The air in the orphanage hall solidified, thick with the stench of fear and damp wood. Grunt, the Iron Grasp leader, stood framed in the doorway, a hulking silhouette against the last sliver of twilight. His scarred face twisted into a cruel grin, teeth yellow in the dim light. Behind him, three more burly thugs loomed, their shadows stretching like predatory claws across the worn floorboards.
"We hear you've been harboring trouble, old man," Grunt sneered, his gaze sweeping the huddled orphans, then landing on Gribble, who stood trembling by the door. "Children that belong to us."
Gribble swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously towards the back, where the younger children whimpered. "I… I don't know what you're talking about, Boss Grunt. We're just a humble orphanage, no trouble here." His gaze, however, settled on Orin, Joric, and Elara, a silent, desperate accusation. The betrayal hung heavy in the air.
"Don't you?" Grunt's grin widened, revealing a missing tooth. His thick, calloused finger pointed directly at Joric, then at Elara, who gasped and instinctively clutched Orin's hand. "My boys saw the brat Joric. And his little friends. Causing problems for the Iron Grasp. But you know what? We're reasonable. We'll forget the past if you just hand over the ones who started it."
Joric stiffened, his face a mask of defiant fury. "We didn't 'start' anything! You took Anya's food!"
"Silence, boy!" Gribble stammered, addressing the huddled children, his voice trembling but his intent clear. "The Iron Grasp is here, and they want their due. Anyone who knows anything, step forward now. Don't make this worse for everyone." His gaze, cold and calculating, fixed squarely on Orin.
Orin felt the familiar, almost comforting, coldness settle over his mind. Betrayal. Leverage. Predictable. He looked at Joric, whose fists were clenched, ready to futilely charge. He looked at Elara, small and terrified, but still clutching his hand, her faith absolute. This wasn't about surviving himself. This was about them. About not being helpless. Just like his past life as Ryo, the world had once again backed him into a corner where inaction meant death, but this time, he wouldn't be alone.
"Don't bother, old man," Grunt chuckled, waving a dismissive hand at Gribble. "We'll take 'em all. Teach the rest a lesson." He took a step forward, his eyes fixed on Joric.
"Run, Joric!" Elara cried, pushing him.
But Joric just set his jaw. "No! We'll fight! Orin—"
"Quiet." Orin's voice was a barely audible rasp, yet it cut through the rising panic. He didn't move towards them, but his gaze swept the hall: the rickety dining tables, the stacked chairs, the large, flickering oil lamp hanging precariously from the ceiling beam. Chokepoints. Obstacles. Cover. He saw it all.
"You three. Come here. Now," Grunt snarled, taking another step.
"Now!" Orin snapped, not at Grunt, but at Joric and Elara. It was a command, sharp and precise.
As the first thug lunged, Orin didn't wait. He didn't have to. With a blur of motion, he pushed off the wall, a sudden, silent dart towards the heavy wooden dining table nearest the main entrance. He didn't try to lift it. Instead, his foot, guided by Muon no Jutsu's (Silent Arts) Kage no Hōyō (Embrace of Shadow), struck the table's leg with precise force, leveraging his body weight in a way that made the aged wood groan.
The table tipped, then crashed with a resounding CLANG, scattering tin plates and utensils, effectively blocking the immediate path into the hall. The lead thug, startled by the sudden noise, stumbled, momentarily thrown off balance.
"What the—?!" he roared.
"Scatter! Hide!" Orin commanded, his voice a low, urgent whisper that only Joric and Elara could hear. He didn't wait for confirmation. He was already a blur, a shadow detaching from the chaotic scene. His figure vanished into the deeper gloom behind a stack of storage crates, his movements impossibly quiet.
The thugs, momentarily disoriented by the dim light and the noise, began to spread out. "Find the brats!" Grunt bellowed, his voice filled with frustrated rage.
Joric, remembering Orin's lessons, instinctively ducked behind the overturned table. Elara, quicker-witted, melted into the deeper shadows beneath a low shelf, her small frame becoming almost invisible. They were terrified, but they were following his commands.
Orin moved. He was everywhere and nowhere. He launched himself from the top of a tall bookshelf, landing with barely a whisper behind a thug investigating a pantry. A quick, precise Sasayaki no Yaiba (Whispering Blade) strike to the back of the knee. The thug yelped, his leg buckling, and he crashed to the floor, grabbing his thigh in pain.
