Weeks bled onward in a relentless rhythm of physical drills, principles of Cursed Sorcery, and spirited protests against broccoli.
Ronin was a child in body, but his will was a forged blade—unyielding and mature far beyond his years.
Hours of push-ups, miles of running against spectral hellhounds, spell-casting sessions that left his small hands trembling... each session ended with him soaked in sweat and bone-tired. Yet every time he fell, he stood again. Hurt watched, his appreciation for the boy's efforts forever tinged with a deep, growing concern.
One afternoon, Hurt brought Ronin to the market procure materials for what he ominously called 'advanced training'—which Ronin correctly guessed meant ten times more than usual agony.
Hurt consulted a list, pointing to various jars. "Cursed quartz, yes. And, three pouches of black grave dust."
The shopkeeper nodded, turned to gather esoteric items.
Beside him, Ronin fidgeted with a mask of profound boredom. "How much longer is this gonna take?"
Hurt glanced down, a low, humorous note in his voice. "You complain a great deal. Are you certain you're a boy? You sound like the ladies haggling over silk."
Ronin stomped his feet, his cheeks puffing out. "I am not a girl! I am the great Ronin Hirata!"
He turned his head away with a dramatic huff.
Hurt chuckled, reaching out to ruffle the hair that fell over the boy's eyes. "My mistake. You are decidedly not a girl. Satisfied?"
Ronin blew the stray strands from his face. "You'd better be sorry."
***
Back at the mansion, Hurt sat on a garden bench, watching Ronin play. The boy was experimenting with his relic bracelet, sending the golden chain whipping through the air in wild patterns before cartwheeling out of its way with exaggerated, comical flair.
Ronin cartwheeled and ducked beneath the chain's erratic arcs, laughing as if the danger were nothing more than a game.
A soft smile touched Hurt's lips. This, he thought, is what he should be doing. Just being a child.
A man in greyish-blue robes approached silently and sat beside him.
Hurt didn't turn. "It has been a while, Tony."
"Duties," Tony replied, his voice weary. His gaze followed the chaotic, giggling boy. "They consume even the time owed to family."
He studied Hurt's profile for a long moment, then a faint, knowing smirk appeared on his face.
Hurt finally glanced at him. "Why that look?"
Tony straightened himself. "I've never seen you like this."
Hurt blinked. "Like, what?"
"Smiling," Tony said simply. "In all the years I've known you, I've never seen you smile. Not truly. But, since this boy arrived... you've changed."
Hurt waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. I am the same monster. I am still that monster who rips off hearts and tears skulls."
Tony's voice dropped to a calm, undeniable whisper. "Perhaps. But Ronin has taught that monster how to smile. That is a lesson no one else could ever give us."
He stood, tapping Hurt's shoulder once. "I'll see you later. More duties await."
He left, but his words lingered, echoing in the logical fortress of Hurt's mind. For the first time in his long existence, fear no longer defined him. Something had shifted—and it was irreversible.
***
Deep Night.
Hurt slept fitfully. He turned over his bed—
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
A rhythmic, ominous sound echoed through the silent manor. Hurt sat bolt upright, his crimson eyes sharpening in the dark. He rose and moved to the window.
The sight stole the air from his lungs.
In the moonlit training yard, Ronin stood before a thick tree trunk. He was driving his small fists into the unyielding bark—thud, thud, thud—with a mechanical, desperate rhythm. The tree's bark was smeared dark with blood.
Hurt was moving before he even thought. He burst into the yard. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU LITTLE IDIOT?!"
Ronin flinched, stumbling back from the tree. He slumped against it, his chest heaving, his face sheened with sweat. "I was... training."
"This is not training!" Hurt stormed over, seizing the boy's wrists with a gentleness that belied his fury. "Hurting your own body like a psychopath is madness! Self-destruction!"
He pulled Ronin to a bench, sat him down, and produced a roll of bandages and a pot of antiseptic salve. His movements were swift and precise. As he wrapped the raw, bleeding knuckles, his voice was tight.
"Never. Do this. Again. You will stop my undead heart for good."
Ronin sat silently through the ministrations, his eyes fixed on Hurt's face. Finally, he asked the question that had been burning within him for weeks.
His voice was small in the vast quiet. "Hurt... why do you care about me so much?"
Hurt's hands stilled. He finished the knot on the bandage, then slowly sat beside the boy.
He didn't answer immediately, instead lowering his head before looking up at the starless, black sky.
"Why ask such a thing?"
Ronin stumbled over his words, not from nerves, but from the sheer weight of the uncertainty. "The world is cruel. It's sinful. Everyone says so. So why... why would you care for me? For no reason?"
A long, heavy silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant rustle of night creatures.
Finally, Hurt spoke, his voice a deep, resonating rumble in the dark. "Because you are a heart that still beats—and it has not been stained. Not just a living, but a pure one. I have told you, and I tell you again: I may be a monster... but I am not a demon."
He turned then, his crimson eyes finding Ronin's in the gloom. "Ronin. May I ask something in return?"
Ronin managed a weak, familiar grin "Sure. What is it?"
"Why?" Hurt asked, his voice grave. "Why choose this path? Children your age live to eat, sleep, and play. What reason could be strong enough to force a boy into this... crucible?"
Ronin's grin faded. His mind flashed—not with thought, but with sensation. The grip of the cloaked attacker. The terror in his mother's eyes. The helpless, swirling darkness as he was thrown into the forest.
His voice was thickened, trembling with sorrow that was too old for his small frame. "I was taken. Lost. Mama fought for me... she gave everything. And I... I could only struggle. I was weak."
A single, hot tear traced a path through the dirt on his cheek. "That day, I made a promise to myself. I will never be weak again. Not for my sake... but for those who love me. For Mama. For Dada..."
He looked up, meeting Hurt's gaze. "...For you."
Hurt let out a sound—a low, shuddering chuckle that was more emotion than humor. He pulled Ronin into a sudden, tight, protective, embrace. "You... you impossible child. You even outshine me in wisdom. I have not felt... this... in my long existence. I am... so proud of you, my little Necromancer."
A single, unbidden tear escaped from Hurt's eye. He released Ronin and wiped it away with a swift, almost angry motion before the boy could see.
Ronin pulled back, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "'Little Necromancer'? What does that even mean? I don't like it."
Hurt playfully swatted his back. "After astounding me with Cursed Sorcery, you deny this title? I shall call you by it forever."
Ronin leaped from the bench, a fox-like grin spreading across his face. "Fine! Then I'll call you... Dead-man!"
Hurt's jaw dropped in mock outrage. "What?! Dead-man? Come here, you little cyclone!"
He gave chase. Ronin shrieked with gleeful laughter, sprinting across the moonlit yard, a silvery dappled blur dodging Hurt's playful lunges. The sounds of their game—the laughter, the teasing shouts—chased away the lingering shadows of the night.
***
He did not train to become powerful.
He trained to build a fortress—a fortress strong enough to protect everyone he loved from ever feeling the fear he had known.
And in that purpose, the foundation of the Great Ronin Hirata was already being laid.