The next day.
As the hound was accepted into the tiger's den.
Kōin was given the sect's uniform by fellow disciples. The fabric was thick, clean, carrying a faint scent of incense and winter sun. As he looked at the disciple standing before him, he couldn't tell whether they were male or female.
His assassin's instincts read posture, breathing, weight distribution, scars hidden beneath sleeves.
But not gender.
"Here," the disciple said quietly. "Let me help you with the attire."
"Oh. Sure. Thank you."
Kōin raised his arms without hesitation, trusting out of habit rather than comfort. The disciple stepped closer and began removing his old clothes, movements practiced and respectful.
Then they froze.
The disciple's fingers tightened around the cloth.
Scars.
They ran across Kōin's body in layers. Old ones carved deep and pale. Newer ones darker, angry. Slash marks, punctures, burns. Some were clean and precise. Others were jagged, cruel. Wounds stacked over wounds, crossing each other until there was barely untouched skin beneath.
This was no exaggeration.
No story meant to gain pity.
The disciple swallowed.
"…Junior Brother," they said softly, almost afraid to breathe.
Kōin noticed the pause.
"…Is something wrong?"
The disciple shook their head quickly and forced their hands to move again, helping him into the uniform with care that bordered on reverence.
"No," they said. "Nothing at all."
But their grip trembled.
Kōin did not notice. Or perhaps he did and chose not to acknowledge it.
To him, this body was simply what remained.
"I haven't greeted your name, Senior."
They chuckled.
"Call me Senior Brother Seol-an."
Oh. A boy.
As Seol-an finished helping Kōin with the attire, he took a brief step back and inspected the result. The uniform fit well, its layered cloth hiding what it was meant to hide.
Perfect.
The scars were buried beneath clean fabric and proper form. Luckily, none reached high enough to creep past the collar and spill those ugly stories into the open.
Kōin adjusted the belt carefully while Seol-an waited.
Then Kōin suddenly gasped and bowed deeply.
Seol-an blinked, startled.
"Forgive me," Kōin said earnestly. "Am I supposed to follow you?"
Seol-an stared for a moment, then smirked before laughing outright.
"Oh boy. You're helpless."
He reached out and grabbed Kōin's wrist without ceremony.
"Come on. Take my hand," he said. "You're joining your first duty and training as Sajo-mun's newest disciple."
Seol-an pulled Kōin along into the courtyard, guiding him to where the first-year disciples had gathered. He then peeled away, moving to stand among the other seniors who watched from the side. It was clear now that Seol-an was one of those tasked with guiding the freshmen.
Kōin sat near the back, quiet.
Some eyes still glared at him. Others no longer held anger, only pity.
"Welcome, young cups," a senior called out, stepping forward. "Fresh from the den of tigers, are you not?"
Another senior joined him, hands clasped behind his back.
"Some of you come from noble houses. Some from common soil. Some of you have survived war itself."
Kōin lowered his gaze.
"But here, all titles and pasts are meaningless," the senior continued. "Like unguided wind, they scatter and fade. Within these walls, you stand on equal footing. You will respect one another as you would your own blood."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"We are family here. All of us."
As the senior continued, speaking of the sect's foundations, Kōin listened without missing a word.
He learned that Grandmaster Baek Ji-ho was a war hero, one of the pillars who had defended Pung-hoe-ji-guk (풍회지국) during the great conflicts. He heard how the Sajo-mun Lion Claw Sect was born from the ashes of war, how it grew from scattered survivors into a unified force, and how it earned its place as the fourth-ranked sect among the thirteen of the Alliance.
Every detail carved itself quietly into his mind.
Then a sharp shout cut through the air.
"NOW!"
The senior's voice rang across the courtyard.
"As you all know, the first step to becoming a martial artist is awakening your chi. I see many of you have yet to do so. Today, we begin with your first lesson."
Disciples moved in order, front to back, handing out thin notebooks. When one reached Kōin, he accepted it with both hands, then passed another to the disciple behind him, earning a small nod of thanks.
"Open your books."
Kōin did.
Inside were careful writings and detailed sketches. A human figure sat cross-legged, calm and still, its interior mapped with flowing lines and a marked center beneath the navel.
"This," the senior said, "is the first step. Opening your dantian. The lower dantian is the root of chi. Without it, there is no path forward."
Kōin stared at the diagram.
Something about it felt distant. Abstract.
Yet, for the first time since arriving, he felt a quiet tension coil in his chest.
