The alleyway stank of stale refuse, but for Ryo, it was merely another backdrop. He was twelve, lean, and already a ghost. His mentor, a man simply known as Kage – the Shadow – moved with a terrifying grace, a blur in the pre-dawn gloom. Kage wasn't tall, nor outwardly strong, but his presence was absolute, his movements the very definition of efficiency. He rarely spoke, his lessons delivered through demonstration, the whisper of steel, and the sharp sting of failure.
"Again," Kage's voice, raspy like dry leaves, cut through the chill. Ryo, bruised but unbowed, lunged, a crude wooden dagger aimed at a pressure point Kage had indicated. Kage didn't block. He simply wasn't there. He reappeared behind Ryo, a breath of cold air on his neck, and a phantom blade tapped his carotid artery.
Wasted movement. Predictable rhythm. Ryo's mind, even then, absorbed every detail, cataloged every flaw. He wasn't naturally gifted with speed or brute force. Survival in his world meant dissecting every encounter, finding the unseen advantage, the fatal flaw. Kage had taught him the Muon no Jutsu, the Silent Arts, not as a dance, but as a language of death. Ja no Rasen wasn't just a maneuver; it was the art of becoming water against a rock. Kage no Hōyō wasn't just hiding; it was erasing your very presence. And Sasayaki no Yaiba… that was the whisper before the fall. The memories were a cold comfort, a blueprint for survival etched into the very core of his being. He remembered the pain, the hunger, the desperation that had forced him to invent Kokuha, the Shatterpoint, the final, desperate gamble. His childhood in Japan hadn't been filled with friends or laughter, but with shadows and the constant threat of extinction. Every lesson was a matter of life and death, and he'd learned them well.
The warehouse, now Orin's secret dojo, became a crucible. For three days, under the cloak of night, Orin pushed Joric and Elara beyond their limits. They stumbled, they groaned, they cursed under their breath, but they didn't quit. Orin, their patient but utterly unyielding instructor, demonstrated movements with the effortless grace of a seasoned predator.
"Again. Not like a bull, Joric. Like a serpent," Orin corrected, his voice a low, steady current. Joric, dripping with sweat, puffed out his chest. He was trying to learn Ja no Rasen, the Serpent's Spiral. But his natural inclination was brute force.
"Juh… Jarra-sen?" Joric mumbled, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar syllables. "What even is a 'Ja no Rasen'?"
Orin didn't smile. "It's how you break their balance without touching them." He demonstrated again, his body fluid, turning a hypothetical charge into a harmless sidestep that left an imaginary opponent flailing. "Their momentum is their weakness. Use it."
Elara, on the other hand, took to Kage no Hōyō, the Embrace of Shadow, with startling natural aptitude. She moved like mist, her small form melting into the warehouse's deep shadows. "Is 'Kay-gay no Ho-yo' how you say it, Orin?" she'd ask, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Close enough," Orin would reply, watching her disappear behind a stack of crates, only to reappear where she was least expected. "The name doesn't matter. The result does."
His inner monologue was a constant counterpoint to their struggles. Joric. Too much strength, too little thought. Just like the fools Ryo used to eliminate. Needs discipline. Elara. Observant. Agile. Natural talent for infiltration. If only Ryo had had a partner like that in his early days... A flicker of a memory: a dark alley, a desperate sprint, the searing pain of a bullet in his side. He pushed it down. This is different. This is about them. About not being helpless.
"Why do you know all this, Orin?" Elara asked him once, during a water break, her eyes studying him with an unnerving earnestness. "It's... amazing. But it's not like anything Gribble teaches."
Orin simply shrugged, taking a long drink. "Survival. The city teaches you lessons the orphanage won't." He glanced at Joric, already trying to practice a subtle disarm. "They learned the hard way. We won't."
He pushed them hard. Every night, under the cold moon, they drilled. They learned how to fall without breaking bones, how to take a hit and keep moving, how to move in perfect silence, how to see the tiny tells of an enemy's intent. They weren't fighting for honor or glory; they were fighting for the sheer, brutal right to exist. They were learning the Muon no Jutsu, the Silent Arts, not for combat, but for survival. And with each strained muscle and gritted tooth, they grew stronger, more aware, more confident.
The three days passed in a blur of exhaustion and exhilarating progress. Orin saw the change in his companions, a new alertness in their eyes, a subtle confidence in their movements. He felt a strange, unfamiliar pride in their small victories.
The knock on the orphanage door came just as the sun dipped below the horizon on the third day. It wasn't the usual gruff rap of a merchant, or the impatient pound of a city guard. It was firm. Confident. And far too familiar.
Orin, perched on a windowsill overseeing the main entrance, felt a prickle of unease. He recognized the heavy, metallic clanking. The faint, unpleasant scent of cheap tobacco.
The door creaked open. Gribble, his face unusually pale, stood aside. Outside, silhouetted against the dimming light of the street, stood three burly men. One of them, a scarred brute with a cruel grin, stepped forward. His hand rested on a heavy, iron-bound club.
"We hear you've been harboring trouble, old man," the brute sneered, his gaze sweeping the hall. "Children that belong to us."
Gribble swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously towards the back of the orphanage, where the children huddled. "I… I don't know what you're talking about, Boss Grunt."
"Don't you?" Grunt's grin widened, revealing a missing tooth. "My boys saw the brat Joric. And his little friends. They're causing problems for the Iron Grasp. But you know what? We're reasonable. We'll forget the past if you just hand over the ones who started it." He pointed a thick, calloused finger directly at Joric, then at Elara, who gasped and instinctively clutched Orin's hand.
Orin's eyes narrowed. He looked from Grunt to Gribble, whose face was now a mask of terror mixed with calculating cruelty. The orphanage was poor. They owed the Iron Grasp for 'protection'. Orin knew what was coming.
"The Iron Grasp is here," Gribble stammered, addressing the huddled children, his voice trembling but his intent clear. "And they want their due. Anyone who knows anything, step forward now. Don't make this worse for everyone."
His gaze landed squarely on Orin, Joric, and Elara. It was a cold, brutal calculation. The orphanage, the place that was supposed to be their refuge, had sold them out.