The first thing Ren remembered was cold.
Not the pleasant kind that came with winter mornings and blankets pulled tight around your shoulders.
This cold had teeth.
It slipped beneath the blanket wrapped around his tiny body and settled into his bones.
Snow pressed against the wooden walls around him, and somewhere outside, the wind rattled the roof hard enough to make the whole building groan.
He cried.
At least, that was what the woman holding him later claimed.
Ren remembered very little of those first moments.
He remembered the snow.
Endless white stretched across a mountain valley beneath a pale gray sky.
Wooden houses clustered along the slope.
Smoke curled from chimneys and vanished almost immediately into the wind.
And men walking through the snow with swords hanging from their waists.
Swords.
That was strange.
The stranger part was that nobody else seemed to think so.
The woman holding him only pulled the blanket tighter.
“Poor little thing.”
Ren stared up at her.
He couldn’t speak.
He could barely control his hands.
So he cried again.
The woman sighed.
“Yes.
I know.”
That was how Kurogane Ren entered the world.
No grand prophecy.
No loving family waiting for him.
No mysterious figure appearing from the heavens.
Just a nameless infant carried through the snow and delivered to an orphanage in the Land of Iron.
At the time, Ren had no idea what the Land of Iron was.
For several years, he assumed he had simply been born into some strange historical fantasy world.
That wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion.
He had seen enough anime and played enough games to know that fictional worlds enjoyed this sort of thing.
Medieval villages.
Feudal lords.
Snowy mountains.
Samurai.
Swords.
It was practically a genre by itself.
The problem was that Ren had forgotten something.
He had forgotten where he was.
The orphanage was called Kurogane House.
It sat against the lower slope of the mountain, a long wooden building surrounded by a rough fence.
A small yard occupied the front.
Behind it was a vegetable patch that spent most of the year fighting a losing battle against the cold.
There were dozens of children living there.
Some had lost their parents.
Some had been abandoned.
Some had been left behind because their families could no longer afford to feed them.
Nobody asked too many questions.
The adults had learned that complicated histories made children harder to care for.
Ren’s history was especially simple.
He had none.
No father.
No mother.
No family anyone could identify.
The caretakers called him Ren.
Kurogane came later, when his name had to be entered into the orphanage registry.
Ren didn’t mind.
A surname was only a word.
At least, that’s what he thought when he was little.
The strange part was that Ren’s own memories didn’t feel like they belonged to the same life.
They came in fragments.
A computer monitor.
A keyboard.
A headset.
Anime posters.
A game loading screen.
A chat moving too quickly to read.
A microphone.
People laughing at something he’d said.
A voice complaining that the latest anime episode had been delayed.
Then darkness.
Then snow.
He couldn’t remember his old name.
He couldn’t remember his parents.
He couldn’t remember where he had lived.
But he remembered being an adult.
That much never felt uncertain.
He had watched anime.
Read manga.
Played games.
Read fanfiction.
And, somewhere along the way, he’d spent years streaming games and talking to people through a camera.
The memories were scattered, but the feeling remained.
He had lived a completely different life.
Now he was a child in a snowy mountain village.
That was strange enough.
What he didn’t know yet was that the two worlds were connected.
Ren grew up.
The first few years passed quietly.
He learned how to walk.
Then run.
Then climb things he probably shouldn’t.
He learned which caretaker handed out extra food when nobody was watching.
He learned which children were easiest to beat at games.
He learned that Yuki cheated at word cards, used for learning words.
She denied it every time.
Ren continued accusing her anyway.
“You’re cheating.”
“I’m not.”
“You looked at the cards.”
“I looked at my cards.”
“Suspicious.”
Yuki narrowed her eyes.
“You lost.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“It proves you’re bad at cards.”
Ren stared at her.
“I’ve decided I don’t like this game.”
“You said that before you lost.”
“Coincidence.”
Yuki laughed.
She was one of the few people who could make Ren forget how strange his life was.
They grew up together.
Where Ren was restless, Yuki was patient.
Where Ren asked too many questions, Yuki usually listened.
She didn’t understand why he sometimes stared at ordinary things as though they were fascinating.
Ren didn’t understand how she could look at him doing something ridiculous and somehow know exactly what he was about to say.
They simply became friends.
Best friends, eventually.
And for a while, that was enough.
The dojo came later.
Or, more accurately, Ren noticed it later.
It had been there all along.
The orphanage and the dojo stood on opposite sides of a narrow lane, close enough that the sound of wooden swords striking each other carried through the snow.
Thwack.
Ren looked up from the broken wooden toy in his hands.
Thwack.
Again.
He turned toward the sound.
A group of older boys were training in a packed-earth yard beside a low wooden building.
Their movements were controlled and deliberate.
Wooden swords flashed through the cold air.
At the center stood an older man.
Daichi.
Ren didn’t know his name yet.
He only knew that the man moved differently from everyone else.
Not faster.
Not dramatically.
Just…
cleaner.
Every movement seemed to have a reason.
Every step put him exactly where he wanted to be.
Ren watched.
For several minutes, he forgot about the toy.
One of the older boys attacked.
Daichi shifted half a step.
The wooden sword missed.
Another boy tried.
Daichi turned.
The attack passed harmlessly beside him.
Ren frowned.
He looked at the boy’s feet.
Then Daichi’s.
Then the boy’s shoulders.
Again.
The same thing happened.
Ren’s eyes narrowed.
He’s moving before they attack.
Not literally.
Something else.
He couldn’t explain it yet.
He just knew there was a pattern.
“Ren?”
He looked over his shoulder.
Yuki stood behind him.
“What?”
“You’ve been staring for ten minutes.”
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
Ren looked back at the dojo.
