Cold.
Not the cold of mountain monasteries or midnight rivers — the cold of bleach, white tiles, and humming machines. The sterile chill of a world that worshiped safety because it could not afford mistakes.
Renya's eyes opened to a ceiling patched with cracks like faint constellations.He did not move. Movement was for those who mistook waking for security.He listened: to the whir of a vent, the slow drip of an IV, the rasp of air through a throat that had shouted too little and suffered too much.
Pain. Minor, human, localized. Bruises. Shallow cuts. A trembling heartbeat that apologized for existing.Not mine, he thought. But close enough.
A girl slept beside the bed, forehead resting on folded arms, scarf coiled around her neck in loops of faded red. She couldn't have been more than thirteen.Her fingers still clutched a hospital bill she must have fallen asleep reading. The paper's corners were soft with worry.
Renya studied her. The same dark hair, softer eyes. Love had tied these two together so tightly that even death hadn't untangled the knot. He could feel it — Haruto's dying wish still anchored here, heavy as gravity.
The door creaked. A nurse entered, tired in the way of people who sold kindness by the hour."You're awake," she said, checking machines. "You gave your sister quite the scare."
Renya inclined his head."How long?"
"Three days. The doctors say you were lucky. Try not to make them say that again."
She adjusted the IV. Her glance fell to the bill near Aki's hand, then flicked away with practiced sympathy. "Someone will talk to you about payment before discharge. Just… don't worry right now, okay?"
He gave the appropriate smile; the one that promised cooperation without admitting debt.
When she left, the room exhaled relief. Aki stirred. Her eyes opened — brown, honest, and far too old for their age.
"Nii-chan?"
"Yes," he answered. The voice that came out belonged half to Haruto, half to him — rough from disuse yet certain in rhythm.
"You're awake!" She sat up so fast the chair squeaked. "They said you might need another night, but — " She stopped when she saw his face, searching it for differences she couldn't name.
He looked at the empty IV bag. "You stayed the whole time."
"Of course I did. We … we can't pay for another day anyway." She laughed a small, nervous laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "So it's good you woke up."
The words landed softly, but the truth beneath them was solid: money mattered here.
Renya adjusted the blanket. "We'll leave soon."
"But the doctor—"
"He's done his part."
Aki hesitated. "Haruto, you shouldn't worry about bills yet. I'll ask the principal if I can clean classrooms again after class. They pay a little—"
"That won't be necessary."
"But—"
He met her gaze; whatever she saw there made her fall silent.
"Rest first," he said. "We'll manage later."
Her expression wavered between trust and fear. Then she nodded, gripping the scarf like a promise.
When the nurse returned with discharge forms, he read every line twice. Fees. Installments. Phrases like out-of-pocket responsibility and non-insured expense. He signed anyway. Paper was lighter than pride.
They left through sliding doors that sighed behind them like exhausted saints.The city outside glared too bright after days of white ceilings. Cars hissed on wet asphalt; screens blinked advertisements for hero agencies and energy drinks.
Aki's shoes splashed in shallow puddles as she tried to match his pace. "We still have enough for the bus," she said quickly, mistaking his pause for indecision. "If we walk part of the way, we can save for dinner."
"Then we'll walk," he replied. The body was weak, but distance taught discipline.
The neighborhood shrank as they entered it — narrow streets lined with vending machines that blinked through dust, concrete walls scribbled with laughter someone had tried to erase. Their apartment waited at the end of a corridor where every light flickered in apology.
Inside, air smelled of detergent, metal, and faint mildew.A shelf bowed under the weight of two photo frames and a jar half-filled with coins. The refrigerator hummed like a nervous animal.
Aki dropped her bag and rushed to close the window before rain found its way in. "I kept things clean," she said. "But the rice is almost gone. We might have to — "
"I'll handle it."
She bit her lip. "You always say that."
"I always mean it."
He opened a cabinet. Three packets of noodles, half a bottle of soy sauce, a tin of tea leaves that smelled like memory. Manageable.
While she prepared soup, he stood before the photo frames. Two smiling faces looked back — parents frozen in warmth. Flowers beside the pictures were wilted but arranged with care. He bowed once, not for custom but continuity.
You left them this, he thought, addressing the echoes of Haruto that still lived behind his ribs. And now you leave me.
When Aki set the bowls on the table, he joined her.Steam rose between them, gentle and ordinary. She blew on her spoon. "Tomorrow we should tell the landlord you're better. He was nice, but he said next month …"
"We'll pay," Renya said.
"How?"
"By working."
"Where?"
"I'll find out."
Her shoulders relaxed a little; not because she believed him, but because he sounded like someone who did.
They ate in silence after that, the kind of silence that only families in survival mode understood — efficient, forgiving, tired.
Later that night, when Aki slept, Renya sat by the window, looking out at the city.Lights shimmered across wet roofs, broken by the reflection of rain. Far away, a hero's billboard smiled down from a high-rise — perfect teeth, perfect purpose.
Below that light, other windows glowed weaker. That was where people like Haruto and Aki lived — too small to be saved, too moral to be villains, too poor to matter.
Renya folded his hands. Power, he thought, measured here in paper and signatures.
In his old world, power was spirit and steel. Here it was currency and cameras.Either way, weakness was punished.
He closed his eyes and felt the residue of his cultivation stir like a caged ember."I crossed realms to escape chains," he murmured. "I won't die in one made of debt."
The shadow at his feet deepened for an instant, tasting the vow, then stilled.
Morning came with no respect for exhaustion.
The light in this world was too clean, too loud. It slipped through thin curtains and painted every imperfection of the room in precise, unforgiving detail — the cracks in the plaster, the stack of unopened bills, the small bowl where Aki kept coins like blessings waiting to be multiplied.
