I was about to begin my self-training when Father placed a heavy hand on my shoulder.
"Merun."
"Yes, Father?"
"Come with me."
In the background, Mother was quietly preparing breakfast while a thoroughly exhausted, still-crying Mikan had collapsed onto her futon. Father led me out past the crops, stopping right at the edge where our farmland met the forest.
I watched him limp toward a thick tree, wooden katana in hand. He assumed a low stance, closed his eyes, and took a slow, deep breath.
Curiosity filled me.
Suddenly, a suffocating, violent aura poured from Father. He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as veins bulged along his neck and arms.
…What the hell?
The wooden sword in his grip began to glow with a faint, crimson light, humming with raw, restrained energy.
He opened his eyes and swung.
SLICE.
The tree exploded apart.
Father was suddenly standing several meters past it. The cut wasn't clean—the raw force had physically torn through the massive trunk. Yet the wooden sword remained completely unharmed.
What just happened?
He tossed the wooden sword aside and assumed another stance. This time, his right hand was open, fingers rigid and extended. He looked visibly pained, his jaw clenched tight.
His fingertips began to glow that same faint, angry red.
"HA!"
He struck the air.
A sharp, whip-like thud echoed through the clearing. It wasn't as loudly destructive as the first strike, but a deep diagonal gash was instantly carved into the tree trunk meters away.
My jaw dropped.
Before I could process it, Father collapsed onto his knees.
I rushed to him. "Father!"
"Are you okay? What happened?"
"I'll… be fine, my boy…" Father choked out between heavy, ragged breaths. One hand clutched tightly at his chest, while the other trembled at his side, the skin reddened as if lightly burned from the inside out.
"I was just… out of practice," he added weakly, forcing a small smile.
Out of practice?!
He had just obliterated a tree with a toy sword. He had just sliced solid wood from a distance with his bare hands!
"What was that strike, Father?" I asked, unable to keep the sheer awe out of my voice. "That was incredible."
Father exhaled slowly, steadying his breathing. Then, with noticeable effort, he reached into his dougi and pulled something out.
A notebook.
He handed it to me.
It was plain and clearly handmade. The pages were uneven. Some wider, some shorter, their edges rough as if cut and trimmed by hand. The paper itself varied in thickness and color, bound together with hemp string knotted carefully along the spine.
Did Father make this himself?
On the center of the cover, written in careful, deliberate strokes, were five words:
Kinzoku Divine Arsenal Arts: Vol. I
My breath caught in my throat.
"A… Kinzoku Clan technique?" I looked up at him, my eyes wide. "Father… where did you get this?"
He smiled faintly, his eyes soft despite the pain still lingering in them.
"That book contains all the foundations I could remember," he said quietly. "It took me years."
Years?
"I had to recall them piece by piece," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Meditating. Remembering old stances. Old breaths. Old pain." He chuckled weakly. "I even had to learn proper writing here in the village… though fortunately, I'm blessed with decent drawing skills!"
Only now did I notice the faint ink stains marking his calloused fingers.
My chest tightened.
Father took a breath before continuing.
"This technique… it's one of the most difficult arts I learned back when I was still with the clan. It was taught only to the most promising and heavily-vetted martial artists." His gaze hardened slightly. "Volume One is meant for exploratory-level practitioners."
"It strengthens the user's body manyfold," he explained. "And allows you to imbue your intent into your weapon—or your own body—and release it. The shape of that intent determines the result."
He gestured weakly toward the shattered tree.
"As you saw… it works with or without a blade. Your body can become your ultimate weapon."
Then his expression darkened into something heavy and grave.
"But it comes with an immense drawback. It is brutal on the body. Even masters who fully controlled it often needed weeks of rest after prolonged use." He paused, his voice dropping. "And the weak simply… died."
I stiffened.
"Heart failure. Strokes. The strain on the brain and heart is immense," he said quietly. "Most who fail… fail on their very first attempt."
"Those who survive are taught the next steps as they become a full-fledged Martial Apprentice."
I looked down at the handmade notebook. It suddenly felt impossibly heavy in my hands.
"I kept this from you," Father said, "until I was certain I remembered the most important parts. Until I could perform them myself."
