Age: 2 years, 3 months
Memory is a blade. Used carefully, it shapes; carelessly, it cuts.
By the time I reached my second year, I could speak clearly enough to hold conversations. I limited myself to short, clumsy phrases — believable for a bright toddler. My parents were delighted, though I sensed an undercurrent of exhaustion in their voices.
The Soryu clan was fading.
Once, my father said, the Soryu were known across the coastal lands as masters of fluid motion — warriors who could shape mist into armor and bend rain into blades—but decades of isolation had reduced us to farmers and healers. Our ancestral estate, though large, echoed with emptiness. The training fields were overgrown, and the halls where warriors once met stood silent.
To my father, this was a tragedy. To me, it was an opportunity.
Weakness creates a vacuum. And a vacuum invites control.
Age: 2 years, 9 months
I had begun to refine my experiments.
When I cried, I measured how quickly my mother appeared. When I laughed, I noted my sister's reactions. I discovered that every human emotion triggered predictable behavior. It was astonishing how easily people could be influenced by sound alone.
Mio was the perfect subject.
At three years old, she was still pure instinct — affectionate, curious, and emotional. I began to study her responses. When I shared a toy, she smiled. When I withheld it, she grew upset. When I apologized, she forgave instantly.
Trust. Forgiveness. Dependence. All data.
Soon, I learned to create patterns of reward and withdrawal. She began unconsciously seeking my approval. It was simple behavioral conditioning, something I had employed in my previous life with colleagues and rivals alike. It worked even better on a child.
Once, I made her cry intentionally to observe the emotional current it produced. When my mother came to comfort her, I studied the shift in her chakra. It pulsed outward as if trying to transfer calmness. Emotion directly altered energy density.
That was my second great discovery.
Emotion was not merely psychological; it had a physical influence on chakra flow. And if emotion could alter energy, then controlled emotion could refine it.
But control, not indulgence, was the key.
Age: 3 years, 1 month
Winter came early that year. Snow covered the training fields. My father spent more time away, visiting what remained of the clan council. Their meetings invariably ended in silence and bitter sighs.
One evening, after pretending to sleep, I overheard their conversation.
"Kaito," my mother whispered, "the others are leaving. The council is finished."
"Let them," my father replied, his voice cold. "If they have no will to endure, they are not Soryu."
"And if we're the last?"
"Then the name dies with pride intact."
He believed those words. I didn't.
Pride was a corpse wearing perfume. It masked decay, nothing more.
That night, I decided: I would not preserve the clan. I would consume it. Every scrap of knowledge, every secret technique, every memory of power — I would make it mine. The world could forget the Soryu. I would not.
Age 3 years, 6 months
My body strengthened slowly. I trained alone, secretly imitating my father's postures. My control over chakra had improved — I could now make water ripple on command, with precision down to a single droplet.
I noticed a strange effect: the more I suppressed my emotions, the cleaner my energy became. Emotion caused turbulence, interference, and waste. Calmness produced purity.
The realization was intoxicating.
One evening, I decided to test it further. I sat before a bowl of cold water, closed my eyes, and forced all thought to stillness. My breathing slowed until it felt like I had ceased to exist. The world faded to nothing but pulse and flow.
When I released my chakra into the bowl, the water didn't just ripple — it froze momentarily before fracturing into perfect concentric rings.
I felt clarity. A perfect silence inside.
For the first time, I understood what refinement truly meant.
The next morning, my father noticed frost on the edges of the bowl. He frowned, puzzled.
"Strange. It wasn't this cold last night," he said.
I only smiled faintly.
Age: 4 Years
By this age, my vocabulary had become fluent, and my mask was flawless. I was the quiet, intelligent son every parent dreamed of—obedient, gentle, and curious. My father saw potential, and my mother saw hope. They were both mistaken. What they observed was merely the surface of still water—calm, reflective, and harmless. They did not perceive the current that flowed beneath.
Mio had become completely attached to me. She followed me everywhere and sought my approval for everything. It was no longer an experiment; it had become a habit. She laughed when I smiled and cried when I frowned. Her emotions danced on invisible strings, and I was the one holding them.
Sometimes, I wondered if I had gone too far. Then I reminded myself that compassion was a distraction. She was my first study in influence—nothing more. Through her, I learned how to move people. Through water, I learned how to move the world.
One afternoon, I accompanied my father to the shrine at the edge of our estate. He carried a blade—old, rusted, yet revered. "This was our founder's sword," he said. "They say it once split the sea itself." I examined the dull edge and the corrosion eating through the metal. "Can it still?" I asked innocently. "No," he replied sadly. "Those days are gone." Gone. Yes. But not forgotten.
While he prayed, I studied the sword closely. Faint residue of chakra still clung to it—ancient and brittle, yet present. I traced it with my senses and felt something more profound: a rhythm, almost like a memory embedded in metal. Energy could persist through time—through objects, through will—another piece of the puzzle.
That night, I made my third vow. I will not protect the past. I will not restore the clan. I will build something greater—from silence, from logic, from control. The Soryu would vanish, but in their place, a new doctrine would be born—one that worships no gods, honors no emotions, and obeys no human morality—only the law of evolution. And I—the quiet, smiling child they all adored—would become its first prophet.
Ren sat by the window, his small fingers tracing patterns in the frost. He was four now, but the world around him still felt like a puzzle, half-seen and half-understood. Every sound, every flicker of shadow whispered secrets he wanted to unravel.
Grand events or celebrations would not mark the months ahead, but by quiet observation and experimentation—testing limits, noticing reactions, and learning how far he could bend the rules of his little universe. It was a year of silent growth, of unseen steps, before the world would demand his first proper choices.
Ren leaned back, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. Even at four, he sensed that everything he did mattered—even the things no one would ever notice.