The sun had barely begun to climb when the courtyard was already awake.
Morning dew still clung to the stone, cool beneath Shujinko's bare feet as he shifted his stance for the hundredth time. The air carried the faint chill of dawn, sharp and clean, filling his lungs with every careful breath. His arms ached. His legs trembled. Yet he stood—because his grandfather had been standing long before him.
The old man was already there when Shujinko had arrived, as if he'd never left. Leaning on his walker, white beard falling neatly down his chest, Kyoto watched the boy with an unblinking gaze that missed nothing. The rising sun caught in his fully white hair, turning it almost silver, but his eyes were sharp, steady, alive with expectation.
They had been at it for hours already.
Footwork first. Breathing after. Over and over again. Kyoto corrected him with quiet words or the light tap of the walker against stone, guiding rather than striking. Shujinko's breaths came uneven despite his effort to steady them, each inhale a fight against exhaustion.
Beyond the courtyard walls, the city was only beginning to stir. Here, time moved differently—measured not by clocks, but by discipline and repetition.
Shujinko swallowed, adjusted his footing, and raised the practice sword again.
Training had already begun long before the day itself.
More and more time passed—Shujinko became more and more exhausted by the minute.
The rhythm broke with a sound that didn't belong.
A firm knock echoed from the wooden gate that sealed the courtyard off from the rest of the property—three measured strikes, evenly spaced. Not urgent. Not hesitant. Intentional.
Shujinko flinched despite himself. His shoulders dipped for half a breath before he caught it, forcing his stance back into place. Sweat clung to his spine, his arms heavy as iron. They had been training since before the sun cleared the walls, and time had blurred into a single, aching stretch of effort. His breaths came slower now, dragged from deep in his chest.
Kyoto did not turn immediately. He remained where he was, both hands resting on the handle of his walker, eyes still on Shujinko.
"Again," the old man said.
Shujinko swallowed and lifted the sword. His grip slipped—just slightly—but he corrected it. The knock came again, just as calm as before.
Kyoto exhaled through his nose. "Stay right there, son."
Shujinko froze in place, muscles protesting the sudden stillness. Only then did Kyoto turn toward the gate. His steps were slow, uneven, the familiar hunch pulling his tall frame forward as he crossed the courtyard. When he slid the door open, morning light spilled in—and with it, a stranger.
The man stood just outside the threshold, hands folded neatly behind his back. He was shorter than both of them, dressed in a perfectly pressed black suit that looked absurdly clean against the worn stone and scattered training marks of the courtyard. His hair was short, straight, and jet black, combed with meticulous care, not a strand out of place. Black eyes—sharp and unreadable—surveyed the courtyard with quiet authority, taking in every detail without lingering on any one thing for too long.
Shujinko blinked, lowering the sword an inch without meaning to. He didn't recognize him. No scars. No armor. No sword at his hip.
The man inclined his head slightly. "I apologize for the interruption."
His voice was calm. Polished. Commanding without ever rising.
Kyoto studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing—not in hostility, but in search. "You have come early," he said.
"I find mornings are when people work the hardest," the man replied smoothly. His gaze flicked, briefly, to Shujinko—taking in his height, his stance, the way exhaustion pulled at him without breaking him. "It'd be polite if you'd let me inside."
Kyoto said nothing, but he stepped aside.
The man entered the courtyard, shoes never once scuffing the stone. Up close, Shujinko felt something prickle under his skin—not danger exactly, but pressure. Like standing near deep water.
They waited. A full minute passed. Then another. The man seemed content to let the silence stretch, to let Shujinko's breathing grow rougher, his arms heavier. Sweat slid down Shujinko's temple. His legs burned.
Finally, the man spoke.
"My name is Kyo Harasayuki," he said, voice precise. "Overseer of the Swordsman Academy."
The effect was immediate.
Kyoto straightened—just a fraction, but enough. His grip tightened on the walker.
"…Harasayuki," he repeated, recognition settling into his eyes like an old scar remembered. "So that's how you know about this place." He said, "How are you still walking?"
Kyo smiled faintly. Not a warm smile, but not cold either. "I make it a habit."
Shujinko looked between them, heart thudding. He didn't understand what the name meant—but he did understand what he meant by the Swordsman Academy. The most prestigious place to be trained, with the most prominent trainers.
Kyo's gaze returned to him. "Ryomen Shujinko," he said, as if tasting the name. "You—you show promise."
Shujinko's stomach twisted.
And somewhere between exhaustion and curiosity, a door he hadn't known existed quietly began to open.
"How about this," Kyo said, his hands folding neatly in front of him as if the offer were a formality already decided. "You come train at our academy."
The words settled into the courtyard like falling ash.
"You would be rewarded with the finest swordsman instruction the world has to offer," he continued evenly. "Not only combat—but discipline. Control. And, in time, the means to unlock your element."
Shujinko's breath caught.
The Swordsman Academy. The name alone carried weight—stories whispered by traveling warriors, half-myths about students who returned changed, sharpened into something more than human. Heck, even his dad trained there years ago. He opened his mouth to respond, heart pounding—
Footsteps thundered toward the courtyard door.
They all turned as it slid open, revealing Shuza and Kaori, slightly out of breath. Shuza's gaze snapped first to Shujinko—sweaty, trembling, sword still in hand—then to Kyoto. Kaori's eyes followed last, narrowing slightly as they landed on the unfamiliar man in the suit.
"Who is that?" Kaori asked, her voice calm but edged with suspicion.
Kyo inclined his head respectfully. "Kyo Harasayuki. Overseer of the Swordsman Academy."
Kaori stiffened. Shuza inhaled sharply.
"The Academy?" Shuza repeated. "Why are you here?"
Kyo's dark eyes returned to Shujinko, studying him with open interest. "Because your son has been watched. Quietly. For some time." He turned back to the women. "And I believe he deserves training worthy of his potential."
Kaori stepped forward at once. "Kyoto is already training him."
"That is true," Kyo said smoothly. "And respectable. But what is being taught here is foundation. Survival. Not ascension."
"That's enough," Shuza said, placing herself slightly in front of Shujinko. "We didn't ask for—"
Kyoto's walker struck the stone once.
Both women fell silent.
Kyoto straightened as much as his hunched frame allowed, eyes sharp beneath his white brows. "He is not wrong."
Shuza turned. "But—"
"I am teaching him to stand," Kyoto said. "The Academy will teach him to rise."
The courtyard went still.
Kyoto looked at Shujinko then—not sternly, but with a weight that carried years of unspoken understanding. "What he offers is dangerous," he said. "But it is also… necessary. If the world is changing the way I believe it is."
Kaori exhaled slowly, fingers tightening together. Shuza's expression wavered between fear and restraint.
Kyo nodded once. "If he accepts, he will leave in several days. Along with other candidates. The Academy is not on any map—an island far from home. From comfort."
Shujinko's stomach dropped.
Leave?
"Once he steps onto that ship," Kyo continued, "there is no turning back. Only forward."
All eyes turned to Shujinko.
The courtyard that had always felt safe suddenly felt small.
The tree overhead rustled softly. The morning air pressed against his lungs. Somewhere deep inside, that warm presence stirred again—quiet, patient, waiting.
Shujinko tightened his grip on the sword.
And the silence stretched, heavy with the weight of the biggest choice he had ever faced.