The night after his encounter at the docks, Seigi's hands still trembled.
Not from fear—at least not entirely—but from the weight of revelation. The cloaked man hadn't just been a rumour or a flicker on CCTV. He was real. His power was real. And Seigi had survived a direct clash with him.
Barely.
His bruises told the story better than his memory. A purple stain spread across his ribs where Wraith's shove had hurled him into the gravel. His shoulder burned every time he moved too fast. Even breathing felt like a reminder that he was still flesh and bone.
That night he didn't sleep. Every time his eyes shut, he saw it again—the blur of the cloak, the sound of metal collapsing like paper, Wraith's voice curling around him in the dark: Find me when you can stand without trembling.
He jolted awake more than once, fists clenched, the echo of the name Hero Boy ringing in his ears like mockery and prophecy both.
---
By morning, his apartment looked worse than ever. Crumpled notes carpeted the desk. Old binders and forgotten sketchbooks were pulled from under his bed, tossed open on the floor.
He flipped through one now, hunched on the couch in his crumpled shirt. The cover read in messy teenage handwriting: "Seigi's Training Manual — Version 3."
Inside were diagrams of energy lines that made no sense, stick figures throwing "ki blasts" with arrows labelled Focus Here!!!, and elaborate workout routines copied from shounen manga.
He had laughed at these once—proof of childish obsession. Now they felt like prophecies.
His gaze lingered on a crude drawing of a stick figure with spiky hair punching a car in half. Underneath, in smaller letters, he had scrawled: If I just believe hard enough.
Seigi chuckled bitterly. "Guess you weren't so wrong, kid."
---
The next days blurred into restless attempts at testing himself.
At the shooting range, he timed his reactions with a stopwatch. His groupings were tighter than ever, shots clustering dead center like magnets. The instructor raised an eyebrow at the sudden spike in his performance.
"Zone day?" the man asked.
"Something like that," Seigi muttered.
On the streets, during chases, he felt surges—moments when time seemed to stretch, giving him just enough edge to close the gap. One purse-snatcher twisted into an alley, certain of escape. Seigi rounded the corner and knew—before the man even juked left—that he would. He was already there waiting.
The suspect hit the ground hard.
From behind, Renji jogged up, breathing heavy. His partner's eyes flicked to Seigi—sharp, assessing. "You've gotten… quicker," Renji said carefully.
"Guess I'm just in the zone," Seigi answered, forcing a casual shrug.
Renji hummed, unconvinced, and scribbled something in his notebook.
Later that afternoon, Detective Sato saw him pin another pickpocket with uncanny speed. "You've been sharper lately," he remarked. "Almost like you're reading moves before they happen."
Seigi forced the same answer. "Guess I'm in the zone."
But Sato's sharp eyes narrowed, filing the detail away. Seigi knew that look. Sato didn't believe him.
---
That night, Seigi returned to the docks.
The damage from the fight remained. Steel dented like clay. Concrete cracked into spiderwebs. Blood stains scrubbed at but not erased. The place felt like an empty arena, holding its breath.
Seigi stood in the silence, heart pounding. The sea slapped gently against the pylons, gulls crying overhead. Wind tugged at his coat like invisible hands.
He raised his fists. Breathed deep. Tried to will it.
"Come on," he whispered. "Show me again."
He moved through punches, kicks, blocks—his body fluid, precise. Sweat poured down his temple. Each strike echoed against the containers like a drumbeat.
The night air grew electric.
And then—just for a second—the world tilted.
His fist trailed light, a shimmer like heat haze. His knuckles struck the steel container, and instead of pain, he felt resistance bend—as if reality itself absorbed the blow before giving way.
The dent was deeper than it should've been.
He staggered back, chest heaving, eyes wide. "I… did it?"
The shimmer vanished. The world snapped back to normal. His hand throbbed with dull ache, reminding him that he was still human.
But his pulse roared with fire.
He had touched it. The thread. The impossible.
He thought of his grandmother's stories—the war between heroes and villains, the unseen battles that shaped the world. He thought of Sato's warning: be careful what truth you decide is worth your life.
And then he thought of Wraith, vanishing into the shadows like a man made of smoke.
Still… if he could touch it once, he could do it again.
And when he did, he wouldn't just be chasing shadows.
He'd be pulling them into the light.