Age: 10 years, 11 months
Some lessons can be written on paper. Others must be written in blood.
It began with a tremor in the fog—a sentry's shout, the clash of metal, and the sound of running feet. The outpost near the cliffs had been silent for months. Tonight, that silence ended.
Father had gone to inspect the perimeter, leaving me with two guards and Mio asleep in the house. When the alarm rose, one guard vanished into the mist, and the other ran toward the gate. Neither returned.
I stepped outside. The air tasted of iron and salt. The fog moved strangely—slower, heavier, as if carrying unseen weight.
Then I saw him: a figure in ragged armor, moving between the trees. Bandit? Spy? It didn't matter. His chakra felt wrong—jagged and hungry.
He spotted me, and for a heartbeat, we stared at each other. Then he charged.
Time fractured into fragments. My training kicked in. Breath. Focus. Flow.
I slipped aside as his blade passed where I had just been. The sound of it cutting through the air was sharp enough to sting my ears. He swung again—heavy, wild—strength without thought.
I ducked, letting instinct and analysis merge. Every motion had a rhythm: inhale, pivot, exhale, release.
Water answered my call before fear could take hold. Moisture condensed from the air, wrapping around my hand like a veil. I thrust forward, the liquid edge slicing against his weapon arm.
He grunted, stumbling back, eyes wide at the sight of a child controlling water with such precision. For a moment, hesitation flickered in him. In that space, I saw everything: his stance, his weakness, the widening of his pupils.
I didn't feel pity; I felt calculation.
He rushed again, and I met him halfway. This time, the water formed a ring around his neck and shoulder—a controlled current, tight and humming with pressure.
He struggled, clawed, staggered. My pulse hammered in my ears, louder than the clash. A single thought echoed: Life and death are variables—both can be solved.
When his struggle stopped, I released the flow. He collapsed soundlessly, the mist swallowing him. Silence returned.
The world didn't celebrate. There was no triumphant music, no divine revelation—only the drip of water from my sleeve and the steady beat of my heart.
I looked at my hands. They trembled, not from guilt, but from the shock of having gained control. The moment life left another being, the world had changed—its balance adjusted, its energy redistributed. I could feel it moving through the air, faint and fading.
I knelt, watching the ripples spread through the puddle where he had fallen. Each circle grew weaker until the surface stilled. Perfection through stillness.
Behind me, footsteps approached. Father emerged from the mist, wounded but alive. His eyes moved from me to the body, then back. He understood instantly.
"I see," he whispered.
Neither of us spoke further. There was nothing to explain. He reached out, as if to rest a hand on my shoulder, then let it fall. That night, he told no one what had happened.
Age: 11 years
The pond behind the estate reflected a child's face that no longer matched his years. I studied that reflection for a long time before writing the last of my early doctrines in thought alone:
Rule Nine - To master death is to master consequence.
The world had widened again, and I no longer feared its silence.