The tiny apartment in City Q was cramped, smelling faintly of mildew and cheap instant noodles, but it was home. At thirteen, Tsunetaka had learned to disappear into the background, working odd jobs to pay rent while training religiously in abandoned lots late at night.
However, he hadn't expected his roommates.
Fubuki sat on the floor, arms crossed, her green hair cascading over her shoulders as she scanned the tiny living room with a critical eye. "I'm not sharing a bathroom with a kid."
Tatsumaki floated in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, expression sour. "This place is a dump. Why are we here again?"
The two sisters were already arguing.
Tsunetaka quietly unpacked his bag in the corner, the worn fabric of his clothes contrasting sharply with the vibrant outfits of his roommates. He remembered the monster attack vividly—he'd used his newfound strength to shield them, and their gratitude had somehow turned into shared living arrangements.
**[SYSTEM DAILY REPORT - 1 YEAR LATER]**
**[SWORD MASTERY: LEVEL 2 (100/200 COMPLETE)]**
**[SUN BREATHING - FORM 1: DANCING SUN: LEVEL 2 (100/200 COMPLETE)]**
**[TRANSPARENT WORLD: LEVEL 2 (100/200 COMPLETE)]**
**[SYSTEM UPDATE: SUN BREATHING - FORM 2: TWIN SUNS]**
**[SYSTEM UPDATE: SUN BREATHING - FORM 3: RADIANT SINKING SUN]**
Tsunetaka now wielded a proper katana he'd saved up for—no longer a practice blade.
At Level 2, Transparent World had evolved significantly. Tsunetaka could now see the biological inner workings of living creatures—blood flow, muscle tension, heartbeat, and nerve pathways. He could pinpoint exactly where someone was stressed, weak, or injured.
However, the inanimate perception was still locked; he couldn't see through objects or walls. That required Level 3.
The limitation was crippling. While utilizing Transparent World, Tsunetaka was forced into absolute stillness; his body stiffened, locking his muscles to process the sensory input. It transformed the ability into a tactical standstill—he could analyze every twitch of a muscle and rush of blood, but he couldn't act until he deactivated it. He was a statue with god-like vision.
His logic was sound. Transparent World at Level 2 gave him absolute biological awareness, but at the cost of total immobility—a trade-off that made it dangerous in a fight. Level 3 would likely unlock object perception, but Level 4 or 5 would almost certainly grant "Autonomic Motion"—fighting while seeing everything without needing to consciously think.
Meanwhile, his roommates remained ignorant of his growing power.
One rainy evening, Tatsumaki came home early, her usual scowl deeper than usual. She hovered directly in front of Tsunetaka, green eyes narrow.
"Brat. What's up with you?"
Fubuki appeared behind her, arms crossed. "Sister, leave him alone."
"How am I a brat if we both are 13."
Tatsumaki's eye twitched. "I'm FOURTEEN, idiot. I'm older than you by a whole year."
Fubuki sighed. "We're both fourteen, actually."
Tatsumaki waved dismissively. "Details. Point is, I'm older. So I'm in charge."
She poked Tsunetaka hard in the chest.
He didn't budge an inch.
At Level 2 Sportsmanship and Level 2 Sword Mastery, Tsunetaka's core stability was rock-solid. Her finger merely pressed against his hardened pectoral muscle. He looked down at her, completely unfazed by her intimidating aura.
"You're poking a brick wall, Tatsumaki," Fubuki noted, sipping her tea.
"Tatsumaki what do you want?"
Tatsumaki crossed her arms tighter, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Nothing! I just..." she gestured vaguely at the apartment. "I wanted to know why you were sparring with that sword outside for four hours instead of helping with dinner."
Fubuki snorted. "She means she was worried, not that she cares."
"I WASN'T WORRIED!"
"I'm practicing so I can get stronger I don't want to depend on anyone to keep myself safe."
Tatsumaki paused, her shouting dying down instantly. The raw honesty in his voice struck a nerve. Unlike most kids who dreamed of being heroes for fame or adoration, his motivation was rooted in survival—a terrifyingly mature mindset for a thirteen-year-old.
Fubuki's expression softened. "You're thirteen, Tsunetaka. You shouldn't have to carry that weight alone."
"Come home and find your parents, dead corpses, and see if you are in a good mental state after that."
The room went dead silent. The air grew heavy, stifling the small apartment. Tatsumaki's arrogance evaporated instantly, replaced by a rare, pale shock. Even Fubuki lowered her teacup, her hand trembling slightly against the ceramic.
