Chapter 3 : The Bonds of Brother

The midday sun burns over the canopy of the training forest near the Blood Raven stronghold. The air is heavy with heat, cicadas scream from every direction, and even the trees themselves seem to sag under the weight of the day. Yet at the heart of this crucible sits a boy—his body lean but hardened by years of merciless drills. His name is Takeshi Hatabe, now eleven years old, and after four years of surviving the forge of the Blood Ravens, he no longer looks like the frail child who once wandered the streets of Osaka.

Draped in the black training garb of a shinobi candidate, Takeshi sits cross-legged on the forest floor, his eyes closed, his breathing measured, his mind sinking into silence. To an observer he appears vulnerable, almost careless, but the stillness masks a storm. His senses stretch outward, attuned not to sight but to every vibration in the ground, every whisper in the branches above, every change in the air that hints at movement.

Then, without warning, death comes flying. A storm of shuriken cuts through the air, gleaming as they spin toward him with lethal speed. Takeshi’s eyes remain shut, yet his body reacts before his mind has time to register. He rolls, leaps, twists—his frame blurring as he threads through the barrage with impossible precision. The shuriken whiz past, some close enough to kiss the fabric of his uniform, but none strike home. His feet find rhythm against the earth, as though he dances with the storm itself.

The assault does not end. From every angle more shuriken rain down, each throw deliberately calculated to trap him. Takeshi senses the pattern, senses the hands guiding them. He pushes harder, his breath sharp and focused, his legs propelling him deeper into the forest where shadows thicken and danger multiplies.

A faint snap beneath his heel warns him—an unseen wire. With instinct sharpened by years of pain and survival, he vaults upward just as a cluster of spikes shoots from the ground. His body soars, twisting mid-air, and his hand finds the bark of a tree. In a single motion he climbs higher, scaling branch after branch until he perches near the top, crouched like a raven on its roost. From here, the world spreads out before him—the maze of branches, the shimmer of metal still cutting through the air.

He draws a single shuriken, inhales once, and lets it fly. It vanishes into the leaves, cutting toward a blind spot no normal eye would have marked. On the ground below, a shadow moves. A shinobi emerges from the dark, katana flashing as he lunges toward Takeshi’s exposed back.

Steel collides. Takeshi whirls, his short katana already drawn, catching the strike before it severs him. The force rattles his arms, but he holds firm. For an instant, their blades lock, faces inches apart, sweat and heat clashing like storm fronts. Then the sound comes—a faint whistle in the air. Takeshi’s earlier shuriken returns, ricocheting past the stranger’s cheek. The glint distracts him, just enough. Takeshi twists, hooks the attacker’s arm, and drives a kick into his chest that slams him into the trunk of a tree.

The boy straightens, both blades raised in formal salute, his chest heaving but his gaze unbroken. The attacker groans, then lifts a hand to his face and pulls aside the cloth covering his mouth.

It is Habura, one of the senior shinobi. His lips curl into a grin, and a laugh bursts from his chest, echoing through the forest. “Well done, boy,” he says, brushing dirt from his shoulder. “That was clean, fast, and merciless. You’ve come far.”

Takeshi bows low, his expression humble. “Thank you, senpai. I am only standing because you allow me the chance to learn.”

Habura waves off the formality, though pride glimmers in his eyes. “Don’t diminish what you’ve become. Four years ago you were a starving stray, weaker than any candidate here. Now… now your movements rival those of a seasoned shinobi.”

They walk together through the training field, past the remnants of traps and scattered weapons. Takeshi carries both of his blades, sweat dripping down his neck, but his face holds a calm born from years of surviving storms harsher than any sparring match. He remembers hunger gnawing at his stomach, remembers the cold bite of Osaka’s rain, remembers his mother’s frail hand against his cheek. Compared to that, this forest is paradise.

Habura studies him, his tone softening. “You remind me of myself when I first joined. Only you carry a weight heavier than most. Keep training, Takeshi. Because one day, the world will come for you. And you’ll need to be ready.”

The boy nods, his eyes shining not with arrogance but with resolve. “I will, senpai. For my mother. For myself.”

