The morning air was heavy with dew, the faint scent of rain clinging to the quiet streets of Naka. Ren Hyūga stood in the backyard, the chill biting at his bare feet. His breath formed white clouds as he exhaled, his fingers trembling around a short metal pipe he had found near the shed.
He hadn't slept. The sound of his father's voice still echoed in his head — calm, controlled, but distant.
> "Strength isn't just about fighting, Ren. It's about knowing when not to."
He had repeated those words all night, but they felt hollow now. How could someone not fight when fear wrapped around their home like a curse? When he saw the look in his father's eyes every time a car stopped near their street, or the quiet dread in his mother's smile as she locked the door twice before bed?
Ren wanted to help. To understand. To protect. But he was only twelve — a child standing in the shadow of a man whose past he barely understood.
He gripped the pipe tighter. "Then I'll make myself strong enough," he whispered.
He put on his hoodie and left before sunrise, slipping through the back gate and disappearing into the fog.
The path was long and empty. Birds had not yet begun to sing. Every step echoed faintly against the cracked concrete as the city slept. He walked toward the outskirts — a place where his father once warned him never to go.
The abandoned schoolyard stood silent, swallowed by the fog. Rusted swings creaked in the breeze, and the building loomed like a forgotten skeleton of time. Ren pushed the gate open, metal screeching, and stepped inside.
"This will do," he muttered, planting his feet on the cracked asphalt.
He took his stance — knees bent, eyes forward — just like he had seen his father once do in the living room when he thought no one was watching. Then he swung. The first strike was weak. The second, off balance. But he kept going. Over and over, until his arms screamed in pain.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. He grit his teeth, adjusting his footing, copying the memory in his mind — the sharp precision of his father's movements, the unshakable stillness in his eyes.
He swung again. Harder.
Then again.
The sound of footsteps broke through the mist.
Ren froze, chest pounding.
"You'll hurt yourself if you keep holding it like that," a voice said.
He turned sharply. A tall man stood near the gate — thin, wearing a weathered trench coat, his eyes calm yet piercing.
Ren raised the pipe instinctively. "Who are you?"
The man didn't answer right away. He simply walked closer, his cane tapping softly against the ground. "You remind me of someone," he said, voice quiet but cutting through the fog like a blade.
Ren hesitated. "…My father?"
A faint smirk. "Yes. The same eyes — full of defiance."
The boy's heart raced. "You know him?"
"I used to," the man replied, stopping a few steps away. His gaze was sharp, yet oddly nostalgic. "Show me what you were doing."
Ren frowned but obeyed. He swung the pipe again, repeating the movement. The man watched silently, then shook his head.
"Too stiff. You're trying to mimic, not move. Again."
Ren tightened his grip and swung harder. The man blocked it effortlessly with his cane. The impact rang through the air like metal against bone.
"Again."
Ren attacked once more, faster this time. Each swing met the same result — deflected, redirected, dismissed. Within seconds, he was breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face.
The man spoke softly, almost like a teacher: "You can't fight with someone else's rhythm. You're chasing his shadow instead of finding your own."
Ren's chest heaved. "Then how do I find it?"
"Stop thinking about being like him," the man said. "Think about what you're trying to protect."
Those words pierced him. He thought of his mother's smile. His sister's laughter. The house that always smelled like Hana's tea.
He adjusted his stance. Loosened his shoulders. This time, his swing was different — steadier, sharper, driven not by anger but by focus. The man blocked again, but the corner of his mouth curved slightly upward.
"Better," he said. "Now again."
They continued. The sound of metal and cane echoed through the yard, striking rhythmically against the silence. When Ren finally dropped to his knees, exhausted, his hands were blistered, his arms trembling.
The man looked down at him. "You've got spirit. That'll be your strength — and your weakness."
Ren looked up, panting. "Who are you really?"
The man turned toward the fog. "Someone who owes your father a debt."
"Wait!" Ren called, struggling to his feet. "Tell me your name!"
But the man was already walking away. "He'll remember me when the time is right," he said, voice fading into the mist. "Until then… train in silence."
And just like that, the figure vanished — swallowed by dawn.
Ren stood alone, the air still trembling with echoes of the fight. He looked at his hands, red and sore, but this time he didn't feel small. He didn't feel afraid.
He raised the pipe again, inhaled deeply, and whispered to himself:
> "I'll protect them, no matter what world you came from, Dad."
As the sun rose over the quiet city, the light cut through the mist, casting Ren's shadow long across the cracked ground. For the first time, it didn't feel like he was standing in someone else's.
It was his own.