"So..." Kage finally spoke, turning toward Raiden with an amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Fujiwara, huh? You're attached to one of the most prestigious clans in Japan, yet you're here. Why?"

  The question hung in the air, direct and probing. There was no pretense of small talk, no attempt to ease into the conversation—just typical Kage, cutting straight to what interested him.

  Raiden exhaled sharply, the sound carrying a weight beyond simple exasperation. "I want to distance myself from them," he muttered. His voice was steady, controlled, but beneath it, there was something deeper—resentment. The emotion seemed to vibrate through his words, though his face remained impassive.

  Kage raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the response. "From royalty? That's rare." There was genuine curiosity in his tone now, his usual sarcastic edge temporarily softened.

  Raiden's fingers twitched slightly, a subtle tell that betrayed the emotions he was trying to contain. "They don't acknowledge anything but strength. To them, I was a disgrace."

  The words were simple, but they carried years of pain, years of rejection. Each syllable bore the weight of countless moments of humiliation and disappointment.

  Kage chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "So, revenge?"

  Raiden clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening with pressure. "No... I'd rather prove myself." There was determination in his voice—a quiet, burning resolve that needed no dramatic declarations.

  Kage studied him for a moment, his shrewd eyes taking in every detail of Raiden's posture, every nuance of his tone. Then he shrugged. "Fair enough."

  The wind swept across the Academy grounds, rustling through fallen leaves and carrying with it the scent of autumn. As it passed between them, it seemed to stir more than just the physical world—it stirred memories. Raiden's mind drifted back, the present fading as the past came rushing forward...

  The Fujiwara clan was one of Japan's few remaining sorcerer dynasties, their bloodline filled with warriors, master blacksmiths, and renowned healers. Their ancestral compound sprawled across acres of meticulously maintained grounds, traditional architecture blending seamlessly with modern security systems. Cherry trees lined stone pathways, while ancestral shrines stood in quiet reverence to the generations that had come before.

  Their sorcerers were so powerful that licenses were purchased for them, rather than earned—a privilege afforded only to the most influential families, whose service to the nation was deemed indispensable.

  To be born a Fujiwara meant power. Prestige. A guaranteed future.

  But not for Raiden.

  Born blind, he was an embarrassment to the warrior house. His family name should have carried weight, but instead, it made him a target—a living reminder of imperfection in a lineage that demanded perfection.

  That day, in the grand council hall, his fate was sealed.

  Polished wooden floors gleamed beneath the soft glow of paper lanterns. A long, mahogany table stretched across the chamber, with Fujiwara elders and house leaders seated in a row. Their gazes were cold, indifferent, judging—faces hardened by decades of maintaining the clan's reputation and power.

  At the center sat Rai Fujiwara, Raiden's older brother—a prodigy with thunderous strikes that could shake mountains. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable, his presence commanding respect without a single word spoken.

  Their father stood at the far end, his head lowered in shame, the gesture so subtle that only those who knew him well would recognize the defeat in his stance.

  The head of the Fujiwara clan leaned forward, his aged face twisted in disgust. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he frowned, his disapproval radiating across the room in palpable waves. "Rai is a tremendous prodigy. A true warrior. One who could become the head of the warrior house—if not the entire Fujiwara line."

  The praise hung in the air, a stark contrast to what would come next.

  He cast a scornful glance at Raiden, who sat on his knees at the center of the room, blind eyes staring into nothingness, his body perfectly still despite the weight of judgment pressing down upon him.

  "And then there's your youngest son... a blind disgrace who can't even conjure lightning. Damn it all, he's even blind."

  The words slashed like knives, each one carefully chosen to cut deepest.

  Raiden swallowed, but he didn't move. Years of such treatment had taught him to hide his reactions, to maintain composure even as humiliation burned through him.

  His father stammered, a rare break in his usual confidence, "Sir, please, if you'd allow him time—"

  "Enough," the elder snapped, slamming his palm against the table. The sound reverberated through the hall, silencing all other whispers. "You've had sixteen years to prove his worth, and he remains useless."

  Silence descended, heavy and oppressive.

  The air crackled as Rai finally spoke, his voice measured, controlled. "Perhaps he could be transferred to another house. The blacksmiths or the healers—"

  "NO!" the head elder's voice boomed like rolling thunder, the force of it making the lanterns sway. "The Fujiwara do not accommodate weakness. Banish him. Or your entire family will be exiled."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Raiden heard his father's breath hitch. The slightest intake of air, barely perceptible to most, but to Raiden's heightened senses, it spoke volumes. He knew the answer before it came.

  "...Understood."

  That was the last time Raiden ever saw his father hesitate.

  His father took him underground, deep into the Fujiwara's dungeon training halls. The air was cold and damp, the stone walls absorbing the sounds of the world above, ensuring that what happened here remained here.

  "Do you know what you've done?" his father's voice was eerily calm, yet his steps were heavy, echoing against the ancient stone floor.

  Raiden kept his head down. He didn't fight. He didn't speak. What was there to say? He had been born blind—a crime he could never atone for.

  His father's knuckles cracked, the sound sharp in the confined space. "I should have drowned you as a child."

  And then the blows came.

  A fist slammed into Raiden's stomach, forcing the air from his lungs in a violent rush. He doubled over, wheezing, trying desperately to recover his breath.

  Another strike—his ribs.

  Another—his jaw.

  Raiden was helpless. He had never even manifested lightning, and without his sight, he couldn't react, couldn't defend himself against the onslaught. Each blow landed with devastating precision, aimed to cause maximum pain without leaving visible damage.

