Date: Late Summer, Taishō
Age: Akira — 7
Location: Azabu District
Combat Strength: ★★☆☆☆ (Conditioning stabilized, coordination improving)
---
The day went wrong in a very small way.
Which, Akira would later think, was how most important days began.
It started with a thud.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the unmistakable sound of a body hitting wood—followed by a sharp, startled yelp.
"Ow—!"
Akira's head snapped up.
He had been grinding dried herbs beneath the persimmon tree, rhythm steady, attention half on the work and half on the world around him. The sound came from the Kanroji house.
Too close.
He was on his feet before thinking.
Mitsuri sat on the edge of her porch, one leg stretched awkwardly, hands gripping the wood as she bit her lip. Her sandals lay discarded nearby, one overturned.
"Mitsuri?" Akira called, already moving closer. "What happened?"
She looked up, eyes bright with embarrassment rather than pain. "I—um—I tripped. I was carrying water too fast."
That explained the splash marks.
Akira crouched in front of her without asking permission, gaze already assessing.
Scraped knee.
Skin broken, shallow but wide.
Dirt embedded.
Bleeding—not heavy, but messy.
> "Medical assessment: Abrasion. Risk of infection moderate if untreated."
"Does it hurt?" Akira asked, voice calm.
She nodded quickly. "A little. Okay—maybe a lot."
He reached into his cloth bundle, hands steady. "I'm going to clean it. It'll sting."
She hesitated—then nodded. "Okay."
Akira poured clean water slowly, washing away dirt with careful fingers. Mitsuri hissed, shoulders tensing.
"Sorry," he said immediately, though his hands didn't falter.
"It's okay," she said, peeking at him. "You look very serious."
"I am," he replied. "You're important."
She blinked.
"Oh."
Her face went pink.
Akira dabbed the wound dry, applied a mild herbal paste, then wrapped it neatly with a bandage—firm enough to hold, loose enough to breathe.
"There," he said, leaning back. "You shouldn't run on it today."
Mitsuri swung her leg gently. "It already feels better!"
"That's because you stopped panicking," he said matter-of-factly.
She giggled. "You sound like my mother."
"…Sorry."
"No, no!" she waved her hands. "It's nice."
Akira packed his things, then paused. "…If it hurts later, tell me. Don't pretend you're fine."
She met his eyes, suddenly serious. "I won't."
They sat together for a while, sharing quiet. Mitsuri picked at the edge of her sleeve.
"…Akira?" she asked softly.
"Yes?"
"You're always helping people," she said. "Why?"
He thought about it.
"Because," he said slowly, "it's better if people don't get hurt. And if they do… someone should be there."
She smiled at that—warm, sincere, a little shy.
Akira looked away first.
> "Emotional bond deepening confirmed."
Don't say it like that, he warned internally.
> "Acknowledged."
---
That evening, after Mitsuri had been safely ushered inside, Akira returned to the clearing.
Training time.
He stood barefoot on the packed earth, wooden sword resting lightly in his hands. The cicadas were loud tonight, air thick and warm.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's continue."
> "Sun Breathing theoretical reconstruction—phase two."
Akira closed his eyes.
No breathing techniques.
No strain.
Only movement.
> "Hinokami Kagura consists of thirteen continuous forms. Not separate techniques, but a seamless cycle."
"So… like a dance," Akira murmured.
> "Affirmative. Each form transitions into the next without pause. Purpose: sustain combat indefinitely without degradation."
Images formed—not memories, but structures.
A rising cut.
A turning slash.
A sweeping arc meant to cleave and advance simultaneously.
"Not power," Akira whispered. "Efficiency."
> "Correct. Sun Breathing prioritizes posture, joint alignment, and momentum conservation."
He stepped forward.
Slowly.
The first motion—simple overhead cut, controlled, precise.
Second—rotation of the hips, blade following the body.
Third—low sweep, weight shifting smoothly.
Akira moved through the clearing like he was tracing invisible lines in the air. No heat. No flame. Just form.
> "Muscle memory acquisition initiated. Error margin: High but acceptable."
His arms trembled halfway through the sequence.
He stopped.
Breathing hard—not from technique, but exertion.
"…Thirteen is a lot," he muttered.
> "Observation: You completed seven before fatigue. Above expected threshold."
"That's… encouraging."
He rested, then started again.
Not all thirteen. Just the first three.
Again.
And again.
Until the motions felt less like thinking—and more like remembering.
> "Note: These movements place significant strain on joints when performed incorrectly. Recommendation: gradual progression only."
"I know," Akira said, sweat dripping down his nose. "I want this to last."
When he finally stopped, stars were beginning to peek through the darkening sky.
Akira lay back in the grass, staring upward.
"…Do you think," he asked quietly, "someone like me can really learn this?"
> "Answer: Probability—high. Condition: patience."
He smiled.
"I have that."
He thought of Mitsuri's laugh.
Of her scraped knee.
Of how fragile people could be.
His fingers curled slowly into the earth.
I'll learn it right, he promised.
So no one has to fall.
The wind rustled the persimmon leaves overhead.
And somewhere, far beyond Azabu, a demon caught the faint scent of blood—
—but it was too far away.
For now.
---
End of Chapter 3
---