The night was deep. Moonlight slipped through black curtains of Hurt's mansion, painting the gothic walls in silvery, ghostly glow. In his room, Ronin slept soundly, the rhythm of his snores the only sound in the inky dark.
Hurt sat in a high-backed chair in his study, rhythmically tapping a foot on the polished wooden floor. He was replaying the day's events.
"He controlled his Arcane Energy with ease. A promising first step. The crimson aura of his Core Negativity is normal for any Cursed Technique user. But..."
He gazed at the shining moon, its eyes mirrored in his crimson eyes.
"How did a few units of unstable Cursed Energy disintegrate a magically reinforced obsidian wall?"
He stood and paced to the window, his steps silent. "His power is raw, impressive... but its precision is non-existent. He needs a conduit. Something to focus that torrent into a controlled stream."
Hurt circled the hall, lost in his deep, analytic thinking. "A focusing artifact. Something conductive to his unique energy signature..."
His pacing stopped. An idea, bright and sudden, lit up his mind. He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet.
"Of course."
He turned and strode toward his private sanctum. For the rest of the night, the only sounds from within were the ringing of metal on metal and the faint, ominous glimmer of dark lights.
***
Morning.
Hurt slowly pushed open Ronin's door. He shook the boy's shoulder gently. "Ronin. Morning. Wake up, little prince."
Ronin rubbed his eyes, yawning loudly as he stretched his arms above his head. "Mmm... morning, Hurt. Why are you smiling? Something special?"
The corners of Hurt's mouth twitched. "You could say that. I have a gift for you."
Ronin's sleepiness vanished, washed away by a wave of childish energy. He jumped from bed. "A gift?! Where is it?"
Hurt let out a low chuckle. "Patience. We go to the training yard first. Then, you get your gift."
"Deal!" Ronin agreed instantly, already pulling on his day clothes. "Let's go!"
In the training yard, Hurt turned to face him. He held an object wrapped in a simple red cloth.
"Are you ready?" Hurt asked, a playful note in his voice.
Ronin bounced on his toes. "Yes! Yes! Show me!"
Hurt pulled the cloth away, revealing his creation. It was a delicate golden bracelet, from which a fine, interconnected chain of gleaming links led gracefully to a matching ring. Set into the ring was a single, multifaceted gem that seemed to hold a swirling rainbow of colors deep within.
Ronin blinked, his excited expression wilting into confusion. "A... bracelet and a ring. I thought it would be a new toy!"
Hurt's voice is calm, reasonable. "First, you have a mountain of toys. Second, this is far more interesting than a toy."
"This is an Arcane Relic" He took Ronin's wrist, fastening the bracelet, then slid the ring onto the boy's finger. It resized itself with a faint shimmer to fit perfectly.
"I forged it last night. This red core with the gem is a Cursed Rune—a Rage Amplifier. The bracelet contracts your violent energy. The chain acts as a bridge, and the ring focuses that energy into a precise, controllable form. It is a training tool. When you learn true Mental Energy control, you won't need it."
Ronin examined the delicate jewelry, turning his hand this way and that. "So... what are you teaching me today?"
A fascinating, knowing smirk spread across Hurt's face. "Now, we came to the main point."
He clapped his hands together. The air grew heavy and cold as he intoned, "Necrotic Art: Shadow Conjuration."
Two pools of pure darkness opened on the ground beside him. From each, a translucent, shadowy canine form emerged—phantom hellhounds with glowing amber eyes.
Ronin took an involuntary step back. "Hurt? What are those?"
"My summoned companions. They are harmless. Now, listen." Hurt pointed down a long, winding path that around the perimeter of the Necropolis district.
"This is your training. You will race my
hounds. One full circuit. If you win, your favorite dinner. If you lose..." He raised an eyebrow. "...a full plate of broccoli. Do we have a deal?"
Ronin sighed dramatically. "I should have known. Nothing's ever simple with you; you don't do anything without a motive. Fine. Deal. And I am going to win."
"Very well. Take your position."
Ronin crouched beside the two spectral hounds, his body coiled like a spring.
Hurt counted. "Get set... Go!"
Ronin launched forward, a burst of youthful speed putting him immediately ahead. He grinned back over his shoulder.
"HA! Don't mess with the great Ronin Hirata!"
The hellhounds, however, had been holding back. They exchanged a glance, then—
WHOOSH.
Two blurs shot past Ronin, leaving him in a cloud of dust.
