Age: 10 years
The world beyond our gate never slept. Boats still arrived to trade salt, fishermen still cursed the tides, and the mist rolled over the cliffs like breath. But inside the Soryu estate, silence had become law. Father rarely spoke, and Mio's laughter had vanished. Only the wind answered when I greeted the morning. I had stopped minding; solitude had brought me clarity.
Age: 10 years, 2 months
Visitors arrived from the mainland—messengers from one of the great coastal clans. They carried polished smiles and the smell of iron hidden beneath silk. I watched from the balcony as they bowed before Father. Their words were heavy with courtesy and calculation.
"An alliance," one said. "The mainland values peace."
Peace, of course, meant submission.
That evening, Father summoned me. "Sit," he said. "You'll observe tomorrow's meeting. Listen more than you speak."
I nodded. Observation was my language.
Age: 10 years, 3 months
The meeting took place in the council hall—a long room with fading banners and damp stone. The visitors spread scrolls and maps across the table, promising protection, shared patrols, and trade. Their offers sounded generous, but the numbers didn't match; they wanted our shoreline, not partnership.
Father spoke carefully, like a man walking along a cliff edge. I listened not just to the words, but to the tone: the hesitations between each sentence, the false warmth of the envoys' laughter. Deception had a rhythm—and once heard, it could be anticipated.
When Father excused himself briefly, the envoys whispered to one another. They didn't realize I had remained behind the screen.
"…the boy?"
"Potential asset."
"Or threat."
"If rumors are true, both."
Their voices tightened. "Remove him quietly if necessary."
I stayed still until they left. Then I memorized every cadence of their speech, every flick of tone—fear disguised as diplomacy.
Age: 10 years, 4 months
That night, I visited Father's study. He looked older than he had a month ago.
"They're lying," I said.
He smiled faintly. "All diplomats lie."
"They plan to act on it."
His hand paused over the map. "How do you know?"
"I listened."
He exhaled slowly. "Then you also know that warning them you've heard would only hasten what's coming."
"I know."
For a long moment, we said nothing. Only the sound of rain against paper filled the space. Finally, he murmured, "Sometimes survival demands playing along with danger until the knife is close enough to turn."
I stored the phrase, though not its sentiment. Patience I understood; faith, I did not.
Age: 10 years, 5 months
The envoys left at dawn. Their smiles hadn't changed; only their eyes did. I watched their departure through the mist, feeling nothing but the satisfaction of a prediction fulfilled. Within a week, bandits struck a neighboring outpost. They were too organized for coincidence, too clean for chance. Father led the countermeasure himself and returned two days later with a limp and the silence of loss behind him.
The council whispered of betrayal. Father said nothing, but I could feel it—the last thread of faith he had in the alliance had snapped.
Age: 10 years, 7 months
I began cataloging not just energy and emotion but intention. Every conversation held layers: what was said, what was meant, what was concealed. I practiced reflection exercises—repeating a lie until I could sound sincere, even to myself. If truth could be fabricated, then reality was negotiable.
One evening, I stood before the mirror in my room. My reflection stared back—older now, sharper. I tried smiling the way Father did when pretending confidence before guests. The image failed; my eyes remained cold.
"Shadows and mirrors," I murmured. "The same substance in different forms."
I noted a new maxim:
*Rule Eight: Truth is a mirror that shatters when observed too closely.*
Age: 10 years, 9 months
News from the mainland arrived—one envoy had "disappeared" on his voyage home. Father's expression never changed when he heard, but his fingers tightened on the cup of tea until the porcelain cracked.
That night, he found me in the courtyard. "You saw more than I wished you to," he said quietly. "Promise me something."
"What?"
"When you gain strength… use it to end things quickly, not to prolong them."
It was the closest thing to mercy he had ever asked of me.
I didn't promise. I instead asked, "Will there ever be a time when peace isn't bought with fear?"
He looked at me, his tired eyes reflecting lantern light. "No. There's only balance."
Balance. Another word for stalemate. Another equation to solve.
Age: 10 years, 11 months
When the next dawn came, the mist returned thicker than ever. Our borders would hold for a while longer, but I could already see cracks forming—the same pattern that destroyed every system built on trust. The world beyond our walls was beginning to call, and I was ready to answer it, not as a child, but as the silent observer who had finally learned how thin the line between truth and illusion truly was.