pierced her deeper than any blade. She stared into the flames, her gaze shadowed.
"Yes," she whispered finally. "Once. But he was a storm. And storms do not stay."
Keiji pressed his head into her shoulder. "Then I'll stay. Always."
Her heart cracked—and healed—in the same moment. She wrapped him close, murmuring, "You already give me more than he ever did."
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Year Six: Awakening Shadows:
By six, Keiji's wooden sword flowed through the air with precision that startled even Retsu. His strikes lacked the power of age, but they carried intent. His feet shifted with practiced balance. Sometimes, he moved through forms she had never shown him—fluid sequences foreign to her kenjutsu.
One evening, lantern light flickering, he moved low, sweeping upward, sidestepping into a thrust.
Retsu's eyes narrowed. "Who taught you that form?"
Keiji froze, mind racing. "…I dreamed it."
Silence stretched. At last, she nodded slowly. "Dreams sometimes carry more truth than life."
But in her chest, unease coiled tighter.
It happened not long after.
Keiji practiced alone in the yard as dusk fell. Sweat ran down his brow. His heart pounded, not from exertion but from something stirring deep inside.
The air thickened. His breath grew ragged. Pain lanced through his veins like fire.
And then—
Whoomph.
A surge burst outward from his small frame, invisible yet crushing. Inside the house, the candle guttered. Herbs swayed violently.
Retsu rushed outside.
Flames licked at the air around her son, though no wood burned. His shadow stretched unnaturally, writhing as though alive. Lightning sparked against the dirt, charring the earth.
"Keiji!" she cried, voice sharp with fear.
The boy's body shook, eyes wide and unfocused. He did not understand. He could not control it. Past-life knowledge had no answer for the raw, chaotic force tearing through him.
Retsu forced calm into her tone, though her blood thundered. "Breathe, my son. Breathe. You are not a beast. You are mine. Listen to me."
The aura roared—fire, lightning, and Yin-darkness twisting like a storm. For a heartbeat, the world itself seemed to bend. Neighbors gasped in alarm from beyond the fence.
And then—just as suddenly—it collapsed.
Keiji dropped to his knees, gasping, his bokken falling to the dirt.
Retsu caught him, gathering him into her arms. She held him tight, but her hands trembled. She had seen monstrous power before, had wielded it herself. But this—this was beyond her comprehension.
That night, Keiji slept restlessly in her lap. Retsu stared at the embers dying in the hearth.
Katon.Raiton. Yin. No child awakened like this. Not without bloodlines. Not without cost.
And yet beneath it all, she sensed that strange aura again—the ghostly presence she had felt the night of his birth. Heavy, dark, and otherworldly.
Keiji stirred. His eyelids fluttered.
And for a heartbeat, his eyes opened—glowing faintly, impossibly, with that same unnatural light.
Retsu's breath caught.
She tightened her hold, whispering with a voice raw with fear and love:
"Keiji… what are you?"
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End of the Chapter
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