Chapter 2 : Whispers of The Prophecy

Rain pours endlessly over Osaka, soaking the narrow streets of Kamagasaki, a district forgotten by the city. Here, society’s castaways struggle to survive in shadows no one cares to illuminate. Among the chaos of beggars and children darting through alleys, a boy of only seven years carries a weight far heavier than his small shoulders should bear. His name is Takeshi Hatabe.

Inside an abandoned, crumbling building, his mother lies on a ragged futon. Her breathing is shallow, each cough rattling her chest with painful finality. The boy enters, clutching a small parcel of stale bread and a flask of water, both dripping wet from the rain outside. He kneels by her side, his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes wide with determination but softened by love.

“Mother,” he whispers, lifting her head carefully and feeding her a bite of bread. His mother forces a smile, her frail hand trembling as she brushes his cheek.

“You always take care of me, Takeshi,” she murmurs, her voice strained. “I should be the one protecting you.”

Takeshi shakes his head firmly, eyes burning with defiance. “No, Mother. I will take care of you, always. I promise.”

Her smile falters, and tears form in her tired eyes. “You’re just a child. You shouldn’t have to live like this.”

But Takeshi’s spirit has already been forged in hardship. His father was cut down years ago by the Osaka mafia—executed brutally after stealing a crate of supplies to keep his family alive. Since then, Takeshi has known only hunger, cold, and the constant shadow of death. Yet he has also known one unshakable truth: he must never abandon the only person left who loves him.

The next morning, rain still falls. The streets of Osaka bustle with umbrellas and rushing footsteps. Takeshi, no taller than a man’s waist, clutches a bundle of newspapers, his tiny hands raw from the cold. He shouts through the downpour, his voice drowned by the roar of the city.

“Extra news! Get your papers here!”

But no one looks at him. Businessmen push past, their shoes splashing him with dirty water. A group of drunkards shoves him aside, laughing cruelly as he stumbles and falls. His newspapers scatter into the puddles. Takeshi scrambles on his knees, gathering them up, ignoring the pain of gravel cutting into his skin. His lip trembles, but he refuses to cry.

He cannot afford weakness. His mother depends on him.

He stands again, his small figure dwarfed by the towers of neon-lit Osaka. The rain beats mercilessly against him, but he holds the newspapers high, calling out once more with every ounce of strength. Passersby continue to ignore him, yet Takeshi does not stop.

Hours pass before he finally sells only two copies. His earnings barely enough to buy a heel of bread. When he returns to the abandoned building, he kneels beside his mother and apologizes, his head bowed.

“I’m sorry… only two today.”

His mother smiles faintly and strokes his cheek again. “Don’t be sorry, Takeshi. You’ve done more than enough. I should be the one apologizing… I’m the reason you suffer.”

“No, Mother,” he insists, shaking his head furiously. “Don’t ever say that. I’ll protect you, no matter what.”

She closes her eyes, whispering prayers to gods she no longer believes will answer. Takeshi holds her hand tightly, as if sheer will alone could keep her alive.

That night, Takeshi curls against his mother’s side. The building creaks with the weight of storms outside, and rats scurry across the floors. His stomach growls with hunger, but he bites his lip, focusing only on the warmth of her hand in his. In the distance, he hears laughter—mafia enforcers drinking, their shouts echoing like thunder. He knows the mafia is the reason his father is gone, the reason his mother wastes away in this ruin.

Hatred festers quietly in his chest, but so too does resolve.

When dawn breaks, Takeshi is back on the streets. This time, the rain has eased, but the cold lingers. He runs between crowds, his bare feet slapping against wet pavement. He does not notice the bruises on his arms, nor the cuts on his hands. He notices only the faint smile his mother gave him the night before. That smile is his light.

As he shouts about newspapers, the crowd jostles him again. He falls hard onto the ground, his knees scraping against stone. The bundle of papers scatters once more. A businessman steps on one, crumpling it beneath his polished shoe without care. Another child, stronger and older, snatches two papers from him and runs off laughing.

Takeshi clenches his fists, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. But then he remembers his promise. He rises, collecting what remains. He wipes the mud from the papers with the sleeve of his torn shirt. His body is small, but his will is unbreakable.

