Three years had passed since the night that scarred Sahiru's soul.
Now sixteen, the boy who once laughed under falling cherry blossoms stood alone in a dense forest clearing, his breath rising in the morning air. In his hand was a chipped, ordinary blade—not a Nichirin sword, but a rusted katana salvaged from the ruins of an old battlefield. The steel was dull, but Sahiru's grip was steady.
His red haori fluttered in the wind, faded with time and stained with training scars. Every day, every moment since his parents' death had been spent mastering the blade. Slashes, stances, footwork—his muscles remembered them like prayers. Yet no matter how sharp his skill became, the weight in his chest never lifted.
He stood in silence, eyes half-lidded, violet orbs gazing toward the canopy above.
"Is this enough?" he muttered. "Am I strong enough now?"
The wind didn't answer.
Instead, pain surged through his head like lightning. His knees buckled, his sword clattered to the dirt.
"Ngh—!!" Sahiru clutched his skull, breath short and broken.
A voice. His own voice, but layered—echoing, cold, and knowing.
"All this time… you've been pretending."
"What… what are you—"
"You wear a mask of calm… but you're filled with rage, regret, sorrow. You train to forget. You fight to escape. But you cannot run from yourself."
The world dimmed. Sahiru fell into darkness—not sleep, but something deeper.
A mirror appeared in the void. In it, he saw himself—smiling gently, but behind that smile was something broken. Something waiting.
"Let me in," the voice said.
"Let the Facade begin."
Sahiru gasped and awoke, sprawled in the clearing.
His body trembled, but not from fear.
A strange calm washed over him. Not peace—but focus. His breath deepened. His violet eyes sharpened.
Somewhere inside him, something had changed.
And though the blade in his hand was still dull, Sahiru knew:
His true path had begun.