And deep within, though unspoken, a shadow stirs. For all his humility, for all his gratitude, there is something inside him that hungers for the fight—a flame not born of glory, but of survival. A flame that will one day consume more than just the enemies before him.

The forest falls silent again, save for the whisper of the wind through the branches. Takeshi tightens his grip on his blades, unaware that destiny watches closely, already shaping him into something far beyond the boy who once begged for bread in Osaka’s alleys.

The path back to the Blood Raven stronghold glows beneath the dying light of the sun. Orange hues bleed across the sky, streaked with thin purple clouds, and the forest hums with the chorus of cicadas preparing for nightfall. Habura and Takeshi walk side by side, their steps crunching softly against the dirt road. One is a seasoned shinobi, his shoulders broad with the weight of years in battle; the other, still a boy of eleven, yet carrying eyes that reflect scars far older than his age.

Habura breaks the silence first, his tone casual yet heavy with meaning. “Tomorrow,” he says, “I leave for a mission. It will last at least two weeks.”

Takeshi stops mid-step, his head snapping toward his senior with an expression of fierce longing. “Can I come with you?” His voice holds no hesitation, no fear. The boy’s gaze burns with determination, as if the very request carries his life’s purpose.

A laugh bursts from Habura’s chest, rich and warm. He shakes his head, tousling the dark hair that hangs over his brow. “You? On a mission? You’re still in training, kid. Your time hasn’t come yet.”

But Takeshi doesn’t let go. His fists clench, his brows tighten, and he steps closer. “Please, senpai. Let me come. I can fight. I can prove myself. I don’t want to just wait inside the walls anymore.”

Habura studies him for a moment, then exhales through his nose, half-amused, half-weary. “You’ve got fire in you, I’ll give you that. But listen well, Takeshi—fire alone doesn’t make a shinobi. Patience does.”

The boy tilts his head, frowning. Habura gestures back toward the forest they just left. “Take what happened today. You sat for four hours in the mud, motionless, waiting for a strike you could not see. Four hours, boy. And when the moment came, you lasted four minutes against me. Do you understand what that means?”

Takeshi’s eyes soften as the lesson sinks in. Habura claps a hand onto his shoulder, his grip strong yet comforting. “It means patience is the key. Waiting, enduring, learning when to strike—that is what keeps us alive. That is what makes us shinobi.”

Takeshi bows his head deeply, the gratitude almost overwhelming. “Thank you, senpai. For everything.” His words are quiet, but his heart screams them louder than his voice ever could.

Habura smiles, his rough edges softening for a rare moment. “It’s no trouble. You remind me of my own little brother, the one I never had. If I can guide you, then I will. Not because I have to, but because I want to.”

The boy’s chest tightens. He never had a brother. He never had anyone after the streets took everything from him. But now, in Habura’s shadow, he feels something close to family—something he thought lost forever.

They continue walking, the night breeze cooling their sweat. After a long silence, Habura speaks again, his tone mischievous. “Oh, and one more thing. Haruna keeps asking about you.”

At the mention of her name, Takeshi stiffens. His ears burn, and his eyes dart to the ground. Habura notices and bursts into laughter, throwing an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you don’t know how to talk to girls.”

Takeshi stammers, his composure crumbling faster than against any opponent. “I-I don’t… I mean… I don’t know what to say to her.”

Habura roars with laughter, shaking him like a younger sibling. “Relax, kid. It’s not a mission, it’s just a girl. You’ll learn.”

But Takeshi, still flustered, shakes his head. “No. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

Habura grins wider, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Then let me teach you. A shinobi doesn’t just master blades and shadows—we must also learn the art of the heart. Who knows, maybe one day you and Haruna will be husband and wife.”

Takeshi chokes on air, his face scarlet. “W-What? No! That’s— that’s impossible!”

Habura’s laughter echoes through the evening air. “Nothing’s impossible, boy. Remember that.”

They share a long moment of laughter, a rare warmth piercing through the otherwise brutal world they inhabit. As their laughter fades, Habura’s voice grows softer, more serious. “Here’s a secret, Takeshi. When a woman shows interest, she doesn’t need grand gestures. She only wants consistency—small signs, steady care. Attention, even in little things. That’s how you win her heart. Never forget that.”

