I ran around the area surrounding the orphanage for roughly thirty minutes. The streets were still relatively quiet, with only the occasional figure passing by—people who were also exercising or preparing to begin their day, moving at an unhurried pace beneath the soft light of morning.
The morning air felt fresh and clean, filling my lungs every time I drew in a deep breath. Each inhale felt crisp, almost sharp in its clarity, as if washing away lingering drowsiness. In the distance, birds began to call out to one another, their voices overlapping in gentle echoes, blending naturally with the steady rhythm of my footsteps against the ground.
Sunlight slowly emerged from behind the trees, slipping through gaps in the leaves and casting long, stretching shadows across the road. Sweat began to gather at my temples and seep into the back of my shirt, clinging lightly to my skin, yet my stride remained steady and even until I finally decided it was time to head back.
When I opened the door to the orphanage building, the warm aroma of cooking greeted me instantly. The scent was simple, familiar, and comforting, yet it stirred my stomach all the same, making it tighten slightly in anticipation.
In the kitchen, Yukina was already there, standing in front of the stove, focused as she stirred the food in the pan. Upon hearing the door open, she turned around and looked toward me with the same gentle smile she always wore—a smile that, for some reason, made the morning itself feel warmer and more welcoming.
"Have you finished your exercise?" Yukina asked in a warm, soothing voice, as though she were quietly checking to make sure I was alright.
"Yes, I'm done," I replied while nodding, still working to steady my breathing.
"In that case, go take a shower, and then come back down for breakfast," Yukina said softly before returning her attention to the dish that was nearly finished.
"Alright," I answered briefly. I went up to the second floor, opened the door to my room, and then stepped into the bathroom. Cold water touched my skin, refreshing my body that was still warm from running, sending a faint shiver through me.
The remaining sweat and traces of fatigue slowly disappeared along with the flowing water. Once I was done, I put on a black T-shirt and black shorts—simple clothing, but comfortable and easy to move in.
I went back downstairs and sat in the dining area, waiting for Yukina to finish cooking.
The atmosphere of the house gradually changed as the other children began to wake up one by one. Soft footsteps echoed along the hallway, doors creaked open, and quiet conversations slowly filled the morning air, replacing the earlier silence.
Yukina soon told them to wash up. The children moved back to their rooms with half-awake expressions, their eyes still heavy with sleep, before eventually coming back down and sitting neatly in the dining room. They waited patiently for breakfast, though now and then they leaned closer to one another, whispering softly.
Not long after that, Yukina finished cooking. The food was placed on the table, still steaming with warmth. We all prayed together before starting the meal.
The children immediately dug into their breakfast with enthusiasm, their faces filled with morning cheer and energy, as if the food instantly replenished whatever sleepiness remained.
Once the meal was over, the children quickly scattered outside to play in the orphanage yard, their laughter ringing lightly through the air, bright and carefree.
Meanwhile, I helped Yukina carry the used dishes to the kitchen. I handed her the door keys and asked for permission to head out again.
Yukina allowed it, but with one condition: I was not to go too far. I nodded right away, accepting the condition without any complaint.
After that, I stepped out of the orphanage once more, heading toward the forest—the same place where I had trained before, a place that felt quiet, familiar, and filled with memories of past practice.
...
...
...
Upon entering the forest, I stopped at a wide clearing hidden among towering trees. The area felt disconnected from the forest's natural paths, like an empty space that had been deliberately left untouched, quietly existing on its own.
Tall tree trunks rose up around it from every direction, standing close together like sturdy natural walls, yet not so dense as to completely block out the light.
Their bark was dark and rough, covered with thin patches of moss and deep lines carved by time itself, silent proof of how long they had stood in that place.
Morning sunlight filtered through the overlapping leaves above, falling onto the ground in scattered patches of uneven light. The glow shifted slowly as the leaves swayed gently, creating shadows that continuously changed, giving the clearing a calm yet quietly alive atmosphere.
The grass beneath my feet felt slightly damp as I stepped forward—cold and wet, the remnants of dew that had yet to fully evaporate. The tips of my sandals and my ankles immediately picked up the chill, a creeping cold that slowly spread along my skin.
The air here felt colder than it did outside the forest, piercing my nose every time I drew a breath.
The scent of wet soil mixed with the smell of old, rotting wood filled my lungs, a distinctive aroma found only far from civilization. Each inhale felt heavy, as though the air itself carried more weight than usual.
The surroundings were quiet—too quiet. There was no birdsong echoing from the branches, no faint rustle of insects hidden within the undergrowth. Even the whisper of the wind was nearly absent.
The silence didn't feel natural. It pressed down on me, clung to my skin, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
My instincts told me that something was wrong, as though this entire area was watching me from every direction, despite the fact that not a single creature was in sight.
The skin at the back of my neck prickled for no clear reason. The sensation crawled down my spine, making my muscles tense on reflex. I swallowed, trying to ignore the growing discomfort slowly taking root in my chest.
Maybe I was just too excited… or too tense. Maybe it was only my imagination, starting to hallucinate and exaggerate everything because my expectations were set too high.
In the end, I decided to begin by using a Binding Vow. My steps came to a halt right in the middle of the clearing, and I stood upright, both feet planted firmly against the ground.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment, trying to steady myself, regulating my breathing so it wouldn't become too fast. I could feel my pulse beating in my neck—clear, steady, rhythmic.
Yet my heart began to race instead. The pounding was unmistakable in my ears, loud and irregular, as if my own body were warning me about the risk I was about to take.
Each beat felt like a countdown, a reminder that a Binding Vow was not something to be used carelessly.
I needed to know—could I truly use a Binding Vow?
The doubt crossed my mind only briefly, but it was strong enough to make my palms sweat. My fingers trembled slightly before I clenched them into fists, forcing myself to suppress the hesitation.
I took a deep breath, slowly filling my lungs until my chest expanded fully, then exhaled just as slowly, trying to calm the thoughts that were beginning to spiral out of control.
After that, in a voice that was quiet yet firm, I spoke the Binding Vow.
"Binding Vow. For one minute, I will increase the output of my Cursed Energy. I cannot stop this vow before its time ends. If I force it to stop, my cursed energy will turn back and attack my own body."
The words left my mouth without a tremor, but there was a tension in my chest that was hard to put into words. It felt as though every syllable I spoke carried its own weight, released into the air and left there, waiting for an answer.
At first, nothing happened. My body remained the same, standing in the same place without any noticeable change. There was no heat, no pressure, no strange sensation washing over me.
I could still feel the cold seeping up through my feet, still smell the same damp earth in the air.
There was no surge of energy like I had imagined. No upheaval. Only the same forest silence—quiet and oppressive—as if the vow I had just spoken had never existed at all.
I repeated it. My voice was a little clearer this time. And again. Each time there was no result, my chest felt slightly heavier, as if an invisible weight were being placed upon it little by little.
My breathing began to shorten—not from exhaustion, but from an unseen pressure.
It wasn't pain, but a vague, suffocating pressure, as though something were judging my intent—measuring every word, every shred of resolve, questioning whether the vow was worthy of being accepted. I could feel it, like an invisible gaze probing the deepest parts of me.
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