That day, the sky was n't cloudy. Ren flashed back it because it was strange. generally, when someone failed, the sky would turn dark, rain would fall, just like in the pictures he watched. But that day, the sun shone brightly. Orange shafts pierced through the windows of the hall, unyoking the room into two colors half golden, partial argentine from the incense bank.
Ren sat on a hard rustic president. His backside was starting to go numb. In front of him, the pall was closed tightly. His forefather did n't like people seeing him after he passed, he used to say. Let people flash back me while I'm alive, not when I'm a cadaver.
He goggled at the pall, hoping for movement. His forefather's wrinkled hands would appear from behind the wood, signaling , telling him it was just a joke. But no. The wood stayed still. Incense bank rose straight to the ceiling, unperturbed by the air.
Someone coming to him blubbed
. Not Hana — Hana was silent on his left wing, hands gripped tightly. That sob came from the reverse row, presumably the neighbors, the bones
whose maters
always handed out eyefuls. Ren did n't look. He only goggled at the pall, hoping.
Hana gripped his hand tighter. Her fritters were warm. Ren held back.
The house felt bigger after the burial.
Ren stood in the middle of the living room, gaping at the rattan president in the corner. His forefather generally sat there every autumn, reading the review, occasionally napping with his spectacles still on his nose. Ren frequently laughed at him still. Now the president was empty. The thin mask was still folded neatly on the backrest. No bone
would use it again.
He walked to the kitchen. The pot was still on the cookstove, leavings from cooking haze for history's lunch. Two dirty plates — his forefather's and his. ignoble. Ren turned on the valve, cold water ran over his hands. He seized a sponger and washed the dishes. sluggishly. One by one. Just to have commodity to do. To keep his hands busy.
The last plate. He placed it on the drying rack. also stood in the middle of the kitchen, gaping blankly.
Now, who would cook the haze?
The question came out of nowhere. He closed his eyes. Breathed in. The smell of the house was the same — a admixture of old wood, spices, and a hint of pipe bank his forefather had n't used in periods. That smell would noway go down. But the person was gone.
He opened his eyes. Walked back to the living room. There was commodity he'd to do. The will. The counsel read it this autumn. The contents were ordinary house, savings, things. But at the end, one judgment stood out.
For Ren. The key to your future lies where I first tutored you the meaning of strength.
Ren read the judgment again in his head. His forefather had noway tutored him to fight. noway took him to a dojo or a training ground. What he flashed back , one autumn, his forefather brought him behind the house. Opened the door to a storehouse room that was always locked. And said
" Look, Ren. Outside then, I keep all the effects that made me strong. Not muscles. Memories. "
Ren stepped toward the reverse.
The storehouse room was worse than he flashed back .
The rustic door was depraved, makeup shelling, hinges rusted. He pulled the handle, and the door moaned vocally, like an old man waking from a long sleep. The smell of earth and dust hit him, mixed with commodity differently — rotting wood, old paper, time settled in.
He turned on his phone flashlight. The white ray swept across the narrow room. Cardboard boxes in the corners, some torn. A gravel bike with a broken chain. Cracked plates on a leaning rustic shelf. Old robot toys, presumably his father's.
Ren opened the boxes one by one. Old magazines. Thick phone books with torn covers. Worn- out drawing rags. In the furthest corner, nearly hidden behind a pile of old journals, a rustic casket.
The casket was different. The wood was still solid, finely sculpted. On its lid was a circle with twelve blotches, like a timepiece without hands. In the center, a sculpted open hand.
On top of the casket lay a brown envelope. His name was written on it, in his forefather's handwriting.
Ren picked up the envelope. His fritters quivered — he did n't know why. He tore the edge, pulling out the paper outside.
Ren, my grandchild,
still, I've gone, If you're reading this. Do n't suffer. This is the path of all living effects.
Forgive your forefather for hiding numerous effects. Not because I did n't trust you, but because I wanted you to have a normal nonage. As normal as possible.