In Kamagasaki, no one notices him. To them, he is just another stray child destined to die nameless. But within Takeshi Hatabe, a seed is planted. A will to endure. A will to protect.

That will is what sets him apart.

While the world above drowns in neon lights and laughter, a storm brews in the shadows. From this storm, one day, the world will come to fear a name whispered in terror. But today, he is only a boy—a boy who sells newspapers in the rain, who clings to his mother’s fading warmth, who promises with all his heart to shield her from the cruelty of the world.

And yet, as the rain falls again that evening, Takeshi feels something inside him whisper: this life is only the beginning.

The streets of Kamagasaki are quiet beneath the pale glow of the moon. The air is damp, carrying the stench of rain-soaked concrete and stale liquor spilled by drunkards sleeping in the gutters. Small footsteps echo through the alleys—bare feet slapping against the wet pavement. Takeshi Hatabe, only seven years old, clutches a thin stack of newspapers close to his chest. His tiny frame shivers in the night, but he does not stop. He has promised his mother he will return with food.

A group of men shoulder past him, sending him sprawling into the mud. His newspapers scatter across the filthy street. Laughter follows them as they vanish into the neon haze. Takeshi scrambles to gather the papers, biting back tears. Tonight is just another night in the endless struggle.

But as he lifts the last crumpled sheet, a soft hand touches his shoulder. He turns and sees an elderly woman, her face wrinkled but kind, her eyes filled with sympathy rather than contempt. She kneels beside him, brushing the dirt from his small hands.

“You poor child,” she whispers in Japanese, her voice trembling. “Where is your home?”

Takeshi lowers his gaze. “I… I don’t have one. My mother and I move from place to place. We sleep wherever we can.”

The woman’s heart twists at his words. From her bag, she pulls out a small bundle—two rice balls wrapped in cloth—and presses it into his hands. Then she slips a few crumpled bills into his pocket. “Take this. For you and your mother.”

For a moment, Takeshi can only stare. The weight of kindness is heavier than the weight of cruelty, and it breaks something inside him. Tears roll down his cheeks, and he bows deeply. “Thank you… thank you so much!”

The woman pulls him into a brief embrace, holding his trembling body. “Be strong, little one. Protect your mother.”

Clutching the food against his chest, Takeshi runs through the maze of alleys, his heart racing with excitement. For the first time in weeks, he feels a spark of hope. Tonight, he can finally bring his mother something more than stale bread. Tonight, she will smile again.

The old building looms ahead, its broken windows glowing faintly with the dim light of a dying lantern. Takeshi bursts inside, calling softly, “Mother! I’m home! Look—I brought food!”

Silence answers him.

He rushes to the corner where she lies on her futon, wrapped in a thin, tattered blanket. Her chest is still, her eyes closed peacefully as though she is only sleeping. Takeshi kneels beside her, shaking her gently.

“Mother? Wake up. Please, wake up. I brought food. You’ll get better now.”

No response.

Panic floods his small body. He shakes her harder, tears streaming down his face. “Mother! Please! Don’t leave me!”

Her hand slips from the blanket, limp and cold. Takeshi freezes, the truth crashing down like a blade through his heart. He presses his face into her chest, sobbing uncontrollably. The rice balls and money fall from his hands, forgotten. They mean nothing now.

Hours pass as he clings to her body, refusing to let go. His cries echo in the empty building until his voice grows hoarse. By dawn, silence fills the room.

The next day, Takeshi digs with his bare hands in the cold, wet soil behind the abandoned building. His fingers bleed, his nails break, but he does not stop. He has no shovel, no help—only the desperate strength of a child who refuses to abandon the woman who gave him life.

When the grave is finally deep enough, he drags the frail body of his mother outside. His arms ache, his back screams with pain, but he carries her as though she weighs nothing. He lays her gently in the earth, arranging her blanket around her shoulders as though she were only going to sleep.

Takeshi kneels in the mud, pressing his forehead to the mound of soil he piles over her body. His tears mingle with the rain that begins to fall, the sky itself weeping with him. His small hands shake as he pats the dirt into place.

