Kurogane Ikki: "Another one!"

A Day of Remembrance

The midday sun hung high in the sky, its golden light filtering through the thick canopy of the forest. The air carried the crisp scent of pine and damp earth, a familiar fragrance to the two figures making their slow, solemn way along the narrow dirt path.

A scholar, his long white beard neatly combed, walked with measured steps beside a fair lady of graceful bearing, her silver-streaked hair carefully pinned into an elegant bun.

His robes were layered and meticulously arranged—deep navy with intricate golden embroidery, each thread woven with precision, a testament to tradition, order, and discipline. The straight lines of his attire mirrored the structured rigidity of his beliefs—that man must walk a path of diligence, guided by the wisdom of the past, building upon the foundation left by those before him.

His sash was tied tightly, his sleeves long and heavy, meant for careful movements and deliberate gestures, as though even his clothing dictated that every action should be meaningful.

Beside him, the fair lady moved with effortless grace, as if she walked not on solid earth, but along an unseen current. Her robe was lighter, flowing freely with every step—a muted jade, simple yet elegant, embroidered with lotus patterns that seemed to drift across the fabric like leaves on water.

Where her husband's attire constrained, hers embraced freedom. Her sleeves billowed gently, untethered, unrestricted.

Their movements, though side by side, told a story of contrast.

The scholar walked with purpose, his feet striking the earth with certainty, each step measured, deliberate, a reflection of a man who believed that progress was achieved through effort and discipline. His back was straight, his posture unwavering—as if each stride was an affirmation of the hard path he had spent his life walking.

The lady, however, moved like a drifting leaf caught in the wind—light, unburdened, as if her steps were dictated not by will, but by nature itself. Her pace did not waver, yet it was never forceful. She flowed where her husband carved a path.

They were not hurrying; their destination had already been decided long ago.

Each year, on this day, they came here—to the small, unadorned shrine nestled beneath an ancient tree. It was a quiet place, one where the whispers of the wind carried memories rather than words.

The scholar kept his gaze forward, his hands clasped behind his back, while the lady walked beside him, her posture as straight as a bamboo stalk. Though they said nothing, the weight in their silence was palpable.

Today marked another year since they had lost her.

Their only daughter.

The lady's fingers trembled slightly as she clutched a small wooden tablet, her lips moving in silent prayer. The scholar, though he did not share her faith in divine will, respected the ritual. He had long since given up questioning what had been taken from them.

Fate was cruel.

Then—a snarl broke the silence.

---

The fair lady froze, her sharp eyes snapping toward the source of the sound. Her breath hitched, but her expression remained composed, years of discipline keeping her from gasping aloud. Her delicate hands, once loosely clasped before her, now tensed slightly, fingers curling against the fabric of her robe.

The scholar, though startled, reacted swiftly—his body still, but his mind already moving, calculating. His keen eyes narrowed, scanning the undergrowth for movement, for any sign of what had caused the disturbance. His hands twitched toward his sleeves—where a well-worn calligraphy brush rested, but his grip eased when he realized that words would not aid him here.

"Did you hear that?" the lady murmured, her voice hushed yet firm.

"I would have to be deaf not to," the scholar replied, his tone low and steady, but there was a sharp edge to it—a tension, a readiness.

Her eyes darted to his stance—his weight had subtly shifted, knees slightly bent, one foot instinctively positioned behind the other, as if preparing for a quick step forward or back.

She knew that beneath his scholarly appearance lay the instincts of a man who had long survived the ruthless games of the imperial court.

"What do you think?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

He did not answer immediately. Instead, his gaze flickered to the trees, to the brush, to the subtle way the leaves trembled despite the absence of wind.

"Something—or someone—is here," he finally said. His voice was calm, but his fingers had tightened around his robe, pulling it slightly away from his legs, ensuring ease of movement, should it come to that.

The fair lady exhaled slowly, gathering herself. "A beast, or a man?"

The scholar's lips pressed into a thin line. "We will find out soon enough."

He stepped slightly forward, instinctively positioning himself between his wife and the unseen presence ahead.

The fair lady did not protest—but her fingers grazed the jade pendant at her waist, a silent prayer forming on her lips.

