The transition out of Ossuarium was abrupt.
One moment, Shura walked through iron corridors thick with steam and machinery. The next, they passed beneath a colossal stone gate so old it had been swallowed by the Deep itself.
Beyond it lay a hidden cavern.
Not small. Not narrow.
A world.
Obsidian Bamboo stretched endlessly toward the Ceiling, each stalk metallic black, humming faintly with natural Viora. The air was cooler here, heavier with moisture. A localized climate, sealed and breathing on its own terms.
At the heart of the forest stood a dojo.
Wooden. Traditional. Untouched by metal or excess. It looked absurdly fragile against the iron-hard bamboo—and yet, somehow, nothing here dared encroach on it.
Shura slowed without realizing it.
Why are they doing this?
He watched Zenkyou's relaxed posture, the way Orin and Ren moved like this place was familiar.
I'm a fall-child. A stranger.
In the Country of Light, being different got you erased.
Here…
They were bringing him to their Master.
An old man sat on the dojo's porch.
He looked carved from time itself. Skin like weathered bark. Frame thin but unmoving. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow, measured.
"You didn't die yet," Zenkyou called out casually.
The old man didn't open his eyes.
"I've decided to live until I attend your wedding,"
Zenkyou smirked. "Brilliant. You'll survive past the end of the world."
He laughed, sharp and barking, finally opening one eye.
"Still rude as broken glass," he said. "And you three—Orin, Ren, Yura. You've grown."
His gaze lingered on Ren's back.
"Especially you. Is that a sword, or did you steal a city wall?"
Ren snorted. Almost smiled.
Then the old man's gaze shifted.
It locked onto Shura.
The bamboo hummed louder.
The air thickened.
"And what," the old man asked, "is this piece of driftwood?"
Zenkyou's tone sharpened. "I won't explain. Just train him."
The old man rose. His joints cracked softly, like dry wood bending.
He circled Shura slowly, sniffing the air.
"…Sky," he muttered. "Thin air. High hopes. Dangerous."
He suddenly jabbed Shura's ribs with one finger.
It felt like being stabbed by steel.
"But first," the old man said brightly, "the hot spring. I don't train stinky driftwood."
The Boiling Point
The "hot spring" was a lie.
It was a bubbling cauldron wedged between the roots of the bamboo.
"In," the old man commanded, already stripped and leaping in.
Shura dipped a hand in and recoiled. "This is soup. You're making Shura-stew."
"It's mineral-rich," Yura said gently, staying very far away. "It helps Viora flow."
Ren and Orin stepped in without hesitation.
Zenkyou squinted at them. "How romantic."
They both blushed.
Then punched each other.
Zenkyou and Yura left for another spring, wisely abandoning the madness.
Shura eased in last, teeth clenched, body screaming. He sat between Ren and Orin, feeling like prey wedged between mountains.
"So," the old man said, floating effortlessly. "Sky-Boy. Is it true the sun is a giant fire-monster?"
"No," Shura wheezed. "It's just light. Warm. Like a hug for your whole body."
"Sounds invasive," Ren muttered.
A Stone-Toad leaped from the bamboo.
It landed squarely on the old man's bald head.
"A challenger!" the old man roared.
He flexed his scalp.
The toad launched thirty feet into the air.
Shura stared. "How—"
"Muscle control!" the old man flexed, veins popping. "This is peak performance! Behold the Master Physique!"
"Please stop," Orin begged. "The sulfur is bad enough."
Shura shifted.
Slipped.
Went under.
He surfaced choking—just in time for the Stone-Toad to land directly into his open mouth.
Croak.
Ren exploded with laughter. Loud. Rare. Honest.
"I take it back," he said. "Keep him. I've never seen someone lose a bath to a toad."
The old man grinned, eyes sharp and alive.
"He's got instinct," he said. "Tomorrow, we find out if he can catch a sword as well as amphibians."
Shura coughed.
Training had begun.