The boy whispers, voice cracking, “I’ll never forget you, Mother. I promise. I’ll survive. I’ll fight. I’ll see the sun tomorrow, no matter what.”

The rain intensifies, soaking him until he is nothing more than a shivering silhouette against the gray horizon. But Takeshi does not move. He sits in the mud before the fresh grave, staring at it with wide, hollow eyes.

As night falls again, Takeshi curls beneath the old tree near the grave. His stomach gnaws at itself, but hunger is nothing compared to the emptiness in his chest. He clutches the cloth that once wrapped the rice balls—his mother’s last gift, though she never tasted it.

For the first time, he is truly alone. A child against the world.

The city of Osaka moves on without him. The lights of neon signs still flicker, the businessmen still hurry to their trains, the mafia still spill blood in the streets. No one notices the orphan boy who has buried his only parent with his bare hands.

But in his heart, a fire begins to burn. A vow forged in pain and loss. Takeshi Hatabe swears to himself that he will never again bow to the cruelty of the world. He will fight, he will endure, he will win against life itself.

The rain washes over his face, mixing with his tears, and he whispers to the empty sky:

“This world is a battlefield. And I will survive.”

The month that follows his mother’s death is nothing short of hell. Takeshi Hatabe, barely seven years old, survives in the markets of Osaka like a shadow among shadows. His stomach growls endlessly, every day a cycle of hunger and desperation. He begs merchants for food, but most only sneer or shout at him. Some strike him with sticks or shove him aside as if he were a stray dog.

He sits in a narrow alley, his ribs showing through his thin shirt, watching the bustling market where everyone else carries on with their lives. Children laugh, vendors haggle, and workers drink cheap sake to warm their bellies. No one looks at the orphan boy in the shadows. No one cares.

As rain falls, Takeshi presses his knees to his chest, trembling. From the corner of his eye, he sees a small black cat slip out from under a wooden stall. The animal carries a scrap of bread between its teeth. Slowly, it drops the bread in front of him, meowing softly before darting back into the maze of legs and lanterns.

Takeshi grabs the bread and devours it hungrily, crumbs sticking to his lips. It is gone in seconds. His hunger is far from satisfied, but even a small piece feels like life returning to his bones. Still, danger is everywhere. Death lurks in every empty night, every ignored plea, every pang of hunger that threatens to tear him apart.

The following afternoon, rain lashes the market with merciless fury. People hurry through the stalls, their umbrellas bobbing like dark flowers in a storm. Takeshi crouches near the corner of a shop, shivering beneath a broken roof tile. His eyes narrow as he spots an old man walking slowly through the crowd. The man seems distracted, fumbling with his coat. His movements are unguarded.

Takeshi’s heart races. This could be his chance. He creeps behind the old man, silent as a rat. His thin hand stretches toward the man’s pocket, reaching for the shape of a wallet.

But before he can pull it free, a hand grips his wrist with surprising strength. Takeshi freezes, his body trembling. He looks up and sees the old man staring down at him with sharp, piercing eyes.

Around them, the crowd notices. Murmurs ripple through the market. A thief. A boy caught in the act. Shouts rise:

“Little bastard!”

“Teach him a lesson!”

“Rotten child!”

Adults point, spit, and curse. Takeshi feels his knees weaken. His mind flashes to his mother’s grave. Perhaps this is it—perhaps his punishment is to be beaten to death in the street. He closes his eyes, preparing for the blows.

But then, the old man raises his voice. “This boy is mine,” he declares. “My son. He always plays this trick, even in the middle of the market—stealing his father’s wallet.”

The crowd pauses. Confusion ripples through the onlookers. A few mutter curses under their breath and walk away. Others laugh and shake their heads, thinking it nothing more than a foolish family matter. Within moments, the storm of hatred dissolves. The market returns to its chaos, leaving Takeshi standing in stunned silence.

The old man releases his wrist. Takeshi stares at him, wide-eyed. “Why… why did you say that?”

The old man chuckles, though his eyes remain serious. “Because you don’t deserve their stones or their spit. You deserve a chance.” He pats the boy’s shoulder. “What is your name?”

“…Takeshi..Hatabe,” the boy whispers.

The man nods. “Takeshi Hatabe. A strong name. My name is Masahiro Takeda.”

