The forest echoed with the steady rhythm of sword swings.
Sahiru stood at the center of a ruined clearing, his red haori stained with sweat, sleeves fluttering as his blade cut through the morning air. Every motion was practiced, refined by years of silent dedication—but today, something felt different.
His hand tightened around the hilt. He moved faster. Harder. Each swing was more than training—it was war against the memory carved into his soul.
"Stronger…" he whispered between breaths. "Faster…"
But then, it returned—the piercing pain in his head.
"Not now—!" he growled, clutching his temple.
The agony was unbearable. A thunderclap of emotion echoed inside him—rage, sorrow, fear, and despair all clashing at once. The voice returned, echoing louder this time.
"Let go… Stop pretending…"
But Sahiru didn't flinch.
"I don't care!" he shouted. "If it hurts, then I'll swing through the pain!"
His body moved.
Something awakened.
His grip shifted instinctively. His breath deepened—controlled, yet unnaturally silent. The pattern was unfamiliar, but felt... right.
He exhaled.
The moment his blade moved, a burst of white and scarlet light exploded from the slash. A brilliant arc carved through the air and ripped half the trees in the clearing into splinters.
Sahiru stumbled back, panting.
His eyes widened as he saw the devastation. The very ground was scorched in a crescent-shaped wave.
He dropped to one knee, sword still shaking in his grip.
"...What...was that?" he whispered.
Then, within his mind, the voice answered gently this time:
"The mask breaks. The soul speaks. This… is Facade Breathing."