The Rust District never slept, but the mornings were the worst.
The faint orange glow of the smog-filtered sun barely reached the piles of scrap metal that lined the alleys. Jiro Tensai stirred under his makeshift shelter, stretching lean arms that ached from last night's scavenging. His grey jacket hung loose, sleeves burned from solder sparks.
He rubbed the scar on his nose — a reminder that survival here required more than speed. It required cunning.
Today, the streets seemed quieter, but he knew better. Silence always meant a predator was near.
Clutching his data-core like a lifeline, Jiro slipped into the narrow tunnels beneath the city. Pipes rattled overhead, a drone whined past, and distant voices echoed from the upper levels. Every step was careful, measured — a rhythm learned from years of avoiding gangs and Authority patrols.
A sudden metallic clatter made him freeze. From the shadows, a figure lunged, eyes glinting under a cracked mask.
"Thought you could sneak past me again?" the man sneered, swinging a pipe.
Jiro barely had time to react. Instinct took over. He rolled sideways, letting the pipe smash against the wall. His fingers found a loose pipe and swung it like a staff, striking the attacker's side. He ducked under a second blow and kicked, sending the man sprawling.
Not enough. Jiro's chest burned — adrenaline and something else, something unfamiliar. His heartbeat synced with a faint warmth in his veins, and he realized the blue flame was stirring again.
He dropped low, concentrating. Breath in… breath out… a rhythm. The martial forms from old archives he had glimpsed at Katsu Gakko flickered in his mind — movements, stances, breathing patterns. He mimicked them, fluid as water, and felt the warmth surge along his arms.
The scrap pipe trembled in his hand, and in an instant, blue sparks danced along its surface. The man froze, eyes wide. "What…?"
Jiro didn't answer. He lunged, using instinctive flow to weave around the attacker's clumsy strikes. With a sharp strike to the chest, the attacker hit the ground, unconscious but alive.
Jiro stepped back, breathing heavy, heart pounding. He looked down and saw faint blue lines tracing under his skin — the first true manifestation of his Essentia Synapse. Machines, humans, even metal… it all hummed to him.
A sudden voice crackled overhead.
"Jiro Tensai, cease and desist. Your scavenging activities are under surveillance. Surrender immediately."
The Central Authority drone hovered into view, its red sensors scanning, unmoving, mechanical. Jiro's pulse quickened.
They know.
He ducked into a narrow alley, ducking under hanging cables, and muttered to himself:
"If they want me… they'll have to chase me through the whole district. And I'm not going quietly."
He pressed a hand to the data-core. The chip pulsed faintly, syncing with his blue-flamed veins. Enough… enough to experiment, to test the rhythm of martial flow and Essentia together.
Hours passed in motion — stances, kicks, strikes, linking energy threads to machines, tools, and even his own movements. Sweat dripped, muscles screamed, yet his mind was calm, alive.
Finally, he stopped, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the faint crack in the sky visible above the smog. A flicker of blue light shimmered across it.
"Soon," he whispered. "I'll understand you… and then I'll survive."
And in the quiet hum of Neo-Tokara, Jiro Tensai's spark of Essentia ignited — small, fragile, but unyielding.
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