Eight years passed quietly in Kenya.
Not quietly in the sense that nothing happened.
There was always noise in the village.
Children running barefoot through the dust. Women talking while preparing food. Goats wandering where they absolutely were not supposed to be. Wind brushing through the trees. Pots clinking. Laughter rising from one house and argument rising from another.
Life here had rhythm.
And Oden had become part of it.
The morning sun had only just begun to settle over the village when Oden stepped out of the house carrying two wooden buckets filled with water. He moved with an ease that had not existed in him eight years ago. His body was taller now, lean and wiry, built more like a hunter than a boy who spent all his time indoors. His face had sharpened with age, though his expression remained as flat as ever.
A cloth was wrapped loosely around his shoulders, and his shades rested comfortably on his face as usual.
An old man seated near one of the outer paths looked up and snorted.
"You walk around too seriously for someone your age," the man muttered.
Oden kept walking.
"That must be why your back hurts all the time," he replied.
The old man stared.
Then barked out a laugh.
"Disrespectful brat."
Oden said nothing more and continued on.
That was another thing that had changed.
When he first came here, people treated him with careful curiosity. A foreign child. A strange child. Quiet. Watchful. Always close to Miguel. Always carrying a presence that made even those who knew nothing of cursed energy instinctively wary.
But time did what time always did.
It made the strange become familiar.
Now, to the people here, Oden was simply Oden. The boy Miguel had brought from the sea. The one who helped carry supplies, fixed broken fences, watched over children when asked, and somehow managed to eat enough for three grown men without showing any shame about it.
A voice called from behind him.
"Oden!"
He turned slightly.
Miguel's mother stood near the entrance of one of the houses, hands planted firmly on her hips.
She had the same eyes Miguel had when irritated. Sharp, unimpressed, and impossible to argue with.
Oden immediately walked over.
"Yes?"
She pointed toward a small stack of grain sacks beside the wall.
"Take those inside."
He looked at the sacks.
Then at her.
Then back at the sacks.
"…All of them?"
"Yes, all of them."
There were six.
He sighed very quietly.
Miguel's mother narrowed her eyes.
"Did you just complain?"
"No."
"You did."
"I was simply breathing."
She clicked her tongue.
"Less breathing. More carrying."
Oden bent down and lifted two at once.
Miguel's mother watched him for a second, then shook her head.
"You really have become useful," she muttered.
Oden paused.
"…That almost sounded like praise."
"It wasn't."
He nodded once.
"Of course it wasn't."
By the time he finished moving the grain, a few younger children had gathered near the doorway.
One of them tugged at his sleeve.
"Oden, are you coming later?"
He looked down.
"For what?"
"The race," the boy said. "You said last week you'd come watch."
Oden thought for a moment.
Then nodded.
"Oh yeah, I did say that."
The boy grinned.
"Good! Don't forget!"
As the children ran off again, Miguel's mother glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
"They like you."
Oden adjusted one of the sacks into place.
"They like bothering me."
"Why are you always so negative."
He finished with the last sack and dusted his hands off.
For a brief moment, he stood in the doorway, looking out at the village.
At some point, without realizing it, he had stopped feeling like a lost thing drifting through unfamiliar land.
This place had routines now.
Expectations.
People who would notice if he was gone.
It was strange.
And yet…
Not unpleasant.
He stepped back outside.
The air was warm already. Somewhere nearby, food was being prepared. He could smell spice, smoke, and something sweet.
He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, gaze drifting across the familiar paths.
Eight years.
It had been eight whole years since he washed up here.
Eight years since Miguel found him unconscious in the ocean like a piece of wreckage nobody wanted.
A lot had happened since then.
Oden's eyes lowered slightly behind his shades.
'Miguel taught me about cursed energy first.'
He had learned what cursed energy was, how negative emotions shaped it, how sorcerers controlled it, and how cursed techniques were not things people chose, they were things engraved into them from birth.
Then came cursed energy control.
Leaves balanced on his head for hours.
Keeping output stable.
Containing leaks.
Learning not to waste power.
Then reinforcement.
Then shikigami manifestation.