Anticipation.
"To open your lower dantian," the senior continued, "you must expel impurities, draw your breath down, focus on the dantian, and meditate."
At his command, the courtyard fell silent.
Disciples sat straight, eyes closing one by one. Their breathing slowed, bodies settling as if they had practiced this a thousand times already.
All of them.
Except Kōin.
He remained still, eyes open.
Focus… on what?
Close his eyes?
The moment he tried, his chest tightened.
Meditate?
How?
His entire life had been motion, vigilance, killing intent sharpened to survive the next second. Stillness was foreign. Silence was dangerous. Whenever he stopped moving, blood followed.
He swallowed and forced his eyes shut anyway.
Darkness bloomed.
And with it came memories. Screams. The weight of bodies. The sensation of warm blood on his hands. Orders barked into his ears, again and again, until obedience replaced thought.
His breath grew uneven.
This wasn't calm. This was a battlefield.
Kōin's fingers dug into his knees as his body tensed, instincts screaming at him to move, to act, to strike.
Around him, chi began to stir. Some disciples exhaled faint wisps of white mist in the cold air. Others frowned in concentration, sweat forming on their brows.
Kōin felt nothing.
No warmth. No flow.
Only a hollow ache where something should have been.
His mind had never learned how to be empty. Only how to endure.
For the first time since joining the sect, Kōin realized something terrifying.
Opening the dantian was not about strength.
It required peace.
He continued to sit in the darkness.
It was not the silence he knew. Not the suffocating stillness that followed death.
This quiet was different. Serene. Gentle.
And it terrified him.
The darkness shifted, dragging him downward.
Blood.
His waist sank into a vast crimson sea, thick and warm. The surface barely rippled, yet the weight of it pressed against him as if the world itself was judging his existence. He did not want to look ahead.
But he already knew what stood there.
Kagemiya Kōin.
Or rather… Ashura.
The figure faced him, unmoving, eyes empty of hatred, empty of mercy. Just presence.
Kōin's breath broke apart. Short. Ragged. Uncontrolled. His chest burned as he tried to steady himself, tried to remember the senior's words.
Focus.
Meditate.
Guide.
He couldn't even begin.
His thoughts scattered the moment they formed. Every attempt to calm himself only stirred the blood beneath his feet, sending ripples through the sea.
How was he supposed to open his dantian like this?
Fear crept in, unfamiliar and sharp.
Not fear of pain.
Not fear of death.
Fear of failure.
Fear that no matter where he went, no matter how many lives he lived, he would never escape this.
Fear that he would disappoint the one place that had taken him in.
Fear that change was something meant for others, not for him.
The blood rose higher.
And for the first time, Kōin did not know how to fight it.
He shook as vapor spilled from his lips.
Splosh.
Splosh.
The sound of blood moving.
He was right in front of him now.
Kōin trembled violently.
No.
Please.
Don't.
Don't take this away from me.
Something brushed his temple.
"GAAAHHHH!"
His body jerked violently. He fell backward from his seated position, crashing onto the cold stone as his lungs seized. He clawed at his chest, gasping, breath tearing in and out in broken bursts.
"ARE YOU OKAY? I'M SORRY!"
The voices were distant, drowned beneath the ringing in his ears.
His vision cleared slowly.
The sky above him was dark.
Snow fell gently, white flakes drifting down without care.
…Night?
When he had begun, the sun had been high.
He turned his head weakly and saw the worried face hovering over him.
Senior Brother Seol-an.
A hand reached out. Kōin hesitated, then took it. Seol-an pulled him upright, guiding him back into a cross-legged position.
"I'm sorry," Seol-an said quickly. "I had to wake you up. Everyone already finished and opened their dantian, but you were still stuck like that. You were shaking, hurting yourself. It looked like…" He trailed off, guilt written clearly on his face. "Like you were being haunted. I didn't mean to startle you."
Kōin stared down at his chest as his breathing finally slowed.
In.
Out.
Cold air burned his lungs.
He clenched his teeth.
He could feel it clearly now.
Nothing had changed.
His lower abdomen was empty. Silent. No warmth. No circulation. No response.
His dantian had not opened.
Not even a crack.
His fingers curled tightly against his robes, knuckles whitening as the snow continued to fall around him.
"No… I failed…"
The words slipped out thin and hollow.
Seol-an saw it immediately.
That look.