Inside this casket is your heritage. commodity I've guarded for over fifty times. From my schoolteacher, and his schoolteacher, all the way back to the time the first idol was born.
This is n't just an heritage, Ren. This is heritage.
I've always known you pictured of getting a idol. I know you have suffered because you have no Kai. But trust me, the true strength does n't come from genes or luck at birth. True strength comes from resoluteness. From a heart willing to immolate for others. heritage will give you the chance to prove it.
But flash back . heritage is a double- whetted brand. It can be the topmost blessing of your life. It can also be a curse. Use it wisely. Do n't let power control you. Be the idol you have always endured to be not because you're strong, but because you're kind.
Forgive me for not living to see you grow up. I'm always proud of you, Ren. Always.
Takeshi Kaido
Ren read the letter formerly. doubly. Three times. His right hand still held the paper, his left wiping his wet impertinence. He did n't flash back when he started crying.
He folded the letter, putting it in his fund. also he goggled at the casket.
Locked. No keyhole. Just the circle figure and the open hand in the center.
Ren placed his win on the figure.
The wood was warm. insolvable — the casket was in a cold, damp storehouse room. But it was warm, as if commodity outside was alive.
The figure glowed.
A tableware-blue light spread from his hand across the face of the casket. Ren tried to pull back, but he could n't. His arm was firmed , stiff, as if commodity outside held his wrist from within.
The twelve blotches in the figure lustered one by one, like timepiece hands moving presto. also, from the center of the circle, the light flowed into his hand. Ren felt commodity enter his body. Warm. Strange. Like water flowing through his modes.
The casket opened.
Inside was a deep grandiloquent velvet bumper. On top, a cuff. tableware, aged, with the same indirect twelve- fleck pattern engraved on it. Writing in a language he did n't fete . Ren picked it up. The essence was warm in his win. Not cold, not like commodity buried for decades.
He put it on his left wrist. It fit impeccably. Too impeccably, as if made for him.
As the cuff wrapped around his skin, the blue light flashed again, lustrously this time. The entire storehouse room was filled with brilliance. Ren felt a surge of energy inflow from the cuff into his body, back into the cuff, filling commodity that had been empty for so long.
For the first time in his life, Ren felt weight. Not from fatigue. Weight because commodity was now inside him that had n't been there ahead. As if a void in his casket had suddenly been filled.
also the light bedimmed. The cuff returned to looking like a normal, antique piece — tableware, slightly worn. Only the twelve- fleck drawing glistered noiselessly, like a twinkle.
Ren sank to the fine bottom. Breathing heavily. He goggled at the cuff, also at the letter in his fund, also at the open casket.
" What is this, forefather? " he rumored. His voice cracked in the confined room.
The question hung. No answer came.
Glass shattered.
Ren heard it from inside the storehouse room. A loud crash, followed by heavy steps, manly voices. " Check outside! perhaps the old man is hiding then! "
He crawled to the door, skimming through the rustic gap. Two large murk moved through the living room, capsizing chairpersons, throwing cocoons. Lights were on, their murk stretching across the walls.
Ren gritted his teeth. This house. The only one he'd left. And these people dared —
He ran out of the storehouse room, entering through the aft door, sneaking down the hallway to the living room. Two men in black clothes, faces covered with masks, were ransacking his forefather's closets. Books scattered on the bottom.
" Hey! " Ren cried.
They turned. Narrow eyes behind the masks.
" sprat, " said one, a raspy voice. " You live then? Where's your forefather? "
" He's dead. " Ren stood altitudinous, though his knees quivered. " You have no right to be then. Leave. Or I'll call the police. "
They laughed. A laugh that made Ren's hair stand on end.
" Police? " the other, bigger one, stepped forward. " Call the icons also, if you can. " He stopped two measures down. " hear, sprat. We're looking for commodity. An ancient object. A cuff, perhaps, or a choker. Give it to us, and we leave. No bone
gets hurt. "
Ren felt the cuff on his wrist. Hot. Like it knew it was being hunted.
He hid his left hand behind his reverse.
A small movement. But enough.
