Morning light spilled through the cracked blinds of the modest apartment in western Tokyo. The air was heavy with the scent of miso soup and grilled salmon. Ren sat at the low dining table, his school blazer half-buttoned, a quiet fatigue still lingering in his eyes.
Across from him, Yujiro sipped tea silently, newspaper folded neatly beside him. The soft murmur of the TV news filled the room.
Kiyomi, stood by the kitchen counter, tying her long black hair into a bun. Normally sharp-tongued and strict, today she moved with a rare gentleness.
"Good. It's still warm." she said, her voice gentler now, as if not to startle him.
She turned to the side and held out the bento—wrapped in a patterned cloth of pale indigo with little cranes stitched into the corners. Her hands lingered a moment longer than necessary as she offered it to him. Her smile wasn't forced. It was small, careful, like something she hadn't used in a long time.
Ren stepped forward, slowly, and accepted the bento with both hands.
"Thank you."
For a breath, her face didn't move. Then her expression shifted—just slightly. There was a flicker in her eyes, hard to name. Surprise, perhaps. Or something closer to quiet affection, hidden under layers she wasn't ready to peel back.
She cleared her throat.
"Finish all of it," she said, tone reasserting its usual firmness.
He replied. "I will."
At that moment, Yujiro's voice called from the front hall, low and echoing: "If you don't leave now, you'll miss your train!"
Before Ren could respond, the newscaster's voice rose from the TV:
"—and in continuing coverage, yet another unexplained disappearance has been reported in Niigata Prefecture. Authorities are baffled as these mysterious incidents show no clear patterns, though witnesses claim to have seen shadows moving unnaturally—"
Ren stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I'm going! Thanks again."
"Ren," Yujiro said quietly, not looking at him. "The world doesn't stop for grief. But it remembers. Don't carry it alone."
Ren nodded once, then stepped into his shoes and left.
The streets were waking up—shops opening, salarymen rushing to stations, old women sweeping storefronts. The world was resuming.
Ren walked briskly down the slope toward Okutama Station, earbuds in but music off. Just silence.
A sudden squeal of joy broke the monotony.
"Rennnnnnnn!"
Celia came bounding up the street, two pigtails bouncing, her bag haphazardly slung across her back. As usual, she radiated chaos.
She bumped into him playfully. "You looked like a zombie! C'mon, at least try to act alive, y'know? We're back to normal, remember?"
Ren gave a tired chuckle. "You're the last person who should talk about 'normal.'"
"Rude as always." she pouted, then leaned closer. "But I'll forgive you 'cause you're grieving and stuff."
He rolled his eyes. "Thanks."
She grinned, looping her arm through his as they walked.
"You doing okay?" she asked, softly now. Her usual theatrics faded just for a second.
"I don't know," Ren said, "but I'm moving."
Celia nodded, satisfied with that answer. "Then let's keep moving together."
Students rushed through the gates. Bells rang. Teachers scolded. The normal chaos of school life resumed.
Ren sat through math, Japanese history, lunch, PE, literature—each hour dull and grounding.
Time passed as inside the stuffy clubroom, Ren stood awkwardly on a makeshift stage. A faded backdrop of mountains and cherry blossoms hung behind him. The club was preparing for their summer vacation opening drama: Momotaro.
"You're supposed to be the peach boy!" yelled the club captain, a third-year with too much caffeine and too little patience. "Not read him!"
Ren clenched his jaw and tried again. His line came out flat. Empty.
Laughter bubbled from the back of the room. Someone whispered, "He's cool but dead inside."
Ren bit his tongue and bowed his head slightly. He couldn't disagree.
Later that evening, the ship's gravity chamber buzzed with mechanical hums. The lights overhead flickered slightly as if the very ship was holding its breath. Ren stood alone in the center of the polished metal floor, sweat pouring down his back. The simulated pressure, set at double Earth's gravity, wrapped around him like an invisible anchor. Every movement took force. Every breath came short.
He drove his palm forward, attempting to channel essence into a controlled burst.
Nothing.
Again—gritted teeth, focused mind, shouted spirit.
Still nothing.
He dropped to a knee, the floor vibrating beneath him. His vision swam. His breath rasped in his throat, shallow and unsatisfied.
A voice crackled over the comm speaker, smooth, low, and laced with a teasing warmth.
"Now I ain't sayin' you gotta be the next essence samurai messiah or nothin'," Andre said, "but bruh—either do, or do not. Ain't no 'I'll try' in this dojo. You feel me?"
Ren blinked up toward the intercom, a laugh slipping from him before he could catch it. It was small. Honest. He rose again, fists clenched, ready for one more attempt.