The boy nods, absorbing the wisdom with the same earnest hunger he applies to combat training. For him, every word from Habura is a treasure, a lesson carved in fire and blood.

Habura pulls him closer, ruffling his hair like an older brother might. “Good. Keep that in mind. You’ll thank me one day.”

As the gates of the Blood Raven stronghold come into view, torches flickering along the high stone walls, Takeshi feels something shift inside him. The road behind is littered with hardship, loss, and sorrow—but beside him walks a mentor, a friend, a brother. In this brutal life, that is no small gift.

And though he is still a boy, still far from the monster the world will one day call The Devil Butcher, tonight he feels only human. Tonight, he feels like he belongs.

The great gates of the Blood Raven compound loom ahead, their crimson banners swaying gently under the fading sunlight. Takeshi and Habura stride through them side by side, dust clinging to their black training garb. As they step into the courtyard, several shinobi already wait, their eyes lighting up at the sight of the pair.

Tokuro, broad-shouldered with a mischievous grin, steps forward first. “So the little one returns in one piece. Habura, are you sure you didn’t break him?”

Beside him, Sakumo, calm but sharp-eyed, folds his arms and chuckles. Mitsuki tilts her head, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her lips curved into a knowing smile. And Reiko, the sharpest tongue among them, laughs softly. “Look at them. They already look like brothers. The feared Habura, reduced to babysitting duty.”

Habura snorts, giving them a mock glare. “Watch your mouth, Reiko. The boy lasted longer against me than most of you did when you were his age.”

Their laughter quiets, curiosity replacing amusement. But before any of them can press the matter further, Reiko straightens, her tone turning serious. “Don’t forget, we have a briefing tonight. Commander Takeda wants all of us in the war room.”

Habura nods. “Understood.”

But to everyone’s surprise, a small voice cuts in. Takeshi, his eyes burning with earnest determination, steps forward. “Let me come with you. Please. Let me join the mission.”

For a heartbeat, silence falls over the group. Then laughter erupts, echoing against the stone walls of the courtyard. Tokuro slaps his thigh, shaking his head. “Listen to him! Habura’s little brother can’t even sit still. He’s already begging for blood.”

Sakumo smirks, raising an eyebrow at Habura. “You’ve been a bad influence, haven’t you?”

Even Habura chuckles, ruffling Takeshi’s hair. “Patience, boy. Your time will come. But not yet. Remember what I told you—waiting is as important as fighting.”

Though disappointment flickers across Takeshi’s face, he bows his head in acknowledgment. He doesn’t argue further. Inside, however, the fire only grows.

That evening, in the young shinobi barracks, laughter and chatter fill the dimly lit room. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and rice from the evening meal. As Takeshi steps in, he is greeted by familiar faces.

Haruna, her long hair tied neatly behind her, rises from her mat with a bright smile. “You’re back. I was worried. Fighting a senior isn’t easy.”

Her voice carries warmth, and something else Takeshi can’t name. Relief washes over him at her words. For once in his life, he feels seen—not as a street rat, not as a burden, but as someone who belongs.

Ranmaru, ever the curious one, leans forward eagerly. “How was it? Training with Habura-senpai?”

Takeshi scratches his head, choosing his words carefully. “It was… difficult. Challenging. But… exciting too.”

Gasps ripple through the group. Cojima, eyes wide, blurts out, “You’re insane! Habura-senpai is known for his speed. People older than you can’t keep up with him. And you enjoyed it?”

Takeshi shrugs shyly. “It felt like… I was learning something real.”

Haruna steps closer, her gaze unwavering. “That’s because you’re not like the rest of us, Takeshi. You’re already standing at their level.”

Her words strike him harder than any blade. His cheeks warm, and he lowers his eyes, unable to meet hers. For once, embarrassment overtakes his pride.

The moment doesn’t last. A sneering voice cuts through the air like venom.

Hazan.

He strides into the barracks, his presence sharp and unsettling. His smirk is laced with malice as he points at Takeshi. “Don’t forget where you came from, street rat. Just because you’re strong doesn’t mean you’re stronger than me.”

Takeshi stiffens, but Habura’s words echo in his mind: Patience is the key. So he breathes deeply, keeping his silence.