  His father's voice roared over the strikes, each word punctuated by another blow. "You are a disgrace to the warrior house!"

  A final strike sent Raiden sprawling to the stone floor, his body a canvas of forming bruises, blood trickling from his split lip.

  And then—his mother's voice.

  "STOP!"

  The sound of hurried footsteps, fabric rustling as she ran in, throwing herself between them, arms outstretched in desperate protection.

  "Please!" she cried, her voice breaking. "He's still our son!"

  Raiden, barely conscious, felt something burn within him. It began as a spark, ignited by his mother's courage, by her willingness to stand between him and danger.

  Then—

  It happened.

  The air hummed.

  Electricity sparked.

  For the first time, Raiden saw.

  Not through his eyes.

  Through the lightning.

  For the first time... I see. Not through sight but through the crackling of the air. Every movement—my father's rage, my mother's tears, and the trembling within the household. Every breath—it's all connected.

  The energy in the room illuminated silhouettes. He could see his mother's outstretched arms, the tension in her shoulders as she braced herself. See his father's trembling fists, the way his chest heaved with each breath. Every detail was rendered in electric blue, a world of current and charge replacing the darkness that had been his constant companion.

  For the first time in his life, he knew where people were—not through sound or touch or smell, but through the electromagnetic field their bodies generated.

  His father's breath hitched. "You... you—no, it's too late for this now."

  Raiden's fingers twitched, but his body remained too weak to move, his newfound power still unstable, unpredictable.

  His father's rage boiled over. In blind fury, he lashed out with a wild burst of lightning—aimed at Raiden but striking his mother instead as she remained between them, protecting her son.

  A scream tore through the air, primal and terrified.

  His mother crumpled to the ground, twitching, unmoving. The smell of burned fabric and flesh filled the air, acrid and terrible.

  Raiden's father stared in horror at what he had done, his rage giving way to shock, then fear.

  Then, panic. A lie formed immediately, self-preservation overriding all else.

  "Raiden is a traitor! His Concept is cursed—he attacked his own mother!"

  Raiden's blood ran cold. The accusation settled over him like a shroud, suffocating in its injustice.

  Footsteps thundered from above—Rai.

  The moment his older brother saw their mother's battered body, lightning surged through his veins, crackling along his skin in a display of raw power.

  "Raiden..." Rai's voice was calm. Too calm. It was the stillness before a storm, the silence before thunder. "How could you?"

  Raiden's heart dropped. "I—wait, I didn't—"

  He didn't get to finish.

  Lightning erupted from Rai's palm onto Raiden.

  The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced—every nerve ending screaming in agony, every muscle contracting involuntarily. As he writhed on the ground, his brother's voice cut through the haze of pain.

  "If you were truly my brother, you'd have died before betraying us."

  Two months passed.

  Raiden had escaped, alone, weak, starving.

  Homeless, he wandered the streets of Osaka, his body failing, mana depleted. His clothes, once fine and well-made, were now tattered and filthy. He begged for scraps but received nothing—the world had no kindness to spare for a disgraced Fujiwara.

  Each day was worse than the last. His strength faded, his newly discovered ability to "see" through electromagnetic fields flickering like a dying light bulb. Without food, without shelter, he was dying—slowly but surely.

  On what he believed might be his last day, he collapsed in an alley behind a ramen shop, the tantalizing smell of food so close yet unreachable. The rain fell in sheets, soaking through his ragged clothes, chilling him to the bone. As consciousness began to slip away, he thought he might finally find peace in the darkness.

  And then—

  He felt something wet and slimy on his cheek.

  He groaned, barely able to lift his hand. "What the hell..."

  The licking continued, insistent and strangely comforting in its consistency.

  Raiden twitched, barely able to keep his thoughts together. "A dog...?"

  Then, a voice. Way too close.

  "Nah, I'm not a dog," the voice chuckled, bright and cheerful, incongruous against the backdrop of Raiden's misery. "But I get that a lot."

  Raiden cracked open an eye, his senses sharpening through the haze of hunger and exhaustion. Through his lightning sense, he could perceive a strange silhouette—mostly human, but with an oddly shaped head, complete with what appeared to be external gills.

  "I'm hallucinating. Death is near," Raiden mumbled, his voice cracked from thirst.

  "Nah, you just need some ramen," Hiro said cheerfully, as if finding a half-dead boy in an alley was the most natural thing in the world. "C'mon, my treat. I work here, so the boss won't mind. You look like you could use about five bowls."

  Raiden, too weak to argue or question why this strange person was helping him, managed a weak chuckle.

  What kind of idiot saves a stranger like this?

  But he was too weak to argue.

  Hiro helped him up with surprising strength, one of Raiden's arms draped over his shoulders as he guided him through the back door of the ramen shop. "I've got a spare futon at my place. You can crash there until you're better."

  "Why...why would you help me?" Raiden asked, his voice barely audible over the rain.

  Hiro shrugged, the movement jostling Raiden slightly. "Why wouldn't I? You needed help, I could give it." As if it were the simplest equation in the world.

  The warmth of the kitchen enveloped them as they entered, the rich aroma of broth and spices filling Raiden's senses. For the first time in months, he felt something other than despair—a tiny spark of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, not everyone in the world was like the Fujiwara clan.

  That spark would eventually grow into a determination to become stronger, to master his newfound abilities, and to prove that even a blind, disgraced Fujiwara could become a hero worth recognizing. But for now, all that mattered was the simple kindness of a stranger with an axolotl head who saw someone in need and decided to help.

  Sometimes, that's all it takes to change a life.