Takeshi bows his head in shame. “I’m sorry… I tried to steal from you.”

Masahiro waves the apology aside. “If a child’s hand reaches for a wallet, it is not greed—it is hunger. Hunger is no crime. Hunger is a curse, Where is your home ?.”

The boy’s eyes sting with tears. His lips tremble as he whispers, “I don’t have a home. My father… the mafia killed him. My mother… she is gone too. I buried her myself.”

Masahiro falls silent. His gaze lingers on the boy’s thin frame, his bruised arms, the desperation carved into his face. Something deep within the old shinobi stirs—a mixture of pity, respect, and recognition.

“Come with me,” Masahiro says finally. “If you remain here, you will die. If you follow me, you may yet live.”

Takeshi blinks, uncertain. “Why? Why would you help me?”

Masahiro looks at him with a hardened expression, the kind forged in decades of war and bloodshed. “Because I have seen children like you before. Some wither and vanish. Others grow into monsters. Perhaps you will be something else.”

He turns and begins to walk. For a moment, Takeshi stands frozen in the rain, unsure if he should trust this stranger. But the alternative is to remain here, alone, with nothing but hunger gnawing at him. He clenches his fists and follows.

The market noise fades behind him as he steps into the unknown, his bare feet splashing through puddles. He does not look back.

For the first time since his mother’s death, Takeshi Hatabe feels the faintest spark of hope.

The road to the outskirts of Osaka grows quieter as night drapes its cloak over the city. The glow of neon lights fades, replaced by the steady hum of cicadas and the distant roar of traffic. Takeshi trudges beside Masahiro Takeda, his small frame hunched under the weight of exhaustion and uncertainty. His feet are blistered from days of wandering. His stomach gnaws at itself, yet he dares not complain. The old man walks with a stride that is both commanding and effortless, his posture radiating strength even in silence.

At last, they arrive before a massive wooden gate bound with black steel. The structure towers like the mouth of some ancient beast, its carved raven motifs glaring down with eyes of onyx. Takeshi stares in awe and fear. His lips tremble. “What… what is this place?”

Takeda looks at him with eyes sharp as blades. “Do not be afraid, boy. Beyond this gate lies your salvation—or your damnation.”

With a groan of heavy chains, the gate begins to open. Torches flare to life along the stone walls, revealing silhouettes moving within. Figures clad in black step forward—shinobi, their faces hidden behind masks, their weapons glinting in the firelight. They bow as Takeda passes, their discipline as sharp as their steel.

Takeshi shrinks behind the old man, clutching the tattered fabric of his shirt. The air feels heavier here, charged with a power he cannot name.

“This,” Takeda says, his voice echoing through the courtyard, “is the fortress of the Blood Raven clan. Here, boys are forged into men, and men into shadows. The strongest shinobi in the world are born here. Their strength is twenty times greater, their speed unmatched, their minds sharper than any blade. And now, you will walk among them.”

They pass training grounds lit by rows of lanterns. Takeshi’s eyes widen as he beholds the scene before him. Dozens of shinobi practice in silence, their movements faster than the blink of an eye. Some slash with katanas, the steel whistling like wind through trees. Others hurl shuriken in perfect arcs, each blade striking the bullseye with deadly precision. Chains tipped with gleaming kunai lash through the air, clanging against wooden dummies that splinter on impact.

Two young men catch Takeshi’s gaze. Sakumo and Tokuro stand side by side, their expressions calm as they launch shuriken at impossible angles. The blades ricochet off stone pillars, curving through the air before striking their targets with surgical accuracy. Takeshi’s jaw hangs open. He has never seen anything like it—death itself painted as an art form.

Takeda notices his awe. “Skill like that does not come from talent alone. It comes from discipline, pain, and years of sacrifice.”

From across the yard, a taller figure approaches. His black robes flow like liquid shadow, his posture commanding yet calm. “Sensei Takeda,” the man greets with a bow.

Takeda nods. “Habura. This boy is Takeshi Hatabe.”

Habura kneels to meet the child’s eyes. His face, though stern, softens with a rare smile. “Welcome, Takeshi. You are safe here.”

