Age: 9 years
A candle burns brightest before the wax caves in. Lately, every room in our home seemed lit too brightly, as if Father believed that more light could drive away what he didn't understand.
Age: 9 years, 1 month
The space between Mio and me had grown thin but cold. She still smiled, but her laughter echoed hollowly, like wind passing through an empty jar. I didn't blame her; instinct warns of things that words cannot express. At dinner, she asked, "Why don't you come watch the lanterns this year?"
"I'll be training," I replied.
She nodded too quickly. "Of course you will."
Her disappointment was quieter than any argument. I stored that silence away with the others.
Age: 9 years, 3 months
Father called me to the courtyard one morning. There was no warning, no reason—just a look that told me this wasn't about training.
"Show me," he said.
I blinked. "Show you what?"
"What everyone whispers about."
He gestured toward the pond, the same one where I had first shaped water years ago. I hesitated. There were servants nearby, and I could already feel their anticipation—a silent verdict waiting to happen. Still, disobedience would only deepen suspicion.
I knelt, extended my hand over the water, and released my chakra. The surface rippled, lifted, formed a sphere, then a serpent coiling in midair. Father's eyes followed every movement. For a moment, there was pride—then something else: worry? Awe? Regret?
"Enough," he said.
The water fell, and the silence that followed was heavy. Later, he spoke again, quieter.
"You understand that strength must serve something greater than itself."
"I understand," I replied.
But I didn't—not in his sense. To me, strength was not about service; it was freedom from service. He studied me and then added, "You're different, Ren. The clan will notice. The village will notice. You must learn restraint."
"I already have."
It slipped out more sharply than I intended. His eyes hardened, but he said nothing more.
Age: 9 years, 5 months
From that day, our home was divided along invisible lines. Father spent more time in meetings, and Mio avoided the courtyard where the water had risen. Only Mother spoke to me without hesitation, but even her kindness was edged with fear. I returned to the pond nightly, repeating the same motion—controlling the smallest vibrations—until the water responded to my thoughts. There was comfort in that control: perfection without witness, truth without judgment. One night, as I stood there, I whispered to my reflection:
"Rule Seven—Evolution demands isolation from weakness."
The words drifted across the water, rippled once, and then disappeared.
Age: 9 years, 11 months
By the end of the year, the courtyard was silent again. Mio no longer asked me to watch the lanterns. Father no longer tested me. Only the pond remained unchanged—calm above, shifting endlessly below.