It was not simple disappointment. Not frustration. It was the expression of someone who believed this had been his only chance.
He had seen desperation before. Many times.
But this was deeper. Too deep. As if failure itself was a verdict.
Seol-an stepped closer and grabbed Kōin's hands before he could pull them away.
They were cold.
So cold.
Seol-an wrapped both of his palms around them and rubbed firmly, forcing warmth back into his fingers.
"Don't worry," he said, steady and sincere. "There's still tomorrow. This is still available. It's not uncommon for disciples to fail to open their dantian the first time. Some take days. Some weeks. Take your time."
Take my time?
The thought almost made Kōin laugh.
Since when had time ever been kind to him?
Time had only taken.
Taken blood.
Taken lives.
Taken choice.
His shoulders trembled once, just slightly, as he stared at their joined hands.
"Come on," Seol-an said, rising to his feet. "Let's get you to the dining hall. I bet the Grandmaster is worried sick. Seriously, how did the other seniors leave you like this?"
He slid an arm around Kōin's shoulder and helped him walk.
He was light.
Too light.
Before Kōin could protest, his stomach betrayed him.
Grrr.
Kōin froze, eyes widening. His face flushed as he opened his mouth in a panic.
"O-Oh? Someone's been starving," Seol-an said, amused.
"N-No… I…" Kōin tried, words collapsing on themselves.
Seol-an did not wait for permission.
In one smooth motion, he lifted him up, arms secure beneath his knees and back.
Kōin stiffened.
"W-Wait—!"
His face burned. He had been carried like this before. Never for kind reasons.
Seol-an laughed softly. "Relax. You're light enough. Come on now. Let's get you filled."
Snow crunched beneath Seol-an's steps as he carried him away, while Kōin stared at the sky above, mortified, hungry, and for the first time in a long while… Finally.
Not alone anymore.
As they reached the dining hall doors, every conversation inside died at once.
All eyes turned toward them.
Ji-ho was the first to move. He crossed the hall in long strides, his gaze locking onto Kōin in Seol-an's arms.
"What happened to him again?" Ji-ho demanded.
Seol-an did not even slow down.
"Honestly?" he snapped. "Some of you leaving him out there in the cold was not okay."
"WHAT!?"
Ji-ho's shout echoed through the hall.
"I-I'm fine," Kōin said quickly, instinctively shrinking in Seol-an's arms.
Seol-an shut him down immediately.
"Hush it." His grip tightened just enough to make the point. "You are clearly not fine. He was suffering during meditation. You all knew he has Ashura, and not one of you checked on him while he was shaking like that."
The hall went silent.
Ji-ho rubbed his beard slowly, disappointment darkening his face. His eyes swept across the disciples, sharp and heavy.
"…Is that true?" he asked.
No one answered.
Some looked away. Others lowered their heads.
Ji-ho exhaled, long and controlled.
"This sect is not a place where we abandon the wounded," he said coldly. "Not on the battlefield. Not in training. Not ever."
His gaze returned to Kōin.
"You," he said more gently. "Did you open your dantian?"
Kōin swallowed.
"…No."
Ji-ho closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"I see."
He stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Kōin's shoulder.
"Then you eat first," Ji-ho said. "Training can wait. A starving body cannot hold chi. And a frightened mind will reject it."
Seol-an nodded. "Told you."
Ji-ho glanced at him. "You did well."
Seol-an straightened slightly at that.
Ji-ho then turned back to the hall.
"All of you," he said. "Remember this. Strength without awareness is just cruelty. If I see this happen again, we will have a very different lesson tomorrow."
The weight of his words settled deep.
"Now what are you waiting for? Give the boy a room to eat."
At Ji-ho's order, the hall moved as one.
Chairs scraped back. Bowls were lifted. Disciples stood and offered their seats without a word.
Kōin froze.
The sight twisted something in his chest. Even back in his farming days, even in that so-called peaceful life, kindness like this had never come easily. Children had whispered. Laughed. Pushed him aside for being strange, for being quiet, for not fitting in.
Do not cry.
Not here.
He slipped out of Seol-an's arms on his own.
Seol-an gave him a firm nudge between the shoulders, nodding toward the tables. Go.
Kōin walked stiffly and chose a corner seat, as far from the center as he could manage. Only when he sat did everyone else finally return to theirs.
The normal noise of the hall slowly came back.
It still felt wrong.
The food sat in front of him, steaming. White rice. Soup. Side dishes. He stared at it for a long time.
