Preparation

The next day, Kuro returned to the archive. His body had recovered, mostly, but his mind still felt heavy from the long hours spent reading the scrolls. 

He found Kenji where he always seemed to be, hunched behind the reference desk, quietly sorting through a stack of freshly delivered reports—most of them redacted, stamped, and folded with care. Kuro could smell the old parchment from across the room.

He waited without speaking, hands tucked behind his back, until Kenji looked up and gave him a small nod.

"Kenji-san," Kuro said softly. "I've finished reading. For now, at least. I think I understand... the history."

He hesitated, then stepped closer, meeting the old man's eyes.

"My father told me there was another path. A way to get stronger."

His voice lowered.

"The Duelist's Circle. Do you know of it?". 

Kenji set down his pen, the quiet scrape against parchment the only sound in the archive for a moment. He didn't speak right away—just looked at Kuro, studying him in that gentle, unreadable way old people sometimes did when deciding how much truth to share with the young.

"The Duelist's Circle…" he echoed, as if tasting the words. "Where did you hear that?"

Kuro hesitated. "My father mentioned it . Said… if I wanted to survive, I'd need to find it."

Kenji's expression darkened slightly—not with anger, but something quieter. Sadder.

He leaned forward on the desk, lowering his voice. "Most don't talk about it anymore. Not openly." He glanced around the archive, though no one else was near. "It's not a school, not like the Yamiryū or the elite cadres. There are no lessons, no ranks, no honours. Just… pain. And survival."

Kuro stayed silent, listening.

"It's old. Older than the divisions the clan uses now. Made in a time when discipline was forged through blood, not structure." Kenji's fingers lightly traced the edge of the desk, thoughtful. " Only those under ten are allowed to enter. The first week is the trial, and if you make it… You belong to the Circle after that. Entirely."

He looked at Kuro again, more directly this time. "They say it breaks most. And the few it doesn't... changes."

His voice lowered to a near whisper. "It's still there. Hidden, quiet, but it never vanished. The clan keeps it alive in the dark. Even if most would rather pretend it died out."

"Why would your father point you toward that place?" His words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Kuro remained silent, his eyes fixed on the old man. He didn't have the answers to Kenji's question, not in a way that would make sense.

Kenji waited for a response that never came. Finally, he sighed, his expression a mixture of resignation and understanding, his pale eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you sure about this, boy?" His voice was calm, but the question was thick with unspoken concern. "It's not something to take lightly."

Kuro didn't speak. He just nodded, his gaze steady.

He gave a small, resigned shake of his head before looking up at Kuro one more time.

"Sit there," he said, gesturing toward a nearby bench. "I'll be right back."

He turned, walking toward a shelf at the back of the room. 

Kuro obeyed without hesitation, settling himself on the bench. His thoughts churned, but his body felt still, heavy with the weight of his decision. There was no turning back now. This was his path, and he would walk it.

Some time passed. The quiet of the archive settled again, broken only by the faint creak of floorboards and the distant rustle of paper. When Kenji returned, his steps were soft, deliberate. He said nothing at first.

"They'll come for you tomorrow," he said quietly. "Make ready, Kuro."

Kuro bowed low, the motion stiff but sincere. "Thank you, Kenji-san."

The old man didn't answer. He only watched as the boy turned and walked toward the exit. Kenji remained still, his gaze following the small figure as it slipped out of the archive. 

Outside, the air was cool and still. Kuro's feet carried him through familiar paths, but now, everything felt different—heavier. He didn't think of what might happen or what he might face. His mind was strangely blank.

But his heart… it was loud in his chest. A steady thump, thump, thump that refused to quiet down. He was nervous. He couldn't deny it.

By the time he reached his room, the nerves had fully settled in. He packed quickly and without fuss. Redfang, the sword his father had entrusted to him, went first, wrapped carefully in cloth. Then the old manual. A small pouch of coins. A change of clothes. A few scraps of food, though he didn't think he'd have the appetite.

He sat on the edge of the mat and looked around the small, familiar room. It wasn't comfort he felt—just a strange kind of stillness.

Sleep felt distant, pointless. So he stayed there, waiting. Eyes open. Waiting for tomorrow.