The knife came down.
Tap.
A single, clean sound against the board.
Kaino didn't flinch.
His fingers were wrapped properly now—thumb steady, grip relaxed but firm, wrist aligned the way his father had shown him a hundred times already. The vegetable beneath the blade—a simple daikon radish—split cleanly, a thin slice sliding away.
Tap.
Another cut.
Tap.
Another.
The kitchen was quiet except for the rhythm.
Morning light filtered in through the tall windows of the St. Hunter home, pale and cool. The chefs had not yet arrived. The maids moved silently in distant halls. This time—unlike before—Kaino was not sneaking.
He was allowed to be here.
Keano stood a few steps away, arms crossed, saying nothing.
Watching.
The first blister appeared on the third day.
A small bubble of pain on the pad of Kaino's index finger, right where the knife handle rubbed when he practiced too long without rest. It throbbed quietly, a dull ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
Kaino noticed it.
Acknowledged it.
Kept cutting.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
His eyes stayed on the board, measuring distance, spacing, pressure. He adjusted without thinking now—micro-corrections ingrained through repetition. The knife felt less like an object and more like an extension of his arm.
Keano noticed the blister.
He said nothing.
That silence meant more than praise ever could.
Days blurred into weeks.
Morning practice.
Afternoon observation.
Evening repetition.
Some days it was carrots. Other days onions, potatoes, cucumbers, lotus root. Each ingredient taught something different. Resistance. Moisture. Grain. Slip.
Onions made his eyes sting, tears streaming down his cheeks as he cut through layer after layer.
He did not stop.
Potatoes dulled his wrists, heavy and unyielding.
He adjusted.
Tomatoes punished him for sloppy angles, collapsing under uneven pressure.
He learned restraint.
Kaia watched sometimes, sitting on the counter with her legs swinging, offering unsolicited critique.
"Too fast."
"Uneven."
"That slice is thicker."
"You rushed that one."
Kaino listened.
Sometimes he argued.
Sometimes he nodded.
Sometimes he simply cut again.
Tap.
The blister burst.
It happened quietly.
A sharp sting, then warmth, then a slick sensation against the handle. Kaino paused, lifting his finger. Red dotted the wood—small, startling against the pale cutting board.
Kaia gasped. "Kaino—!"
"I'm fine," he said quickly.
He wrapped it. Cleaned the board. Switched his grip slightly to avoid pressure.
And kept going.
By the end of the week, the blister had hardened.
Callus.
His skin thickened where the knife met flesh. Not ugly. Not painful.
Protective.
Earned.
Keano began leaving tasks unfinished on purpose.
A pile of vegetables on the counter. A knife already set out. No instruction.
Just expectation.
Kaino understood.
He cut.
Not because he was told to.
But because the board was there.
The knife was there.
And his hands itched if he didn't move.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
At night, when his body ached and his fingers burned faintly with phantom pain, Kaino lay awake staring at the ceiling.
He counted cuts instead of sheep.
One thousand.
Two thousand.
Three—
He lost track.
But the next morning, he started again.
No complaints.
No shortcuts.
Just work.
The system spoke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Not like before.
It came one evening while Kaino stood alone at the counter, practicing uniform cuts on a carrot already reduced to stubs. His hands moved automatically now, muscle memory guiding each motion.
A sensation brushed his awareness.
Subtle.
Clinical.
Knife Control: Inefficient
Current Precision: 63%
Suggested Practice:
10,000 cuts
Kaino froze.
The knife hovered midair.
His heart skipped—not from excitement, not from fear, but recognition.
You're awake, he thought.
The system did not respond.
No encouragement.
No reward.
Just numbers.
Just truth.
Ten thousand cuts.
He looked down at the board.
At his hands.
At the faint scars and hardened skin.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the knife.
Tap.
One.
He didn't smile.
He didn't complain.
He didn't ask how long it would take.
He already knew.
The montage of effort did not feel cinematic.
It felt heavy.
Repetitive.
Unforgiving.
Some days his wrists screamed by midday. Some days his grip faltered, slices drifting off uniformity. On those days, Keano would step in—not to scold, but to reset.
"Stop," he'd say quietly.
Kaino would stop.
They would rest.
Then begin again.
Other days, everything clicked. The knife sang. The cuts were perfect. Even Kaia went silent, watching with narrowed eyes.
Those days were rare.
They did not last.
And that was the point.
By the time Kaino reached what he estimated to be five thousand cuts, his hands had changed.
They were still small.
Still childish.
But they were steady.
The knife no longer felt heavy.
It felt honest.
He learned to feel dullness before it showed. To sense when the blade needed sharpening by vibration alone. To correct angle instinctively when resistance shifted.
No one praised him.
No one needed to.
Keano's presence remained constant—sometimes close, sometimes distant, always aware.
Approval came in absence of correction.
That was enough.
Kaia confronted him one evening.
"You're different," she said, watching him practice.
"How?"
"You don't hesitate anymore," she replied. "Even when you're wrong. You adjust without stopping."
Kaino considered that.
"I don't want to stop," he said simply. "Stopping breaks the rhythm."
Kaia frowned. "And if the rhythm is wrong?"
"Then I change it," he said. "But I don't freeze."
She studied him for a long moment.
"…That's dangerous," she said.
He nodded. "Yes."
The ten-thousandth cut did not feel special.
There was no flash.
No system fanfare.
Just another slice.
Tap.
Kaino paused, knife resting on the board.
His hands hurt.
His shoulders were sore.
His fingers throbbed faintly beneath layers of hardened skin.
But the knife was steady.
Perfectly steady.
Knife Control: Improved
Efficiency: Acceptable
Status: Continue Practice
That was all.
Kaino exhaled.
Not disappointment.
Relief.
That night, Keano placed a hand on his son's shoulder as Kaino cleaned the board.
"You didn't rush," he said.
Kaino looked up.
That was it.
That was the praise.
His chest warmed—not with pride, but with certainty.
He was walking the path.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Correctly.
In the quiet kitchen, with scarred hands and tired arms, Kaino St. Hunter understood something deeper than technique.
Talent did not come from the system.
Skill did not come from watching alone.
It came from repetition.
From blisters.
From calluses.
From ten thousand cuts that taught the body what the mind already knew.
The knife rested beside him, clean and waiting.
And tomorrow—
He would begin again.