Too long.
Even as conversations resumed around him, he didn't move.
A shoulder bumped lightly against his.
He looked up.
A freshman sat beside him, broader, taller, clearly stronger.
"Why aren't you eating?"
"Oh. I'm sorry," Kōin said quickly.
The boy frowned. "What are you sorry for?"
"I'm… sorry for troubling you," Kōin said, lowering his head. "I made the Grandmaster angry at you all."
The words barely left his mouth before he almost choked on the rice he had just lifted.
The freshman stared at him like he had just said something unbelievable.
"…What?"
Kōin coughed, eyes watering slightly.
"I shouldn't have caused problems. I—"
The boy cut him off with a short laugh. Not mocking. Just blunt.
"Hey. Stop that."
Kōin blinked.
"You didn't make him angry," the freshman said. "We did."
Kōin's chopsticks froze midair.
The boy leaned back, arms crossed. "Besides, if the Grandmaster yells, that's on him. Means he cares."
Kōin didn't know how to respond to that.
"…Oh."
The freshman nudged the bowl toward him. "Eat. You look like you'll snap in half if the wind blows too hard."
Kōin hesitated, then slowly nodded.
"…Thank you."
This time, he ate.
Slowly. Carefully.
But he ate.
Just as the rice and fish touched his lips,
a tear fell.
The boy beside him noticed immediately.
"Hey. You okay?"
"Huh?" Kōin blinked. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm—"
He lifted his sleeve to wipe his face.
The tears did not stop.
One after another, they slipped down without permission.
Why?
Why?
Why does it hurt like this?
He had bled before. He had screamed before. He had watched people die and felt nothing.
So why was this making him cry?
"Hey, hey," the freshman said softly, startled now. He placed a hand on Kōin's shoulder, patting it awkwardly. "It's alright. It's alright."
Others noticed.
Conversation dulled. Bowls were set down. One by one, disciples leaned closer, gentle hands touching his back, his shoulder, his arm. No one mocked him. No one pulled away.
Kōin's vision blurred.
As he chewed, memories forced their way in.
Rats, skinned with shaking hands.
Moss scraped from stone.
Wild mushrooms dug from frozen soil, eaten while praying they would not kill him.
Meals swallowed in silence, in filth, in fear.
Food that only existed to keep him breathing.
But this—
This was warm.
It burned his tongue softly. The rice was soft, the fish rich with oil and salt. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, trembling as if shocked.
It tasted wrong.
Alien.
And yet painfully familiar.
Like mornings in Kochi no Kuni.
Like sitting on packed earth floors.
Like his mother's rice.
Like soy broth steaming in a wooden bowl.
This was the first time he had eaten meat that was not rat.
His shoulders shook.
He bowed his head over the bowl, tears dripping into the rice, fingers clenched tight around his chopsticks as if afraid it would vanish if he loosened his grip.
Nothing forced him to stop crying.
Nothing forcedd him to be strong.
They stayed.
And it took in two lifetimes,
For him, eating without fear of dying afterward.
Kōin ate a lot.
Too much, even.
By the time his first bowl was finished, another was already sliding quietly toward him. Then another. No one announced it. No one made a show of generosity. A bowl would simply appear beside his hand.
At first he tried to refuse.
His mouth opened. His head shook.
His stomach answered for him.
So he ate.
Three meals' worth, meant for three different disciples, vanished into him. Rice piled, fish followed, tea poured. He did not even realize how fast he was eating until someone snorted in amusement.
No one mocked him.
They had seen this before.
It was not uncommon.
Children of war always ate like this when food stopped being scarce.
Then Kōin choked.
A sharp gasp escaped him as rice lodged wrong in his throat.
The disciple beside him laughed and brought his palm down hard between Kōin's shoulder blades.
Thump.
Kōin coughed violently, breath rushing back into his lungs.
"There you go," the boy said, grinning. "Slow down. It's not the end of the world."
Kōin's face flushed instantly.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, embarrassed.
The boy rolled his eyes. "You apologize too much."
Kōin slowed, chewing properly now, tasting instead of devouring. Around him, the tension eased. Voices picked back up. Laughter returned. The hall felt alive again.
After a moment, Kōin glanced at the bowl in front of him.
"…What is this food?" he asked quietly.
The disciple leaned closer, casual.
"This? It's called ochazuke. Rice and fish submerged in salted green tea. Cheap, warm, fills the stomach." He shrugged. "Most of us are sick of it. It's standard fare here."