---

Just ahead, beyond the bend in the path, a gaunt, sickly wolf slinked from the underbrush.

Its fur was matted and dull, its ribs poking through its thin hide. The way it moved, slow but deliberate, spoke of desperation.

And standing before it, small and impossibly calm, was a child.

Barefoot. Fragile. Alone.

The woman gasped, but before she could call out—

The child moved.

Not in panic. Not in fear.

But with instinct, shifting his tiny feet at the last possible moment, just enough to avoid the wolf's sluggish swipe.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't refined.

But it was unnatural for a child so young.

The scholar's breath caught in his throat. His mind, trained to dissect logic and unravel mysteries, rebelled against what his eyes were witnessing.

A mere infant, no taller than his knee, dodging—not stumbling away in blind fear, not crawling in desperate panic, but dodging—with an eerie sense of awareness.

That was not something a child should be able to do.

The weight of impossibility pressed against his thoughts, demanding an answer, an explanation.

Was this an illusion? A trick of the light? Some desperate, instinctual flailing that only seemed deliberate?

But his gut, honed by years of careful observation, whispered:

No. That was intent.

And yet, there was no time for analysis.

His body had already moved.

His fingers grasped at the closest weapon—not a sword, not a brush, but a simple fallen branch.

A crude tool, but in the hands of a scholar, even ink could cut.

His muscles tensed as he shifted his weight, measuring the distance with his old eyes, feeling the direction of the wind—

Precision over power. Knowledge over brute force.

He let the branch fly.

At the same time—

His wife's voice rang out, sharp and urgent, cutting through the moment with the clarity of temple bells.

"Xiǎo háizi! Dǒukāi!" ("Child! Dodge!")

Her heart clenched as she called out, not in fear, but in command—a mother's voice, an elder's voice, a voice meant to guide and protect.

Would he? Could he?

She did not know.

But she had to try.

And than the branch...

Struck the wolf's snout.

The beast yelped, stumbling back, shaking its head in pain.

The lady was already stepping forward, her movements surprisingly swift for her age, positioning herself between the child and the creature.

The wolf hesitated. It was weak. It had no energy for a real fight.

It let out a final, frustrated huff before turning tail and slinking back into the underbrush.

Only when it was gone did the tension leave the air.

The scholar let out a slow breath, adjusting his sleeves as he stepped toward the child.

The woman, however, had already knelt before him.

.....

She reached out with trembling hands, brushing strands of soft, dark hair away from the boy's round face. His delicate features were peaceful, as if he had not just faced a starving predator. His tiny chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, utterly unaware of the shock he had just caused.

He was filthy, his clothes marred with dirt and small tears, yet beneath the grime, the quality of the fabric was undeniable. The stitching was precise, the weave too fine for anything a commoner could afford. Even merchants would hesitate before dressing their children in such luxury.

Her lips parted slightly. "Zhège háizi bùshì yībān rén de háizi…" (This child is not from commoner family…")

The scholar, standing beside her now, followed her gaze, his sharp eyes sweeping over the boy with practiced precision.

"This is not peasant work," he muttered, almost to himself. His fingers traced the embroidery at the seams, the craftsmanship too precise, too meticulous to belong to a child discarded by struggling farmers.

His gaze traveled lower, taking in the boy's smooth skin. Too smooth. His hair, though messy, was cleaner than expected for an abandoned child—not at all like one who had suffered hardship for long.

And then—

He noticed the diaper.

His brows furrowed deeply as he reached out, his fingers running over the material with both wonder and fury.

"This…" He hesitated, the texture foreign beneath his calloused fingers. Then, his eyes widened. His voice rose in sheer indignation.

"This is paper!"

The fair lady, still cradling the child in her arms, blinked. "Paper?"

He snapped his head toward her, as if expecting her to understand the absurdity of what he had just said. His fingers gripped the edges of the cloth-like wrapping, turning it over, examining the fibers. His mind raced.

"This is wasteful beyond reason!" he declared, his voice thick with disbelief and outrage. "Who in their right mind uses such a precious material for something so disposable? This is not the work of commoners! Even low officials would not dare such recklessness! Even within the imperial court, paper is treated with the utmost care! And yet—this?"

