The Fujiwara estate stood in eerie silence, its grand halls echoing with nothing but the occasional rustle of the wind. Though servants and courtesans remained within its walls, they were little more than shadows to Renjiro Fujiwara. He neither sought their company nor allowed them to tend to him. His presence alone was enough to make them avert their gazes, bowing in silent respect—or was it fear?
He had no interest in them.
Renjiro woke early, as he always did. Dawn's first light spilled into his quarters, casting long shadows across the tatami mats. The air carried the crisp scent of morning dew, but it was accompanied by the ever-present emptiness that had haunted the Fujiwara home for years. There were no sounds of family stirring, no greetings exchanged over breakfast.
Because there was no one left.
Dressing himself in a fine yet practical kimono, he stepped out into the courtyard, where he began his usual morning routine. The rhythmic clash of his wooden training sword against a practice post broke the quiet. His movements were precise, efficient—like a machine honed for one purpose. His arms ached, but he did not stop. Training was not a necessity; it was a ritual.
Yet, today was different.
With every strike, an unfamiliar heat coiled in his veins, like embers waiting to ignite. He could feel it—the power granted to him the day before. Fire, his chosen element. The knowledge of it had settled in his mind as if it had always been there.
Setting the wooden sword aside, Renjiro flexed his fingers and focused. A mere thought sent warmth rushing to his fingertips. He turned his palm upward, and slowly, carefully, he willed it into existence.
A flicker. Then a spark. Then a flame.
It danced in his hand, its golden glow reflecting in his cold, unwavering eyes. It should have felt unnatural, but it didn't. It belonged to him now, just as the ability to fight, to kill, had once become second nature.
Still, there was another power within him—one that set him apart from others who wielded fire.
Renjiro extinguished the flame with a slow curl of his fingers, then strode toward the kitchen. The servants stepped aside as he entered, heads bowed, hands trembling slightly. He ignored them, his focus set on one task.
A young kitchen hand stood at a wooden counter, deftly slicing vegetables with practiced precision. The blade moved with speed and accuracy—effortless, fluid.
Renjiro stopped beside him, observing in silence. The boy hesitated, nervous under his gaze, but continued his work.
Then, Renjiro moved.
His hand shot out, seizing a knife from the counter. The boy gasped, stepping back, but Renjiro paid him no mind. He simply began to slice.
And just like that, the skill was his.
His hands moved with the same effortless grace, each cut as clean and precise as the last. It was as if he had spent years perfecting the craft, though mere seconds had passed. The realization settled in his mind with cold certainty. His second gift—the ability to copy anything he witnessed.
So that is the extent of it.
He placed the knife down, his expression unreadable. The kitchen staff remained still as he left, not daring to speak.
Returning to his quarters, Renjiro sat by the low wooden table in silence. The power was useful, undeniably so. But it changed nothing. His goal remained the same. His path was unshaken.
And yet…
"Renjiro… you are more than this. You don't have to walk this path alone."
The voice whispered in his mind, gentle and familiar. A woman's voice.
For a brief moment, something flickered in his cold gaze. But just as quickly, it was gone.
With a slow inhale, he closed his eyes. The past was nothing but a phantom. It held no power over him anymore.
And so, the day passed in monotonous routine—training, reading, solitude. No distractions, no emotions.
But then, just as before, the world shifted.
A sudden force tugged at him, reality bending and warping. Darkness enveloped him, and when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in his home.
He was somewhere else.
A vast space stretched before him, empty yet infinite. And standing there, waiting, was the being who had given him this power.
Noctis.
The god's piercing eyes studied him with an unreadable expression. "Renjiro Fujiwara," he greeted, his voice as deep and commanding as before. "You have returned."
Renjiro remained impassive. "You summoned me."
A faint smile tugged at Noctis's lips. "You accept your situation far more easily than the last one."
The last one? Renjiro did not ask. It was irrelevant.
Noctis stepped forward. "Tell me, have you tested your abilities?"
"Yes."
"And?"
Renjiro met the god's gaze, his own cold and unwavering. "They are useful."
Noctis chuckled, a low sound filled with amusement. "You intrigue me, Renjiro. No resistance, no questions. Most would seek answers, struggle against fate. Yet you simply… accept."
Renjiro's expression did not change. "What is there to struggle against? You offered power, I accepted. It is that simple."
"Hmm." Noctis studied him for a moment before speaking again. "Then allow me to tell you more. You are not the only one I have chosen. There are two others like you, each granted their own abilities. Together, you three will play a role in something far greater than yourselves."
Renjiro remained silent.
"I intend to challenge the gods," Noctis continued. "To break the chains of fate that bind this world. To create something new. But I cannot do it alone."
A pause. Then—
"And I need warriors like you."
Renjiro considered the words. The gods. Fate. Rebellion. None of it mattered to him. He had no loyalty to the divine, nor did he care for their downfall.
But power? That was different.
And so, he spoke, his voice as calm as ever. "What do you require of me?"
Noctis smiled. "For now, simply be prepared. The time will come when I call upon you again."
Renjiro gave a slow nod. "Very well."
And just like that, the world shifted once more.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in his quarters.
The servants still moved in hushed whispers beyond his door. The halls remained empty, void of life, void of family. The silence stretched on.
Renjiro stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve.
The gods and their wars were of no concern to him. He had made no oaths, sworn no allegiances.
But if Noctis required a warrior, he would oblige.
For now.
End of Chapter 4.