Kōin looked down at the bowl again.
Warm.
Simple.
Enough.
He held it a little tighter.
"I… like it."
"Yeah?" Kang Mu-jin smirked. "Say that again after three winters."
Kōin looked at him.
"Three winters?"
"Oh yes. We rotate food by season. Whatever's easiest to get, that's what we eat."
Kōin cupped his bowl with both hands. The ochazuke was simple. Warm. Enough. More than enough.
He glanced sideways at the boy beside him.
"…What's your name?"
"Me?" The boy pointed to himself, then smiled faintly. "Kang Mu-jin. You're already famous around here, you know."
Kōin let out an awkward breath.
"Ah… I'm not very good with introductions."
"Neither was I," Mu-jin said. "Grandmaster found me in an alley. Half-dead. Been here five winters now."
"Five winters?" Kōin blinked. "Doesn't that make you my senior?"
"You could say that. But 'senior' here means seven years at least." He shrugged. "I've still got two more to go."
"I thought you were like me."
Mu-jin laughed quietly.
"We all wear the same clothes when we're juniors. Some of us have just been cold longer."
Kōin glanced toward Seol-an. He was laughing with a few seniors, relaxed, at ease. When Seol-an noticed him, he lifted a hand and waved.
Kōin waved back, a small smile returning to his face.
"How long has Senior Brother Seol-an been here?" Kōin asked.
"The longest."
"The longest?"
Mu-jin nodded, sipping his hot tea.
"He was Grandmaster's first disciple. Strongest among the seniors. Closest to the Grandmaster's level, too."
He lowered his voice slightly.
"He's basically his son."
"…I see. How old is he?"
"Sixteen winters. Maybe." Mu-jin shrugged. "He's secretive like that. What about you, Kōin?"
"…"
Kōin frowned faintly, counting in his head. Winters in Kochi no Kuni. Winters spent wandering. Winters he barely survived.
"…Fourteen winters. I think."
Mu-jin blinked, then grinned.
"Hoh? Same age."
Kōin scratched at his side.
"Well… age just means how long we survived."
"Hm."
It was a strange way to put it, but Mu-jin did not comment. Coming from a child of war, it made a grim kind of sense.
He hesitated, then spoke again, lowering his voice.
"Tell me, Kōin. I do not mean to pry. That day you fought the Grandmaster… you were flickering. In and out. What was that?"
Kōin stared at his empty bowl, fingers slowly turning it in place.
"If it's sensitive, you do not have to answer. I am sorry."
"No… no, it's fine…"
The hesitation gave him away. Mu-jin could hear the strain in his voice, feel the weight of memory pressing down on him.
Mu-jin placed a hand on Kōin's shoulder, firm but gentle.
If he was truly forced to kill until Ashura took root, then perhaps it was better not to know.
"There's no need to push it," Mu-jin said quietly. "Forgive me. It wasn't my place to ask."
Then, out of nowhere—
"Kōin, what's your type of girl?"
The question hit him sideways.
Kōin raised a brow.
"…Huh?"
"You know what I mean," Mu-jin said casually. "This sect's got plenty of strong ones. And pretty ones. You've seen them."
Kōin went still.
Type?
The word felt foreign. In his past life, he was a blade. In this life, he was barely learning how to sit at a table without flinching. Preference had never been a luxury afforded to him.
He searched his mind and found nothing.
No faces. No curiosity. No desire.
The only women who had ever occupied space in his thoughts were his sister in another life… and his siblings in this one.
He looked down at his hands.
"…I don't think I have one."
Mu-jin paused mid-motion. "None?"
Kōin shook his head. "I don't know how to answer that. I've never… thought about it."
That earned him a long look. Not mocking. Just surprised.
"…Huh," Mu-jin muttered.
Kōin lifted his gaze. "Is that strange?"
Mu-jin scratched his cheek. "At our age? Yeah. Kind of."
Kōin absorbed that quietly.
Strange.
Another mark added to the list.
After a moment, he spoke again, carefully, honestly.
"I think… if someone exists who could tame my Ashura—"
Mu-jin almost choked on his tea.
"—COUGH—what?"
"Oh?" Mu-jin wheezed, grinning now. "Didn't know you were that kind of guy."
Kōin stiffened immediately.
"That's not what I meant."
Mu-jin leaned back, smirk fully formed.
