September 28, 2014
A solemn silence enveloped the vast estate of the Harihiho clan.
The wind brushed against the branches of the century-old cherry trees, letting the fallen leaves glide across the cold stone paths polished by generations of disciplined footsteps. The ancient walls, made of dark wood and pale stone, seemed to breathe to the rhythm of an unchanging tradition. A faint light passed through the thin windows, hesitant, as if time itself feared disturbing the moment.
In a room delicately adorned with ancestral patterns, a newborn rested in his mother's arms. No cry. No tears. Only that strange, almost sacred silence.
His eyes.
An absolute white.
Not pearly, nor milky.
Pure white.
They were not empty. They were filled with an immeasurable depth, as if they already contained the echoes of a future still unseen.
The mother, still pale from the effort, contemplated the child without looking away. Her husband stood beside her, frozen between pride and incomprehension. Neither of them possessed that shade. No close ancestor bore it.
But the clan knew.
Around the room, the present members murmured with restraint. No agitation. No panic. Only a silent recognition.
That gaze was not an anomaly.
It was a sign.
The sign of a lineage that had never truly faded.
The child had not simply been born.
He had been called back.
The mother felt her lips tremble. Between fear and wonder, she pulled the baby closer to her heart, as if to shield him from a destiny already too heavy for his tiny shoulders.
In a fragile yet resolute whisper, she spoke:
— Yojuro Harihiho.
The name settled in the air like a promise.
And for a brief instant, the world held its breath.
---
January 8, 2026
Twelve years had passed.
The child with white eyes had become a boy whose mere presence already carried an unusual gravity.
Winter wrapped the estate in crystalline cold. Frost traced delicate patterns over the garden stones, and steam from the hot water basins slowly rose toward a sky of silent gray.
Yojuro Harihiho, twelve years old, sat at the center of the great hall on a perfectly aligned tatami. His back was straight. His hands rested naturally on his knees. His breathing was steady.
Motionless.
But alive.
Servants moved around him without a sound, their steps gliding like shadows across the floor. Every movement was measured. Every gesture had purpose. The Harihiho clan lived within a discipline so perfect it felt unreal.
Yojuro's white eyes were open.
They were not fixed on anything.
And yet, they seemed to see everything.
He was not merely observing the walls.
He perceived the vibrations of the wood.
He analyzed the variations of the wind.
He felt the invisible pulses of the world.
The Harihiho clan did not seek to dominate reality.
They sought to understand it.
So they could reverse it.
Yojuro inhaled slowly. The cold air entered his lungs with almost painful precision. He allowed the silence to settle for a few more seconds, as if testing his own inner stability.
Then he spoke.
His voice was neither childlike nor adult.
It was steady.
— I'm going to train.
A servant bowed deeply.
No other words were exchanged.
Yojuro stood. His steps were light, yet every movement seemed to carry an invisible weight. His shadow, stretched by the winter light, already appeared to belong to a future greater than himself.
As he crossed the corridors of the estate, his gaze brushed against the emblems carved into the ancient wood. Symbols representing inversion, broken symmetry, reversed flow.
Each symbol told of a sacrifice.
Each sacrifice told of mastery.
Arriving in the courtyard, the wind slightly lifted his inexplicable white hair. His gaze remained calm. Deep. Unshaken.
The world seemed frozen around him.
But within him, everything moved forward.
Every second was a step toward a storm he accepted without trembling.
He took one step.
Then another.
And in the pure silence of January 8, 2026,
Yojuro Harihiho continued walking toward a destiny he had never sought… but had never refused.
---
German Forest
Hundreds of kilometers away, the German forest stretched endlessly. Dense. Ancient. Wild.
The trees, tall and knotted, seemed to bear the scars of centuries. The wind slithered between the trunks, producing a continuous murmur like a deep, organic breath.
Zayn sat atop a massive moss-covered boulder, his legs dangling above a ground woven with thick roots. Light filtered through the foliage, drawing shifting fragments across his silhouette.
He was looking at the forest.
But his mind was elsewhere.
— Aurora…
The artificial voice echoed in his mind, clear and precise.
— I'm listening, Zayn.
He lowered his gaze to the artifact attached to his arm.
Borealis.
Silent. Apparently inert.
But heavy.
Not physically heavy.
Heavy with possibilities.
— Explain the Primals to me again.
— What I can become.
A slight pause.
— Borealis is a vessel.
— It contains Primal Djinns.
— Each embodies a primordial force.
— To absorb them is to embody them.
Zayn's heart quickened.
— I can transform?
— Yes.
— But each transformation alters your body and mind.
— You are raw. Without a filter. Without natural protection.
A smile stretched across his lips.
— I'm fine with that.
— Recommendation: Citrolle.
— Low instability. Suitable for first contact.
Zayn raised an eyebrow.
— Pumpkin?
— Misleading appearance.
He observed the luminous symbols engraved in Borealis. His fingers trembled slightly. Not from fear.
From impatience.
— If I panic, can I go back?
— Yes.
— Perfect.
He activated the symbols.
The explosion was immediate.
An emerald-green aura burst from his body with brutal violence. The wind was pushed back in every direction. Leaves were torn away. Branches cracked.
Zayn screamed.
His body was burning.
Thick roots invaded his arms, coiling around his flesh. His silhouette grew, expanded. His bones seemed to reorganize.
Then he touched his face.
Hard.
Hollow.
A massive pumpkin head.
A frozen grin.
Blue flames erupted from his eyes, illuminating the forest with a supernatural glow.
— WHAT IS THIS THING?!
His voice was deeper. More resonant.
He felt strong.
Terribly strong.
A wild instinct rose within him.
He lifted his arm.
— Wait—!
A detonation exploded.
Blue flames swept across an entire section of the forest. Trees were flattened, burned, hurled to the ground. The earth trembled from the impact.
Silence fell abruptly.
— …oh crap.
His heart pounded violently.
— I CAN'T CONTROL IT!
— Breathe.
— Cancel the transformation.
— HOW?!
— Fold your will inward. Visualize your original body.
He closed his eyes. Panicked. Immature. Frightened by what he had just become.
— I don't want… I don't want…
The green aura contracted violently.
Then shattered.
Zayn dropped to his knees on the boulder, gasping. The forest still smoked around him. The smell of burnt wood filled the air.
He looked at his body.
Normal.
Then his hands.
Thin blue flames still danced at the tips of his fingers.
— They're still there…
He shook his hands frantically.
— Get off!
The flames finally went out.
— Transformation successful.
— Control: insufficient.
— Thanks, I noticed…
— Your power exceeds your current level.
— Without mastery, you are dangerous.
Zayn clenched his fists.
— But I felt… in my place.
— That was only a fragment.
— The Primals do not lend their strength.
— They demand that you endure them.
A heavy silence settled.
Zayn slowly stood. His gaze changed.
Less euphoric.
More determined.
— Then we do it again.
— Slower.
— Training engaged.
The forest, still smoking, bore the scars of his first attempt.
And beneath the silent trees of Germany,
Zayn understood that power was not a gift.
It was a responsibility.
And this time,
he was ready to pay the price.