Year

A year.

Spring in White Wax Town was no different from last year.

The townsfolk lived the same lives, said the same things, and worried about the same matters as they had last year.

How big the catch was, whether the weather was good, whether the boat planks needed repairs.

The Marcus household looked no different either.

Marcus himself still spent all day in the workshop, sawing wood and planing boat planks.

If there was any change, it was that he spent even longer in the workshop than last year. But since he already slept there, the difference was almost impossible to notice.

The ones who had truly changed were the four children.

Damian helped unload cargo at the docks during the day, and his shoulders were a fist-width broader than last year. Barlow ran errands and kept accounts for a fishmonger, his fingers growing steadier by the day. Roy and Mila were the youngest and did not have to work, so they had the most time.

They had trained for a year.

No one taught them, and no one guided them. They relied entirely on the images carved into their minds by that dream.

The angle at which that man swung his blade, the rhythm of his footwork—they recalled them again and again, imitated them again and again, made mistakes again and again, then corrected them again and again.

They only discovered chakra later.

At first, they had tried to cultivate the Fire Release: Phoenix Sage Fire from the dream, but no matter what they did, they could not breathe flames. Even though Barlow could form those six hand seals flawlessly in one second, it was useless.

Later, they learned from the dream how to refine this energy called chakra.

Every night after returning from the docks, Damian trained for two hours in the woods behind the house.

His movements were broad and forceful, and he had plenty of strength, but his precision was lacking.

He knew it himself, so he practiced the same sword-drawing motion for nearly half a month.

Barlow trained the least, but he was the most efficient.

He practiced only one movement at a time, not moving on until he had perfectly replicated the path of that man's movement from the dream. He practiced each movement hundreds of times, until his muscles remembered it and he no longer needed to think.

Roy and Mila had the most time.

Roy improved the fastest. His body reacted more strongly to chakra than any of his three siblings', and he refined it faster and in greater quantities.

Mila had the least chakra, but the most precise control.

Mila should not have been training in these things.

A year ago, Damian had made it clear: his little sister was not to get involved with this.

Mila had only asked one question then. "Do you look down on women, or do you look down on me?"

Damian had opened his mouth, but no words came out.

She had been like that since childhood.

Because she was the youngest in the family and a girl, everyone instinctively wanted to indulge her, protect her, and make decisions for her.

She did not care about anything else, but the moment someone said something like "girls shouldn't do this," she would immediately turn hostile.

When she was five, Barlow said girls should not handle swords too much because they could hurt themselves easily. She did not speak to him for three days, and only forgave him after he personally carved her a little wooden sword as an apology.

So after Damian was left speechless, no one brought it up again.

And so Mila trained for a year as well.

Barlow returned earlier than usual today.

The fishmonger's account books had been finished that afternoon. He walked home along the dirt road, and as he passed the blacksmith's shop, he did not slow down.

Smoke rose from the blacksmith's chimney, and the clang of hammering drifted out. The new blacksmith was a middle-aged man who had moved in from elsewhere. His craftsmanship was decent, and his prices were fair.

The old blacksmith was gone.

A few months ago, the old blacksmith had drunk too much, missed his footing at night, and fallen into the sea.

By the time someone found him the next morning, he was already dead. The townsfolk sighed for a while, saying the old blacksmith had been good at everything except holding his liquor, then life went on.

Barlow had sighed as well.

He turned off from the town entrance onto the narrow path leading home and spotted a figure in the woods behind the house from afar.

It was Mila.

She had just finished a set of drills and was sheathing her blade. It was a knife two fingers shorter than an ordinary dagger, with a narrow, lightweight blade that fit her hand perfectly.

Her movements were completely different from those of the man in the dream.

That man's swordsmanship had been fierce and decisive, every strike aimed at a fatal point, balancing strength and speed.

Mila lacked the strength and could not match his speed, so she changed it. Her sword arcs were shorter, her swings tighter, and she sheathed the blade faster than she drew it.

She was practicing a style better suited to herself.

Barlow walked over and sat beneath the roots of a white wax tree. Shade fell over his shoulders as he leaned back.

"You're home early today." Mila did not turn around.

"Fewer accounts."

Mila tucked her knife into her belt and turned around. In a year, she had shot up in height. Some of the roundness of a little girl had faded from her face, and definition had begun to appear in her features.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and sat down beside Barlow.

