He reached his classroom and slid the door open.
Laughter. Chatter. Noise.
A boy perched on a desk, one foot resting on the chair, grinning as his friends flipped through a manga. Kenta. He always had a way of making himself the center of attention, whether through loud jokes, dumb impressions, or just by being the guy who never shut up.
As he laughed at something in the manga, his gaze flicked up—and landed on Ren. His grin widened.
"Yo, Susuke Uchicha," he called out as he hopped off the desk, then strolled toward Ren, followed by a few chuckles. Kenta did this a lot—zeroed in on someone just to stir things up.
"Guess I'm today's target."
Ren didn't respond, keeping his pace steady as he slid into his chair.
Kenta wasn't about to let it go. He grinned, leaning in. "Damn, man, what happened? You on some secret training arc? What is it this time—murdering the entire Jenin clan to awaken your dark side?"
"That's not even the right anime," someone snorted from the back.
"And the name's not even close," another added.
"Details, details." Kenta waved them off with a grin. "Point is, our boy Ren has been in deep training—honing his ultimate technique."
He pressed his palms together, shutting his eyes like a monk in deep concentration. Then, with exaggerated reverence, he whispered,
"Almighty Pushy."
The room lost it. Someone smacked their desk. A guy in the back wheezed, practically sliding out of his chair. Even the ones pretending not to listen broke down laughing.
One of the girls in the front row rolled her eyes but bit back a smile. "You're such a clown, Kenta."
"Clown?" He gasped, gesturing at himself. "Nah, I'm just out here entertaining everyone for free, keeping things lively."
Kenta leaned back, clearly pleased with himself. "C'mon, Ren, say something. You're making me feel like I'm talking to a mannequin."
Ren didn't respond.
Kenta let out an exaggerated sigh. "Yikes. Tough crowd." He threw up his hands in mock defeat, but the smirk never left his face.
Ren ignored him, fingers tapping idly against the desk. "Can this guy just shut the fuck up already,"
With a sharp exhale, he yanked his notebook from his bag and flipped it open. His pen scratched across the page, doodling nothing in particular as his mind drifted. That dream from this morning—it had been strange, lingering in the back of his head like a half-forgotten whisper.
Before he could sink into it, a shadow fell over his desk.
"Uh… hey, Ren," a nasally voice cut in.
Ren glanced up, his eyes flickering with something rare—hope. Someone wanted to talk to him? For a brief second, his chest felt a little lighter.
But the feeling evaporated as quickly as it came.
The short, pudgy boy in front of him—Shun—clutched his notebook tightly, his thick glasses sliding down his nose. His face was flushed, and he couldn't quite meet Ren's gaze.
"What's up?" Ren asked, his voice cooling to neutral.
Shun shifted awkwardly. "I, uh… I didn't do the math homework last night. Can you… you know, let me copy yours? Just real quick?"
Of course.
Ren's expression didn't change, though something inside him soured. "Ah, sorry. I didn't do it either."
Shun's face fell. "Oh… really?"
"Yeah," Ren lied with a shrug. "Forgot about it."
"Damn…" Shun sighed. "Guess I'll have to figure something out."
"Yeah, guess so." Ren was already turning back to his notebook.
Shun lingered a second longer, then muttered, "Right… sorry for bothering you," before trudging off.
Ren didn't watch him leave.
"Like hell I'd let him copy my work.
I actually put in the effort to do that stupid assignment. Why should I hand it over to someone who couldn't be bothered?"
His grip tightened on the pencil.
"People like him always expect someone else to bail them out. Like my time and effort mean nothing. You didn't do it? That's your problem, not mine."
The pencil tapped rhythmically against the desk. He shook his head, the brief spark of connection already dead and buried.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the morning period, and soon after, students crowded around the bulletin board where the latest test results were posted. Excited murmurs filled the hallway as students scanned the rankings, some sighing in relief, others groaning in disappointment.
A group of girls suddenly squealed in delight, huddling around a tall, elegant girl with neatly tied dark hair.
"Mavu! You did amazing again!" one of them gushed.
"You got a 94?! That's insane!" another added, practically bouncing on her feet.
"You're seriously on another level. I barely scraped a 78," one girl admitted with a nervous laugh.