Hazan steps closer, glaring down at him. “When the time comes, I’ll crush you. I won’t hold back.”

For a moment, tension hangs heavy in the air. The others watch, unsure if Takeshi will snap back. Instead, the boy lifts his head slowly, his expression calm, almost serene. Then he smiles—not mocking, not arrogant, but resolute. He nods once, accepting the challenge without a single word.

That smile infuriates Hazan more than insults ever could. With a scoff, Hazan storms off to his corner of the barracks, muttering curses under his breath.

As the room exhales, Ranmaru breaks the silence, grinning wide. “You didn’t even flinch. Amazing! No one’s ever stood up to Hazan like that.”

Haruna’s voice is softer, but carries more weight. “I told you all. He’s not like us.”

Takeshi exhales slowly, finally relaxing, and offers a small bow. “Thank you… for believing in me.” His smile toward Haruna is brief but radiant, carrying all the gratitude his words cannot express.

And as the lamps flicker low and the barracks drift toward sleep, a sense of quiet strength fills the room. Among enemies, rivals, and friends, Takeshi Hatabe—once a starving boy from Osaka’s streets—begins to carve his place in the world of shinobi.

The night over Osaka is thick with silence, broken only by the rhythmic thrum of cicadas beyond the fortress walls. Within the Blood Raven compound, the youngest shinobi lie in their barracks, wrapped in the uneasy sleep of those whose lives are shaped by discipline and exhaustion. Takeshi rests among them, his dreams filled with fragments of shadows, steel, and the faint smile of Haruna.

But in another wing of the compound, the air is different—sharp, tense, and heavy with the gravity of secrets.

The war room sits at the heart of the fortress, carved deep into stone and lit by the soft flicker of oil lamps. Maps of continents stretch across the walls, pinned with markers, threads, and coded glyphs. Weapons line the racks in the corners, a silent reminder of the world these men and women serve.

The doors creak open. Habura, tall and broad, enters first, followed by Tokuro, Sakumo, Mitsuki, and Reiko. Their footsteps echo against the stone floor, steady yet purposeful. These are no children—they are the chosen seniors of the Blood Raven, shinobi whose blades have already tasted blood and whose names are whispered in dark alleys far from Japan.

At the head of the room stands Commander Ruichi Takeda, his posture firm, his sharp eyes scanning the team as if dissecting their souls. Unlike Sensei Masahiro, who carries the air of a teacher hardened by years of discipline, Ruichi radiates something colder—calculated intelligence, an aura that belongs to a man who has dealt in secrets, betrayal, and death.

“You are late,” Ruichi says flatly, though his tone carries no anger. His voice is calm, deliberate, like steel wrapped in silk.

Habura bows deeply, as do the others. “Forgive us, Commander. We were ensuring readiness for tomorrow.”

Ruichi studies them for a moment before turning toward the table at the center of the room. A single candle burns beside a spread of documents, photographs, and coded scrolls. He places a gloved hand over one photo: a weathered man with tired eyes and a grim mouth.

“Your mission begins at dawn,” Ruichi begins. “Your destination is South America—Argentina. There you will find a man named Manuel Rojas. He is no ordinary informant. He is the key to unlocking something the world has long dismissed as legend.”

The team leans in closer, their eyes narrowing.

Sakumo, always the first to question, speaks. “What legend are we speaking of, Commander?”

Ruichi lifts his gaze, letting the silence linger for effect before answering. “Black Rose.”

The words drop like a blade into water, rippling shock across every face in the room. Mitsuki inhales sharply. Reiko’s usual smirk falters. Even Tokuro’s bravado slips into unease.

Habura frowns, his voice steady but edged with disbelief. “Commander… Black Rose is a myth. A weapon spoken of in the shadows of the Cold War. A story to frighten rookies. It does not exist.”

Ruichi’s lips curl into the faintest hint of a smile, though it carries no warmth. “That is what you have been led to believe. That is what the world wants to believe. But you are wrong. It is real.”

He spreads a dossier across the table. Photographs of destroyed facilities, strange chemical burns, and coded messages lie before them. “Our allies in the White Wolf clan intercepted intelligence from within the Red Stone clan. According to their sources, Black Rose is no myth—it is a chemical weapon of devastating power, designed to wipe entire cities from existence. And Manuel Rojas… knows where it is.”