"One down," Orin muttered, already moving.
Another thug, heavier and slower, lumbered towards a group of whimpering orphans. Orin, using the chaos as cover, scooped up a handful of loose, sharp pebbles from a crack in the floor. He flung them, not wildly, but with terrifying accuracy. The tiny stones peppered the thug's face, striking him squarely in the eyes. The man roared, dropping his crude club as he clutched his face, temporarily blinded.
"Two down," Orin observed, his gaze already locked onto Grunt.
Grunt, however, was no ordinary thug. He was powerful, his thick neck devoid of fear, only simmering rage. He spotted Joric peeking from behind the table. "You!"
Grunt raised his iron-bound club, a brutal swing aimed at the table that would shatter it and likely Joric behind it.
"Joric, now! Over here!" Orin barked, materializing from a shadowed doorway.
Joric, reacting instinctively to Orin's voice, rolled to the side. As Grunt's club descended, Orin intercepted it. Not with a block, but with a fluid, almost impossible maneuver based on Ja no Rasen (Serpent's Spiral). He met the club with his forearm, not resisting, but subtly redirecting its immense momentum away from Joric and towards a brittle pillar.
The club crashed into the pillar with a sickening CRACK, sending splinters flying. Grunt roared in frustration, momentarily off balance, his swing going wide. Orin didn't wait. He closed the distance in a blink, striking with the precision of a seasoned predator. His small fist, driven by the cold calculation of Sasayaki no Yaiba, slammed into Grunt's solar plexus.
Grunt gasped, a wheezing, painful sound, doubling over. He was winded, but not out. His eyes, now full of fury, locked onto Orin. "You... little... demon!"
The big thug charged, abandoning his club, relying on brute force. Orin knew this charge. It was wild, desperate. He ducked, weaved, striking at exposed nerves, but Grunt was too resilient, too full of raw, unrefined Aura to be easily incapacitated. He backhanded Orin, sending him sprawling against a wall, a sharp pain blooming in his shoulder.
He tasted blood. The orphanage was spinning. Joric was still huddled behind the broken table, Elara peeking from her hiding spot, their faces etched with fear. Grunt was a monstrous shadow advancing.
Too strong. Orin's mind, the assassin Ryo's, screamed. Can't disable. Not enough power.
A memory flashed: the harsh, desolate training grounds, the bitter taste of defeat, the relentless pursuit of an edge. If ordinary means fail, extraordinary measures must be taken. The words of Oboro, his old mentor, echoed.
Then, the profound, agonizing choice of Kokuha.
A cold, fiery surge erupted from deep within Orin. He felt it – a searing, grinding sensation as his own bones and muscles protested, strained to their absolute limits. A flash of blinding pain threatened to consume him, but he pushed past it, channeling the raw, brute force through his right arm. It was like tearing apart his very essence for a single, devastating moment of power.
Grunt lunged, his massive hand reaching for Orin's throat.
Orin met him. Not with a duck, not with a weave. With a single, brutal punch.
His fist, imbued with the fleeting, unnatural might of Kokuha, connected squarely with Grunt's jaw. There was no finesse, no elegant redirection. Only raw, unadulterated force. The impact was sickening, a sound of bone and cartilage yielding that cut through the chaos. Grunt's head snapped back with impossible force, his eyes rolling back in his head. His body, suddenly limp, was flung backward, crashing through a sturdy wooden pillar that splintered under the impact before he crumpled to the ground, utterly unconscious.
The raw power faded instantly, replaced by a tremor that seized Orin's entire body. His right arm felt like fire, every muscle screaming, every bone protesting. He swayed, leaning heavily against the wall, taking shallow, ragged breaths. A faint metallic taste coated his tongue, not blood, but exhaustion so profound it felt like a tearing of his very being.
The two remaining thugs, those only temporarily disabled, witnessed Grunt's impossible defeat. Their faces, no longer sneering, were etched with pure, unadulterated terror. They scrambled, tripping over each other, desperate to escape the small, trembling boy who had just crushed their leader like a bug. They vanished into the night, their shouts of fear fading into the distance.
The orphanage hall was silent, save for the ragged breathing of the exhausted children and the whimpering of the defeated thugs. Orin stood, shaking, his gaze distant, eyes fixed on the splintered pillar. He had won. He had protected his companions. But the cost of Kokuha was a heavy one. And the world was about to take notice.