The forge woke before the sun did.
Even at dawn, the steady rhythm of metal striking metal echoed through the Tang household, warm and familiar. Tang San followed the sound with light steps, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, drawn toward it the way a child gravitates toward something that feels safe.
His father was already working, sweat gathering on his brow despite the cool morning air. Sparks leapt with every firm strike of the hammer.
Tang San stood in the doorway, quiet as always.
"You're up early again," his father said, glancing back with a small smile.
Tang San nodded.
His father gave a soft laugh. "Careful. At this rate, you'll know the forge better than I do."
Tang San didn't answer, but something stirred inside him at the comment—a small, warm tug of familiarity. He couldn't remember why, but watching the hammer rise and fall felt… right. Natural.
Before he could think more about it—
"San!"
Tenten crashed into the doorway like a small, chaotic storm, nearly tripping over a bucket on her way in.
"Father! You said you were going to show us something today! Something cool!"
"I said maybe," her father corrected with patient amusement.
"Yes, and maybe means yes," she insisted confidently.
Her father sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "Finish your chores first."
Tenten spun around dramatically. Only then did she see Tang San.
"There you are! Come on—we're finding throwing stones!"
Tang San blinked.
"Yes, throwing stones," she repeated, grabbing his sleeve. "Don't ask questions. It's training."
She pulled him outside before he had time to react.
⸻
In the backyard, Tenten rummaged through the dirt with all the seriousness of a mission-ready kunoichi. She picked up stones at random—too big, too light, oddly shaped—and tossed them into a pile.
Tang San crouched beside her and quietly sorted the stones she'd gathered into neat groups: smooth, sharp-edged, balanced, unsuitable.
Tenten stared at the organized piles.
"…Why do your rocks look like they're smarter than mine?"
Tang San blinked once.
"Are you secretly an old man?" she whispered through narrowed eyes.
He blinked again.
"Or do you just enjoy making me feel unqualified?"
He blinked a third time.
Tenten groaned loudly. "Ugh! Fine! But we're using my rocks first."
⸻
Later, their father stepped outside carrying a wooden crate. Tenten gasped dramatically as if he'd revealed forbidden treasures.
"T-training stuff?! Actual training stuff?!"
"Basic practice tools," he corrected again, but his amusement was obvious.
Inside the crate were dull wooden kunai and small training daggers. Child-safe. Low risk.
Tenten practically jumped into the box.
Tang San, meanwhile, studied the shapes with silent focus.
His father picked up a small wooden dagger and handed it to him. "This one should suit you."
Tang San accepted it politely. The weight was off—not wrong, just unbalanced. His fingers adjusted automatically until it settled properly in his hand.
His father noticed.
"…You find the right grip quickly."
Their mother, arriving outside with a tray of tea, smiled warmly at the sight.
"He's always been attentive," she said. "He watches everything carefully."
Her voice held nothing but simple pride.
No worry, no suspicion—just a mother seeing her son's quiet talents.
"He'll do well as long as he learns at his own pace."
Their father nodded. "We'll take it slow. He's still young."
⸻
Training began in earnest.
Tenten, overflowing with enthusiasm, dropped her kunai twice, stumbled forward once, and sent her wooden dagger flying completely behind her at one point.
"Pretend that was on purpose!" she yelled.
It wasn't.
Tang San practiced beside her with measured, steady movements—small, simple motions that matched his size. Nothing advanced. Just… unusually controlled for a child his age.
His parents exchanged a look—not a worried one, just quietly impressed.
"He really does pay attention," his father murmured.
"He always has," his mother agreed, warmth in her tone.
⸻
By the end of the day, Tenten was asleep before anyone could tell her to bathe. She clutched her wooden dagger to her chest like a stuffed toy, snoring softly.
Tang San lay down beside her on his own futon, relaxing into the familiar warmth of home.
His eyes grew heavy.
As he drifted off, his brow tightened for a brief second—an unconscious focus, subtle and fleeting. A tiny reflex, nothing more, like his mind trying to make sense of something just out of reach.
It passed almost immediately.
Then he was asleep, breathing softly in the dimly lit room, no different from any other four-year-old after a long day of playing and learning.
Beside him, Tenten muttered something unintelligible in her sleep and rolled over.
The house stayed peaceful.
And the night ended simply—quiet, warm, and ordinary.