The boy bows clumsily, his manners raw but sincere. “Thank you, sir.”

“This is Habura,” Takeda explains. “A senior shinobi of Blood Raven. Strong, disciplined, and loyal. You could learn much from him.”

Habura shakes his head modestly. “I am but a blade among many. Still, if you wish, I can guide him.”

Takeda grunts in approval. “Good. The boy needs guidance, or he will break. He has already survived longer than most. Hunger, grief, abandonment. If left on the streets, he would be dead in a day.”

Habura studies the boy’s thin frame, the scars of hardship etched into his skin. “Then perhaps suffering has already tempered him. Perhaps he will not break, but sharpen.”

Takeda leads Takeshi into a modest residence within the fortress—a house of wood and stone, filled with the faint scent of incense and sharpened steel. A low table is set with simple dishes of rice, miso soup, and pickled vegetables.

Takeshi stares at the food, his eyes wide with disbelief. He does not wait for permission. He devours the meal like a starving animal, shoving rice into his mouth with trembling hands. Tears streak his face as he eats, the warmth of the food almost unbearable after so many nights of emptiness.

Takeda and Habura watch in silence. The old man’s gruff expression softens. Habura leans closer to him. “You intend to train him, don’t you?”

Takeda exhales through his nose, his eyes never leaving the boy. “Yes. I will not abandon him to the wolves. I see something in him. His hunger is not only for food—it is for life, for survival. That hunger can be forged into strength.”

Habura nods slowly. “Then let me stand beside him. Let me be his brother-in-arms.”

The old man smirks faintly. “So be it. You will temper his spirit. I will break his body and rebuild it.”

Across the table, Takeshi continues to eat, oblivious to the words that will shape his destiny. To him, this meal is simply salvation. To them, it is the beginning of something greater—the spark of a boy who will one day become both savior and monster.

In Takeda’s eyes, the child already carries the shadow of greatness. All that remains is time… and the furnace of blood.

The night is quiet within the fortress of the Blood Ravens. Torches flicker along the walls, casting restless shadows that sway like silent sentinels. Takeshi walks nervously at the side of Masahiro Takeda, until the old man leaves him at the threshold of the barracks where the young initiates sleep. For the first time in his life, the boy has a roof over his head and the faint promise of belonging.

Inside, the dormitory smells of straw mats, sweat, and damp wood. Rows of futons line the floor, each belonging to a candidate still clinging to the fragile boundary between childhood and warriorhood. Takeshi sets down his meager bundle of possessions, and wide eyes fall upon him.

A boy with bright, mischievous eyes introduces himself first. “Ranmaru,” he says, extending a hand. His grin is bold, fearless. Another nods in silence, a wiry boy named Cojima, who sharpens his kunai even as he studies Takeshi. Next comes Tetsuya, whose shoulders already hint at the frame of a soldier, his voice calm and measured. Hobuki, smaller than the rest, greets him with a shy smile.

And then there is Haruna. Her long hair frames her delicate face, her eyes carrying a warmth that feels foreign in this cold place. She steps forward and offers her hand to Takeshi, her smile soft yet resolute. “We’ll look after each other,” she says. Her words are gentle, but in them Takeshi hears an anchor. For the first time since his mother’s death, he feels a thread of safety.

But the peace shatters quickly. From across the room strides Hazan, taller, louder, his arrogance sharp as the blade he polishes. He sneers. “Where are you from, street rat?”

Takeshi lifts his chin. “Osaka. The streets.”

Laughter bursts from Hazan’s throat. “So you are nothing. A stray dog picked from the gutter. No clan. No bloodline. And you think you belong here?” His voice drips with venom.

Haruna steps between them, her glare steady. “That’s enough, Hazan.”

But Hazan smirks and turns away. “Just remember who you’re speaking to. My father is Commander Hayato. This place belongs to us. Strays like him… they don’t last long.”

Takeshi remains silent, his jaw clenched. The cruelty is not unfamiliar. He has tasted harsher words on the streets, felt sharper blows. He does not break.

Later, Ranmaru leans in and whispers, “Ignore him. Hazan is nothing without his father’s name.” Takeshi nods. His spirit, tempered by suffering, endures the sting.