Renya rose without sound. The body resisted, soft and untrained, but obedience was a language he had always spoken fluently. Cold water from the tap shocked his nerves awake; its taste carried iron and the memory of rust.
Aki shuffled out of her room still half asleep, hair tangled, clutching her scarf.
"You should rest more," she mumbled.
"I've rested three days," he said, pouring tea into two chipped cups. "Resting longer becomes habit."
She blinked at him over the rim of her cup. "You talk different."
"New perspective," he answered, and the truth of it passed unchallenged.
The table between them was too small for both breakfast and bills, so the papers won. Numbers watched them eat. Each digit whispered a countdown.
"I can ask Sensei if he needs help after class again," Aki said carefully. "He pays a little for grading homework."
"You will focus on school."
"But we —"
"I will work," he interrupted, calm but unyielding. "That's the division of labor."
Her eyes narrowed in a mixture of defiance and admiration. "Fine. But you can't get fired if you don't sleep."
"Noted."
When she smiled, it looked like sunlight sneaking past storm clouds — brief, reckless, real.
After she left for school, the apartment fell into a silence that smelled faintly of soap and survival. Renya scanned the small space: a futon folded too neatly, two mugs drying on a rack, a single window through which the city exhaled its industrial heartbeat.
He sat cross-legged on the floorboards and let awareness sink beneath noise.
The new body's energy lines were shallow, fragile. The Quirk flowed there — a modest current, limited by design. Underneath it, deeper and colder, the remnant of cultivation pulsed — a storm compressed into a teacup.
He guided breath through the two streams until they touched. The air thickened; the shadow on the wall trembled. For a heartbeat, he felt the dual rhythm align — Quirk and cultivation acknowledging each other like wary partners forced into the same dance.
A whisper brushed his thoughts — not a voice, but the echo of what the Demonic Path had always promised: Power requires payment.
He opened his eyes. The room looked the same, yet every corner felt more present, every sound more deliberate.
Power here did not roar. It waited.
He stood, testing balance.
A loose floorboard complained; the refrigerator hummed its old prayer. He looked at both and smiled slightly. So fragile, he thought. So human. Yet all this keeps her alive.
The day passed in errands. The landlord accepted their rent with the benevolent impatience of someone who had already rehearsed eviction notices. The market sold discounted vegetables that pretended to be fresh. At the community bulletin board, a single paper caught his attention:
HELP WANTED – Night Clerk
Convenience store, minimal experience required.
He tore off the number.
When evening arrived, he found the store exactly where the address had promised — on a corner that the streetlights forgot to love. Fluorescent glare hummed over shelves of instant noodles and magazines that made boredom look fashionable.
The manager was a man in his forties with the posture of someone permanently halfway to sitting down. "You want nights?" he asked, surprised. "They're quiet. Too quiet. Students usually quit after a week."
"I don't quit," Renya said simply.
The man stared, then shrugged. "Fine. Trial shift tonight. If you survive boredom, we'll talk pay."
"Boredom rarely kills," Renya replied.
At 1 a.m., boredom proved more complicated. The city outside breathed in sleep, the store hummed in fluorescent isolation.
Renya stocked shelves, scanned barcodes, and learned the pattern of footsteps between aisles. The shadows under the counters swayed to the rhythm of his pulse. He didn't need to command them; they obeyed presence alone.
A drunk customer stumbled in, bought cigarettes, forgot change. Renya pocketed the coins, not greedily but efficiently.
A tribute, he thought. Small, but honest.
At 2 a.m., he stepped into the alley behind the store to dump trash. The air carried rain and engine smoke — a scent too alive to ignore. In the puddles, the moon fractured into smaller moons. His reflection stared back, eyes black with a red ring whispering memory.
He knelt, dipped two fingers into the puddle, and drew a line on the concrete. The water darkened — not ink, not blood, only promise.
"This world trades breath for bread," he murmured. "Very well. I'll trade shadows for both."
The mark faded, leaving no trace but intent.
By dawn, he returned home with the scent of coffee and streetlights clinging to his jacket. Aki sat at the table, half-awake, the radio muttering about hero sightings.
"You worked?" she asked, voice thick with sleep.
"Yes."
"Was it scary?"
"Monotonous," he said. "A terrifying form of peace."
She laughed softly. "We can pay the electric bill, then?"
He nodded. "And buy rice."
The relief on her face was immediate, bright as sunrise. It hurt a little to look at — not because it was weakness, but because it reminded him that hope could still exist in people who had nothing to spend on it.
That night, while Aki slept, he unwrapped a small porcelain bowl — one of the few items that had survived their parents' life before everything fell apart. He placed it on the floor, filled it with tap water, and set a single coin in the center.
The shadow along the wall stretched forward, curious.
"Tribute," he whispered. "For survival. For tomorrow's meal."
The coin sank without ripple. The air cooled. Quirk and cultivation aligned for a heartbeat, acknowledging payment rendered in labor rather than blood.
He leaned back, satisfied. The Demonic Path was adaptable. In worlds where blood drew attention, effort would do.
The city's glow slipped through the blinds, brushing his face with counterfeit daylight.
"Six months," he murmured. "Then U.A."
In the next room, Aki turned in her sleep, scarf slipping from her shoulder.
Renya watched the shadow pull it gently back into place before fading again.
A promise made, a debt postponed.
Outside, somewhere beyond the limits of rent and reason, heroes patrolled skies they believed they owned.
Below them, in a cracked apartment where coins served as offerings and work shifts as penance, a cultivator learned the price of light.
And quietly, the shadows learned his name.