The woman frowned slightly, rocking the child in her arms. "Guo Ren, you're startling him."

Guo Ren huffed but did not lower his voice. "Then he should learn from now how foolish the people who abandoned him were!" He turned back to the diaper, still not accepting what he was seeing. "Do you know how many bamboo reeds are needed to produce this much fine-quality paper?! And this—this has been folded, wrapped, and soiled like it was worth less than straw!"

The woman's expression softened into something amused despite herself. "You're angrier about the diaper than the fact that we found an abandoned child."

Guo Ren scowled, crossing his arms. "Because one I can understand. The other is just insanity."

She let out a quiet laugh. "So, you accept that he was abandoned?"

"I accept that someone deliberately left him here," he corrected, his tone sharpening as his mind pieced together the inconsistencies. His sharp gaze swept the area, scrutinizing every branch, every footprint—or lack thereof.

"No sign of a struggle," he murmured. "No footprints leading away, no snapped twigs at the height of an adult's stride. Whoever left him did so quickly and deliberately." He exhaled through his nose. "And they must have been well off. Wealthy. Maybe even… aristocracy."

The woman's lips pressed together as she looked down at the child, who stared back at her with unnervingly attentive golden eyes.

"A noble's son, then?" she asked softly.

Guo Ren scoffed. "Perhaps. Or a mistake from one." He rubbed his chin, his mind still tangled in the contradictions. "Either way, it means trouble."

The woman tightened her hold on the child. "Then we should protect him."

He turned to her fully now, studying her expression. "Mei Lian—"

"He is a gift, Guo Ren," she said, cutting through his protests. Her tone was softer now, almost reverent. "We came here to mourn death, yet we found life instead. Is that not a sign from the heavens?"

The scholar glanced at her, his mouth opening—to object, to refute—but then… he saw her face.

For the first time in years, she was crying.

And so, he said nothing.

Instead, he placed a steady hand on her shoulder.

His pragmatic, mind resisted her words. And yet…

He looked at the child again.

The boy, despite everything, did not cry. Did not fuss.

Instead, he watched them.

And somehow, that unsettled him even more than the absurd diaper.

....

The boy watched them with wide, curious black eyes, blinking slowly. His small fingers twitched, as if testing the weight of the air around him. He did not cry, did not fuss—only observed.

Guo Ren exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "At the very least," he muttered, "we should know what to call him."

Mei Lian, still cradling the child close, sniffled once before composing herself. "Then you, oh wise one, tell me—what name shall he have?" Her tone carried an edge of sarcasm, daring him to take responsibility.

Guo Ren sighed, kneeling down to the child's eye level. "Let's see if he understands."

He pointed at himself. "Guo Ren."

Then, to the woman. "Mei Lian."

The child stared at them blankly.

Mei Lian's shoulders softened, a knowing smile gracing her lips. "He's too young to—"

"Kuro… gane Ikki."

The words were soft, slow, a broken mimicry—but undeniable.

The air between them stilled.

Mei Lian gasped, her eyes going wide as she looked down at the child in sheer disbelief.

Guo Ren, ever the rationalist, narrowed his gaze sharply. His mind, finely honed by years of scholarly study, ran through every logical conclusion in rapid succession.

"He spoke," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His brows furrowed deeply. "Not just sounds. Words."

Mei Lian's shock gave way to a warm, radiant smile. She pulled Ikki closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "He truly is a blessing."

Guo Ren scoffed, still deep in thought. "Or a very peculiar anomaly."

Her expression flattened instantly. "Are you truly going to argue with the heavens?"

"I argue with everything," he said without hesitation.

Mei Lian huffed, lifting her chin. "Then you will lose. The Dao flows as it wills, and you cannot challenge it."

"And yet, you fight it every time you refuse to let things go." His lips quirked into a smirk. "Wouldn't that make you just as stubborn?"

Their glare-off lasted precisely three seconds before—

A tiny clap.

Both adults froze and turned in unison.

Ikki, giggling, was clapping his hands together in delight, his round cheeks flushed with innocent joy.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

Guo Ren let out a short, begrudging snort, the tension cracking just a little.