Before dawn, the horn of discipline roars through the fortress. The initiates scramble from their futons, dragging themselves into the icy air. They gather in the courtyard where Sensei Takeda and Commander Hashimura stand before them. Both men radiate an aura of unyielding steel.

Takeda’s voice cuts through the cold like a blade. “You are not children anymore. From this day forward, you are candidates for the Blood Ravens. If you wish to stand among us, you will suffer until your bones break and your lungs burn. Only then will you learn the truth of strength.”

Hashimura steps forward, his expression like carved granite. “There will be no mercy. You will crawl through mud. You will climb sheer cliffs without rope. You will run ten kilometers before the sun rises. You will bleed. You will fall. And still, you will rise again. If not, you will be left behind.”

The children’s faces pale, yet no one dares to step back. The trial begins.

The first task: the cliff. A sheer wall of stone rises before them, jagged and merciless. The candidates scramble, their small hands grasping for holds, their feet slipping on the cold rock. Already their arms tremble, their breaths come ragged.

Hashimura’s voice booms. “Climb! Do not stop! If you fall, you will climb again!”

Ranmaru struggles, sweat dripping from his brow as his fingers scrape raw. Haruna grits her teeth, her body trembling as she pulls herself higher. Even Hazan falters, his arrogance crumbling as the rock punishes his weakness.

Then there is Takeshi.

He moves like water over stone. His small body finds grips where others see only walls. His hands and feet dance with instinct born not of training but of survival. To him, the cliff is no harder than scaling the ruins he once called home. The streets of Osaka taught him balance, desperation taught him courage. He climbs with calm precision, and before the others realize it, he stands at the peak, his dark hair whipped by the dawn wind.

Below, the others stare in disbelief. Their gasps echo through the gorge. Even Haruna, her body trembling with fatigue, stares upward with awe.

Hashimura’s eyes narrow, not with anger but with surprise. “Impossible,” he mutters.

Takeda crosses his arms, the faintest smirk curling at his lips. He has seen it before, in the way the boy survived the streets. Takeshi Hatabe is not ordinary. He is something else.

By the time the others drag themselves to the top—bleeding, gasping, some barely conscious—Takeshi stands waiting, his gaze calm, his body unshaken.

Haruna collapses beside him, smiling through her exhaustion. “You… you really are something, Takeshi.”

Hazan scowls, refusing to meet his eyes. Shame burns hotter than the strain in his muscles.

Takeda surveys the group. His voice is low, steady, and deadly. “This is only the beginning. What you feel now is nothing. Tomorrow will break you further. And the day after that. And the day after that. Until nothing remains of the children who stand before me.”

His gaze lingers on Takeshi, whose eyes shine not with fear, but with something darker. Resolve.

Takeda mutters to himself, “Yes… he may yet survive the crucible.”

The morning sun is merciless, rising over the fortress with a blaze of gold that promises no warmth—only suffering. The courtyard has transformed into a pit of discipline. Mud pits are dug, ropes stretched, and wooden posts erected like gallows. The initiates, trembling from exhaustion after their climb, now stand in formation. Their faces are pale, their legs still shaking, but the drill is far from over.

Commander Hashimura strides before them, his presence sharp as steel. His voice booms like thunder. “Children no more. Today you will bleed until the weakness in you dies. Shinobi do not beg for mercy. Shinobi conquer pain!”

With that command, the trials of endurance begin.

The Crawl Through Mud

The initiates are ordered to throw themselves into a pit of thick, foul-smelling mud. The rain from the previous night has turned the pit into a swamp of filth. The children hesitate, their eyes wide, until Hashimura roars, “Move!”

They dive in, their small bodies dragged through the muck, faces pressed into the stench. Some gag. Some cry. Others simply collapse into the filth, too weak to move. The instructors lash at them with bamboo sticks, shouting, “Crawl! Crawl!”

Takeshi moves forward, his body digging through the mud like a serpent. The filth clings to his hair, his clothes, his skin—but his focus does not waver. He does not choke or slow. He remembers the gutters of Kamagasaki, the filth he slept in, the sewage he waded through to survive. Compared to that, this mud is nothing.

