Voltae Hoshi's breath swirled in steam clouds against the early morning cold. His palms were blistered, and his shoulders bore the weight of hours of grueling drills, yet he maintained his stance firmly. The blade trembled slightly in his grip, not from weakness but from exhaustion that would have defeated most grown men.

Across from him stood Yosei Wakamoto, his guardian, his master, and the only father he had ever known.

The old man's back stayed straight despite his years, his white hair tied in a warrior's knot. His body was lean, shaped by decades of discipline, and his movements—though slower now than in his youth—still bore the edge of a man who once carved his legend into the world with nothing but steel. His gray eyes were sharp, unblinking, and when they fixed on Voltae, it felt as if the boy's soul was being measured.

"Again," Yosei rasped, his voice like stone grinding against stone.

Voltae's muscles screamed. His lungs begged for rest. But he raised his sword once more.

Below Aokami Hill, the sprawl of Yebbao glittered in the distance. At night, the towers shone like pillars of crystal, their lights visible even here. Even now, faint in the morning haze, Voltae could see the Luminous Expanse—the floating obelisk of glass and light, repository of every contract, invention, and secret the city's tech guilds claimed as their own. It pulsed faintly above the skyline, as if breathing, a reminder that in Yebbao, power was measured not in honor and discipline, but in wealth and access to the Consortium's machines.

To the people of Yebbao, Aokami Hill was just an old relic, and Yosei's wooden beams seemed like a curiosity from another time. No one paid attention to the scars on its planks or the discipline of the sword—not when the city's corporate rulers could control mercenaries, hackers, or drones with just a gesture. The hill was accepted and ignored, like a fossil clinging to relevance.

Voltae was a tall boy with crimson eyes that gleamed like burning coals, dark skin that set him apart from the pale children of the city, and hair that was forever frizzed, wild, and unyielding, no matter how he tried to tame it. Often, he wandered into that city of gleaming towers. The children of Yebbao whispered when he passed: some laughed at his "ancient" training, some stared with envy at his strange elegance. He was a curiosity, too, caught between cedar and steel on the hill and neon and glass in the city.

They called him pampered. They called him strange.

Yosei never answered when Voltae asked why he was different. Instead, the old man would say: "You were born to shine brighter than the sun. A star does not ask permission to burn."

But in the quiet of his chamber, with servants fussing over him, Voltae whispered the question the city itself seemed to echo: What am I?

Yebbao had no room for swordsmen. Its Consortium focused solely on innovation, efficiency, and control. Its proxy wars were fought not in courtyards but in data-rifts and boardrooms. Yet Yosei, once a mercenary feared across the provinces, held on to the blade as if it were the last truth worth saving.

For eight years, Voltae trained under that creed. His body grew stronger, his spirit was sharpened, but his eyes often wandered to the skyline. He wondered if the blade had any meaning in a world where money and invention ruled completely.

On the night before his sixteenth birthday, Yosei guided him along the winding trails of Aokami Hill into the heart of Yebbao itself. The city's neon lights painted the sky; drones floated between the towers like metallic hawks. And in the shadows of those towers, firelight still clung to a ruin.

The orphanage.

Or what remained of it. Its beams, blackened and charred, jutted upward like broken teeth. Smoke still lingered faintly, even though the fire had burned out days earlier. The air reeked of soot and sorrow.

Voltae stared, his chest tight, his crimson eyes reflecting the ruin. "Why bring me here... now?"

The police officers stationed nearby avoided his gaze. When they spoke, it was with a reverence reserved not for the Consortium but for the man beside him:

The name hung in the cold air, heavier than ash.

The young boy felt questions rise like wildfire-- Who was the Slayer? Why did they tell Yosei so openly? Why had his master waited sixteen years to bring him here? -- but Yosei did not explain; there was no history, only silence and those piercing gray eyes. Voltae hated those eyes of his master sometimes. It always filled him with a monument of anxiety. 

As they returned toward the hill, Yebbao's skyline sparkled with ruthless brilliance, its towers rising like steel gods, indifferent to the ruin at their base. Voltae felt both worlds weighing down on him—the discipline of his master's sword and the merciless hunger of the city below.

He knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that soon the two would collide.

His final training session was coming. The burden of it weighed heavily on Voltae like a mountain. He had never beaten Yosei. His master was relentless, and every move he made was intense and overwhelming. Yosei said, whenever fear and doubt consumed his young pupil, "One day, the student must surpass the master. You'll be ready."

Those words usually calmed him down and warmed his heart. For the first time, Voltae wondered — was that promise a blessing? Or a curse?