The days that followed were a blur of physical exhaustion.

  Ray kept the three students to a grueling regime of body conditioning. Takahiro remained the undisputed champion, with Yume a close second; their years of experience and refined Hashi control gave them an edge Kenji couldn't yet match. Kenji, however, threw himself into his training with a desperate energy, slowly beginning to master the basics of the Fire Style.

  But with every sunrise, the "blackouts" grew longer, and the discomfort in his chest sharpened into a persistent, jagged agony.

  It felt like a serrated blade was permanently lodged between his ribs, carving at his lungs every time he drew a breath. He told no one. He simply masked the pain behind a forced smile, even as the Hashi moving through his limbs felt like liquid fire.

  By late afternoon on a cloudy Tuesday, Kenji and Takahiro were finishing their final spar. Kenji lunged, throwing a precise straight punch at Takahiro's face. Takahiro moved to parry, but Kenji's gaze flickered to the ground. He swept his leg, catching Takahiro's shin and knocking him off balance. Surprised, Takahiro grabbed Kenji's sleeve, spun, and executed a perfect shoulder throw.

  Both boys hit the dirt, gasping for air under a vermillion sky.

  "Had enough, Kenji?" Takahiro wheezed.

  "Yeah," Kenji muttered, staring up at the clouds. The pain in his chest was a constant thrum now. He rolled to his feet and extended a hand to help his brother up.

  As their hands locked, a dark, oily voice whispered in the back of his mind: Put more pressure. Snap the wrist. You can do it... with me, you can break him.

  Kenji froze, his grip tightening instinctively.

  "Kenji?" Takahiro asked, his emerald eyes clouding with confusion. "You okay?"

  Kenji blinked, the voice vanishing. "Yeah. I'm good." He looked at Takahiro, noting the pale skin and the dark circles that refused to fade. They were both breaking, just in different ways.

  "Kenji! Takahiro!" Yume called from the porch.

  The boys headed up to find her holding an ancient, weathered scroll. The paper was brown with age and brittle to the touch.

  "Anna said you should take this to Ray," she said, thrusting it toward them. "He's over by the village stone edge."

  Kenji took the scroll, and the brothers began the walk down the hill.

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  "What do you think is in it?" Kenji asked, turning the cylinder in his hands.

  "I don't know," Takahiro said. "It's one of the nine from the restricted shelf, isn't it?"

  Kenji couldn't resist. He tugged the ribbon and unfurled a section of the parchment. It was covered in horizontal symbols and strange, wind-like illustrations of the human body.

  "Kenji, stop! You're not supposed to open it," Takahiro scolded, snatching the scroll away and re-sealing it.

  Kenji just grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "So... how are things with you and Nelly?"

  Takahiro's face instantly flushed a deep scarlet. "W-what? What do you mean?"

  "Come on, Taka. She looks like she's in love with you."

  "N-no! Nelly and I are just friends!"

  Kenji raised a skeptical brow, his grin widening. "Yeah. Just friends."

  The light moment shattered as a figure stepped into their path.

  "Oi, Kenji."

  The smile died on Kenji's face. The "infection" in his chest flared, spreading a cold, itchy numbness down his arms. Standing before them was one of Lolan's cronies. The boy looked nervous, his eyes darting toward the bushes where Lolan and the rest of the group were hiding.

  They're not afraid of me, Kenji realized, his blood beginning to simmer. They're just checking if Takahiro will interfere.

  "Kenji... I heard you finally Awakened," the boy stuttered, regaining his bravado. "Why don't I test how strong you really are?"

  Kenji tried to walk past him, his expression stoic.

  "You coward! You just gonna walk away?" the boy barked. When Kenji ignored him, the boy got desperate. "You know... I'm sure you're the reason Jaxon died."

  Kenji stopped dead. The image of Jaxon's lifeless eyes staring at the empty sky flashed behind his lids. The annoyance in his gut curdled into a black, suffocating wrath.

  "Yeah," the boy continued, fueled by Kenji's silence. "Your curse brought the invaders. You killed him."

  Kenji turned. His crimson bangs shadowed his eyes, making him look like a ghost in the dying light. "You want to fight?" he asked, his voice deathly level. "Get your hands up."

  The boy grinned, starting to raise his guard—but he never finished the motion.

  Kenji exploded forward. He moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a Beginner. A sickening crack echoed as Kenji's fist buried itself in the boy's nose, sending him spiraling into the dirt.

  Kenji's arm twitched with white-hot pain, the raw Hashi screaming through his muscles, but he didn't care. He walked toward the dazed boy with the slow, deliberate pace of an executioner.

  He straddled the boy, pinning him to the earth. When the bully looked up, he didn't see the "Cursed Kid" he used to kick. He saw a monster. Kenji's orange eyes were cold, hollow pits.

  The first punch broke the boy's jaw. The second shattered his teeth. By the third, Kenji's knuckles were painted red. Then the pace accelerated—a rhythmic, wet thudding that turned the boy's face into a ruin.

  The village spectators stood frozen in horror. Takahiro was the first to break the trance, sprinting forward to grab Kenji's shoulders.

  "KENJI, STOP!"

  But Kenji was gone. His world was a narrow tunnel of red.

  CRUSH HIM. BREAK HIM. DON'T STOP. LET THE BLOOD SPILL.

  He didn't even feel Takahiro pulling at him. He only felt the satisfying give of bone beneath his fists.