Early in the morning, the sun had just risen.
A thin ray of warm light slipped through the paper window and landed gently on James's face. He had been sleeping on his side on the tatami, but the moment the sunlight touched him, his eyes snapped open. He sat up instantly, movements sharp and clean, not looking like someone who had just woken up at all.
He clenched his fist.
A quiet but terrifying strength rested inside it, steady and obedient, as if it had always belonged there. James could feel it clearly—every muscle, every joint, every breath responding perfectly.
He laughed softly.
"So this is how it feels," he muttered. "Getting stronger without coughing blood."
Then another thought crossed his mind, and his smile widened.
"Good. Now I don't have to worry about being accidentally crushed to death by Mitsuri."
It sounded ridiculous—but only to people who didn't know Kanroji Mitsuri.
Mitsuri's body was abnormal in the truest sense. Her muscle density was eight times that of an ordinary person. Under normal circumstances, she controlled her strength extremely well. She was gentle, careful, and kind to a fault.
But James wasn't worried about normal circumstances.
There were moments in life where people stopped thinking—moments driven by emotion, instinct, or closeness. In those moments, control could slip.
And with Mitsuri's body?
A single mistake could be fatal.
Eight times muscle density meant that unless the other person was equally abnormal, being held too tightly—even for a moment—could end very badly.
James had no doubt that this was the real reason Mitsuri wanted a man stronger than herself.
Not pride.
Not romance.
Survival.
Now, however, things were different.
James felt the power inside him again. Six "nuo" units of strength—whatever their origin—had fused completely with his body. This strength was not clumsy or explosive. It was controlled, precise, and terrifyingly stable.
Eight times muscle density?
That was no longer a problem.
With this, even if Mitsuri lost control, James would still be standing.
He let out a satisfied breath.
Then suddenly froze.
"…Wait."
His expression changed.
A terrible realization hit him.
"My parents aren't going to die tragically, right?"
Before his brain could overthink it, his body moved.
James rushed down the corridor and pushed open his parents' door without knocking.
Inside, his father and mother stared at him in shock—very much alive, very much intact, and very much annoyed.
James scanned them quickly.
No blood.
No curses.
No ominous foreshadowing.
He finally relaxed.
His father's face darkened immediately.
"GET OUT! How did I teach you to behave?!"
A shoe flew straight at James's head.
James tilted his head slightly, letting it miss by a hair, then calmly closed the door as if nothing had happened.
From inside came another roar.
"GIVE ME BACK MY SHOE!"
James sighed, opened the door again, picked up the shoe, and handed it back respectfully.
Old couples were terrifying—not because they were violent, but because they were shameless before breakfast.
After washing up properly, James stepped into the courtyard to stretch his body.
A wooden sword lay neatly on the ground.
He paused.
Even though his father had long abandoned the sword and turned to business, the family's old craft had not been forgotten.
James picked up the wooden sword.
When he was young, his grandfather had taught him some basic sword movements. Nothing deep. Nothing secret. Mostly posture, breathing, and discipline. The old man had always stopped just short of teaching him anything truly dangerous.
Back then, James hadn't understood.
Now, he did.
As he repeated the old movements, something clicked.
Each strike flowed naturally into the next. His breathing matched his motions perfectly, and strength surged through his body like a tide—rising and falling in rhythm.
It reminded him of the breathing-based combat techniques he had once encountered in another world.
He swung.
Swish—
The wooden sword cut through the air.
The thick wooden stake in front of him split cleanly into two halves, the cut smooth and terrifyingly precise.
James stared.
He hadn't used brute force.
He hadn't used his full strength.
This wasn't raw power.
This was technique.
"The old man…" James muttered, eyes narrowing. "You're not simple at all."
Then something felt wrong.
James frowned.
His grandfather had been the one who insisted he come to Tokyo in the first place. At the same time, rumors of "ghosts" had begun spreading near the village.
Too many coincidences.
James went inside and found his parents discussing engagement matters.
"Father," he said firmly. "I need to return to the village."
"There's no need," his father replied calmly. "I already sent someone to pick up your grandfather."
James's voice dropped.
"Father."
His father looked into James's eyes and fell silent. After a moment, he sighed.
"…Alright. But don't be gone too long. Someone is waiting for you now."
James nodded.
"I'll tell Mitsuri."
Before leaving, James went to the Kanroji household.
Their homes were on the same street, but Mitsuri's house was smaller and crowded. A family of seven lived there, filling the space with warmth and noise.
Mitsuri was the eldest. She helped her mother constantly and took care of her younger siblings. That responsibility had shaped her into someone gentle, patient, and deeply loving.
Her father was educated and respected, but their finances were tight.
Part of that was because feeding Mitsuri was not cheap.
In this era, eating well was already difficult. Mitsuri ate enough for several people.
And yet her father never complained.
James hadn't even stepped inside when a small boy grabbed his arm and shouted at the top of his lungs:
"BROTHER-IN-LAW! BROTHER-IN-LAW IS HERE!"
Mitsuri rushed out instantly—one shoe missing, one foot bare—and flicked her brother's forehead.
"Waaah!"
The boy ran away crying.
Then Mitsuri turned to James and immediately became shy again, her earlier authority gone. She lowered her head, cheeks pink.
James smiled gently.
"Mitsuri will be a good mother someday."
Mitsuri froze.
Mother…
Children…?
Her thoughts exploded in all directions at once.
James lifted a heavy paper bag.
"I'm going back to my hometown for a few days. I came to tell you so you wouldn't worry. I bought some dango on the way."
The bag was heavy.
Very heavy.
Mitsuri sniffed it and smiled brightly.
"East Street. I recognize the smell."
James chuckled.
Unable to resist, he gently pinched her cheek.
Mitsuri stiffened completely.
Her body softened a second later, heart pounding wildly.
A furious voice roared from inside.
"YOU BRAT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
Mitsuri's father stormed out.
James did not hesitate.
He ran.
In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Mitsuri's father chased him outside, then stopped, panting.
"…That kid runs fast."
---
James left the city and headed toward his village alone.
The distance wasn't far. The country was small, and a determined adult could cross it in a single day.
Taisho-era Japan was strange—modern buildings in the city, ancient scenery in the countryside, with only thin power lines reminding people of the future.
James reached the village at dusk.
Smoke rose from chimneys. Familiar faces greeted him, but he didn't stop.
He went straight to his grandfather's house.
No response.
He climbed over the wall.
The house was empty.
And the katana was gone.
James's heart sank.
Villagers confirmed it—his grandfather had been going out alone frequently.
The rumors of ghosts had started near a trade route. Caravans vanished. Goods were scattered. The traces didn't match humans or animals.
James looked at the darkening sky.
"This old man…" he muttered. "Still reckless at his age."
He knew the truth.
His grandfather had gone to hunt a demon.
James turned toward the road leading out of the village.
He had to hurry.
Because somewhere in the darkness—
Someone was about to break a promise.
And James would not allow that.
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