Then actual combat.
And too many beatings in between to count.
His expression flattened further.
'Mostly beatings, if I'm being honest.'
Still…
He had grown.
A lot.
His technique had grown too.
He still did not know its real name.
Miguel knew it was something inherited. Something unusual. Something old, probably. But he had never been able to identify it exactly. And Oden himself had long since grown tired of referring to it as that snake thing.
So, after taming more of them over the years, he had eventually named it himself.
Shikigami Summoning.
Simple and straightforward.
Accurate enough.
Because that was what it was, in his eyes.
A cursed technique that allowed him to manifest spiritual beasts.
At first there had only been Snake.
The first Shikigami. The one that had always been with him.
The one that made surviving possible.
Oden's gaze drifted toward his own shadow.
Infinite Snake.
His birth shikigami.
Its abilities were still the most absurd among the ones he had tamed. Venom. Splitting into smaller serpents. Shared senses. The power to twist bad situations, reverse damage within reason, and create recursive scenarios that disoriented anyone trapped inside them.
Miguel had once told him that if a person fully understood the pattern, the effect weakened badly.
So the technique wasn't invincible.
But it was still monstrous.
After Snake had come Tiger.
Oden could still remember that trial clearly.
Taking the hit on purpose.
Feeling fear claw up his spine as multiple Tigers began circling him, each one carrying the same presence, the same killing intent, the same eyes.
He had passed only because he forced himself not to run.
He chose one.
Faced it.
And survived.
'Stalking Tiger.'
The predator.
The one that hunted the mind before the body.
Then came Dragon.
That trial had nearly torn him apart.
A great suspended vessel hanging in screaming winds, pressure crashing against him from every direction, the air itself trying to throw him away. He had to destroy the vessel to earn its recognition.
He still remembered how his whole body trembled afterward.
'Soaring Dragon.'
Control of the battlefield.
Wind.
Pressure.
Dominance from above.
Then Ox.
He remembered that one less fondly.
No enemy. No movement and no trick.
Just pain.
Five full minutes inside spiritual flames that did not burn flesh, but inflicted agony so severe he nearly bit through his own tongue trying not to scream.
He passed by refusing to fall unconscious.
'Flaming Ox.'
Defense.
Support.
Endurance.
And then Rabbit.
That one had humiliated him.
A tiny blur in an open field, impossibly fast, impossible to catch if he chased it directly. He had only won after calming down and predicting where it would move instead of reacting to where it already was.
'Lethal Rabbit.'
Precision.
Execution.
Speed that bordered on unfair.
Five tamed shikigami.
Snake. Tiger. Dragon. Ox. Rabbit.
He had tried for others too, of course.
Not successfully.
Monkey, especially, remained a problem.
Miguel had laughed for ten straight minutes after watching how that trial ended.
Oden still had not forgiven him for that.
A small smile threatened to form at the memory.
It did not quite make it.
But it came close.
He looked up toward the wide Kenyan sky.
Eight years ago, he had arrived here as a frightened child who thought he was a murderer and a burden.
Now—
He was still awkward.
Still too quiet.
Still bad at dealing with people when emotions got involved.
Still carrying questions about Canada. About Jonathan. About Olivia. About whether they hated him, missed him, or had simply moved on.
But he was no longer helpless.
He understood his power.
Or at least part of it.
He understood cursed energy.
Combat.
Control.
And survival.
Most importantly—
He had a place to stand now.
"ODEN!"
His train of thought broke immediately.
Miguel's voice carried across the village with the exact tone of someone who was about to make his day worse on purpose.
Oden turned.
Miguel stood at the edge of the training path, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the concept of waiting.
"There you are," Miguel called. "Stop wandering around like a poet. We're training."
Oden stared at him.
'I was not wandering around like a poet.'
Miguel raised a brow.
"Well? Move."
Oden exhaled once through his nose.
"…You really know how to ruin a peaceful morning."
Miguel smirked.
"And you really know how to waste one."
With that, he turned and started walking toward the clearing.
Oden adjusted his shades, glanced once more at the village around him, and followed.
---
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