The morning air smelled like dirt and sparks. My tiny fists tingled, the sensation almost unbearable. Four years old, but my body screamed for more. I wasn't just a kid—I was a weapon in training, a storm in a small body.
Yesterday's combo had worked beautifully. Today, I wasn't repeating it. I was improving it, refining every angle, every burst, every movement. Precision wasn't enough. Power wasn't enough. Speed wasn't enough. Everything had to be perfect.
I began with mobility drills. Tiny bursts under my feet, mid-jump spins, forward propulsion followed by mid-air mini-blasts. Each movement became more fluid, almost instinctual. My small body twisted and turned like lightning incarnate.
"Faster. Faster. FASTER!" I shouted, sparks trailing behind me as I moved in a blur. The sandbox became a chaotic battlefield of craters and scorched dirt. Even in my tiny form, I could feel my strength growing exponentially.
Next, I focused on mini Howitzer Impact refinements. Concentrated blasts, chained bursts, and a long-range follow-up strike. My body barely able to support the strain, but my mind ran calculations for every possible trajectory.
I paused, crouched in the crater, and closed my eyes. I visualized angles, distances, explosive radii, wind resistance, recoil—every factor a step closer to perfection. Then, I released. The blast ripped through the air in a precise arc, rocks and dirt flying exactly where I wanted them.
I smiled. Perfection is mine.
Then came experimentation with explosive patterns. Lines, arcs, spirals, mini shockwaves that could ricochet off walls—if a real opponent ever appeared, they wouldn't have a chance. I tested, adjusted, and repeated over and over. Each attempt brought subtle improvement, until my tiny hands felt like the heart of a miniature battlefield.
I laughed—high-pitched, maniacal, thrilled. I am unstoppable.
By late afternoon, my body trembled, sweat dripping down my tiny face. But my mind… my mind was sharper than ever. I sat in the center of the craters, sparks flickering lazily from my fists, staring at the patterns I'd created.
"Four years old," I whispered, "and already stronger than I should be. Stronger than anyone. And I'll keep getting stronger… faster… better…"
I plotted tomorrow's plan. More mobility drills, more explosive patterns, new combinations, endurance testing. I wasn't stopping. Age was meaningless. Size was meaningless. Only power mattered.
And even alone, I felt unstoppable. I wasn't just training. I was evolving. I was ahead of time, rewriting what Kacchan could be.
By nightfall, my tiny body collapsed in the cratered yard. Sparks still lingered on my fists. My breath came in short, ragged gasps. But my eyes burned with the same fire they always had.
Tomorrow… the real experiments begin.