Mei Lian sighed, rolling her eyes, but her lips curled into an affectionate smile.

Then, with an exaggerated sigh, Guo Ren rose to his feet, dusting off his robes. "Fine, I suppose we're keeping him," he said, as if Mei Lian's decision wasn't already set in stone.

But his voice was lighter.

---

Later, as they sat beneath a grove of trees near the shrine, Guo Ren's mind still refused to let go of the impossibility of it all.

A child of this age—. barely able to sit upright without toppling over, had just spoken his own name.

He needed to test it.

Clearing his throat, he met Mei Lian's suspicious stare. "I want to confirm something."

She sighed. "And here it comes."

Guo Ren ignored her and leaned toward Ikki, who sat comfortably on Mei Lian's lap.

He slowly pointed at himself again. "Guo Ren."

Ikki stared at him, unblinking.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Guo Ren pointed at Mei Lian. "Mei Lian."

The boy's tiny hands twitched. His eyes followed the movement of the scholar's hand, watching how he directed his words.

Now for the final test.

Guo Ren pointed at the child, his gaze sharp. He said nothing.

Ikki blinked. Then, as if the answer had simply been there all along, he lifted one chubby finger—pointed at himself—and, in his soft, broken mimicry, said:

"Kurogane Ikki."

Guo Ren's breath caught in his throat.

That was not random baby babbling.

That was not an infant stringing together meaningless sounds.

That was intentional.

Mei Lian's mouth fell open, but Guo Ren's mind was already racing.

"He doesn't understand the words," he muttered, thinking aloud. "Only the pattern. He's mimicking body language, not speech comprehension."

Mei Lian frowned. "So?"

"So," Guo Ren leaned back, stroking his beard in thought, "if he were truly a child with natural intelligence, raised in any normal household, he would have already learned at least a handful of words in his native tongue."

Mei Lian still looked unimpressed. "And your point?"

"His native tongue is not Huáxià."

The words settled between them like a stone sinking into deep waters.

Mei Lian stiffened slightly. "You think he's a foreigner?"

Guo Ren shook his head. "No, that's the problem. He doesn't seem foreign." He exhaled, glancing down at the boy. "And yet, a child this developed should absolutely have picked up a few basic words by now—if he had been raised around spoken language."

Mei Lian hesitated, a rare unease slipping into her usually serene expression.

"But if he isn't a foreigner," she said carefully, "and he hasn't heard enough speech to learn even one basic word of Huáxià… then where did he come from?"

Guo Ren had no answer.

But he would find one.

Eventually.

For now—

He barely had a second to think before a hard slap landed on his arm.

Mei Lian scowled at him, eyes narrowed. "Stop treating him like one of your science experiments!"

Guo Ren blinked. "I—"

"He's a child, Guo Ren. A baby. Not one of your rabbits in a cage!"

Guo Ren rubbed his arm, looking mildly offended. "I was simply applying reason—"

"Reason your way into being a decent grandfather, then!"

The scholar scoffed. "We are far too old to be raising another child."

Mei Lian's expression darkened immediately.

The atmosphere plummeted by ten degrees.

She slowly turned her head toward him, the air thick with a silent warning.

"Too. Old?" she repeated dangerously.

Guo Ren, oblivious to the obvious death flag he had raised, continued. "Yes. We don't have the same energy we used to. We're set in our ways. It would be foolish—"

Mei Lian narrowed her eyes into slits.

With all the grace and dignity of a woman who refused to be even remotely insulted, she smiled—sweetly.

"I," she said in a dangerously soft tone, "am in my prime."

Guo Ren blinked, then had the good sense to go silent.

A beat of silence passed.

Then—

"Well, I certainly don't deny that," he said smoothly. "You look excellent for your age. However, I am quite a bit older than you and—"

Mei Lian cracked her knuckles.

Guo Ren decided this was the moment to stop talking.

Meanwhile, little Ikki watched them both—and promptly burst into a fit of pure, uninhibited laughter.

The two adults froze, then turned to him.

His tiny hands clapped together, his bright golden eyes sparkling with mirth.

For a moment, they both forgot the weight of the day.

And then, unable to help themselves—

They laughed too.