Chapter 2
The house was dead quiet when Tatsuya stepped inside, the air thick with the smell of blood and destruction. Everything was broken—literally and figuratively. Blood soaked into the cracks between the floorboards, a grim reminder of the chaos that had unfolded.
He stood frozen for a moment, staring at the mess. It was too much. Too much for a twelve-year-old kid to handle. But here he was, standing right in the middle of it. His chest tightened. He had to clean up. Because if he didn't, he knew he'd just sit there, suffocating in his own thoughts and grief.
Without another thought, he grabbed a broom. It felt too big for his small hands, the bristles awkward against his grip, but he didn't stop. It was something to do.
He moved through the wreckage, straightening chairs that had been knocked over, folding his parents' clothes with trembling fingers, and placing them gently on the bed they'd never use again. The sting of it hit him hard, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. Not yet.
Tatsuya wiped the pictures off the wall—pictures of the three of them, smiling like the world wasn't falling apart. His chest tightened, but he kept wiping, kept moving. If he stopped, he might break.
The kitchen was trashed. Cabinets had been knocked over, dishes scattered and shattered—likely looters. But he didn't care. Didn't matter who did it. He needed to move. He wiped down the counter, his arms aching, barely noticing the passing hours.
He wandered through the house, doing what he could, fixing what he could. He spent hours scrubbing, patching up broken floorboards, cleaning up the wreckage like he was trying to erase every sign of what had happened. Like the house could forget, the way he wished he could.
At some point, he passed the hallway mirror. He stopped.
There he was—Arasaka Tatsuya.
Twelve years old.
Grayish-blue eyes, storm-blue hair soaked from the rain, clinging to his forehead. Mud splattered across his clothes, clinging to him like a second skin. His frame was too lean, too skinny for the world around him.
Tatsuya almost laughed. Twelve years old and already, this was his life. Was he allowed to feel sorry for himself? Was he even allowed to feel anything?
Eventually, he collapsed onto the couch—the only piece of furniture that hadn't been destroyed.
He curled up into himself, pulling his knees close, eyes burning, throat tight. But no tears. Not yet. He didn't even know what came next. What was he supposed to do? No family. No clan. No bloodline. No plan.
Just him.
How long he stayed there, he wasn't sure. But at some point, sleep dragged him under, cold and heavy, like being pulled into black water.
And in that dark, he dreamed—or maybe not a dream.
He was standing. Or floating. Maybe both. The world around him was empty—black, silent, vast.
No stars. No sound. Just him. And in front of him, suspended in that endless dark, was a door.
It wasn't a door like any door he'd ever seen before. No knob, no frame, no hinges. Just a glowing outline, pulsing softly like it was breathing, waiting for something.
He took a step closer, not questioning how or why. His body felt weightless, like thought alone could carry him.
He reached out, fingers brushing the light.
The door opened.
No creak. No swing. Just a shift, a snap, and suddenly, he was somewhere else.
A workshop.
Not some dusty garage with old tools and bad lighting. No, this place was divine. It stretched infinitely in every direction, glowing softly like starlight filtered through glass. Workbenches floated mid-air, rotating lazily. Tools hovered, humming with quiet power. Materials—wood, steel, stone—things he couldn't even name, shimmered in midair. Glowing blueprints drifted overhead, shifting and pulsing like constellations.
At the center of it all was a table. Clean. Smooth. Waiting.
Tatsuya walked toward it, each step echoing even though he couldn't see a floor. The second his fingers touched the surface, warmth bloomed up his arm. It wasn't heat. Not pain. Just awareness. Like a switch flipped in his brain.
Suddenly, he understood.
He didn't know how he knew, but he did. He understood every inch of this place.
This was his.
The Celestial Workshop.
It didn't have a name when he first saw it. It named itself, and somehow, Tatsuya just… knew.
A thought—no, more like a whisper—echoed in his head. Soft, mechanical, almost distant:
"Create something simple."
He furrowed his brow, speaking aloud, even though he didn't expect an answer. "Like what?"
There was no reply, but his hands moved anyway. Guided by something instinctual. Something new.
He imagined a knife. Simple. Plain. Nothing fancy.
The moment the image formed in his mind, the materials appeared. Steel. Leather. A forge that radiated heatless fire. Tools he couldn't name but somehow knew how to use.
Tatsuya didn't hesitate. He just started.
Time moved differently here. There was no rush, no second-guessing. Every action felt natural, every piece falling into place as if it was meant to be. He folded the metal, hammered the edges, shaped the grip, etched a simple pattern along the fuller. Nothing extravagant. Just purpose. Functionality. Clean lines.
When it was done, the knife hovered above the table. Sleek. Sharp. Balanced. Beautiful, in a brutalist way.
His breath hitched.
He didn't know how he knew, but he understood. This wasn't some figment of imagination. It was real. Real like the blood pumping through his veins or the weight of the air around him.
Then, something stirred within him. A pull. A current, like pressure building behind his ribs, waiting to be released.
Another thought bubbled to the surface—instinctual, urgent:
Manifest.
His eyes snapped open.
Tatsuya jolted awake with a sharp breath, his heart pounding. For a moment, he thought it was just a dream—a weird, vivid escape his grief-addled brain cooked up.
And then he saw it.
The knife.
It was in his hand.
Simple. Clean. Exactly as he'd made it. The blade gleamed in the dim light, the etched pattern—his pattern—proof that it wasn't just some fever dream.
He sat up slowly, the weight of the blade anchoring him to reality. It wasn't warm from heat—it was warm from him. It belonged there, in his grip, like it had always been meant for him.
Tatsuya turned the knife over, inspecting every inch. The balance was perfect. The grip molded to his hand as though it was custom-made for him. Nothing was out of place.
"What the hell," he muttered under his breath, blinking hard to make sure he wasn't losing it.
No glowing door. No whispers. No dramatic soundtrack. Just him, in the wreckage of his old life, holding a knife he'd made in a dream.
Except it wasn't a dream.
The Workshop wasn't just some abstract space to build things. It was a place to create. And this knife wasn't the only thing he could make.
The realization hit him like a fist.
The world had just handed a twelve-year-old with no clan, no future, and far too many reasons to want vengeance an unholy gift.
Good luck to anyone who thought he'd stay weak.
Good luck to anyone who thought he'd sit quietly and swallow his fate like a good little orphan.
Good luck to anyone who thought he'd be satisfied with surviving when vengeance was still on the table.
Because now?
Tatsuya had a goddamn forge in his head.
And he was done being helpless.
His fingers tightened around the knife's grip. A small grin pulled at the edge of his lips.
Alright then.
Let's see what else he could make.