Sakumo clenches his fists. “If this is true, then the Red Stone clan will move to kill him.”

“Correct,” Ruichi says, his eyes flashing. “The Red Stone’s orders are clear: eliminate Rojas before he can speak. Meanwhile, ours are the opposite—secure him alive and extract every secret he holds. This mission is a race. Whoever controls Rojas… controls Black Rose.”

The room grows colder with those words. The firelight flickers against their masks and armor, reflecting the weight of what lies ahead.

Tokuro breaks the silence, forcing a grin though his eyes betray his unease. “So it’s a game of speed, then. Whoever reaches him first wins.”

Ruichi nods once. “That is the essence. But understand this—this is not only about speed. This is about precision, discipline, and survival. Mano del Diablo, one of South America’s most ruthless cartels, controls the territory where Rojas is being held. Their soldiers are merciless, their loyalty unbreakable. You will be infiltrating the very heart of their stronghold. Failure means not only your death, but the death of every innocent that Black Rose touches.”

The room falls into a heavy silence. Each shinobi understands the stakes.

Ruichi straightens, his gaze sweeping across the five of them like a blade. “Sakumo. You will lead this mission.”

Sakumo bows his head in acceptance, though his jaw tightens with the weight of responsibility. “I will not fail.”

“See that you don’t,” Ruichi replies. He steps back, clasping his hands behind his back. “Your departure is at dawn. Rest tonight. Sharpen your blades, steel your minds. When the sun rises, you will leave as shadows. By the time it sets, the world may already be changed.”

The meeting ends with a solemn bow. The team files out one by one, the sound of their footsteps fading into the corridors. But their minds remain heavy, burdened by the knowledge of what lies ahead.

In the silence of the war room, the candle sputters, its flame dancing against the shadows of maps and dossiers. And the words linger, whispered like a curse:

Black Rose.

The hour before dawn hangs heavy with silence. Within the Blood Raven compound, torches flicker against the stone walls, their flames bending in the cold wind. The barracks of the young shinobi remain quiet, filled with the deep breaths of exhausted children, unaware that history is shifting just beyond their doors. But in another wing of the fortress, the air trembles with urgency.

The senior shinobi squad assembles in the preparation hall. The room smells of steel and oil, the sharp tang of sharpened blades mixing with the faint scent of leather and dust. Along the walls, racks of weapons gleam in the torchlight: katanas honed to perfection, shuriken polished until they reflect the firelight, and coils of chain glinting like serpents waiting to strike.

One by one, they step forward to the armor stands, pulling on the iconic black suits of the Blood Raven. The fabric clings tightly to their frames, woven from material designed for silence, speed, and death. Masks are lowered over their faces, hiding every trace of humanity behind expressions of cold, merciless shadows.

Habura secures his gauntlets, the leather creaking under his grip. He adjusts the straps of his chest guard, then reaches for his blades. The katana slides into its scabbard with a hiss, the sound like a whisper promising blood. Tokuro slams his shuriken pouch closed and grins beneath his mask. Sakumo sharpens the edge of his blade with deliberate precision, sparks flickering briefly in the dark. Mitsuki and Reiko tighten their boots, exchanging a silent nod.

Commander Ruichi Takeda enters, his presence commanding absolute attention. His gaze sweeps across them, ensuring each one is ready. His words are few, but they fall like orders etched into stone. “Once you step outside this compound, you are not shinobi of Blood Raven—you are shadows, and shadows leave no trace. Failures will not be forgiven.”

They bow in silence, understanding.

Outside, the fortress gates creak open. The sky is a deep violet, the horizon painted with the faintest trace of orange as the first light of dawn begins to stir. A cold wind brushes against their cloaks as they march to the waiting transport. At the edge of the landing zone, a sleek black military aircraft hums with restrained power. Its engines growl, eager to devour the sky.

The shinobi climb aboard one by one, boots clanging against the metal ramp. Inside, the cargo hold is spartan—rows of steel benches, weapon racks along the walls, and dim red lights that paint everything in an ominous glow. They sit in silence, adjusting their gear, the weight of the mission pressing against their shoulders.