"Yeah, yeah. Sure. 'Tame my Ashura.' Real poetic way to say you like being dominated."
"Wait—no—!" Kōin protested, flustered, ears heating up. "You're twisting it!"
Mu-jin laughed, slapping the table.
"Relax. I'm joking. Mostly."
Kōin scowled, mortified, while Mu-jin continued to grin like he'd just found a new hobby.
For the first time since arriving at the sect, the weight on Kōin's chest eased just a fraction.
Annoying.
Loud.
Stupid.
…but warm.
The dining hall stayed noisy long after the bowls were emptied.
Laughter, teasing, raised voices, careless warmth.
Kōin never imagined chaos like this could feel… good.
For the first time, his lips curved without effort.
A real smile. One that did not hurt.
Night eventually came.
Disciples filtered out toward their dorms, voices fading into the corridors. The sect was large enough that no one had to sleep packed together.
Kōin ended up alone.
The room was simple. Clean. Quiet.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the blanket folded neatly atop it.
The same blanket from his first night here.
The one they wrapped around him when he was half-frozen.
The one given before he repaid their kindness by nearly killing their Grandmaster.
His chest tightened.
He should apologize.
He wanted to apologize.
The word pressed against his throat like it always did.
Then, uninvited, Mu-jin's voice surfaced in his mind.
You apologize too much.
Kōin lowered his gaze.
"…."
"I'm… sorry."
The room did not answer.
The blanket did not move.
He lay down anyway, pulling the cloth up to his chin. It smelled faintly of clean fabric and wood smoke. Safe things.
His eyes stayed open for a long time.
Even when no one was there to hear him, the habit remained.
Still apologizing.
As time passed, slowly and unmistakably, Kōin realized something he did not want to admit.
He was afraid to sleep.
What if this was all a dream.
The warmth of the blanket felt wrong now. Too thin. Too fragile.
A sticky heat crept up his spine.
No.
It can't be.
Drip.
His breath caught.
No. Please.
Drip.
That sound.
Not water. Never water.
Blood.
Kōin shut his eyes.
Immediately, the warmth turned wet.
Sticky.
Thick.
The smell of iron flooded his nose, sharp and suffocating. His stomach twisted.
No please no no no—
He felt it against his skin.
Soaking through the blanket.
Pooling beneath him.
Drip.
Drip.
His chest tightened until breathing hurt.
Someone was staring at him.
He knew without opening his eyes.
That pressure. That unbearable certainty.
The sea returned.
Cold blood lapping at his ribs.
Rising. Always rising.
He could feel the gaze above him, calm and patient, as if it had all the time in the world.
Waiting.
Kōin's fingers clenched into the blanket until they shook.
"I'm awake," he whispered desperately.
"I'm awake. This is real. This is real."
The words tasted thin.
Drip.
A shadow loomed closer. He felt it kneel, the surface of the blood rippling as something leaned near his face.
So close he could almost feel breath.
Almost.
A voice brushed the edge of his mind, not loud, not cruel.
Certain.
YOU ARE NOT ABSOLVED.
Kōin sucked in a sharp breath and jolted upright.
The room was dark.
Silent.
No blood. No smell. No sea.
Just a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin and his heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out.
He curled forward, arms wrapping around himself, shaking hard enough that the bed creaked.
"…Please," he breathed, to no one.
Outside, the mountain wind howled softly against the walls.
Inside, Kōin stayed awake until dawn.
He looked toward the window. Dark circles weighed beneath his eyes.
Dawn had come.
How strange.
He could sleep beside fresh corpses without a second thought.
He could rest in fields soaked red, surrounded by the dead he had made.
Yet the moment he was given a roof, warmth, safety
Sleep abandoned him.
Kōin closed his crimson eyes and bit down on his lip.
It hurt.
Barely.
His body had long forgotten pain, dulled by excess and repetition. But even that faint sting was enough.
This is real.
He exhaled slowly, then rose from the bed.
The dorm was silent as he stepped outside. The mountain air cut cold against his skin. Snow lay untouched. No voices. No footsteps.
No one was awake.
Except—
That feeling.
A displacement in the air. Subtle. Familiar.
Not sound. Not sight.
Movement.
Kōin turned his head.
The wind shifted.
He followed it.
He followed the pull until the courtyard opened before him.
There was only one person there.
Alone.
Moving.
Sapphire eyes cut through the pale dawn.
Dark blue hair swayed with each step, its color blending with the cold light of morning.
