The room was small and quiet. Paper doors moved softly with the wind. A single lantern filled the tatami floor with a warm yellow light. My wooden sword rested beside a cup of green tea that had already gone cold. Outside, the night hummed with the sound of crickets and faraway power lines.
I moved barefoot, slow and steady. Every sound and vibration in the floor told me where I was. My breath kept rhythm with my body. The bokken cut through the air, smooth and precise. I had done this my whole life: swing, breathe, reset. Every move controlled. Every breath measured.
My father's voice echoed in my head like a lesson that never left.
"Control your breath. Control your soul. Control the outcome."
I repeated it silently as I trained. Each strike reminded me who I was and who I had tried to stop being.
Then a memory pushed in, sharp and clear.A concrete room. Cold walls. White lights buzzing overhead.
My father stood in front of a wall-sized map, hands behind his back.
"You'll enter through the service corridor," he said. "Retrieve the document on the top floor. No one sees you. No one dies unless it's needed. You're a ghost, not a soldier."
I was fourteen. My voice hadn't even settled yet, but my body already knew what it was made to do. I didn't hesitate. I never did back then.
He looked at me one more time before I left.
"If you ever have to choose between the mission and your humanity," he said, "choose the mission."
Those words still cut every time I remembered them.
Back in the present, I stopped mid-swing. Sweat ran down my back. My scars burned faintly in the lantern light. For a second, I could hear Hana's laughter, that small, sweet sound from years ago. She used to clap when I finished training, always smiling, always proud. The memory hurt and helped at the same time.
I picked up the bokken again. My hands were steady. But something in the night had changed.A sound.Soft.Wrong.Not the wind. Not the neighborhood.One careful step outside, too light to belong to a drunk or an animal.
I tilted my head, listening.Then the world flipped backward, and I was somewhere else.
The forest was dark. No moon, just wind cutting through the trees. I ran through it with my heartbeat in my ears.
Behind me, an older man, faster, experienced. A veteran from the rival faction. He was hunting me, and he was good at it.
The mission had gone wrong. It was supposed to be a simple infiltration: steal the document, get out clean. But something leaked. I had the file, but now I had him behind me. No guns, no backup. Just blades, shuriken, and the cold.
I could feel the ground through my shoes, every dip and curve. The serum in my blood wasn't magic, but it made me sharper — my hearing, my reactions, the timing between heartbeats. Every sound painted the picture of the world around me. Branches, stones, even his steps. He was closing the gap.
We broke through the trees into a shallow river. The current brushed cold against my legs. The air smelled like wet iron and mud. He didn't wait. He came straight at me, sword flashing silver.
Our blades clashed once, twice, the sound cutting through the night like thunder. He was stronger, older. His swings had weight. Mine had speed. I blocked, turned, countered. Sparks jumped when the blades met. Water splashed with every step. The noise was deafening.
He pressed harder, his attacks like a storm. My arms shook under the weight. I slipped to the side, twisted, parried again. My shoulder screamed, but I stayed moving. One mistake and I'd die here. He knew it too.
He threw a shuriken. I felt it whistle past my ear. I stepped in close, too close for the sword, and we collided chest to chest. He dropped the sword and pulled a hidden knife. I caught his wrist before he could stab.
He kneed my ribs, hard. I answered with an elbow to his jaw. We crashed into the river, water spraying in every direction.
It wasn't pretty. It was survival.We hit, blocked, grabbed, twisted.Each strike short and sharp. No wasted movement.
He was stronger, but I was faster. Our bodies moved on instinct, the way only years of training can teach. I barely dodged a blade that nicked my shoulder. My knife found his arm in return.
He grunted, twisted, tried to sweep my legs. We both fell again, breathing like engines.
The fight felt endless, all breath and pain and mud. When I looked at him, I didn't see a rival. I saw what I could become, older, emptier, still following orders.
He swung again, wide and hard. I blocked with everything I had left. The shock went up my arm like fire. My muscles screamed. My uncle's voice flashed in my mind, calm and certain.
"Retreat is not weakness, Sato. It's wisdom."
I still had one smoke pellet. I slammed it against the rocks. The air filled with gray smoke that smelled of burned sugar. He coughed, cursed, swung blindly. I turned and ran.
Not because I was afraid. Because I still had something left to protect myself, the document, the chance to come back alive.
The forest swallowed me. Branches tore at my clothes. Roots tried to trip me. Blood dripped down my arm. I didn't stop. I rolled down a hill and landed hard. Pain shot through my side, but I didn't stop breathing.
Inhale. Exhale. Count the seconds.That was how we stayed alive.
When I finally stopped, my back hit a cedar tree. My lungs burned, my shirt soaked with sweat and blood. The document was still tucked inside my jacket. I was still breathing. That was enough.
"Retreat isn't weakness," I whispered to myself. "It's wisdom."
Hana's laughter came back to me the way she used to cheer when I trained. I thought of my father's voice too. The one that told me to choose the mission over humanity.
That night, I chose both.And for the first time, I didn't feel like either one of them had been wrong.
But, his hunt was still on...