Renjiro hesitated at the doorway, his small fingers gripping the rough wooden frame. The man—Takeshi—remained kneeling before him, his expression unreadable in the dim moonlight.
No one had ever come for him before.
No one had ever looked at him without fear or disgust.
He wanted to step back, to shut the door, to disappear into the darkness where he had always belonged. But something in the man's voice—steady, patient—made him pause.
"Aren't you cold?" Takeshi asked.
Renjiro didn't answer. He wasn't sure how to respond to someone speaking to him like a person instead of a burden.
Takeshi sighed, then reached into his cloak, pulling out a small bundle of cloth. He placed it gently on the ground in front of the door.
"It's food. And a warmer coat. You don't have to take them if you don't want to."
Renjiro's stomach twisted. Hunger gnawed at him—not just the hunger inside his mind, the whispering thing, but a real, physical ache. He had been living off scraps, whatever the caretakers begrudgingly left him.
He swallowed hard. This was a trick. It had to be.
"Why?" His voice was hoarse from disuse.
Takeshi didn't answer right away. He studied Renjiro for a long moment, his dark eyes heavy with something the boy couldn't quite understand.
"Because no child should be left alone."
A simple answer.
A dangerous answer.
Renjiro wanted to believe him. But he had learned early on that believing in kindness only led to disappointment.
Still… the food sat there. The coat, thick and well-worn, promised warmth.
He took a step forward. Then another. His small hands snatched up the bundle, and before Takeshi could say another word, Renjiro slammed the door shut.
A Life in the Shadows
For three days, Takeshi came back.
Each night, he left food. Clean clothes. Sometimes, a small wooden carving of an animal or a kunai, things that most children would have received as gifts.
Renjiro never spoke to him. He never opened the door while Takeshi was there.
But he ate the food.
He used the coat.
And each night, the voice inside him—the dark thing that lurked within—grew quieter.
"Why do you ignore him?" it whispered.
"He will leave, just like the rest."
"You are nothing to them."
"Nothing."
Renjiro knew it was probably right. But something inside him—something desperate, something that still hoped—refused to push Takeshi away completely.
The First Lesson
On the fourth night, Renjiro cracked the door open before Takeshi could leave.
The man turned, surprised. A small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips.
"You finally decided to talk to me."
Renjiro frowned. "I didn't decide anything."
Takeshi chuckled. He sat down on the porch, making no move to get closer. His presence was calm, unthreatening.
"Tell me something, Renjiro."
It was the first time anyone had said his name without venom. He stiffened.
"Do you want to be strong?" Takeshi asked.
Renjiro's breath caught. He wanted to say no. He wanted to lie.
But he couldn't.
Because of course he did.
Because strength was the only thing that mattered in this village. The strong were respected. The strong were safe.
The strong did not get left behind.
"I do." His voice was barely a whisper, but Takeshi heard him.
The man nodded, as if he had expected that answer.
"Then let me teach you."
Renjiro's fingers dug into the fabric of his coat. It was a trick. It had to be.
"Why?" he asked again.
Takeshi sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. His expression softened—not pity, not the forced kindness others had used when they thought he wasn't listening, but understanding.
"Because I know what it's like to be cast aside."
Renjiro's chest tightened.
He didn't say yes. He didn't say no.
But the next morning, when Takeshi arrived at the training grounds, Renjiro was already there, waiting.