The ramp closes with a heavy thud. The engines roar, vibrating through the floor. With a lurch, the aircraft begins its ascent, lifting into the dark sky of Osaka.

As the city lights shrink below, Habura leans back, his hands clasped loosely over his knees. His thoughts betray him. He remembers the boy he left behind—the small figure of Takeshi Hatabe, asleep among the other young recruits. He had meant to stop by the barracks, to say something before leaving. A word of encouragement, a reminder to keep training, perhaps even a promise to spar again once he returned. But time had slipped away, stolen by the urgency of departure.

He sees Takeshi’s face in his mind: the sharp eyes that burn with determination, the way his small hands grip a blade with surprising steadiness, the quiet resilience of a boy who has suffered more than most men. Habura exhales slowly, a whisper behind his mask. “Little brother… forgive me. I should have told you goodbye.”

Tokuro nudges him, pulling him from his thoughts. “You’re quiet tonight, Habura. Thinking about the mission?”

Habura forces a small nod. “Something like that.”

But deep down, he knows it is not the mission that troubles him—it is Takeshi. Something about the boy feels significant, as if destiny itself weaves around him. Habura cannot shake the feeling that the world will not leave Takeshi untouched, that fate has already marked him for something greater—and darker.

The engines thrum louder, cutting through his thoughts. Commander Ruichi walks down the aisle, his boots striking like a metronome of authority. He studies each shinobi in turn, his sharp gaze piercing even through their masks.

“Remember,” he says, his voice carrying effortlessly over the roar of the engines. “This mission is not glory. It is necessity. Secure the informant. Eliminate resistance. Do not underestimate the Red Stone. They will kill Rojas before they let him speak. If you falter, the world may burn under the shadow of Black Rose.”

The words hang heavy, sinking into their bones.

Reiko grips the hilt of her blade, muttering a curse under her breath. Mitsuki tightens the straps on his armor. Sakumo lowers his head, already envisioning the battlefield. Tokuro cracks his knuckles, eager for blood. And Habura, though as prepared as the rest, cannot push away the memory of Takeshi’s quiet, determined face.

The aircraft breaks through the clouds, the night sky swallowing them whole. Stars glitter above like cold, distant witnesses. The shinobi sit in silence, the only sounds the rumble of the engines and the faint metallic rattling of weapons with every shift of turbulence.

Habura closes his eyes briefly, his hand tightening over the hilt of his sword. “Stay safe, Takeshi,” he thinks. “I will return… and when I do, I promise I’ll see how far you’ve come.”

The aircraft cuts across the Pacific, its red-lit interior carrying shadows that are no longer children, but weapons forged for death. And as dawn breaks behind them, Japan fades into the horizon—while ahead, the blood-soaked lands of South America await.

The sun rises over the Blood Raven compound, its first light piercing through the morning mist that curls along the stone walls. The training grounds are alive with the sound of footsteps and shouted commands as young recruits assemble in rigid lines. Their black uniforms cling to them, still damp with the sweat of yesterday’s ordeals. The air smells of dust, steel, and determination.

Among them stands Takeshi Hatabe, now eleven years old, his frame lean but hardened by years of merciless training. His eyes burn with quiet intensity as he adjusts the straps of his training armor. Around him, other recruits fidget nervously, stealing glances at the weapon racks, knowing today will not be another day of running laps or climbing cliffs. Today, they will fight each other.

The sound of boots echoes across the yard. Sensei Masahiro Takeda emerges from the shadows of the main hall, his weathered face carved with scars and wisdom, his sharp eyes scanning the line of students. He carries no weapon—his voice and presence are sharper than any blade. Takeshi instinctively looks for Habura among the senior shinobi trailing behind, but the older brother figure is nowhere to be seen. A pang strikes his chest. He must have left before dawn… gone on his mission. Takeshi’s hands curl into fists, but he steels himself. Habura’s absence only sharpens his resolve.

“Today,” Takeda announces, his voice a whip that cracks across the courtyard, “you will face each other. You will learn not only the sharpness of your own steel, but the limits of your will.”

