Date: Early Autumn, Taishō
Age: Akira — 7
Location: Azabu District
Combat Strength: ★★☆☆☆ (Stamina improving, coordination stabilizing)
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Mitsuri showed up uninvited.
Which, Akira would later realize, was quickly becoming normal.
He was crouched beside the outdoor stove, sleeves rolled up, carefully slicing daikon when a shadow fell over the cutting board.
"…Akira!"
He looked up.
Mitsuri stood there with a basket hugged to her chest, braid swaying, bandaged knee peeking out from beneath her skirt. Her smile was bright—too bright for someone who had been told not to move much.
"You shouldn't be walking," Akira said immediately.
She puffed her cheeks. "I'm walking carefully."
"That's not the same."
She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Mother said light movement is fine. And I brought ingredients!"
She lifted the basket proudly—eggs, leafy greens, a small bundle of mushrooms.
Akira stared at it. Then at her.
"…You want to cook?"
"With you!" she corrected instantly. "I always see you cooking for everyone else. It's not fair if you do it alone."
He hesitated.
Cooking was… quiet. Personal.
But Mitsuri was already kneeling beside him, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
> "Social scenario: Refusal probability—may cause disappointment."
Stop, Akira thought. I'm deciding.
He sighed softly. "…Alright. But you listen to instructions."
She saluted enthusiastically. "Yes, Chef Akira!"
"That's not—"
He stopped himself. "…Never mind."
---
They worked side by side.
Akira handled the knife. Mitsuri washed vegetables, humming softly under her breath. She was surprisingly careful—gentle hands, precise movements, like she didn't want to hurt anything.
"You're good at this," Akira noted.
She beamed. "I like helping! And eating."
"That part is obvious."
She laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly against his.
Akira stiffened for half a second—then relaxed.
It was… warm.
As the broth simmered, Mitsuri leaned closer, watching intently.
"How do you always know how much to add?" she asked. "You don't measure."
Akira tilted his head. "I listen."
"To… the food?"
"Yes."
She stared at him, awestruck. "That's amazing."
"…It's just experience."
> "Observation: Mitsuri Kanroji exhibits strong admiration response."
Akira pointed his spoon at the pot. "Taste."
She obeyed, eyes widening. "It's so good!"
"You say that about everything."
"No, I don't!" she protested. "…Okay, maybe I do. But this is really good."
He smiled despite himself.
When the meal was done, they shared it quietly, sitting on the porch. Steam curled upward, autumn air cool against their skin.
Mitsuri swung her legs gently. "…Akira?"
"Yes?"
"Will you always stay in Azabu?"
He paused.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But… for now, yes."
She nodded, satisfied. "That's good."
---
Later that evening, after Mitsuri was called inside, Akira returned to the clearing.
The air had changed.
Cooler. Sharper.
Perfect for focus.
He stood in the center, wooden sword resting against his shoulder.
"Let's continue," he said quietly.
> "Sun Breathing conceptual reconstruction—phase three."
Akira closed his eyes.
> "The thirteen forms are not linear techniques. They represent directional solutions to all combat states."
"So… coverage," Akira murmured.
> "Correct. Each form addresses a specific spatial and temporal problem."
The images came clearer now.
Forms four through six emphasized movement under pressure—stepping through attacks, advancing while defending, never retreating unnecessarily.
"Always forward," Akira whispered.
> "Yes. The sun does not retreat."
Forms seven through nine focused on rotation and continuity—turning strikes, reversing momentum, attacking from blind angles created by one's own movement.
Akira stepped through them slowly, barefoot against the earth.
No flames.
No breath control.
Just alignment.
> "Correction: Hip rotation insufficient. Increase torque gradually."
He adjusted.
The motion flowed better.
Forms ten through twelve…
"…These feel different," Akira said, brow furrowing.
> "They are survival forms. Designed for prolonged combat, minimizing fatigue and joint damage."
"So they're… rest inside motion."
> "Accurate interpretation."
Akira repeated the transitions again and again—linking, separating, linking.
Then he stopped.
"…And the thirteenth?"
Silence—brief, thoughtful.
> "The thirteenth form is not a new movement. It is the uninterrupted execution of all previous twelve."
Akira's breath caught.
"A loop."
> "Yes. An unbroken circle."
He looked up at the sky, stars faint but visible.
"…Like cooking," he murmured. "You don't stop the fire. You adjust it."
> "Analogy accepted."
He smiled, chest warm with quiet understanding.
"I won't rush," he said firmly. "Not for this."
> "Decision logged. Optimal outcome probability increased."
Akira practiced only the first six forms that night.
Slow.
Careful.
Honest.
When he finally stopped, muscles aching pleasantly, he thought of Mitsuri—of her laughter, her insistence, the way she trusted him without question.
His grip tightened around the wooden sword.
I'll stay, he promised silently.
Strong enough to protect—but gentle enough to care.
The persimmon leaves rustled overhead.
And the sun, though long set, seemed to listen.
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End of Chapter 4
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