Chapter 5: The Blade's Shadow in the Wheelchair
A faint rustling came from the doorway, followed by the soft creaking of wooden wheels rolling across the stone floor. The suffocating silence of the room was slowly peeled away with each subtle movement.
A wheelchair rolled in, cutting through the stillness. The light from the window glinted off the thick satin cloth draped over the man's legs, casting a long shadow that crawled across the floor.
Hideo Takumi narrowed his eyes. His breath stilled.
A killing intent.
Cold. Sharp. It wrapped around the room like the invisible edge of a dagger poised at his throat. He could smell the blood—no, he sensed it. There was something terribly dangerous about the man in the chair.
Seated upon the wheelchair was a gaunt man with streaks of white at his temples. He looked to be in his thirties, yet his eyes burned—fierce, wild, like a caged tiger waiting for the bars to break.
His brows were angled like blades slanted toward his temples, and his gaze pierced like a spear hurled from a battlefield.
—He's no ordinary man.
Hideo could feel it. Even though the man released no visible pressure, the air itself tensed around him. It wasn't magic. It wasn't skill. It was something raw and instinctual—the aura of someone who had lived through real killing fields. Every breath he took was a quiet threat.
This man was Hasashi Takumi—his uncle.
The last surviving remnant of the Takumi Clan's second generation. Once written off as a crippled waste, a broken sword rusting in the shadows, waiting to die.
But now… he felt like a blade dulled by time but still stained with the memory of blood.
"…Uncle?" Hideo murmured.
Hasashi's eyes locked onto him. His lips curled into a smile—but it wasn't warm. It was a poisoned grin, slow and deliberate.
"You rarely call me that. Usually it's 'the old cripple.'"
His tone was flat, but every word landed like a nail being driven slowly into the wood—cold and painful. The atmosphere grew denser, like each syllable threatened to tear into flesh.
Hideo gave a small smile—there was no arrogance in it, no mockery. His gaze was serious. The fear that once haunted his eyes was gone.
"If you're second generation, Uncle, then I suppose I'm just a laid-back third gen, huh?"
Hasashi's eyes narrowed. The thin smile vanished. Something more dangerous took its place.
"Third generation, huh…?" he muttered. "Do you know the difference between the second and the third?"
Hideo looked at him calmly, no rush to reply. "…Aren't they the same? Both live in the shadow of those before them," he answered lightly, but his voice held a silence deeper than his words.
"No." Hasashi's voice dropped—low, heavy, almost sacred. "The second generation builds the foundation… so their children can live in peace.
But the third—the third must rebuild the world after it has fallen."
Hideo stood silent, letting the weight of those words sink in. They cut deep, yet felt like a challenge begging to be accepted.
"If your father were still alive… you would've been the rightful heir of the third generation. But now? It's all gone. Your grandfather is withering. And me… I'm broken."
Hasashi gripped the side of his wheelchair. His fingers tightened, as though trying to grasp a reality he could no longer change.
"You're alone, Hideo. If you don't learn to stand on your own… this world will crush you."
The words struck deep, echoing in the chambers of Hideo's soul.
But something stirred within him—a voice louder than doubt, more resolute than fear.
"I won't be a third generation failure."
And then—
Ding!
A translucent blue panel materialized before his eyes. Only he could see it.
Hideo's gaze sharpened as he read:
"Mandatory Quest Activated"
Title: Heal Hasashi Takumi
Description: Your uncle, Hasashi Takumi, suffers from crippled meridians. As the heir of the Takumi bloodline, restoring him is not only a matter of honor—it is your future.
Objective: Heal the Takumi Pillar
Reward: 1 Lottery Ticket
"A quest? So there is a quest system…"
His grin widened—not in arrogance, but in certainty. A certainty no one else could quite understand.
"Uncle," he said casually, but every word rang with quiet force.
"What if… one day, you become the tree I lean on?"
Hasashi turned sharply, eyes flaring, as if insulted. "Are you mocking me?"
Hideo didn't flinch. "I'm dead serious."
His gaze deepened, peering into the soul of the man before him. "Do your legs truly feel nothing?"
Hasashi sighed. "…No sensation at all," he admitted softly. There was something fragile in his tone—something rare.
"Broken spine?"
"No!" he snapped, like a lion defending its pride. "If it were broken, I'd be dead already!"
"Then… it's either meridian damage. Or poison."
Hideo's eyes glinted like those of a battlefield physician examining an old wound. "That means… there's still hope."
"Utter nonsense." Hasashi growled, but inside, something stirred.
A sliver of something he both feared and desired: hope.
A fire ignited by the absurd belief of a nephew who shouldn't have any.
"Uncle… if I can cure you—will you take revenge?"
The room froze.
Silence crashed down like a guillotine. That word—revenge—cut through the darkness in Hasashi's heart like a bolt of lightning.
"…Don't joke about something like that, boy."
"I'm not joking." Hideo's voice was steady—an oath etched into the stone of fate.
"…If you fail, you'll die," Hasashi warned.
"I know."
"And if you succeed… you'll attract eyes. Old enemies of this family will resurface."
"I know that too."
Hasashi stared at Hideo—hard. And for the first time in years, something sharp gleamed in his eyes.
Something buried.
Something long lost.
Something ready to return.