A hush falls over the recruits. Names are called, pairs chosen. Finally, Takeda’s finger lands on Haruna, the raven-haired girl who has always stood by Takeshi. She steps forward, her lips pressed in determination. Across from her is Goraji, a towering boy built like a mountain, his muscles straining against his uniform. Murmurs ripple through the recruits—Goraji’s brute strength is unmatched, and Haruna’s slender frame seems fragile by comparison.

Before she can step into the ring, Takeshi seizes her wrist. His eyes meet hers, steady and certain. “Aim from above,” he whispers. “His size is his strength, but it also blinds him. Strike from where he cannot reach.”

Haruna nods, her expression softening for just a heartbeat. She enters the ring with silent resolve. Takeda raises his hand, and the duel begins.

Goraji charges like a bull, fists swinging. Haruna moves light as air, dodging, circling, her eyes fixed on the opening Takeshi described. Then, in a sudden burst, she leaps high, twisting in the air. Her heel smashes down against Goraji’s shoulder with bone-cracking force. He staggers, then collapses to his knees, gasping. The courtyard erupts in stunned silence—then applause.

Takeshi allows himself a small smile, pride swelling in his chest. Haruna’s eyes flick to him briefly, gratitude unspoken but understood.

But the moment ends as quickly as it begins. Takeda calls the next match. His gaze falls on Takeshi. “Hatabe. Step forward. You will face Hazan.”

The name slices through the air like a blade. Hazan, son of Commander Hayato, pushes through the crowd. His face is twisted in a sneer, his fists clenched tight. The rivalry between him and Takeshi has only grown over the years—Hazan, born of prestige, unable to bear the rise of a boy from the streets.

As Takeshi steps into the ring, Haruna whispers behind him, “Be careful.”

“I will,” Takeshi answers softly, his eyes never leaving Hazan.

Takeda lowers his hand. The duel begins.

Hazan lunges with fury, his strikes wild but powerful. Takeshi doesn’t meet him head-on—he sidesteps, pivots, lets Hazan’s rage burn itself out. Each missed blow drives Hazan deeper into frustration, his face reddening. Finally, Takeshi sees it—the opening. With lightning speed, he spins, his leg whipping out in a precise, devastating kick. The impact sends Hazan sprawling to the ground.

The courtyard explodes with cheers and clapping. Even some of the instructors nod in approval. Haruna beams, pride shining in her eyes. Takeshi bows humbly, his chest rising and falling steadily.

But Hazan does not rise. He lies staring at the ground, shame flooding his face. Slowly, his eyes lift to where his father stands—Commander Hayato, arms crossed, his expression stone. Disappointment radiates from him like a blade pressed against skin. Hazan’s fists clench until his knuckles whiten. Without a word, he rises and storms away, his shoulders trembling with humiliation.

Takeshi watches him go, a flicker of sadness in his chest. But he reminds himself of Habura’s words—patience, always patience. He bows again to Takeda, then steps back into line.

Far above, the sun blazes overhead, casting sharp shadows across the stone courtyard. The training continues, but Takeshi’s thoughts drift. He imagines Habura, somewhere beyond the clouds, clad in full shinobi armor, carrying the weight of a mission too dangerous to speak of. A pang of longing pierces him—he had not even said goodbye.

Meanwhile, high above the Pacific Ocean…

Inside the dark belly of the aircraft, the senior shinobi sleep in uneasy silence. The drone of the engines fills the air, steady and relentless. Habura, however, stirs awake. He sits upright, the dim red lights casting his mask in shades of crimson and shadow.

He looks around at his comrades—Tokuro with his arms crossed, Sakumo resting against his blade, Mitsuki and Reiko slumped in exhausted sleep. Habura’s eyes shift to the small window beside him. The endless ocean stretches below, glimmering faintly beneath the rising sun.

His reflection stares back at him, eyes heavy with thoughts left unspoken. He presses a hand against the cold glass, whispering under his breath, “Takeshi… forgive me. I should have said something. I promise, little brother… I’ll return. And when I do, I’ll see just how strong you’ve become.”

The engines thunder onward, carrying them closer to Argentina. The mission awaits. And back in Osaka, on the training grounds, a boy named Takeshi Hatabe stands taller than ever, unaware of how deeply his fate is already tied to the shadows.

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