Mavu offered a polite smile, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's alright, I guess," she murmured, her voice composed but thoughtful. "But it's probably still not enough. Ren most likely scored higher."
At the mention of his name, the girls turned in unison, eyes locking onto Ren, who leaned lazily against his desk, completely unbothered by the commotion.
Dragging out the moment, he stretched his arms behind his head, then let out an exaggerated yawn. "Tch, another perfect score," he muttered, smirking. "Honestly, even a toddler could pass these." He shook his head with a chuckle. "Seriously, these tests are a joke. Can't believe people are actually struggling."
The air shifted as a few students frowned. The girls, in particular, bristled.
"Ugh, why is he like this?" one of them huffed.
"Such an asshole."
Mavu's lips pressed into a thin line, her grip tightening on her test paper. Her usual composure wavered as frustration flickered across her face. She hated losing, but what irritated her more was Ren's insufferable arrogance.
Before she could respond, one of the girls shot Ren a glare. Another turned back to Mavu, softening her voice. "You did great, Mavu! Don't let that jerk get to you."
The tension lingered for a moment, but the conversation gradually shifted as the class settled down. Ren barely paid attention. He leaned back in his seat, staring at the clock as the minutes crawled by. The second the bell rang, he was out the door, hands shoved into his pockets.
Now, the hallways were eerily quiet—like the school itself was holding its breath. A long stretch of flickering overhead lights buzzed faintly above Ren as he walked alone, each step echoing a little too loudly on the worn linoleum. The classrooms were dark, doors shut tight, desks empty.
Ren exhaled sharply, jamming his hands deeper into the pockets of his blazer.
"Damn teachers," he muttered, lips curling in annoyance. "Making me stay late for some pointless assignment. Everyone else is already gone…"
He moved faster, eager to get out, his sneakers squeaking just slightly as he passed the long row of lockers. That was when he heard it.
Thud.
Then again.
Thud.
A muffled grunt. A sharp rustle of movement.
Ren slowed, the sounds pulling at his attention like a tug on a frayed thread. He turned his head toward the back stairwell—the one that led down to the delivery area behind the gym. Barely monitored. Half the lights were busted.
And of course, he looked.
There, crumpled against the dented lockers, was Kaito.
His face was bruised, lip split and bleeding. His school jacket was half torn, the collar hanging loose like it had been yanked hard. He was trying—failing—to keep his arms up as he cowered beneath the two familiar silhouettes looming over him.
Yuto and Daichi.
Yuto leaned down, eyes narrowed and feral. "Shut the hell up!" he snarled, voice echoing like it belonged to someone older, meaner.
The hallway smelled like sweat, metal, and industrial-grade cleaner that couldn't quite mask the grime crusted into the corners. The flickering light above them buzzed, casting fractured shadows that danced across Daichi's face as he cracked his knuckles.
"You think you can just rat us out and walk away?" Daichi spat. His foot came down hard into Kaito's ribs. "You think we wouldn't find out?"
"N-no, I swear, I didn't—"
Kaito's plea ended in a cry as Yuto slammed him forward, his face smacking the floor with a sickening crack. His glasses skidded across the tiles, landing near Ren's foot.
And then Kaito saw him.
Through swollen eyes, he lifted his head just enough.
"Please… help me…"
Ren stood still, expression unreadable. He didn't move. Didn't blink.
A storm brewed behind his eyes, not of sympathy—but of irritation.
"Shit" he thought.
He was just trying to get home. Just trying to disappear into the night like everyone else.
Daichi's eyes flicked toward him, teeth bared in a sneer.
"You got a death wish or something? Mind your own fucking business."
Ren sighed, already turning on his heel. He shook his head once.
"Nah," he said, voice flat, cool. "Not my problem."
"Ren!" Kaito's voice cracked like splintering glass. "Please! Don't leave me here! They're going to kill me! Please—help me!"
But Ren kept walking.
His steps didn't rush, didn't hesitate. The echo of his soles was steady, calm—almost lazy as he passed through the school's front doors into the cool evening air.
He didn't flinch at the dull rhythm of fists and flesh behind him.
Didn't pause at the muffled cry cut off by another blow.
