Today's chapter.....
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The robot vanished from its spot, charging straight at Akira.
Akira didn't move a muscle. He simply stood there in the center of the vast gym, his breathing steady, his katanas held loose by his sides.
1 second....
2 second....
Now.
He closed his eyes.
The world went black. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own pulse hammering in his ears and the whir of the droid's joints.
And then, the world ignited.
Thermal Sense.
The darkness was replaced by a vibrant spectrum of light. The ambient air was a cool, swirling indigo mist, shifting with the micro-currents of the ventilation system. The floor mats were purple, soaking up the chill. But in front of him, the combat droid was bright like a blazing star.
The thermal emitters he had ordered the robot to engage were doing their job perfectly. To his naked eye, the robot was just hot metal. To his Thermal Sense, it was like a lighthouse in the night sea. He could see the heat radiating from the hydraulic joints in blinding white waves.
It was 360-degree coverage. He didn't need to look. He felt the heat as if it were touching his skin, the warmth mapping the exact position of every threat in the room.
The Phoenix is born by the flame and dies by the flame, Akira thought.
That fact gave me more than just fire. It gave me a connection to heat itself. Fire isn't just combustion; it's energy transfer. And energy always leaves a footprint.
Two months ago, during a training session with Nezu — who had used a high-speed pitching machine to test his reflexes until Akira was black and blue — he had discovered this. By concentrating on the heat signatures around him, he could bypass his optical nerves entirely. He could "see" the heat map.
But it came with a cost.
A massive cost.
His brain hurt. The sensory input was overwhelming. Processing an entire room's thermal data in real-time was like trying to drink from a fire hose...which is a really bad idea. Why would you even do that?
Ahem, back to the story....
Every dust mote, every air current, every shift in temperature flooded his head. For now, his limit was two minutes. Any longer, and he risked a cerebral hemorrhage or simply passing out from neural overload. The strain felt like physical pressure building behind his eyes, or like a dam waiting to burst.
And the second problem: Focus.
To maintain this state, he had to dedicate 100% of his mental processing to the thermal image. He couldn't use Phoenix Drive to boost his speed. He couldn't heal if he got hit. He couldn't manifest constructs. He was just a boy with two swords and a headache, and a 360-degree view.
Coming in hot, Akira noted, watching the white flare of the robot's shoulder joint spike in intensity.
The robot was ten meters away. Then five. Then zero.
One of the four mechanical arms, glowing white-hot in his vision, swung down. It was a vertical cleave meant to shatter his collarbone.
Akira didn't block. Blocking required strength he didn't have right now, without his boost, yes, his body was a lot stronger, but not strong enough to fight a robot physically. If he tried to stop that much mass with static resistance, his wrists would snap.
So he deflected it.
He shifted his weight, stepping inside the arc of the swing. He brought his left katana up, the flat of the tungsten blade meeting the side of the shock-baton at a precise angle.
Clang.
He guided the strike away, letting the robot's momentum carry it past him. The heat of the baton washed over his face.
The robot stumbled forward, its processors whining in protest. But it was a learning machine. It adapted instantly. The robot used its third arm to slam into the ground, stopping its fall with a shower of sparks, and vaulted into the air, spinning like a gyroscope.
Behind me, Akira tracked the heat signature. 180-degree rotation. Aiming for the neck.
He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He could feel the heat of the approaching blade against the back of his neck like a physical touch. The air pressure shifted, warming up as the blade sliced through it.
He raised his right katana, placing the blade vertically against his spine, bracing his hand against the flat of the steel.
CLANG.
The shock-baton slammed into his sword. The impact rattled his teeth, sending a vibration down his arm, but the blade held.
They froze for a second.
Then, they exploded into motion.
Akira jumped back, creating space. The robot pursued relentlessly.
They fought. It was a dance of sparks and sweat. The robot used its four arms to create a wall of offensive pressure, striking from high, low, left, and right simultaneously. It used its databanks to predict Akira's movements, calculating optimal strike paths based on thousands of hours of combat data.
But it couldn't calculate everything.
Akira saw everything. He saw the heat build in the right elbow milliseconds before the jab. He saw the thermal bloom in the left knee an instant before the kick.
He ducked under a horizontal slash, the heat washing over his hair. He sidestepped a thrust, the baton passing inches from his ribs. He parried, deflected, and redirected.
His dual sword play was beautiful. It wasn't the rigid style of kendo. It was like water, which was the result of two years of training to become "Blade," the vigilante who didn't need a quirk to be terrifying. As Blade, he couldn't rely on flashy fire that would give away his identity. He had to rely on steel, stealth, and skill.
One minute forty seconds, Akira counted mentally, the pressure behind his eyes building from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing pain.