The two were silent for a while.

The wind passed through the white wax grove, and the silvery leaves rustled.

"I want to ask you something," Barlow said.

"Mm?"

"Can other people cultivate chakra too?"

"No." Mila did not hesitate.

Barlow turned to look at her. "How can you be so sure?"

"I tried it," Mila said.

Something shifted in Barlow's gaze.

"There's a boy in town who seems to like me."

Mila said it as calmly as if she were commenting on the nice weather.

"I pretended to play pirate games with him and tricked him into believing I had a secret formula for getting stronger. I told him that if he mastered it, he could protect me. He believed me. I taught him how to refine chakra, and he fiddled with it for several days."

"And then?"

"Nothing happened."

Barlow was silent for several seconds.

"What if he had reacted?"

Mila looked at the white wax trees ahead. Sunlight filtered through the leaves and fell across her knees.

"Then he could only die in an accident."

There was not the slightest fluctuation in her voice when she said it.

Barlow looked at her for two seconds, then the corner of his mouth curled upward.

"Little sis is pretty ruthless."

Mila turned to look at him. Her eyes were light brown, just like Roy's, like amber washed by seawater.

A year ago, those eyes had still held the innocence of a little girl. Now they did not.

"Aren't you the same?"

Barlow said nothing.

"That old blacksmith," Mila said. "The one who made four knives for our family. You told him to make the blades narrow, lighten them, and sharpen the edges thin. He agreed. Then he muttered in private about what Marcus's children needed knives for, saying they were probably planning to go to sea and become pirates."

"Later, he drank too much and missed his footing at night, falling into the sea," Mila said. "Everyone in town believed it, because that blacksmith really did love to drink."

"He really did love to drink," Barlow said.

The two met each other's gaze for a moment.

Then they both smiled faintly.

The wind blew again. Several white wax leaves spiraled down to their feet.

"How's your swordsmanship coming along?" Barlow changed the subject.

"Good enough," Mila said.

"Good enough to deal with whom?"

"Good enough to deal with you."

Barlow raised an eyebrow.

"Your footwork—the first three steps are attacks, the fourth changes direction, and the fifth switches hands," Mila said. "I've watched it for half a year. When you switch hands, your body tilts half a shoulder to the left. That's when your center of gravity is the least stable."

Barlow looked at her for a while.

"You noticed?"

"I noticed long ago."

"Then why didn't you say so earlier?"

"When you really fight me someday, you'll find out."

This time, Barlow truly laughed.

"What about you?" Mila asked. "Did you try to see whether other people can cultivate it?"

"No," Barlow said.

"Why?"

"There was no need to try. That voice said, 'Make the Uchiha great again,' not 'Make the whole world great again.'"

Barlow tapped his fingers against his knee. "This thing was prepared for certain people, and we just happen to be those people."

He paused.

"And don't use yourself as bait so casually in the future."

"What bait?"

"Tricking that boy with yourself."

Mila glanced at him. "I wouldn't have actually let him touch me."

"That's not the issue."

"Then what is?"

Barlow considered his wording. "You're a girl."

Mila narrowed her eyes. Barlow knew that expression far too well; he had seen it countless times since childhood.

"That sentence had better have a second half."

"It does," Barlow said. "You're a girl, so you can use this method. Roy can't, I can't, and Damian definitely can't. That's your advantage."

Mila's narrowed eyes slowly returned to normal.

"But if you use an advantage too often, it becomes a habit," Barlow said. "People who get used to using themselves as bait will be dragged into the water by fish one day. Sometimes, fish are smarter than you think."

Mila did not respond.

She lowered her head and looked at the short knife at her waist.

"I understand."

Barlow stood and brushed the fallen leaves from his trousers.

"Come on. Roy has been training all afternoon again. He must be starving by dinner."

He had taken two steps when Mila called out behind him.

"Second Brother."

"Mm?"

"I won't tell Eldest Brother about the blacksmith."

Barlow did not turn around.

"He knows."

"...What?"

"Damian knows," Barlow said. "When they found the body the next morning, he looked at me. He didn't say anything. He just looked at me once, then went to the docks to unload cargo."

Mila was silent for several seconds.

"Then he..."

"He doesn't approve," Barlow said. "But he won't tell anyone, because it was done by someone from our household."

Neither of them spoke again as they walked out of the woods, one after the other.