The door creaked with the agonizing, slow protest of old wood that had not been touched in years. It wasn’t a loud sound, but it was a tired one. The hinges groaned as the warped plank shifted inward, a dry, metallic rasp that echoed too long in the stagnant air. As the door gave way, a pale cloud of dust lifted, swirling lazily in the thin blades of winter light that leaked through the cracked boards along the walls.

  The air smelled different. In Laurentia, the air was sharp with the scent of pine, woodsmoke, and the clean ozone of the Ethereal System. Here, the air was heavy with the stench of failure. It smelled of wet plaster, of rotten timber, of stale urine, and the cloyingly sweet scent of mildew. Beneath it all—hidden like a jagged secret—was something faintly metallic. The smell of old blood and rusted iron.

  Azuma stepped inside. The floorboards bowed under his weight, the wood letting out a slow, splintering complaint. It didn't break, but the sensation reminded him that this building had not been meant to survive this long. His breath fogged. It was colder inside the building than it was outside in the alleyway. That was a fracture in logic, but Azuma did not notice. He knew this place. He didn't recognize the specific layout, but he recognized the feeling. A heavy, leaden weight settled into his chest—a hollow certainty. Recognition.

  Somewhere deeper inside the building, a sound broke the silence. A child’s voice, weak and thready, followed by another voice—high, broken, and wet with tears. Azuma’s pulse spiked. He moved, his pace a fast, stalking walk. The hallway was a narrow throat of peeling wallpaper and shadows. Plaster hung in curling, necrotic strips from the walls, and the light that bled in around the edges of the boarded windows felt like the blades of thin knives.

  The crying grew louder. High. Broken. Desperate. He reached the end of the corridor, turned the corner, and stopped. The breath left his lungs in a single, silent gasp. There, huddled against the far wall beneath a cracked window, sat two boys. One was thin—starved thin, his ribs visible through a threadbare shirt. Dark hair hung in matted clumps over his eyes. His knees were pulled tight to his chest, his arms wrapped fiercely around a smaller body cradled against him.

  The smaller boy’s skin was pale. Too pale. His lips were cracked and stained, and his eyes were barely open, fixed on a void. Azuma did not understand at first. He just stared quietly. Then his heart broke. He knew this scene personally. The older boy was crying—an open-mouthed, howling despair. The older boy leaned down, pressing his forehead against the smaller one, his voice trembling as he whispered,

  “Nagi, tabemono o sagashite ageru yo.”

  "Nagi, I’ll find you something to eat."

  The smaller boy’s eyelids fluttered. His breathing was shallow. He lifted one trembling hand, shaking as it rose like a pale leaf in a storm.

  “O nīchan… nakanaide… daijōbu da yo…”

  "Big brother… don’t cry… I’m okay…"

  His small hand found the older boy’s face, touching his left cheek. Small fingers. Cold. He looked up, his eyes unfocused.

  “Jin…”

  And then—nothing. The hand slid slowly from the older boy’s cheek and hit the floor with a soft sound. The older boy froze for half a second. Then, he screamed.

  “Nagi… okite! Oite ikanaide!”

  "Nagi… wake up! Don’t leave me!"

  He shook him once, twice, harder. “Nagi!” His voice broke as he pulled the body tighter against his chest, rocking and crying openly. A ten-year-old child losing the only person he had left.

  The adult Jin (Azuma) could not move. He didn't know he was in a dream, a nightmare. There was no lightning, no system interface, no awareness. Just this. His legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, the wood cold through his trousers. His hands hovered in front of him. He could feel the air and the memory. He reached forward slowly, not toward the crying boy, but toward the small hand on the floor. He needed to touch it. He needed to feel it just once.

  Before he could, footsteps sounded. Shoes—heavy, measured, and not rushed. The crying stopped. The younger Jin looked up as the hallway filled with men in black coats. At their center stood the head of Clan Shimizu, composed and immaculate. Young Jin’s face twisted as recognition turned to hatred instantly. His little brother’s body slid from his lap as he stood, unsteady, and found a rusted knife near a broken cabinet. His hand was shaking, but he did not care.

  He charged. A child, barefoot and starved, screaming. The first man moved without emotion, a direct kick that sent Jin flying backward to hit the wall. Air left his lungs. He fell, coughed, and tried to stand. He stood and ran again. The knife swung wildly. Another strike, a backhanded blow across his face, and he hit the floor as blood pooled at his lip. He pushed himself up and charged again. The men did not shout; they simply beat him with measured violence. Every time he hit the floor, he stood again, knife still in hand, crying and bleeding but always advancing.

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  "Sore wa anata no seidesu!" Young Jin cried out. "Naze minashigo-in o heisa nodesu ka?!"

  "It's your fault!" "Why did you close the orphanage?!"

  Finally, the clan head lifted one hand and the men stopped. Young Jin stood swaying, the rusted knife still raised. The head of Shimizu stepped forward, his shoes silent on the rotted wood. He studied the boy before speaking,

  “Omae wa shōnen no mi de arinagara, senshi no kokoro o motte iru.”

  "Though you are but a child, you possess the heart of a warrior."

  The words did not comfort; they evaluated. He turned slightly,

  “Sono shōnen o tsurete ike.”