"Maybe next time," Ren muttered to himself, "don't piss off the wrong people."
The gates closed behind him with a rusty groan.
And he never looked back.
Later that day, Ren found himself in the dojo he visited regularly. The soft light of the late afternoon streamed through the wide, open windows, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floor. The rhythmic clack of wooden swords echoed through the room, interspersed with sharp exhales and the occasional barked instruction. The faint aroma of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the sweat and effort of the students. But none of it brought Ren the usual sense of focus or calm.
He leaned against the far wall, the bokken in his hand tapping lightly against the ground. His gaze was sharp but unfocused, scanning the room without really seeing it. The other students moved with precision—their footwork measured, their strikes deliberate. Yet Ren's attention didn't linger on them for long; his eyes flicked to the sparring mats, where Yujiro Sensei stood with arms crossed. His presence was still and heavy, like the calm before a storm.
"Hey, Ren!" A voice broke through the hum of practice. "You ready, or are you just going to stand there all day?"
Ren's focus snapped to the speaker—a wiry boy with bright eyes and an eager grin. His bokken rested casually on his shoulder, and he bounced on the balls of his feet like he couldn't wait to get started.
Ren snorted, a sharp smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've got a lot of energy for someone who spends more time running his fat mouth than training," he said, his voice dripping with disdain as he pushed off the wall and strode onto the mats.
Hiro's grin faltered—just for a second—before it returned, though his eyes narrowed slightly. Around them, the rhythmic clack of sparring slowed and stopped. The other students, their curiosity piqued, drifted closer, forming an unspoken ring around the two.
Yujiro raised his hand. "Begin."
Hiro lunged—fast, precise.
Clack! Wood slammed against wood as Ren deflected the strike. His counter was sharp, unrelenting. Hiro staggered but barely caught his balance—too late. Ren was already on him. Another strike, heavier. Faster. No time to breathe. No room to think.
Hiro grunted, scrambling to meet the onslaught. His arms trembled with each parry, his footwork faltering under the pressure. But Ren pressed harder. "Again. Again." His blows weren't just meant to disarm—they were meant to break. To overwhelm. To crush.
"Why won't he fall already?" The thought burned—raw, bitter. Each strike felt like swinging against something unseen. Something he couldn't break.
Ren's bokken came down harder.
A sharp crack. Hiro's grip gave out—his bokken spun from his hands and clattered across the mat. He stumbled back, chest heaving.
Silence crashed down, heavy and cold.
The only sound was Ren's breathing—hard and ragged. Around him, the students stood frozen, unease written on their faces. The usual camaraderie of the dojo had vanished, replaced by something colder.
"Ren." Yujiro's voice cut through the stillness. Calm, but firm.
Ren didn't look back. His hand loosened, and the bokken dipped low at his side as he turned to walk off the mat.
"Ren," Yujiro called again, sharper this time. "What's the first thing I taught you?"
Ren stopped, his shoulders stiff. His voice came out low and taut. "I know. Everything a man wields reflects his intent, right?"
Yujiro stepped forward. His voice was steady—like a blade honed to a perfect edge. "Then you should also know that right now, your blade reflects only anger. Fear. Sorrow. You weren't fighting Hiro." His gaze bore into Ren, unwavering. "You were fighting yourself."
Ren spun around, frustration blazing in his eyes. "Why does it matter how I feel if I win?" he snapped. "Isn't that the point?"
Yujiro's expression didn't change. "Strength fueled by anger or fear will win you battles," he said quietly. "But it won't bring you peace. Rage burns hot—but it only leaves ashes."
Ren's grip on the bokken tightened, his knuckles white. His jaw worked as he fought for a retort—but none came. The tension that had carried him through every strike suddenly felt hollow.
The bokken dropped from his hand, landing with a dull thunk.
"I'm done," he muttered, his voice flat and cold as he turned and strode for the door.
"Running won't bring you the answers you seek," Yujiro called after him. His voice softened—like he was speaking less to a student and more to someone he wanted to reach. "No matter how far you go, Ren..."
The sliding door rattled as it slammed behind him.
Outside, the cool evening air hit his face. It should've calmed him, but it didn't. His chest heaved, his fists clenched tight. His heart pounded from more than just the fight.