The house was dead quiet when I stepped back inside, the air thick with the smell of blood and the mess. Everything was broken—literally and figuratively. The blood was all over the floor, soaking into the cracks between the floorboards.
I stared at it for a second. It was too much. Too much for a twelve-year-old kid to handle, but here I was, standing in the middle of it.
I had to clean up. Because if I didn't, I'd just sit here and drown in my thoughts and grief.
So, I grabbed a broom and began sweeping up the glass from the kitchen. It was difficult; my hands were too small to properly grip the broom, but I managed.
I straightened chairs that had been knocked over, folded my parents' clothes with clumsy fingers, and laid them gently on the bed they'd never use again.
I wiped off the pictures on the wall—ones with all three of us, smiling like we weren't living in a goddamn warzone. That stung. But I didn't stop. Couldn't.
The kitchen was destroyed. Cabinets were knocked over. Dishes everywhere, some of them shattered. Probably looters. I didn't even care who did it. Didn't matter. I needed to move. To do something.
I wiped the counter down, my arms aching.
I moved through the house, fixing what I could. I spent hours scrubbing, patching up broken floorboards, cleaning up the wreckage like I was trying to erase every sign of what had happened. Like the house could forget, the way I wished I could.
At some point, I wandered past the hallway mirror. I stopped.
There I was—Arasaka Tatsuya.
Twelve years old.
I have grayish-blue eyes, my storm-blue hair soaked and sticking to my forehead from the rain. Mud splattered across my clothes, clinging to me. I had that lean, wiry build—skinny like only a kid could be.
Eventually, I collapsed on the couch—the one piece of furniture that hadn't been completely destroyed.
I curled up into myself. Pulled my knees close. My eyes burned, and my throat felt tight. But still—no tears. Not yet. I didn't know what came next, what I was supposed to do. I had no family, no clan, no bloodline, no plan.
Just me.
I didn't know, but at some point I fell asleep.
It was the kind of sleep that drags you under like black water—cold, heavy, and full of things waiting in the dark.
And in that dark, I dreamed.
No, not a dream. Not really.
I was… standing. Floating? Both? The world around me was empty.
Black space, no stars, no sound, just me. And in front of me, suspended in that endless dark, was a door.
It wasn't normal. There was no knob, no frame, no hinges. Just a glowing outline—like someone had traced a perfect rectangle in starlight. It pulsed softly, like it was breathing. Like it was waiting.
I stepped closer. I didn't question how I could move. My body felt lighter than air, like thought alone carried me forward. I reached out, and the second my fingers brushed the light—
It opened.
No creak, no swing. Just a shift, a snap, and suddenly I was somewhere else entirely.
It was massive. Impossible. An entire world wrapped in metal and magic.
A workshop.
Not a dusty garage with old tools and bad lighting—no, this place was divine. It stretched infinitely in every direction, glowing softly like starlight filtered through glass. Workbenches floated mid-air, rotating lazily. Tools hovered, humming with quiet power. Materials shimmered in midair—wood, steel, stone, things I couldn't even name. Glowing blueprints drifted overhead like constellations, shifting and pulsing as I looked at them.
At the center of it all was a table. Clean. Smooth. Waiting.
I walked to it, my steps echoing even though I couldn't see a floor. The second my fingers touched the surface, warmth bloomed up my arm. Not heat. Not pain. Awareness. Like a switch flipped in my brain and suddenly, I knew things.
I didn't know how, but I understood every inch of this place.
This was mine.
The Celestial Workshop.
I didn't name it. It named itself, and I just… knew.
A voice—or maybe a thought—echoed in my head, soft and mechanical:
"Create something simple."
"Like what?" I muttered aloud.
No voice answered.
But my hands moved anyway. Guided by instinct—or maybe knowledge that hadn't been there before.
I imagined a knife.
Simple, plain knife. Nothing fancy.
The moment I pictured it clearly, the materials appeared. Steel. Leather. A forge that radiated heatless fire. Tools I couldn't name but somehow knew how to use.
I got to work.
Time moved differently here. I didn't rush. Didn't second-guess. Every action felt natural. Every piece fell into place. I folded metal, hammered edges, shaped a grip, etched a simple pattern along the fuller. No fancy insignias. Just purpose. Functionality. Clean lines.
When it was finished, the knife hovered in the air above the table—sleek, sharp, balanced. Beautiful, in a brutalist way.
My breath hitched.
I didn't know how I knew that, but I knew. This wasn't imagination. It was real. Real as the blood in my veins or the silk under my hands.
Then I felt something stir inside me—a pull, a current, like pressure behind my ribs rising and waiting to be released.
Another instinctual thought bubbled to the surface:
Manifest.
I opened my eyes.
I jolted awake with a sharp breath.
For a second, I thought it was just a dream. A weird, vivid coping mechanism. Some trauma-fueled fever fantasy cooked up by my grief-addled brain.
And then I saw it.
The knife.
It was in my hand.
Simple, clean, exactly like I made it. The blade gleamed even in the dim light, the pattern etched into the steel—my pattern—proof that it wasn't just a dream.
I sat up slowly, the weight of it in my palm anchoring me to reality. It was warm. Not from heat—but from me. Like it belonged there.
I turned it over, inspecting every inch. The balance was perfect. The grip molded just right for my hand. There wasn't a single thing out of place.
"What the hell," I muttered, blinking hard.
No glowing door. No whispers. No dramatic music cue. Just me, in the wreckage of my old life, holding a knife I made in a dream.
Except it wasn't a dream.
The Workshop wasn't just a place to build.
It was a place to create.
And this knife wasn't my only option.
And the world had just handed it to a twelve-year-old with no clan, no future, and way too many reasons to start building weapons.
Good fucking luck to anyone who thought I'd stay weak.
Who thought I'd sit quietly and swallow my fate like a good little orphan.
Who thought I'd be satisfied with survival when vengeance was still on the table.
Because now? I had a goddamn forge in my brain.
And I was done being helpless.
My hands curled around the grip. A small grin pulled at the edge of my lips.
Alright then.
Let's see what else I can do.