The memory continued.
Inside the Reikosha classroom, present-day Reji leaned casually against the window while Tatsuo and Seiyan listened.
"So your Reikou started because of your father?" Tatsuo asked.
Reji twirled his pen lazily between his fingers.
"Partly." A faint smile crossed his face. "The old man taught me more than techniques."
His eyes drifted toward the sky outside.
"He taught me how to listen to a weapon."
The classroom slowly faded behind his thoughts
and the past returned once more.
Three days after Reji's birthday.
Morning sunlight poured across the hills outside Astral Virel City. Dew rested on the grass while the wind carried the distant sounds of merchants and sky trains awakening in the city below.
Young Reji stood in the middle of the training field holding the kusarigama awkwardly.
The chain was wrapped around his arm five separate times.
"…I think it hates me."
Masaru stood nearby with crossed arms, trying very hard not to laugh.
"The weapon isn't the problem."
"Yes it is."
"No," Masaru replied calmly. "You just swing it like you're trying to insult physics."
Reji frowned.
"That sounds impossible."
"Yet somehow you succeeded."
Reji attempted another swing.
The blade flew outward
and immediately curved backward toward him.
"WAH-"
He ducked badly, tripped over the chain, and rolled across the grass.
Masaru finally laughed openly this time.
Reji sat up with dirt on his face.
"…The weapon definitely hates me."
Masaru walked toward him before crouching slightly.
"Reji." His voice softened. "Why are you trying to overpower the chain?"
Reji blinked.
"Huh?"
"You keep forcing your movements." Masaru picked up the kusarigama gently. "A chain weapon doesn't obey strength alone."
The morning breeze passed quietly between them.
Masaru spun the kusarigama once.
Smoothly.
Effortlessly.
The chain danced through the air like flowing water, curving around him without tangling even once. Every movement connected naturally into the next as if the weapon were breathing alongside him.
Reji stared with wide eyes.
"…Cool."
Masaru chuckled softly.
"Most people misunderstand weapons like this." He allowed the chain to wrap gently around his arm before stopping completely. "They think control means domination."
He handed the weapon back.
"But true control begins with understanding."
Reji looked down at the kusarigama silently.
"Listen carefully." Masaru pointed toward the chain. "This weapon punishes impatience."
The boy tilted his head.
"If you become angry, your movements become rough."
"If you panic, the chain loses rhythm."
"If you hesitate, it traps you instead."
Masaru smiled faintly.
"In many ways… it reflects the heart."
The words lingered quietly in the air.
Reji slowly tightened his grip.
"…Then how do I master it?"
Masaru looked toward the distant floating city.
"You don't force mastery." His eyes narrowed slightly with experience. "You grow into it."
The father stepped back and raised one finger.
"Again."
Reji nodded.
This time, he swung slower.
The chain moved awkwardly at first, wobbling unevenly through the air.
But Masaru didn't interrupt him.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Hours passed beneath the morning sun.
Sometimes the chain tangled.
Sometimes Reji fell.
Once, the metal weight flew backward and smashed directly into his forehead.
"OW!"
Masaru laughed so hard he nearly sat down on the grass.
"You're laughing at your injured son!"
"I'm building character."
"That sounds illegal."
Even while complaining, Reji stood back up every time.
Masaru watched quietly.
That was what impressed him most.
Not talent.
Not strength.
Persistence.
Because talent was something people admired from afar.
But persistence was lonelier.
It meant standing back up repeatedly even when nobody clapped for you.
Many people dreamed of becoming strong.
Very few loved the exhausting process required to reach it.
Masaru suddenly spoke while Reji practiced again.
"Do you know why chains frighten people?"
Reji swung carefully while thinking.
"Because they can choke someone?"
"…That is unfortunately correct," Masaru admitted. "But that's not the main reason."
He looked toward the sky.
"Chains symbolize attachment."
Reji paused slightly.
"Humans fear attachment because attachment creates vulnerability," Masaru continued calmly. "The moment you care about something… you gain something to lose."
The wind brushed through the hills.
"People who fear pain eventually avoid connections altogether." His voice became quieter. "They convince themselves isolation is strength."
Reji listened carefully now.
"But a person without bonds…" Masaru closed his eyes briefly. "…eventually forgets why they wanted strength in the first place."
The boy stared at the chain in his hands.
At his age, the words felt too large to fully understand.
But they stayed with him anyway.
Some lessons were like seeds.
Life buried them quietly inside the heart
then waited years before allowing them to bloom.
Suddenly, Reji attempted a faster spin.
The chain wrapped around his entire body instantly.
He froze.
"…Father."
Masaru looked over.
Reji stood there completely immobilized like captured prey.
"…I may have evolved into a problem."
For a few seconds, silence remained.
Then Masaru burst into uncontrollable laughter again.
Even Reji eventually laughed with him.
Their voices echoed across the hills beneath the endless sky.
A father laughing with his son.
A child learning the weight of a chain.
A peaceful morning so ordinary it seemed impossible for it to ever disappear.
And yet
the cruelest thing about time was that people never realized which moments would later become priceless memories
until those moments were already gone.