Date: Mid-Summer, Taishō 13
Age: Akira — 7
Location: Azabu District
Combat Strength: ★☆☆☆☆ → ★★☆☆☆ (Body awareness awakened, basic conditioning)
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Morning came early in Azabu.
Not because the sun was eager—but because life here didn't wait.
Akira woke before the neighborhood roosters, eyes opening quietly as if they'd been waiting for permission. The small room he slept in was neat: futon folded, clothes mended and stacked, a low table pushed near the window. Nothing extra. Nothing wasted.
He sat up and stretched, joints popping softly.
> "Great Sage: Sleep efficiency optimal. Muscle recovery rate above average for age group."
"Morning," Akira whispered, rubbing his eyes. "You're early."
> "Correction: I am always active."
"Yeah, yeah."
He slipped outside, bare feet touching the cool wooden floorboards, and fetched water from the communal well. The bucket was heavy for his size, but he didn't complain—he adjusted his grip, posture shifting instinctively to distribute the weight.
> "Minor correction suggested: Rotate shoulder inward by 3 degrees to reduce strain."
Akira adjusted.
The weight felt… lighter.
"…That helps," he admitted.
> "Acknowledged. Motor learning rate increasing."
He washed his face, tied his short hair back, and moved to the small outdoor stove he shared with the elderly widow next door—Obaa-san Fuku. She'd allowed him to use it in exchange for help around the house.
Today, he was cooking.
---
The rice steamed gently as Akira chopped vegetables with careful precision.
Not fast.
Clean.
Knife angle shallow. Fingers tucked. No wasted motion.
> "Observation: Knife handling efficiency comparable to trained kitchen apprentices."
"That's because I like it," Akira said softly. "Cooking feels… calm."
He seasoned the broth lightly—miso, dried radish, a hint of ginger. Nothing fancy, but balanced. He tasted, frowned slightly, and adjusted.
Behind him, Fuku-obaa watched with amused eyes.
"You're too serious for a child," she chuckled. "Most boys your age would be chasing beetles."
"I do that too," Akira replied earnestly. "Just… later."
She laughed and patted his head. "You'll make some woman very lucky one day."
Akira tilted his head. "…Why?"
She waved him off. "Never mind."
By mid-morning, word had already spread.
Akira delivered warm meals to three houses—elderly couples, a sick child, a man with an injured leg who couldn't cook for himself. No one paid much.
But everyone paid something.
Rice. Coins. Fresh vegetables. A promise to come back.
Akira accepted it all with equal gratitude.
> "Income stream established. Sustainability: Moderate."
"I'm not trying to be rich," he murmured as he counted the coins later. "Just… enough."
Enough to eat.
Enough to learn.
Enough to prepare.
---
The afternoon was for medicine.
Under the shade of the persimmon tree, Akira laid out herbs to dry, referencing a small, hand-copied notebook.
> "Medical knowledge source: Edo-era folk practices. Cross-referencing with empirical outcomes."
"So… which ones are actually useful?" Akira asked internally.
> "Response: 63% effective. 22% placebo. 15% harmful if misused."
"…Please tell me which is which."
> "Providing markings."
A faint sensation guided his hand as he marked the pages.
He never experimented recklessly.
Never claimed certainty.
People trusted him because he was honest.
"If it gets worse," he always said, "please see a real doctor."
That honesty mattered.
---
Late afternoon.
Training time.
Akira stood alone in the clearing, wooden sword in hand. It wasn't a katana—just carved oak—but he treated it with respect. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees soft. Back straight.
He inhaled.
Not deep.
Not shallow.
Natural.
> "Breathing observation initiated. Comparing with historical data…"
Akira didn't know about Sun Breathing yet.
But his body remembered something older.
He swung.
Once.
Twice.
A hundred times.
Slow cuts. Vertical. Horizontal. Diagonal.
Sweat soaked his clothes. Arms trembled. He didn't stop.
> "Muscle fatigue detected. Recommend rest."
"One more set," Akira said stubbornly.
> "…Acknowledged."
When he finally stopped, chest heaving, legs shaking, he collapsed onto the grass—laughing softly.
"I'm weak," he said. "But… not hopeless."
> "Assessment: Growth rate exceptional."
---
As dusk settled, Akira sat cross-legged, eyes closed.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's talk about that."
> "Confirming topic. Hinokami Kagura / Sun Breathing reconstruction."
"Yes. But only theory. I'm not ready."
> "Understood. Beginning conceptual analysis."
Images—not visions, but ideas—formed in his mind.
Breath linked to movement.
Movement linked to heat.
Heat linked to life.
> "Sun Breathing: Not merely a technique. It is a state of existence aligned with solar rhythm."
"…That sounds hard."
> "Affirmative."
Akira smiled tiredly. "Good. Hard things last longer."
He opened his eyes, watching the sky darken.
From a nearby street, Mitsuri's laughter drifted faintly—warm, alive.
Akira's fingers curled into the grass.
I'll get stronger, he promised silently.
Slowly. Properly.
> "Goal recorded. Priority: High."
The sun dipped below the rooftops.
And Akira went home—tired, content, and unaware that his quiet steps were already changing the future.
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End of Chapter 2
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