The robot ramped up. It sensed Akira's fatigue. It synchronized all four arms for a heavy, crushing strike — a hammer blow from four directions at once to trap him.
There.
Akira saw the opening. He didn't dodge. He rushed in.
The four arms converged on him. It looked like suicide.
Akira swung.
With his left sword, he caught the two upper arms, crossing his blade to catch them at the hilt, locking them in place. With his right sword, he swept the lower arms aside, batting them away with a burst of desperate strength.
He used the force of the robot's own strike to pivot. He spun around the machine, moving faster than he had any right to move without his quirk, and then he stopped.
His right blade was resting a millimeter from the robot's exposed neck cabling.
The robot froze. Its sensors processed the position of the blade. It calculated the force required to sever the connection. It calculated the survival probability: Zero.
[ASSIGNMENT TERMINATED. CRITICAL WEAK POINT STRUCK. WINNER: AKIRA SHUZENJI]
The red light in the robot's eye dimmed. The heat vents closed with a hiss. It stood up straight, powered down its weapons, and walked mechanically back to its charging station.
Akira didn't move. He stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his nose onto the mat.
He waited.
Come on, he thought. Hit me.
He waited for the migraine. He waited for the nosebleed.
Ten seconds passed.
Nothing.
Just a mild throb behind his eyes, like a caffeine withdrawal headache. It was annoying, but manageable.
Akira exhaled loudly.
"Finally," he whispered. "Progress."
He sheathed his swords and walked over to the weapon rack, placing the training blades in their slots. His hands were steady. Three months ago, they would have been shaking, like he was about to have a stroke.
He walked to the whiteboard mounted on the wall. It was covered in numbers, diagrams, and time stamps.
He picked up the eraser. He wiped away the 2:00 written under THERMAL SENSE.
He picked up a black marker and wrote 2:15.
"Fifteen seconds," he muttered, staring at the numbers. "In a fight, that's a lot. That's the difference between life and death."
He walked over to the bench where his kimono and pipe were waiting. He sat down. The sweat on his skin felt cold now.
He reached for the red kiseru. He put the stem to his lips and inhaled deeply.
The cool vapor filled his lungs. It tasted of mint and peace. It washed away the lingering adrenaline. It quieted the Red Flame that was always scratching at the back of his mind, asking to be let out, asking to burn something. The "Blade" persona receded, leaving just Akira.
"I always thought trauma was a joke in movies," Akira laughed softly at himself. It was a humorless laugh that echoed in the empty gym.
"Character development. Tragic backstory. Plot armor. Something to make the hero look brooding and cool."
He closed his eyes.
Last night he had the same nightmare.
He saw the Hida Mountains. He saw the smoke rising in a black column.
He saw Shino's body, twisted and broken, embedded in the rock. Then he began to crawl. He was dragging his shattered limbs across the ground, reaching out with a bloody hand.
Why!? The dream-Shino yelled, his voice sounding like grinding stones. Why did you run?
He then saw Sasha. She was cut in half. Her upper torso was dragging itself through the mud, her eyes weeping blood.
You promised, she whispered. You promised you were strong. Where was your shield? Why didn't you burn him sooner?
Akira's eyes snapped open. He took another sharp drag from the pipe, forcing the images away with the chemical calm.
"You guys are really persistent," he muttered to the empty gym. "I'm working on it. Okay? I'm working on it. I won't run next time. I swear."
He stood up. He felt restless. The fighting had drained his body, but his mind was still racing. The silence of the gym was too loud.
He took off his sweat-soaked gi top, leaving him bare-chested.
He grabbed a pair of headphones from his bag. He put them on.
He scrolled through his playlist and selected a track.
Debussy - Clair de Lune. (Check it out, it's so good.)
The soft, melancholic piano notes filled his ears, drowning out the world. Drowning out the ghosts. Drowning out stupid thoughts.
He walked to the far corner of the gym.
This area didn't look like a training ground. The floor was covered in a drop cloth splattered with a thousand colors. Cans of paint were scattered everywhere — oils, acrylics, sprays.
In the center stood a massive, ten-foot canvas.
Painting.... He thought.
This was his therapy. The thing kept him away from crashing out all the time.
He picked up a wide brush. He dipped it into a bucket of black paint.
He stared at the white void of the canvas.
"Time to start a new one," he whispered.
He raised the brush. He didn't think. He let the music guide his hand. He let the trauma flow out of his fingertips.
He began to paint.
He painted the darkness of the ravine. He painted the red of the blood. He painted the blue of the tears.
And for the first time all day, the Red Flame slept soundly.
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A little deep dive, into what he was cooking over the years, along with how the truma was cooking HIM through out the years.
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