Two days had passed since the spring.
No one spoke of the incident. Not the guards who found me. Not the boys who pushed me. And certainly not Master Genzo. The only evidence anything had happened was the quiet ache in my ribs and the strange burn that still curled beneath my skin whenever I sat still for too long.
The Ghost or the System as It called itself.... hadn't spoken again--not since the sword in the mist and that flash of silver lightning in my veins. For a while, I convinced myself it had been a fever dream. A side effect of nearly drowning, or maybe mold from my walls finally seeping into my brain. Either way, I kept my mouth shut and got back to work.
That was the rule here: if no one important notices you, you live peacefully for longer.
I rose before the sun. I always did.
My room still smelled like mildew and old straw. The plums had rotted but I ate them anyway.
By the time the eastern wall of the dojo caught firelight, I was already outside with my broom in hand, sweeping the stone path that led from the training grounds to the Pavilion. It was a thankless task. The blossoms from the peach trees clung to the stone like guilt, and each gust of wind undid the last five minutes of work.
Still, I found peace in the rhythm. Sweep. Turn. Step. Sweep again. The broom whispered, and I let my mind drift.
Sometimes to impossible things, like the sound of lightning cracking from my hand. I was busy in my own head when she found me there.
"Good morning, Aoto."
My breath caught before I even turned.
Rika stood at the edge of the steps, hair tied in a short braid behind her back, her Hoto Clan robes were clean and pressed and far too regal for someone who'd just turned seventeen. Her eyes were bright, steady, and sharp..... and had once made three older boys drop their weapons mid-duel. She had awakened her Kettai at the mere age of twelve. Something to do with wind and blades, though I'd never seen it for myself.
And she was Genzo's daughter. I would inwardly groan whenever I paid attention to that part of reality. Not like I had a chance with her anyways but her old man seemed to hate me from his core.
But more importantly, she was one of the only few people who didn't look through me when speaking.
"I saved a bun for you," she said, holding it out in her palm. "You always forget to eat."
I blinked, hesitated, then took it with both hands like it was an offering from the gods.
"Thank you," I mumbled.
"You're welcome," she said, and turned with a casual grace that made my knees wobble. Her steps vanished into the corridor leading to the inner halls, and I exhaled only once she was gone.
There was sugar on my fingers but I didn't dare to lick it off.
Soon, the training fields came to life, though I kept my distance.
There was a rhythm to this place, and I was not part of it. I moved between structures like a shadow, delivering practice gear, wiping down benches, hauling water jugs that were too heavy for my narrow frame.
But I watched.
Always watched.
Especially the Jonin.
There were five of them, the pillars of the Hoto Clan and they had returned only days ago from delivering the Seven Beastly Scrolls to the Shogun and all of them had mastered their Kettai, each style a legend in itself.
First was Ren, the strongest among them. Broad, stoic, and carved from stone, he trained in silence and demanded the same from others. His every movement was perfect. His blade never faltered. But when he spoke, it was with the warmth of a hearth fire. He once offered a bow to the stable boy for helping him tighten his gauntlet.
Then there was Lady Kaoru. Tall, wiry, and devastating. Her Kettai was rumored to allow her to bend air pressure and snap necks without touching them. But she laughed like a drunk aunt, cursed like a pirate, and told the dirtiest jokes during tea ceremonies. She once slapped the clan accountant with a fish because he forgot to allocate funds for her new sandals.
The third was Hajime, who, to this day, I believed was responsible for the constant shortage of rice buns in the west kitchens. He was always eating. Always.I am not kidding. Like Always. Even during spars. Even while speaking to the elders. I often suspected my rations were being secretly absorbed into his orbit.
The fourth… no one really liked to talk about Souta. He wasn't loud. Or cruel. Just empty. He believed in the clan's old, bloody ways, the ritual, the duels, scars as merit, punishment over mercy stuff. His Kettai was brutal, internal, and precise. I once heard he cut through three rebel heads with a single pivot and He smiled through it.
And finally, Rika. She was too young to be considered one of them, but it was only a matter of time. Even the elders said so. She trained beside them sometimes, absorbing everything, radiating potential like sunlight against steel.
And I--sweeping leaves--watched them from the edge of the courtyard and wondered what lightning might sound like inside my bones.
.
.
.
It was midday when the world shifted.
I had just finished delivering cloth wraps to the meditation hall when it struck again--soft, like the echo of thunder behind a mountain. The back of my eyes flared with that same golden script.
[Mission Unlocked: ShinKetsu – Inazuma Nuki]
[Begin foundational practice in lightning affinity flow]
[Objective: Channel internal current to the edge of your dominant blade]
[Time limit: None]
[Reward: Stabilization of Kettai Circuit (5%)]
I stopped walking. My pulse skipped and No one else moved. The hallway was empty except for the creak of old wood and the hum of distant sparring.
[Tip: Training in solitude recommended. Location: Bamboo Hollow, eastern ridge]
I exhaled, a breath caught somewhere between disbelief and dread.
My hands felt heavier than it should have, the worn fabric of my cloth trembled against my fingers--though maybe it was me that trembled.
Training.
The word echoed, soft but absolute.
No one knew. No one had noticed. I still swept floors and scrubbed toilets. But something inside me was alive now. Something old, something… awake.
And it wanted me to go to the Bamboo Hollow....
That night, under a sliver of moon and the hush of rustling bamboo, I crept toward the eastern ridge with nothing but my wooden practice sword and a heartbeat full of storm.
I would try.
And if I failed—at least the wind would carry the truth away with the leaves.