I practically bounced through the village gates, trying to keep the stupid grin off my face.
One technique. Just one, but it was something. A real technique from someone who could dissolve corrupted wolves with golden light. If I could learn even the basics before—
"The Academy Trial's been postponed!"
Elder Tanaka's voice boomed across the village square, stopping my thoughts mid-spiral. A small crowd had gathered around the message board, buzzing with excitement and confusion.
"One week delay," he continued, adjusting his spectacles. "Official word from Shinkai Academy. Something about 'reviewing security protocols after recent events.'"
My heart nearly exploded with relief. A week. Seven whole days instead of three. If Kyoto could teach me something—anything—in that time...
"Kaito!"
I spun around to find Mina running toward me, her face bright with excitement. "Did you hear? You get another chance!"
"Yeah, I heard." I tried to keep my voice casual, but inside I was already planning. Dawn meeting tomorrow. Two days of training. Maybe I could convince Kyoto to teach me more if I brought really good rice balls.
Rice balls.
"Mina," I said, putting on my most innocent expression. "You know how you make the best rice balls in three villages?"
Her eyes narrowed instantly. "What do you want?"
"Why do you assume I want something?"
"Because you only compliment my cooking when you need a favor." She crossed her arms, looking far too knowing for a seven-year-old. "What kind of favor?"
"Could you make some of those special ones? With the blue cliff honey?"
"Those take hours to prepare properly. The honey has to be mixed just right, and the rice needs to be—" She stopped, studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. "Why do you suddenly need the best rice balls ever?"
Think fast. "I just... thought it would be nice. You know, comfort food before the trial."
"Uh-huh." Mina's expression screamed 'I don't believe a word of this.' "And this has nothing to do with whatever stupid thing you were planning to do in the forest?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right." She sighed dramatically. "Fine. I'll make your mysterious rice balls. But I want answers later."
"Deal."
That evening, I watched Mina work with the focused intensity of a master craftsman. She mixed the honey into the rice with precise measurements, tested the sweetness, adjusted the balance of flavors. By the time she finished, the kitchen smelled like heaven.
"These better be for something important," she said, wrapping them carefully in cloth. "I used the last of our good honey."
"They are. I promise."
She studied me for a long moment, then shook her head. "You're planning something dangerous, aren't you?"
"Just training."
"Training for what?"
"To get stronger."
"Why?"
Because an Akuma called me master and I don't know what that means. Because intelligent monsters might come back for you. Because I'm tired of being weak and useless when people need me.
"Because I want to protect you," I said simply.
Something in her expression softened. "You already protect me, big brother."
"Not well enough."
She was quiet for a moment, then stepped forward and hugged me tight. "Just... be careful, okay? Whatever you're planning."
"I will be."
I really hoped that was true.
Dawn came faster than expected. I slipped out of the house while Mina was still sleeping, rice balls wrapped carefully in my pack along with water and my practice sword.
The forest felt different in the early morning light—peaceful instead of threatening. I found the clearing where I'd met Kyoto easily enough, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Had he changed his mind? Decided teaching a village failure wasn't worth the trouble?
"You're early."
I spun around to find Kyoto sitting calmly on a fallen log, somehow having appeared without making a sound. "I've been here for an hour. Wanted to make sure you were serious about this."
"I'm serious."
"We'll see." He gestured for me to join him. "Before we start, let's establish some ground rules. First, what happens here stays here. You don't tell anyone about these techniques, where you learned them, or even that you met me. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Second, I'm giving you two days. That's it. After that, you're on your own."
Two days. Not much time, but it would have to be enough. "Why only two days?"
Something flickered across his face—too fast to read. "Let's just say I don't make a habit of staying in one place very long."
"You could come to the village. There's an inn, and Elder Tanaka is always—"
"No." The word came out sharper than necessary. "I prefer... natural accommodations."
I got the sense there was more to it than that, but his expression warned against pushing. Instead, I pulled out the rice balls and offered them with a hopeful smile.
"As promised. Mina's special recipe."
Kyoto unwrapped one carefully, examined it like he was appraising a precious gem, then took a small bite.
His eyes widened. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose.
"This is..." He took another bite, larger this time. "The honey balance is perfect. The rice texture... How does she get it so fluffy while maintaining structural integrity?"
"Trade secret," I said, grinning as he demolished the first rice ball and reached for a second. "Good enough payment for training?"
"These are payment enough for a month of training," he muttered, but caught himself and straightened up. "I mean... they're adequate compensation for two days of basic instruction."
Right. Basic instruction.
"So what's this Flame Threading technique?"
Kyoto finished his second rice ball and wiped his nose, looking slightly embarrassed by his reaction. "Before we get to specific techniques, you need to understand what Shinzai actually is."
He leaned back against the log, settling into what I recognized as a teaching posture. "Most village kids get basic explanations, but they're usually incomplete. Shinzai isn't just energy—it's the divine essence that flows through all living things. The fundamental force that connects us to creation itself."
I nodded, though this was deeper than anything I'd been taught before.
"There are five main categories of Shinzai arts," Kyoto continued. "Elemental Arts, which manipulate the natural forces—fire, water, earth, wind, lightning. Martial Arts, which enhance physical capabilities. Phantom Arts, which deal with illusions and mental manipulation. Spirit Arts, which involve summoning and binding. And Ancient Arts, which..." He paused. "Well, let's just say those are beyond what most people ever encounter."
"Which one am I?"