" Oh. " The big man beamed. " You set up it. " He stepped forward. " Hand it over, sprat. That's not a toy for someone like you. You do n't indeed have Kai, do you? We can feel it. You're empty. "
Empty.
The word picked. Ren had heard it all his life. From preceptors who said he could n't join physical training. From musketeers who stayed down. From grown-ups who looked at him with pity. Empty. Useless. Burden.
" I said leave my house, " Ren said. His voice louder than he anticipated. Louder than the fear in his casket.
The raspy man moved first. His body shot forward, faster than it should. His arm turned argentine, hardened, like gravestone.
A gravestone fist shot toward Ren's face.
He'd no time to dodge. Only raised both hands, eyes shut tight.
The cuff on his wrist exploded with heat.
Not fire. Not electricity. Heat that spread from bones to skin, from arm to shoulder, through his entire body. Inside his head, a voice. Not from his cognizance. A voice planted directly in his mind.
" Kai detected. Type Augmentation — Temporary Petrification. comity High. Copying. Complete. "
Ren did n't understand. But his body moved on its own. His fist flew forward, petrified in skyline — gray, hard, exactly like the raspy man's arm.
BAM!
Stone met gravestone. The raspy man staggered back, eyes wide behind the mask. " What —! "
Ren goggled at his hands. Stone. also sluggishly returned to normal. But the sensation remained. The power was inside him, staying.
" Do n't be stupid, " sniggered the big man. " He said he does n't have Kai. That must be that thing. " He raised his hand. The rustic bottom beneath Ren softened, turning like slush. " Get him! "
Ren nearly sank. His bases started to sink. But the cuff hotted
again.
" Kai detected. Type Material Manipulation — Liquefaction. comity Medium. Copying. Complete. "
Without thinking, Ren stomped on the bottom. Imagined the ground under the big man melting. And the bottom softened. The man lost his balance, fell backward with a splashing sound.
" Bastard! " he cursed from the slush.
The raspy man attacked again, gravestone hands. Ren blocked with his own petrified hands. But he could n't keep defending ever. He demanded more.
He closed his eyes. Imagined the two powers — gravestone and slush — not separate, but together. As one.
He opened his eyes. The ground in front of the raspy man melted. The man lost his footing. And as he fell, Ren's gravestone fist smashed into his casket.
The raspy man flew back. Slamming into a press, which shattered. He did n't move.
The big man managed to escape the slush. He goggled at Ren with a blend of fear and wrathfulness. " You that thing lets you copy our powers? "
Ren did n't answer. His casket heaving, breath ragged. His hands pulsing. But he stood.
The big man seized his unconscious companion and dragged him to the window. Before jumping out, he glanced back. " This is n't over, sprat. Ouroboros wo n't stop until that thing is back in the right hands. Be ready. "
They left.
Ren stood in the middle of the wrecked living room. Books scattered. closets destroyed. slush on the bottom. Night wind blew in through the broken window, carrying a bite that he did n't feel.
He looked at his hands. Not shaking presently. Calm.
On his wrist, the cuff glistered noiselessly.
Hana arrived five twinkles latterly. She ran through the open door, face pale, hair soaked from the rain.
" Ren! I heard a noise what are you okay? "
She seized him, checking for injuries, her hands quick and panicked.
Ren did n't answer. He just stood, gaping blankly.
Hana broke. She saw the cuff on Ren's wrist. also the debris around them. also Ren's eyes.
" Ren. What happed? "
Ren opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. " forefather he hid commodity. "
His voice cracked at the end of the judgment . Hana hugged him. Did n't ask any further questions. Just held him, in the middle of the living room, under the still- lit beacon, on the first night without forefather.
Ren closed his eyes. Hana's scent — cleaner, rain, a hint of fear — filled his nose. He let himself stay still. Just still.
latterly. hereafter. He'd suppose about all of this latterly. About the cuff. The power. Ouroboros. Whatever was to come.
But for now, he only wanted to stand then, in the grasp of his friend, and suppose of nothing.