Part Two

Master Haido and the Weight of the Tiger

A faint hum vibrated through the early morning air—a sound too subtle for the waking city, yet alive in the bones of the land itself.

Master Haido stirred. His breath was slow, heavy, and tainted with the scent of old incense and dust. He opened his eyes to the dim, pale light filtering through the torn shōji screens of his dojo. It was once a sanctuary of discipline, of honor, of warriors.

Now, it was nothing more than a husk. The tatami mats beneath him were warped and brittle, untouched for weeks. The training posts stood neglected, their lacquered wood chipped from memories of students long gone.

He exhaled sharply. Two months. It had been two months since he lost Ten-Kai. Three months since everything had crumbled.

His hand traced the jagged edges of an old ceramic sake cup on the floor beside him, remnants of a night spent drowning in bitterness. He had nothing left to drown. The walls of the dojo stretched around him like a ribcage—hollow, lifeless. Even the wind had forsaken this place.

Beyond the paper doors, the Sakai port village hummed with waking life. Far away, Haido felt detached, like a shadow flickering between worlds. The metallic scent of the air filtration towers mingled with the aroma of burning incense from the streets below, a contrast of ancient tradition and cold technology.

Hovering lanterns drifted above the walkways, glowing with ethereal light as they guided people through the smog-heavy alleys.

Then came the sound—the deep, resonant toll of the Sakai morning bells.

The Day of the Tigers.

Haido's fingers curled into a fist.

This day had always been one of reverence. The villagers would gather in the central shrine, dressed in mourning colors, whispering prayers to the fallen.

Now, the tiger had abandoned him.

His gaze drifted toward the far end of the dojo, where Ten-Kai's statue once stood tall. Now, it was a desecrated ruin—defaced by the hands of the very people who once revered his student.

Deep claw-like gouges marred the stone, as if the very world itself sought to erase him. The boy, the warrior, the outcast who fought for a name—gone, as if he had never existed.

A sharp pain twisted in Haido's gut. His own failures lined up before him like ghosts.

He had lost Ten-Kai.

He had lost Daizen before him.

Two students. Two futures. Gone because of his own pride, his own arrogance. He had let them go too easily, believing that they were not good enough, the tiger deserved more, he always said.

The cosmos did not care for warriors who lost their way.

Haido turned from the ruined statue and knelt by the incense burner near the altar. He struck a match, the flame small and flickering in the drafty room. The scent of sandalwood curled through the air, masking the bitterness in his chest.

In the distance, the Sakai ships loomed over the sea line.

Haido's fingers trembled as he brought them together in prayer. If the universe still held any mercy, let it grant him purpose once more.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in three months, he let himself grieve.