"That's what I was getting to." Kyoto stood and moved closer, his expression becoming more focused. "Everyone has a primary affinity—one category they're naturally suited for. Some people can dabble in others, but your main affinity determines what you can truly master."
He gestured for me to hold out my hands. "Let me see your Shinzai flow. Don't try to shape it, just let it manifest naturally."
I closed my eyes and reached for the fire inside me, letting it emerge without trying to control it. Warm energy flowed around my hands, visible as flickering orange and red light.
"Interesting," Kyoto murmured. "Your affinity is definitely Elemental Arts—fire specifically. Same as mine."
My eyes snapped open. "You're a fire user too?"
"Among other things." A small flame appeared in his palm—not wild like mine, but perfectly controlled, burning with an intensity that made the air around it shimmer. "Fire affinity is why I can teach you Flame Threading. Trying to learn techniques outside your affinity is possible but extremely difficult. Within your affinity, though..."
The flame in his hand began to stretch and reshape itself, forming the delicate threads I'd seen earlier.
"Within your affinity, you can achieve things that seem impossible to others."
He stood and moved to the center of the clearing. "Now, most people think fire is just destruction—burning, consuming, turning things to ash. But fire is also energy, and energy can be shaped if you know how."
"Watch carefully. I'll only demonstrate once."
He raised his hand, and flames appeared around his fingers—not the wild, chaotic fire I usually produced, but controlled streams that moved like liquid light. As I watched, the flames began to solidify, forming thin threads that he wove together into increasingly complex patterns.
"Flame Threading creates semi-solid constructs of fire," he explained, the threads dancing through the air like living things. "They can cut, bind, or simply provide light. The key is treating your Shinzai like material to be crafted, not a force to be unleashed."
The demonstration was beautiful—delicate threads of fire forming shapes that seemed almost alive before dissolving back into normal flame.
"Your turn," Kyoto said, settling back on his log. "Start simple. Just try to create a single thread that holds its shape for more than a few seconds."
I closed my eyes and reached for my fire. Instead of trying to force it into the shape I wanted, I tried to coax it, to guide it gently like Kyoto had shown me.
Fire erupted from my hands.
Not threads. Not controlled streams. A massive gout of flame that shot straight up into the canopy, setting three branches on fire before I could cut it off.
"Well," Kyoto said dryly as burning leaves drifted down around us. "That's one approach."
I tried again. This time the fire went sideways, nearly singeing Kyoto's eyebrows before guttering out completely.
Third attempt: I managed to create something that might charitably be called a thread for about half a second before it exploded outward and scorched a perfect circle in the grass around my feet.
"This is harder than it looks," I muttered.
"Most things are." Kyoto stood and moved behind me. "Your problem is you're still thinking of fire as something that needs to be controlled. Stop trying to dominate it. Work with it instead."
"How?"
"Feel the fire's nature. Fire wants to dance, to flow, to reach toward something greater than itself. Don't fight that impulse—redirect it."
I tried to understand what he meant, but every attempt ended in either explosive failure or complete fizzle. By mid-morning, I'd managed to burn patches of grass in seventeen different shapes, none of them resembling threads.
"Take a break," Kyoto said after I nearly set my own shirt on fire. "You're pushing too hard."
But I couldn't stop. The Academy Trial was in six days. Six days to learn something—anything—that would prove I wasn't completely hopeless.
"One more try," I said, raising my hands again.
"Kid—"
Fire poured out of me with desperate intensity. I threw everything I had into trying to shape it, to force it into the pattern Kyoto had demonstrated. More power. More control. More—
The world tilted sideways.
I hit the ground hard, stars exploding across my vision. My chest felt like it was on fire from the inside, and when I tried to breathe, the air seemed too thin.
"Kaito!" Kyoto's voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. "Hey, kid, stay with me."
I blinked, trying to focus on his face hovering above me. "What happened?"
"Shinzai exhaustion. You burned through your reserves too fast." He helped me sit up slowly. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got kicked by a horse." I rubbed my chest, where a strange warmth was slowly spreading outward. "Is this normal?"
Kyoto was staring at me with an odd expression. "You should be completely drained right now. Unable to access your Shinzai for hours, maybe days."
"So?"
"So why can I still feel your energy?" He frowned, moving closer. "It's like... like there's something else there. Something deeper than your normal Shinzai reserves."
I tried to sense what he was talking about, but all I felt was the usual warmth in my chest—maybe a little stronger than before, but nothing strange.
"I feel fine. Just tired."
"Right." Kyoto sat back, but his frown didn't fade. "Maybe it's nothing. Village kids sometimes have unusual recovery rates."
But his tone suggested he didn't believe that any more than I did.
"Can we keep training?"
"Absolutely not. You need rest, food, and time to recover." He stood and started packing up. "We'll try again tomorrow. Maybe start with smaller exercises."
"But—"
"Tomorrow, kid. That's final."
As we walked back toward the village outskirts, I couldn't shake the feeling that Kyoto was watching me more carefully than before. Like he was looking for something he couldn't quite identify.
"Kyoto?" I said as we reached the forest edge. "What you said about something deeper... what did you mean?"
He was quiet for a long moment. "Probably nothing. Sometimes exhaustion makes people sense things that aren't there." He glanced at me sideways. "But if you notice anything unusual—anything at all—you tell me immediately. Understood?"
"Understood."
But as I headed home, that strange warmth in my chest pulsed gently, like a second heartbeat I'd never noticed before.
Whatever was happening to me, I had a feeling Kyoto knew more than he was letting on.
And somehow, that thought was both comforting and terrifying in equal measure.