  "Take the boy with you."

  One of the men hesitated.

  “Hai. Mō hitori wa dō shimasu ka?”

  "Yes. What about the other one?"

  The clan head’s gaze shifted to the small, still body on the floor before looking back to Jin.

  “Kare mo tsurete ike. Kichinto maisō sa seyo.”

  "Take him as well. See that he is buried properly."

  Young Jin did not understand burial; he only understood that the men responsible for leaving them were standing in front of him. He tried to lunge again, but his body failed. The men seized him by the arms. He fought and screamed and bit, but they did not react. As they dragged him toward the hallway, he twisted his head back and his voice tore from his throat: “Nagi!”

  The building swallowed the sound. The adult Jin felt something split inside his chest—something foundational. He was reliving it and he could not stop it. The hallway stretched, the light dimmed, and the crying echoed as the dream deepened.

  The crying did not fade; it thinned like fabric pulled too tight. The hallway dissolved into something colder: snow. The world shifted into an endless white. Jin stood barefoot in it, once again the ten-year-old boy with a swollen face and a bruised cheek. A wooden sword lay at his feet. Across from him stood Hitokiri Sora—tall, lean, and possessing eyes of pure assessment.

  Sora stepped forward and, without warning, the wooden blade struck Jin’s ribs. The sound cracked through the air. Jin fell to one knee, gasping, as Sora waited in silence. Jin stood, and the blade came again—shoulder, thigh, side of the head—until he fell backward into the powder. Sora’s voice came, even and cold:

  "Tatsu."

  “Stand.”

  No anger, no encouragement, just instruction. Jin rolled and pushed himself up, his blood staining the snow pink. He raised his wooden sword and they clashed. Jin’s stance was imperfect, and Sora’s blade slid past his guard to strike his collarbone, sending white pain behind his eyes. He dropped to one knee again.

  "Tatsu."

  “Stand.”

  The snow continued falling as the scene repeated. Winter, summer, rain, night—the seasons blurred but the training did not. Wood cracked against bone. Calluses formed. He was forced under cold water until his lungs burned. Sora struck without warning from the shadows. Jin collapsed and stood, collapsed and stood again.

  The adult Jin watched, feeling the cumulative ache of six years. No praise, only correction. When Jin was twelve, he could hold a stance longer. At thirteen, he stopped crying when struck. At fourteen, he anticipated the angles. At fifteen, he bled less. At sixteen, he did not fall unless he was unconscious.

  Snow fell again. Jin stood taller now, hardened and clear-eyed. Sora lowered his wooden blade as the wind moved through the yard.

  "Anata wa mou junbi ga dekite imasu."

  “You are ready now.”

  No ceremony, just fact.

  The scene shifted to a city of neon and wet pavement. A businessman stepped out of a black sedan as sixteen-year-old Jin watched from across the street, his breath steady and a blade hidden beneath his coat. The rain masked his movement. Inside a narrow office hallway, the businessman stumbled backward, voice breaking as he gasped,

  “Onegaishimasu, motto harau yo. Karera ga anata ni kureru kingakunara nani demo.”

  "Please. I’ll pay you more. Whatever they give you."

  Jin did not respond. The man fell to his knees.

  “Watashiniha musume ga imasu. Kanojo wa 9-saidesu... Onegaishimasu.”

  "I have a daughter. She’s nine... Please."

  The word daughter hit something briefly—a fraction of a second's hesitation. The businessman’s eyes changed as he lunged for a drawer and drew a gun.

  The shot cracked through the room. Pain burned along Jin’s left arm, blood spreading warm to his wrist, but he did not hesitate again. He closed the distance in one clean motion and the blade cut across the man’s throat. Silence returned to the office. Jin stood over the body, breathing steady, before kneeling to complete the task.

  When he returned to the Shimizu compound, the room was quiet. Four figures were present: the elevated Shimizu Head, Hitokiri Sora (Sky), Hitokiri Fukai Mori (Deep Forest), and Hitokiri Umi (Sea). Jin entered and knelt, placing the wrapped head before the Head. Blood seeped through the cloth. The Head studied the bundle and then Jin’s arm.

  "Anata wa tameratta."

  “You hesitated.”

  “Hai,” Jin replied, eyes lowered.

  "Yes."

  The Head stood, measured and deliberate.

  “Honjitsu yori, omae wa ‘Hitokiri Sanchō’ da.”

  "From this day forward, you are Hitokiri Sanchō."

  The words settled like falling ash. Jin bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the tatami.

  “Kyōdai no moto e tate.”

  "Stand beside your brothers."

  Jin rose, bowed to the Shimizu head, and walked toward them—Sora, Fukai Mori, and Umi. He bowed deeply before them, and after a breath of silence, all three bowed in return with equal depth. From that moment, the four Hitokiri stood complete. Brothers bound by inevitability. Outside, the wind moved through the pine trees. Somewhere in the future, one would fall at forty-five, but not tonight.

  The adult Jin stood within the memory, feeling the weight of the name Sanchō (Mountain Summit/Peak) settle over his shoulders once more. The snow began to fall, the walls dissolved, and the dream deepened.