I was about to begin self-training when Father placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Merun."
"Yes, Father?"
"Come with me."
Mother prepared breakfast while a still-crying Mikan collapsed onto her futon.
Father led me to our training spot, just beyond the crops at the forest's edge.
I watched him limp toward a tree, wooden katana in hand. He assumed a stance and closed his eyes.
Curiosity filled me.
Suddenly, a suffocating aura poured from Father. He inhaled deeply. Veins bulged.
…What the hell?
His wooden sword glowed faint red, humming with restrained energy.
He opened his eyes and swung.
SLICE.
The tree exploded apart.
Father stood several meters away. The cut wasn't clean, yet the force had torn through the trunk. The weapon remained unharmed.
What just happened?
He tossed the sword aside and assumed another stance. This time, his hand was open, fingers extended. He looked more visibly pained.
They glowed faintly red.
"HA!"
He struck.
A sharp thud echoed. It wasn't as destructive as the previous strike, but it still left a deep diagonal gash carved into the tree.
My jaw dropped.
Father collapsed.
I rushed to him. "Father!"
"Are you okay? What happened?"
"I'll… be fine, my boy…" Father said between heavy breaths. One hand clutched his chest tightly, while the other trembled at his side, as if lightly burned from the inside out.
"I was just… out of practice," he added weakly, forcing a small smile.
Out of practice?!
He had just cut a tree apart with a wooden sword.
He had just sliced a tree with your bare hands at a distance!
"What was that strike, Father?" I asked, unable to keep the awe out of my voice. "That was incredible."
Father exhaled slowly, steadying his breathing. Then, with some effort, he reached into his dougi and pulled something out.
A book.
No, a notebook.
He handed it to me.
It was plain and clearly handmade. The pages were uneven, some wider, some shorter, their edges rough as if cut and trimmed by hand. The paper itself varied in thickness and color, held together with hemp string knotted carefully along the spine.
Did Father make this?
On the center of the cover, written in careful, deliberate strokes, were the words:
"Kinzoku Divine Arsenal Arts: Vol. I"
My breath caught.
"A… Kinzoku Clan technique?" I looked up at him. "Father… where did you get this?"
He smiled faintly, eyes soft despite the pain still lingering in them.
"That book contains all the foundations I could remember," he said. "It took me years."
Years?
"I had to recall them piece by piece," he continued, voice quiet. "Meditating. Remembering old stances. Old breaths. Old pain." He chuckled weakly. "I even had to learn proper writing here in the village… but fortunately, I'm blessed with decent drawing skills!"
Only now did I notice the faint ink stains on his fingers.
My chest tightened.
He took a breath before continuing.
"This technique… it's one of the most difficult arts I learned when I was still with the clan. It was taught only to the most promising and heavily-vetted martial artists." His gaze hardened slightly. "Volume One is meant for exploratory-level practitioners."
"It strengthens the user's body manyfold," he said. "And allows one to imbue their intent into their weapon—or their body—and release it. The shape of that intent determines the result."
He gestured weakly toward the shattered tree.
"As you saw… it works with or without a weapon."
"Your body can become your ultimate weapon."
Then his expression darkened.
"But it comes with an immense drawback." His voice grew grave. "It is brutal on the body. Even those who mastered it often needed weeks of rest after prolonged use."
He paused.
"And many… died."
I stiffened.
"Heart failure. Strokes. The strain on the brain and heart is immense," he said quietly. "Most who fail… fail on their very first attempt."
"Those who survive are taught the next steps as they become a full-fledged Martial Apprentice."
I looked down at the notebook in my hands. It suddenly felt impossibly heavy.
"I kept this from you," Father said, "until I was certain I remembered the most important parts. Until I could perform them myself."
Even knowing the risks… he used it anyway.
"For me?"
"I trust you'll take great caution when learning it," he said gently. "Even with your durable body."
He smiled again, weaker this time.
"As for the later volumes… those are for you to discover, my son."
It hit me all at once.
Every quiet moment.
Every long breath by the fire.
Every time he sat silently while we read.
He was enduring pain. Reliving old battles. Forcing broken memories back into shape—for me.
Even knowing the danger… he used the technique again just to show me.
"…It was all for me," I whispered.
"Alright now," Father said lightly, trying to break the mood, "let's stay here for a bit so your mother doesn't get mad at me for using that technique again." He laughed weakly. "It's actually the reason I'm crippled in the first place."
I hugged him.
Tears welled up before I could stop them.
"Thank you, Father," I said, my voice shaking. "I won't let you down."
"You never have," he replied softly. "And you never will."
There was a pause.
Then he sighed.
"You know… when your sisters brought you home," he said, "I honestly thought—Put it back. Don't you see? It has a tail."
Despite everything, I laughed weakly through my tears.
"But your mother and sisters insisted," he continued. "So… we took you in."
His voice softened.
"And I thank the heavens we did. It feels like destiny now… as if we were blessed with a boy with black hair and black eyes."
I noticed the pain return to his eyes.
He took a deep breath.
"Many years ago," he said, "before you arrived… the Furutsu household was already a family of five."
His voice trembled.
"We had a youngest son. His name was Kyoho."
My heart clenched.
"He was born with black hair and black eyes," Father said. "Just like you."
Tears welled in his eyes as he continued.
"For that reason alone… villagers stopped coming by our farm. Some even spoke ill of us openly."
"One day," he said, "I was forced to join a war. I returned badly injured… and fell into a coma. Your sisters were young. Very young."
"While I was gone, your mother and siblings tended the farm themselves."
"When I finally awoke, winter had already come," he whispered. "And we didn't have enough food."
"That winter was the worst of our lives. We hunted from dawn to dusk in the freezing cold. If we didn't… we would starve."
He swallowed hard.
"And still… we starved."
"Your mother grew thin. Your sisters weakened. The villagers would give us, at most, a day's worth of grain—which we stretched into a week."
Tears streamed freely down his face now.
"Our little boy… such a bright child," Father sobbed. "He was starving. He wanted to help, but he was too young."
"One day," he said, voice breaking, "after your sisters and I returned from our hunt… your mother was crying."
"Kyoho was gone."
"We searched everywhere—the village, the forest—nothing."
His hands trembled.
"In the end… Kyoho helped us in the only way he could."
"…By leaving us one less mouth to feed."
I felt like my heart was being crushed.
"We were devastated," he said. "Your mother fell ill. We mourned… deeply."
"But life continued," he said after a long silence. "Time heals… even wounds like that."
"After surviving that winter, we made promises—to ourselves, and as a family."
He looked at me.
"So imagine our surprise," he said softly, "when a little boy with a tail entered our lives. Black hair. Black eyes. Nearly the same age as our lost son."
Everything suddenly made sense.
Why they accepted me so easily.
Why their love felt so natural… so complete.
Was I a replacement?
No.
I hated myself for even thinking it.
Before I could speak, Father pulled me into a tight embrace.
"You are not Kyoho," he said firmly. "And you are not his replacement."
"You are Merun," he continued. "A cheeky boy who talks too much. Who always helps his mother. Who does the little things that make our lives brighter."
"Who saved his sisters from a monstrous beast."
"Who will one day master his father's martial arts."
"You are our beloved son."
I couldn't speak.
I just cried.