Seol-an.
He was practicing the Sky-Heaven Tiger Claw Fist.
But this was not the same form Kōin had seen yesterday.
This was different.
Seol-an moved as if dancing with the fog, his feet carving slow arcs through the thin snow. Each step stirred powder into the air, not scattered, but guided. His hands shifted between shapes, first open like wind passing through branches, then snapping into the sharp curve of a tiger's claw.
Wind first.
Claw second.
Not domination. Not killing.
Control.
It was serene. Almost gentle.
Kōin found himself sitting without realizing when he had stopped walking.
Creak.
The faint sound of wood betrayed him.
Seol-an's movement halted. His head turned instantly.
"I'm sorry," Kōin said quickly.
Then Seol-an smiled.
"Oh. It's you."
"I didn't mean to interrupt."
Seol-an walked closer.
Up close, Kōin looked wrong.
Too light. Too tense. Like a broken twig held together by habit alone. Sweat clung to his skin despite the winter morning, vapor slipping from his breath in uneven bursts.
Seol-an frowned.
"You haven't slept, have you?"
"What?"
Kōin stiffened. For a split second, instinct flared. He had never been this easy to read. Not before.
Seol-an tapped beneath his own eye.
"Your eyes. You've got bags."
Kōin pressed his lips together. His jaw shifted once before he nodded.
"…Nightmares?"
A hollow laugh slipped out of him.
"Haha…"
Seol-an's expression softened.
He knew that look.
That wasn't the face of someone chased by dreams.
It was the face of someone who couldn't escape nightmares even while awake.
Haunting memories.
"I'm sorry, I'll go back to—"
"Don't."
Seol-an's reply was immediate.
"You won't sleep even if you do. The result will be the same. Come here."
Before Kōin could protest, Seol-an grabbed his wrist again, just like before.
They stepped onto the open courtyard. Snow crunched softly beneath their feet.
Seol-an moved behind him and gently took both of Kōin's hands, guiding them into position. The closeness made Kōin stiffen at first.
"Relax," Seol-an said quietly. "Slow your breathing. Feel the wind."
Kōin hesitated. Having someone behind him like this went against every instinct drilled into his bones.
But… he didn't pull away.
He let the motion carry him.
Seol-an guided his arms through the form, slow and deliberate. Fingers curved, not into claws meant to tear, but into something lighter. Something flowing.
Kōin followed.
Behind him, Seol-an grinned when he noticed the faint red creeping up Kōin's ears.
"This form," Seol-an said, "was made by Master when he couldn't sleep."
Kōin continued the movements, breath shallow but steady.
"He said it's for expelling excess weight from the mind. Not chi. Not strength. Just… things that linger."
Seol-an adjusted Kōin's wrist slightly.
"It's meant for people with troubled thoughts."
A hair fall to Kōin eyes as he face were reddish.
"Now," Seol-an murmured, close enough that Kōin could feel his breath, "inhale."
Kōin drew in a slow breath.
"And exhale."
He let it out.
Since he arrived on this mountain, the blood did not rush back to him immediately as often as before.
Just the wind.
As the practice went on, his body began to give in.
Just… tired.
Kōin felt his shoulders lift and drop with each guided breath. The cold no longer bit. The wind no longer screamed. His eyes struggled, fluttering as if weighed down by something gentle yet absolute.
His eyelids betrayed him.
Slowly, his head dipped forward.
He was still standing. Still moving, guided by Seol-an's hands. But his pulse told the truth.
It was steady.
Calm.
Sleeping.
Seol-an stopped mid-motion the moment he felt it. He reached for Kōin's wrist, fingers resting lightly against the pulse point.
Not chaotic. Not strained.
Autonomous. Like a child asleep after crying themselves empty.
Seol-an exhaled softly and smiled.
"…You really haven't slept at all."
Carefully, he shifted his stance and guided Kōin down, lowering him with deliberate care until the boy rested against his lap. Snow brushed the hem of his robes, but he did not move away.
Up close, Kōin looked impossibly fragile.
Pale skin stretched thin from years of hunger. Ashen gray hair tangled and uneven. Crimson eyes hidden now, lashes resting quietly against his cheeks.
No blood. No Ashura.
Just a boy.
Seol-an brushed stray strands of hair away from Kōin's face without thinking.
"…Cute," he muttered under his breath.
The wind passed through the courtyard once more, softer than before.
It did not disturb the sleeper.