Tsunetaka hadn't just given an excuse; he had dropped the trauma that defined his existence.
Tatsumaki stared up at him, her mouth slightly open. For once, her sharp tongue was frozen, unable to form a reply. She had never considered the weight he carried—never imagined the horrors that had shaped him into the silent, stoic boy she knew.
Next day he continued training in the side alley of the apartment after a few hours he checked the status
He sat heavily on a crate, wiping sweat from his brow as the translucent blue screen flickered into existence before his eyes.
**[SYSTEM STATUS UPDATE]**
**[GENERAL PHYSIQUE: LEVEL 3 (Solidifying)]**
**[SWORD MASTERY: LEVEL 3 (200/300 COMPLETE)]**
**
He flexed his fingers, the calluses on his palms stinging slightly. Two years of relentless training had already transformed his body—he could feel the difference in his swings, the fluidity in his footwork. Not quite hero-level yet, but progressing steadily. He heard approaching footsteps and looked up to see Tatsumaki hovering above the alley entrance, arms crossed.
"You've been at it for five hours, idiot," Tatsumaki called down, her tone sharp but lacking its usual bite. "Even swordsman need brakes"
Her eyes narrowed as she watched him, seeing the sheen of sweat across his shoulders and the way his practice sword hung loosely in his hand. Something about his relentless grind frustrated and concerned her in equal measure.
Behind her, Fubuki landed gracefully, carrying a sealed container.
"We brought lunch," Fubuki said softly, placing it beside him. "You shouldn't skip meals either."
Tsunetaka stared at the container, then at the sisters. His throat tightened unexpectedly. Two years ago, nobody had ever looked back at him.
"Thanks."Fubuki smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Tatsumaki, on the other hand, simply huffed and looked away, pretending nonchalance. "Don't thank us. Just eat." She kicked his foot lightly with hers. "And rest for a bit."
Tsunetaka obediently opened the container, finding homemade rice balls and neatly sliced meat. He ate in silence, the food soothing the hollow ache in his stomach.
It was painfully domestic—a stark contrast to the tragedy that had defined his life. Two psychic sisters, one terrifyingly powerful, one immensely stubborn, were essentially adopting the traumatized orphan swordsman.
Tsunetaka opened the container, revealing a proper meal—rice, grilled meat, and vegetables. It was significantly better than the instant noodles he usually survived on.
He ate silently, realizing that despite their constant bickering and attitude, these two sisters had effectively become his family. They protected him, fed him, and understood his trauma without forcing him to talk about it.
Tatsumaki rolled her eyes, "We're practically the same age. 14 and 13." She paused, her gaze flicking over his sweat-soaked body before she added grudgingly, "But we're still older, so take our advice." Fubuki nodded in agreement, her expression gentle.
"We've been taking care of each other since we were kids," Fubuki said softly, as if realizing that the dynamic between them had shifted from roommates to a weird sort of family. "It's not just about age. We understand each other." She smiled faintly, "Even if Tatsumaki is a brat."
"Hey!"
"That is true sometimes it's still bothers me that she's the oldest."
Tatsumaki instantly floated up to eye-level, kicking his shin. "I AM ONE YEAR OLDER. That makes me the authority figure."
Fubuki giggled behind her hand. "Considering she acts like a toddler, the age gap is technically irrelevant." She tapped Tsunetaka's shoulder. "Ignore her. Technically, we're all kids."
"DAMN IT, FUBUKI!" Tatsumaki screeched, swiping her hair. "Don't take his side!" She pouted, kicking her feet. "I'm the boss here! I'm the oldest!" She suddenly grinned mischievously, "You know what?"
"I'm declaring an executive order," Tatsumaki announced, pointing a commanding finger at him. "Since you're working yourself to death, you are forbidden from training until sunset."
Fubuki sighed. "You're not a dictator, Tatsumaki."
"I am today!" She crossed her arms, floating imperiously. "Eat. Rest. Or I will float you to the couch myself."
"Fine."
Tatsumaki's face lit up with smug victory. "Good. I won't have my tenant collapsing from overexertion and then dying on my watch. It's bad for my reputation as a resident manager."
Fubuki pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're not the manager. We agreed to share rent equally."
"Details!" Tatsumaki waved her hand dismissively, spinning in a small circle. "As the eldest, my authority supersedes the rental agreement. Now sit." She pointed firmly at the crate.
Tsunetaka didn't argue, sliding down to sit. Fubuki shook her head, smiling slightly. "She's insufferable, but she means well."