The world always had room for heroes.
But for Ajin… there wasn't even a corner for a "failed teacher."
No one knew that today—beneath a gentle breeze, warm sunlight, and childish laughter would be the last day he was ever known as an ordinary human.
The morning wind swept across Rogo Pavilion's training yard, lifting faint dust from the brown earth hardened by decades of footsteps. Rays of sunlight peeked through the branches of an old banyan tree, casting shifting shadows along the ground.
Under that tree stood a slender young man. His frame was thin, his shoulders narrow, and his breathing heavier than it should be.
Ajin.
"Focus… hah… focus your stance, Loka!" Ajin called out, voice strained as he tried to steady his breath.
Six orphaned children—none older than ten—stood in a sloppy line, each holding a bamboo sword too big for their arms. They weren't official students of the pavilion; they were abandoned children the elders took in because they had nowhere else to go.
Ajin was the one who stayed with them.
"Teacher Ajin! My stance is strong now!" Loka, the smallest girl, tried to show off—only to wobble forward and fall on her backside.
"Loka!" Ajin hurried over, his concern breaking into a small cough. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, then smiled gently. "Careful. If you fall too much, the ground might get angry."
Loka giggled, and the other children laughed with her.
Ajin adjusted her stance slowly, almost like an older brother brushing his sister's hair.
"Strength comes from the legs, not the arms," he said. "If your stance is firm, your body stays steady even when the wind pushes you."
"Teacher Ajin, look at me!" Bodin—the loudest troublemaker—lifted his bamboo sword far too high and—
BONK!
It dropped right onto his own head.
The children burst into laughter.
"Bodin…" Ajin tried not to laugh. "A sword is a tool, not a toy."
"Teacher Ajin is weak!" Bodin shouted proudly.
"Hey!" Loka puffed her cheeks. "Don't say that!"
"But he's kind," Bodin replied. "That's why his movements are also kind! Hahaha!"
Their laughter echoed across the yard. Ajin smiled along, though pain twisted somewhere deep inside him. But this laughter… it was the only place where he felt he belonged. And he refused to stain it with his own sadness.
Not far away, in the adult training yard, heavy thuds rang out. Two senior students clashed wooden swords with full strength, their breaths steady and movements sharp, filled with power Ajin could never match.
Two others—Darta and Keno—rested near a clay jug of water. Darta glanced toward Ajin and the children with disdain.
"Look at him," Darta sneered. "Five years here, and he's still stuck babysitting brats. The weakest teacher in Rogo."
Keno chuckled. "He's only here because the Elder picked him off the streets. If not for that, he would've starved in the market."
"Even his breathing is weaker than a tofu vendor," Darta added. "Pathetic."
The insults were loud enough for Ajin to hear.
His hand tightened around the bamboo sword he held. His smile wavered. A small crack formed in the mask he always forced himself to wear.
He knew he was weak.
He knew he was a "failed teacher."
But when the children looked at him, he forced himself to be something better.
"Alright," Ajin said softly. "Let's try again. Whoever holds their stance the longest gets an extra bedtime story tonight."
"YAAAY!"
Their cheers drowned out the sting in his chest.
But on the pavilion's veranda, Elder Rogo—the Grandmaster of the pavilion—watched Ajin. Not the adults. Not the children.
Just Ajin.
His wrinkled face held no smile. His white brows furrowed deeply, concern reflecting in his old eyes.
The gentle wind suddenly stopped.
A black crow landed silently on the wooden gate. Its beady eyes glinted like dark stones.
In the bamboo thicket on the pavilion's edge, a shadow moved.
A tall man—clothes worn, face unfamiliar, and lacking any Rogo emblem—peered through the stalks.
He wasn't watching Ajin.
He was watching the children.
CRACK.
A dry twig snapped.
Ajin paused midway through adjusting Bodin's stance.
"Who's there?" he called out, voice steady but alert.
The children froze.
Ajin narrowed his eyes. "Who…?"
Silence.
"Maybe it's a deer, Teacher," Loka whispered, clutching his sleeve.
Ajin scanned the bamboo grove. A chill crawled across his spine—an instinct he rarely felt.
Finally, he exhaled.
"Maybe… yes, maybe just a deer."
He turned back to the children.
They laughed again, trying to forget the eerie moment.
Ajin smiled with them.
But the Elder gripped his wooden staff tighter.
His worried gaze sharpened… turning into a grim, heavy stare.
"The time has come," he murmured.
"And Ajin… you are not ready."
The crow on the gate stared toward the forest, unmoving, as if waiting.
Beyond the thick trees,
something—or someone—watched the pavilion.
Waiting.
Judging.
Counting down.
That seemingly ordinary day…
…was the beginning of the end.
For Ajin.
For Rogo Pavilion.
For his small, fragile world.