Even knowing the lethal risks… he used it on himself just to prove it worked for me.
"For me?"
"I trust you'll take great caution when learning it," he said gently. "Even with your durable body." He smiled again, weaker this time. "As for the later volumes… those are for you to discover, my son."
It hit me all at once.
Every quiet moment by the hearth. Every long, agonizing breath he took while sitting in silence. Every time he sat quietly while we read.
He was enduring hidden pain. Reliving old battles. Forcing broken memories back into shape—all for me.
Even knowing the danger, he had activated the technique again just to demonstrate it to my eyes.
"…It was all for me," I whispered.
"Alright now," Father said lightly, trying to break the mood, "let me stay sitting here for a bit so your mother doesn't get mad at me for using that technique again." He laughed weakly. "It's actually the reason I'm crippled in the first place."
I threw my arms around him and squeezed tightly. Tears welled up in my eyes before I could stop them.
"Thank you, Father," I choked out, my voice shaking. "I won't let you down."
"You never have," he replied softly, patting my back. "And you never will."
There was a long silence between us as the breeze rustled the crops.
Then, Father let out a quiet sigh.
"You know… when your sisters brought you home," he said, "I honestly thought—Put it back. Don't you see? It has a tail."
Despite the lump in my throat, I let out a weak laugh through my tears.
"But your mother and sisters insisted," he continued softly. "So… we took you in."
His voice softened, turning deeply tender.
"And I thank the heavens we did. It feels like destiny now… as if we were blessed with a boy with black hair and black eyes once more."
I noticed the shadow of an old, buried pain return to his eyes. He took a shaky breath.
"Many years ago," he said, "before you arrived… the Furutsu household was already a family of five."
My heart clenched.
"We had a youngest son. His name was Kyoho."
I listened in silence as my chest tightened further.
"He was born with black hair and black eyes," Father said. "Just like you."
Tears welled up in Father's eyes as he continued. "For that reason alone, for such an insignificantly old belief… villagers stopped coming by our farm. Some even spoke ill of us openly."
"One day," he said, "I was forced to join a war. I returned badly injured… and fell into a coma. Your sisters were young. Very young."
"While I was gone, your mother and siblings tended the farm themselves."
"When I finally awoke, winter had already come," he whispered. "And we didn't have enough food."
"That winter was the worst of our lives. We hunted from dawn to dusk in the freezing cold. If we didn't… we would starve."
He swallowed hard, tears overflowing. "And still… we starved."
"Your mother grew thin. Your sisters weakened. The villagers would give us, at most, a day's worth of grain—which we stretched into a week."
Tears streamed freely down his weathered face now.
"Our little boy… such a bright child," Father sobbed. "He was starving. He wanted to help, but he was too young."
"One day," he said, his voice breaking completely, "after your sisters and I returned from our hunt… your mother was crying."
"Kyoho was gone."
"We searched everywhere. The village, the next villages over, the forest—nothing."
His hands trembled violently.
"In the end… Kyoho helped us in the only way he could."
"…By leaving us one less mouth to feed."
I felt like my heart was being crushed in my chest.
"We were devastated," Father said softly. "Your mother fell ill. We mourned… deeply."
"But life continued," he said after a long silence. "Time heals… even wounds like that."
"After surviving that winter, we made promises—to ourselves, and as a family."
He looked at me.
"So imagine our surprise," he said softly, "when a little boy with a tail entered our lives. Black hair. Black eyes. Nearly the same age as our lost son."
Everything suddenly made sense.
Why they had accepted me so easily. Why their love felt so natural… so complete.
Was I a replacement?
The thought flickered in my mind, and I hated myself for even thinking it.
Before I could speak, Father pulled me into a tight embrace.
"You are not Kyoho," he said firmly. "And you are not his replacement."
"You are Merun," he continued, holding me tight. "A cheeky boy who talks too much. Who always helps his mother. Who does the little things that make our lives brighter."
"Who saved his sisters from a monstrous beast."
"Who will one day master his father's martial arts."
"You are our beloved son."
I couldn't speak.
I just buried my face in his chest and cried.