Ronin was confused before realizing that hellhounds were ahead of him.
Ronin's grin vanished. "Hey! That's cheating!"
He pushed his legs harder, sweat already beading on his brow. But, the hounds remained just ahead, their ghostly forms gliding effortlessly.
Kilometers passed. Ronin's breath came in ragged gasps, his legs burning. Finally, he stumbled, dropping to his knees in the dry soil, dark spots of sweat spreading beneath him.
The hellhounds slowed. They looked at him, and let out a series of short, sharp barks that sounded unmistakably like mocking laughter.
Ronin lifted his head. Fury, hot and clean, burned away his exhaustion. "You... crazy black doggies laughing at me? How dare you?"
The gem in his ring flashed with a sudden, blood-red glow. He pushed himself up. His first steps were slow, heavy. But with each stride, his speed increased—
CRACK.
Not naturally, but propelled by a wave of crimson energy that flared behind him like a comet's tail. Exhaustion was replaced by rage-fueled strength.
In the training yard, Hurt watched the scene unfold in a crystal scrying orb. A satisfied nod. "As I hypothesized. His rage is catalyzing his Cursed Energy, converting his Arcane and Physical reserves directly into velocity. Remarkable."
Ronin caught up to the hounds, running neck-and-neck with the phantoms. The finish line was in sight.
"NOW! YOU'RE GOING TO LOSE!" He shouted.
But as victory was mere meters away, a scream tore through the air.
"MY BABY! NO!"
Ronin's head snapped to the side. A runaway baby cart was careening down a sloping side-alley, heading straight for a solid stone barrier. A woman chased it, her face a mask of pure terror.
A choice, stark and immediate, split Ronin's world.
Win the race. Claim his reward. Or save the child.
His mind reeled. Then it filled with a memory—not of logic, but of feeling. The absolute safety of his mother's arms. The warmth of Miraya's embrace. The sure knowledge that she would always choose him.
There was no decision to make.
But how? Teleportation took focus he didn't have. He couldn't reach it in time.
He clutched his head in anxiety, before his eyes dropped the bracelet on his wrist, the chain glinting in the sun. Wait... the chain... can it... extend?
Without understanding how, acting on pure instinct, he channeled a spark of energy into the relic.
SNAP.
The fine chain detached from the ring with a soft, metallic sound. It didn't fall—it shot forward, lengthening into a streak of golden light.
Ronin didn't question it. He whipped his arm forward. The glowing chain lashed out, wrapping around the back axle of the cart just before it struck the wall. The cart jerked to a sudden, safe halt.
The woman stumbled to it, scooping her crying baby into her arms, sobbing with relief.
***
Evening.
The sun was a bloody ember on the horizon. Hurt stood in the training yard, his hellhounds dismissed. He heard slow, dragging footsteps.
Ronin appeared, his clothes stained with dirt and dust, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
Hurt examined him. "You lose the race. Even when you were winning."
Ronin didn't meet his eyes. "Yeah. I know. Bring on the broccoli."
Hurt knelt, bringing himself to Ronin's eye level. His stern face was soft, his voice gentle. "You lost a materialistic race of speed. But... you won the race that truly mattered—the test of your soul."
Ronin looked up, confused. "What?"
"You had the chance to claim a selfish victory. You chose to save a life instead. That is what I was testing. The power you wield is born of rage and hatred. But today, you proved. That darkness does not own you. You command it. And that..." Hurt placed a hand on the boy's small shoulder, "...is your greatest power of all."
Ronin's eyes widened. The pieces clicked. "So... the cart... the race... it was all a trick?"
Hurt couldn't surpass a laugh. "You found me out. I orchestrated it to test your nature. Forgive the deception."
Ronin's face flushed red with playful anger. "I hate you! Don't talk to me!" He turned and sprinted for the house, but not before sticking out his tongue in a spectacularly silly face.
Hurt watched him go, a true, warm smile spreading across his pale features. The smile of a teacher whose student had passed the most important exam.
"Well," he murmured to the empty yard. "At least I know your heart is too pure to be corrupted. I am proud of you for that, my little Necromancer."
He raised his voice slightly toward the house. "And, Ronin? I didn't think I saw that trick with the chain! We will discuss that tomorrow!"
***
A five-year-old boy who does not yet know the word "morality."
But his soul knows its compass.
He can wield darkness as his weapon.
And the darkness, finding no purchase in his heart, will never corrupt him.