Ranmaru struggles beside him, coughing. Takeshi grabs his wrist and drags him forward, urging him on. Haruna follows, her face streaked with tears, but her eyes burn with determination. Takeshi looks back once, his gaze steady. We will not stop.

By the time they reach the other side, Takeshi emerges first, his chest heaving but his spirit unbroken. Mud drips from his face, yet his eyes glint like fire.

The Ten-Kilometer Run

There is no rest. No mercy. The children are lined up again and ordered to run ten kilometers around the mountain trail.

The trail is cruel—steep inclines, jagged rocks, and heat that beats down like a hammer. One by one, the initiates stagger, some collapsing into the dirt. The instructors bark at them, kicking them until they rise again.

Hazan runs at the front at first, determined to prove his superiority, but within minutes his pace falters. His arrogance turns into grimace, sweat pouring from his brow. Haruna clenches her fists, pushing through the pain. Ranmaru limps, but refuses to stop.

Takeshi, meanwhile, runs like the wind. His breath is steady, his strides consistent. He weaves through the terrain with the grace of a wolf, his bare feet bleeding but never slowing. Every step reminds him of the countless miles he ran through Osaka’s markets, chased by angry vendors or gangsters when hunger forced him to steal. Pain is familiar. Exhaustion is a friend.

One by one, the candidates fall behind. Takeshi remains ahead, his small body cutting through the trail with unwavering rhythm. The instructors exchange glances, whispering in disbelief.

When they finally complete the circuit, Takeshi is the first to return, collapsing to his knees only after crossing the finish. His chest rises and falls like a storm, but his eyes blaze with victory.

Hashimura’s stare lingers on him. This boy… he is not ordinary.

The Gauntlet of Blows

But the final test is the cruelest. The children are ordered to form a line. Before them stands a row of older shinobi, their fists and staffs ready. Takeda’s voice cuts the silence. “To be shinobi, you must endure the storm. You will walk through this gauntlet. You will not cry. You will not fall. If you do, you are unworthy.”

The first child steps forward. The blows rain down mercilessly—fists pounding ribs, staffs striking flesh. The boy crumbles halfway, screaming. He is dragged aside.

Another tries, sobbing as bones crack under the punishment. He too collapses.

Haruna’s turn comes. She steels herself, eyes wide with fear but burning with pride. She walks, enduring blow after blow, each strike painting bruises across her small frame. She stumbles near the end, but Takeshi’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Don’t fall!”

She rises again, limping, and emerges battered but still standing.

Then comes Takeshi.

The gauntlet erupts the moment he steps in. Fists hammer his sides, staffs slam against his shoulders, kicks drive into his ribs. His vision blurs, blood fills his mouth, but his steps never stop. He does not cry. He does not scream. He moves forward with a silence so chilling it unsettles even the older shinobi striking him.

Blow after blow rains down, yet Takeshi endures. His body is a canvas of bruises and cuts, but his eyes remain fixed on the end of the line. He clenches his fists, remembering the promise to his mother. I will never fall.

The final strike slams into his chest, hard enough to drop a grown man. Takeshi staggers, his knees buckling—then straightens. With a final step, he exits the gauntlet, his body wrecked but his will unbroken.

Silence falls.

Even Hazan cannot laugh.

Hashimura narrows his eyes, both disturbed and impressed. Takeda, arms crossed, mutters to himself, “He bleeds… but he does not bow. This one… he is born of the abyss.”

That night, Takeshi collapses onto his futon, his body screaming with pain. Haruna tends to his wounds, her hands gentle. Ranmaru sits nearby, his admiration plain. Even Hazan, in the shadows, watches in silence, his smirk gone.

Takeshi drifts into sleep, the echoes of fists still ringing in his bones. Yet in his dreams, his mother’s smile shines through the darkness.

He has survived the first crucible. And in the eyes of the Blood Ravens, the stray from Osaka is no longer a boy. He is something far more dangerous.

Night falls heavy upon the fortress of the Blood Ravens. The moon hangs pale behind drifting clouds, and the cries of nocturnal birds echo across the training grounds now littered with footprints, streaks of mud, and trails of blood from countless bruises. The young initiates are finally asleep in their futons, their breaths ragged, their bodies broken, yet their dreams restless. They have survived a week of training that could shatter grown men—a week of crawling through filth, running across merciless terrain, enduring the gauntlet of fists and sticks. For many, the scars will never fade. For a select few, the scars will only sharpen their resolve.