Later, after the heat of failure had cooled, Ren walked the metal corridors toward the common room. His muscles ached, his head pounded softly with dehydration and fatigue, but he moved forward on instinct. He passed a humming conduit and opened the sliding door with a quiet shhhk.
Inside, Celia lay upside-down on a battered old sofa, her legs flopped dramatically over the backrest like she was trying to fall off it for sport. Yui sat beside her, small hands tucked under her chin, eyes glued to the cartoon flickering on the screen. Her tiny brows were furrowed in concentration.
Ren stepped in, a towel draped around his neck, hair still damp. Yui turned and lit up instantly, eyes wide.
"Big bro Ren!" she chirped, waving her arms like he might miss her entirely. "You're back! You look like a soggy rice ball!"
Celia rolled her head over, hanging almost upside-down as she popped a piece of candy into her mouth. "You do look like a soggy rice ball. But like, the cool kind." She pointed at the screen with her toe. "Yo, Ren, look—look at that dude! He's literally you in cartoon form. Broody, quiet and all. Except he turns into a giant hamster or something. You should try that."
Ren stared at the screen. The animated character was indeed tall, moody, and carrying a sword three times his size. He also had glowing eyes and a pet frog that could sing.
He blinked slowly, then collapsed into the seat across from them, body going limp as he sank into the cushions. The quiet hum of the ship wrapped around them like a blanket.
Yui leaned over and held out a small, slightly crumbled cookie wrapped in plastic.
"For you, big bro," she said solemnly, like it was a sacred offering. "You looked like you needed it."
Ren accepted the cookie with a tired but genuine smile. "Thanks."
The cartoon kept playing, Celia kept dangling, and the world—just for now—paused.
Days bled together like watercolor left out in the rain. Ren moved through them quietly—waking early, enduring school, rehearsing Momotaro, training until his body ached and his lungs burned. The numb fog that had hung around him since the ubume incident began to loosen its grip, not because it hurt less, but because he had learned how to carry it.
He returned to the dojo on the fourth day of the week. The place hadn't changed—same wooden floor, same quiet dust in the beams—but it felt different to be back. Yujiro stood at the far side, arms folded, the faintest of smiles tucked behind his beard. He said nothing at first, only nodded in welcome. Ren bowed deeply. He didn't need to say he was sorry for staying away so long. Yujiro already knew.
Hiro stepped into the sparring ring with a practiced swagger, rolling his shoulders. There was no warm greeting. Just tension—the kind built from old clashes, unresolved words, and bruises traded under the name of training.
They bowed, and then the silence broke with motion.
The fight was fast, sharp, messy. Ren blocked, parried, sidestepped. Hiro pressed hard, never giving an inch. His strikes weren't just testing Ren—they were taunts, challenges wrapped in muscle and spite. But Ren didn't flinch. He'd fought grief. He'd faced rage in the form of a mother turned demon. This? This was just motion. A rhythm.
Hiro feinted left and lunged right—but Ren caught him.
A clean strike landed against Hiro's ribs. The thud echoed in the dojo's still air. Hiro stumbled back, winded. He stared at Ren for a beat too long, then smirked, shaking his head.
"You got better, idiot."
Ren, panting, allowed a small smile. "So did you."
Yujiro chuckled, arms now behind his back. "Now that is the sound of progress," he said, the pride in his voice clear. He looked at Ren a little longer, like he was memorizing the fact that the boy had returned.
The days kept moving.
Night fell heavy on the outskirts of the city, where the alleys narrowed and the streetlights flickered as if nervous. Rain poured in sheets, slicing down from the clouds in angry lines. Thunder cracked like the sky itself was in mourning.
A monster lay crumpled in the shadow of a warehouse, its limbs twitching, black steam hissing off its melting body. Its howls had rattled the walls moments earlier. Now, there was only the slow hiss of rain against rotting flesh.
Ren stood above it, soaked through, his blade still drawn. The faint hum of essence pulsed along the edge like an echo from a battlefield. His shoulders rose and fell with effort. His hair clung to his face. His expression was unreadable.
Heavy boots splashed through the puddles behind him.
Andre stepped into view, towering as always, his presence solid and easy. Rain streaked down his jacket, but his grin never faltered. He clapped a broad hand on Ren's back, hard enough to jolt him forward a step.
"Good work, kid."
Ren didn't answer. He just exhaled, long and slow, the mist of his breath curling upward into the storm. The rain fell harder now, washing away the black remnants of the monster at his feet. The hum of his blade faded as he sheathed it with a soft metallic click. For a long second, he just stood there—drenched, tired, quiet. Everything inside him was silent.
His mind drifted.
He wasn't in the rain anymore. He was somewhere warmer, drier, filled with shrieks—not of monsters, but of joy.