The mountain air was cold, thin, but most importantly, tough on the three. Each breath scraped like dry paper in their chests. Kamui, Arma, and Argon trudged behind Ishido in silence, frost crackling under their feet, their cloaks flapping in the bitter wind.
The dojo was gone behind them, swallowed by mist and distance.
What remained was wilderness—untouched, ancient, and silent. The only sound was the soft clinking of Ishido's staff as he walked with the three, telling them countless stories, as they rose up to the mountain.
They came to a clearing ringed by black stone pillars, with an old abandoned house, most likely belonging to the Government or some sort, old and forgotten, worn by centuries of wind and ash.
"This," Ishido said, his voice steady.
"Is where I began my path all those years ago."
Kamui stepped forward. "Master... why bring us here?"
Ishido knelt in the snow and placed three hand-carved wooden tokens in front of him.
"To test if your hearts are ready," he said, "not to fight—but to endure. And to awaken what sleeps inside all warriors: the essence we call Mabitake.
I know that you have countless questions.
That's something Mabitake can sense as well. I have sensed your soul's deepest questions.
Hopefully, today you will learn about it. "
The word echoed. Kamui felt it stir something deep inside him—a tremor of something not quite real, not quite dream.
"Sit," Ishido said.
They obeyed, legs folded, eyes shut. Snow fell lightly. Hours passed. The world dulled. The wind became music.
Then...
Kamui's breath hitched.
There was no explosion, no lightning, no spectacle. Just a stillness.
His mind went quiet. His muscles relaxed. And then—a whisper, not heard, but felt. A warm ripple across his chest.
He opened his eyes.
Nothing seemed different. But the air felt... thicker. Charged. His arms trembled slightly.
"I felt... something," he said. "Not power. Just... presence."
Ishido nodded.
"You've glimpsed the gate. Don't force it open."
Arma shifted, his brow soaked in sweat.
He'd been focused not on peace, but pressure. Pushing himself. Every muscle locked, every breath forced. His fists clenched in the cold.
And then—his skin changed.
For a moment, just a flicker of time, it hardened. His arms shimmered like stone, almost metallic, reflecting the dim mountain light.
Kamui gasped. "Arma, your skin—"
"I... I couldn't hold it," Arma muttered, falling forward, panting.
Ishido moved to him, placing a calming hand on his back.
"Brute force has its place," he said, "but endurance... is harder to master than strength. I am proud of you."
Argon remained quiet.
His eyes were closed, blade unsheathed across his lap.
He didn't focus on power. He didn't even want it—not yet.
He thought of his blade. The silence of the dojo. His father's empty voice. His friends are laughing. The tree.
He moved the blade slowly.
One strike. A second. A third. Then he stopped.
And in that stillness, time seemed to slow.
A flash—not of power, but awareness.
"I saw... a line," Argon whispered. "Through the blade. Like... like the world stood still for a moment."
Ishido's eyes widened ever so slightly.
"You found stillness in movement," he murmured. "That is rare."
He looked at each of them with pride—and sorrow.
Then, he handed them each a carved wooden token. Etched with a symbol they could not read, but felt they understood.
"If I'm ever gone," Ishido said quietly, "return these to the Tree of Echoes. It will remember me. But, it will also carve out a path for you to chase."
They each clutched their token in silence.
That evening, in a marble palace glowing with warm lamplight, Argon sat across from his father. The table between them was lined with polished plates, but they barely ate.
"How is school?" the old man asked.
"It's fine."
"Grades?"
"Good."
His father nodded, staring at the silverware.
"You're... quiet these days."
Argon looked up. His expression was unreadable.
"I'm focused."
Silence.
His father's fingers twitched slightly. Something had shifted in him—suspicion? Fear?
Later that night, he watched from a distance—hidden in the trees—as Ishido led the boys through the snow.
"What is he doing to you, son?" the man whispered. "What have you become?"
Back in the mountains, Ishido stood still, eyes scanning the treetops. The wind carried more than snow tonight.
"A storm brews," he muttered.
Kamui looked up.
"Master?"
"Soon," Ishido said, "you will be forced to decide what kind of men you wish to become."
Kamui asked his Master.
"How did you find this path, Master? And what keeps you motivated to help children like us?"
"It's something that you will have to find out on your own, as you progress through life you will find out why am I doing this, just remember, everything I have done up until this point was to teach you the right path and teach you the knowledge of the forgotten ways, or rather, ways that will one day be reborn."
Kamui just stood in silence, bowing to his Master, not knowing how much truth this sentence would have one day.
That night, as the boys slept in the mountain shelter, Ishido walked alone, using his Mabitake to enter the realm of the Tree of Echoes.
He stood before it, eyes closed. A pulse of memory ran through the bark. His hands touched its surface.
A vision.
Fire.
Screaming.
Steel.
Silence.
He stepped back.
"I see," he whispered. "It's already begun."
Far below, in the dark city streets, a convoy of government officials and the horsemen rolled silently across black pavement.
Their destination: the quiet dojo in the lower sector of the village.
And the children within it. But most importantly.
Ishido Shogo, Master of the Academy Dojo.