But in the upper chamber, two figures are still awake. Commander Hashimura and Sensei Masahiro Takeda sit opposite each other in a dim-lit room, the flame of a single lantern flickering between them. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken thoughts, until Hashimura breaks it.

“They are progressing,” Hashimura says, his deep voice edged with fatigue. “Much like the candidates before them. Bruised, beaten, yet breathing. But this time… something is different.”

Takeda narrows his eyes. “You speak of Takeshi.”

Hashimura’s lips tighten, then he nods. “Yes. The boy from the streets. He has surpassed them all. The climb, the run, the gauntlet—he endured it all as though the pain could not touch him. I have never seen such resilience in one so young. Yet, he is still human. He bleeds. He tires. He can be broken.”

Takeda exhales slowly, his gaze distant. “Perhaps. And yet… he resists longer than any I have seen. Do you remember the old prophecy, Hashimura? Seven centuries ago, our ancestors spoke of one shinobi who would rise from the ashes of despair, one who would change the course of the five clans forever. I used to think it was just myth—a tale to keep children dreaming.” He leans closer, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “But when I see Takeshi Hatabe… I wonder if fate has begun to stir.”

Hashimura frowns, his skepticism evident. “Prophecies are for dreamers, Takeda. I deal in steel and discipline. Still… there is something about him. He climbs sheer cliffs as though they are walls of paper. He runs ten kilometers without faltering while sons of shinobi warriors collapse in the dirt. He withstood blows in the gauntlet until the older shinobi hesitated to strike him further. And when he fell, he rose. Always, he rose.”

Takeda’s voice hardens, but there is a note of admiration. “That is because the world forged him before we ever touched him. He is not like the others. The others were born in shinobi households, with fathers and mothers to train them, to clothe and feed them. Takeshi grew up starving on the streets of Kamagasaki. His father was butchered by the mafia. His mother died in his arms. The streets taught him cruelty, hunger, survival. He has lived the gauntlet his entire life. What we put him through now is nothing compared to the abyss he has already endured.”

The commander leans back, folding his arms. His expression softens, though only slightly. “And yet… there is more than just endurance in him. Haruna watches him. She is drawn to him. I see it in her eyes, the way she looks at him when she thinks no one notices.”

Takeda chuckles under his breath. “Haruna is young. Affection among children is nothing unusual.”

But Hashimura shakes his head. “It is not mere affection. It is instinct. She sees in him something greater. Perhaps she believes he can be the shield none of us could be. Perhaps she is right.”

Takeda’s jaw tightens. He looks toward the window, where the faint cries of owls echo across the night. “If she becomes his shield, then that may be his salvation. He has no father. No mother. No family left in this world. If Haruna can be his anchor… then perhaps he will not lose himself entirely to the darkness that haunts him.”

The silence lingers, both men lost in thought. Outside, the night deepens, shadows stretching long across the courtyard.

Down in the dormitory, Takeshi shifts in his sleep. His small body is battered, his hands blistered, his ribs sore from countless blows. Yet his expression is calm. In his dreams, he sees his mother smiling at him one last time, her voice faint but steady: Be strong. Protect yourself.

Nearby, Haruna stirs, turning slightly toward him, her small hand unconsciously resting near his futon as though reaching for him even in slumber. Hazan, on the other hand, lies awake in the shadows, glaring at Takeshi with quiet resentment. The son of Commander Hayato cannot accept that a street orphan outshines him. Seeds of rivalry, jealousy, and hatred already take root.

In the upper chamber, Takeda finally rises, his robes whispering against the wooden floor. “He will change the world, Hashimura. One way or another.”

Hashimura does not argue. He only watches the lantern flame gutter and dim, as if uncertain whether it will flare into brilliance—or burn everything to ash.

And so, as the fortress of the Blood Ravens falls into uneasy silence, destiny sharpens its blade. A child forged in suffering, tempered in fire, and burdened with fate begins his long march toward legend.

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