“What are they doing?”
“Training.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Ren considered this.
“Research.”
Yuki rolled her eyes.
“You’re weird.”
“Probably.”
She sat beside him.
For a while, they watched together.
Daichi eventually noticed the boy watching from across the lane.
He didn’t say anything.
The orphanage children watched the dojo sometimes.
It wasn’t unusual.
Most lost interest after a few minutes.
This one didn’t.
The boy watched the trainees’ feet.
Their hands.
Their breathing.
He watched the older students before they attacked, not after.
Interesting.
Daichi returned his attention to the lesson.
“Again.”
The students raised their swords.
Ren watched.
He would continue watching for a long time.
By the time Ren was five, he had developed a reputation at the orphanage.
Not as a troublemaker.
Not exactly.
More as a child who could never leave something alone.
If a lock jammed, Ren wanted to know why.
If a chair broke, he wanted to see how it had been built.
If someone fell, Ren wanted to know what had caused them to lose balance.
If an older child demonstrated something, Ren watched closely enough to make them uncomfortable.
He wasn’t magically brilliant.
He simply noticed things.
Patterns.
Habits.
Small movements.
He remembered concepts from his old life, but concepts were not the same thing as practical knowledge.
He knew what a pulley was.
That didn’t mean he could build one properly.
He knew what a computer was.
That didn’t mean he could recreate one with wood and scrap metal.
He knew what martial arts looked like.
That didn’t mean his five-year-old body knew how to fight.
Ren was slowly learning that distinction.
Knowledge gave him ideas.
The world demanded that he earn the rest.
One afternoon, Ren was watching Daichi’s students train when a taller boy walked past him.
He was perhaps fourteen.
Dark hair.
Straight posture.
A wooden sword resting against his shoulder.
Ren had seen him before.
He was one of Daichi’s regular students.
Unlike the others, he never wasted time fooling around before training.
He arrived early, practiced seriously, and listened when Daichi spoke.
Ren didn’t know his name yet.
Kenichi didn’t know Ren’s either.
Their eyes met briefly.
Kenichi looked at the five-year-old standing beside the fence.
Then at the dojo.
Then back at Ren.
He shrugged and continued walking.
Ren watched him go.
“Who is that?”
Yuki glanced over.
“Kenichi.”
“He’s good?”
“I think so.”
Ren looked back toward the training yard.
Kenichi was already practicing.
His stance was steady.
His movements weren’t as clean as Daichi’s, but they were practiced.
Repeated.
Disciplined.
Ren watched for a few seconds.
Then he looked at Daichi.
Then at his own hands.
A thought appeared.
Not a grand one.
Not yet.
Just a simple question.
Could I do that?
The next morning, Ren stood outside Daichi’s dojo again.
This time, he didn’t just watch.
He copied the stance.
His feet were wrong.
His shoulders were too tense.
His hands were gripping the imaginary sword too tightly.
He didn’t care.
He tried again.
A shadow fell across the snow.
Ren looked up.
Daichi stood in front of him.
The old samurai looked at Ren’s feet.
Then his hands.
Then his face.
“You’ve been watching.”
Ren nodded.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Ren thought about giving the obvious answer.
Because I want to become strong.
Because I want to know how swords work.
Because I have memories from another world and I know this place is dangerous.
Instead, he said:
“I want to learn.”
Daichi studied him.
“Why?”
Ren frowned.
“Because I want to learn.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is if you ask the same question twice.”
For the first time, something almost resembling amusement appeared in Daichi’s eyes.
Almost.
“What’s your name?”
“Ren.”
“I know that.”
Ren blinked.
“You do?”
“I run a dojo next to an orphanage.
I know the children who stare at my students every morning.”
Ren looked toward the dojo.
“Can I train?”
Daichi was silent.
“You’re five.”
“I know.”
“You’re small.”
“I also know that.”
“You’ll get tired.”
“Probably.”
“You’ll get hurt.”
Ren hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Probably.”
Daichi looked at him for another moment.
“Come tomorrow.”
Ren’s eyes widened.
“Really?”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
Ren grinned.
“I’ll try.”
Daichi turned away.
“One more thing.”
Ren looked up.
“If you’re going to train here, stop copying what you see.”
Ren frowned.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t understand it yet.”
Daichi walked back toward the dojo.
Ren stared after him.
That answer bothered him.
Mostly because it was true.
The next morning, Ren crossed the lane.
The snow crunched beneath his feet.
The dojo doors were open.
Inside, older students were already training.
Kenichi was there.
He glanced at Ren.
This time, he noticed him for more than a second.
Daichi stepped into the center of the yard.
“Ren.”
Ren straightened.
“Yes?”
“Take a wooden sword.”
Ren picked one up.
It was heavier than he expected.
His arms immediately complained.
Daichi watched without comment.
Ren adjusted his grip.
Too tight.
He loosened it.
His feet felt awkward.
He shifted them.
Wrong again.
He looked at Daichi.
The old samurai pointed toward the training yard.
“Stand.”
Ren planted his feet.
The cold air entered his lungs.
The sword felt heavy.
His fingers hurt.
He wasn’t good at this.
Not yet.
But he was here.
Daichi nodded once.
“Again.”
Ren blinked.
“We haven’t started.”
Daichi’s expression didn’t change.
“You were already doing it wrong.”
Ren stared at him.
Then smiled.
“Fair enough.”
A few of the older students laughed.
Kenichi didn’t.
He simply watched the strange orphan take his first step into the dojo.
Ren tightened his grip.
Then relaxed it.
He remembered Daichi’s earlier words.
You don’t understand it yet.
That was fine.
He had time.
He would watch.
He would learn.
And if there was one thing Ren had always been good at, it was watching.