Chapter 2: The Pen and the Path
Training brought pain.
It brought bruises, pulled muscles, aching joints, and days where Hajime could barely keep his eyes open. But more than anything, it brought hunger. Not the mild, forgettable kind from skipping a meal, but a gnawing, sharp ache in his stomach that returned almost hourly. The kind of hunger that twisted his insides and made bowls of rice and dried fish vanish faster than he could chew.
He didn't know if it was the training alone or something deeper. Sometimes, he wondered if the geneseed resting in his mind, the silent object floating in that mental void, was slowly changing him. Maybe it was already triggering something, whispering quietly to his body from within. Preparing him.
Whatever the cause, Hajime knew one thing for certain: he couldn't keep living off Granny Kiko's generosity. The kind old woman down the road had been slipping him leftovers since he arrived in the village. Burnt miso, soft yams, undercooked rice. Not because she had much, but because she had heart. But even her pantry was small, and Hajime's growing appetite was quickly becoming something closer to monstrous. The guilt had begun to gnaw at him almost as much as the hunger.
He needed money. Or something to trade. Fast.
The question plagued him as he sat beneath a tree, muscles sore from chakra control training. A chill breeze blew across the hills, and he gnawed absently on a wild apple, half-rotted and worm-bitten. His modern mind spun with half-baked plans. He had knowledge they didn't, real-world education, science, systems. But none of that meant anything when the people around him saw a skinny twelve-year-old with dirt under his nails.
Maybe he could help them farm more efficiently? Teach crop rotation or composting techniques? He shook his head immediately. They wouldn't trust a kid. If anything, he'd just make enemies by pretending to be smarter than the adults.
He considered making toys, simple ones like bamboo wind spinners or folding puzzles. But that would eat time. Time he couldn't spare, not when chakra training already devoured most of his day and left him collapsing onto straw at night.
Frustrated, Hajime stood and began walking the main road back into the village. He kicked a rock out of his path and stared down at the dusty path. What could he offer? What did he have that they didn't?
Then, he spotted him.
A man, perhaps in his twenties, sat hunched on a roadside bench beneath a fig tree, fidgeting nervously with a small brush pen in hand. A single piece of paper rested on his lap, already covered in scratched-out lines and frustrated ink smudges. Hajime slowed his steps and watched from a distance. The man sighed deeply, scratched out another sentence, and muttered to himself.
"I like your eyes. They remind me of… a cat? No, no, that's weird."
Hajime's mouth twitched.
He stepped closer. "If you want her heart," he said casually, "don't write stupidly."
The man looked up, startled. "Huh?"
"You're trying too hard," Hajime said. "Forget about her looks. Start with how she makes you feel. Like... how the world changes when she smiles."
The man blinked at him. His eyes, previously clouded with frustration, suddenly sharpened. "That's… actually good." He sat up straighter. "You got more lines like that?"
Hajime shrugged. "Maybe."
The man hesitated, then held out the brush. "Can you help me write the whole thing?"
Hajime reached out his hand, but not for the brush.
He rubbed two fingers together. Payment.
The man stared. "You're charging me?"
Hajime smirked. "First line's free. The rest? That'll cost you."
The man stared for a moment. Then, after a resigned sigh, he reached into his sash and pulled out a few copper coins. Hajime took them without hesitation, sat down beside him, and began to dictate.
"Start with this: 'When you laugh, the world gets a little quieter, like it's listening with me.' Then follow it with something honest. Something simple. Say, 'I'm not a poet, but you make me wish I was.'"
The man scribbled furiously, muttering the words aloud as he wrote. When he was done, he stared at the page like it had just performed a miracle.
"You're good," he said, eyes wide.
"I know," Hajime replied, standing and flipping the coin in his hand.
He walked away before the man could ask for more.
The next morning, another man found him near the edge of the rice paddies. This one was younger, shy, holding a red flower in shaking hands.
"You're the love letter kid, right?" he asked.
Hajime paused. "Maybe."
"I'll pay. There's this girl on the ferry crew. She's leaving in two days."
"Alright," Hajime said, and the deal was made.
By week's end, word had spread like wildfire through the village. A merchant asked for help writing a scroll for his brother inland. A grandmother came to request a poem to read at her late husband's shrine. A traveling trader stopped to have a route charted and described in writing.
That's when Hajime realized the truth: most of the villagers couldn't write well. Some could sign their names. A few could read old prayers. But none of them could craft words, not for love, not for grief, not for business.
But he could.
He was literate in a world that wasn't. And that meant something.
So, he began to offer his services.
Each morning, after training and chores, he laid out a cloth beneath the same fig tree, took out a brush, a small bottle of ink, and a few scrolls. At first, people looked at him strangely. A child, offering writing services? But one by one, they came.
Love letters. Apologies. Birth blessings. Shrine dedications.
Hajime wrote them all. He charged a few coins, sometimes less if the person was sincere or poor. He never turned away the desperate. But he never worked for free, either.
Soon, they gave him a name.
They called him the village scribe.
By moonlight, he sometimes wrote stories, folk tales, jokes, little parables. Illustrated them in the simple style used in prayer scrolls. He'd sell them at the docks to bored fishermen and wide-eyed children for pocket change.
And though it was slow, it was enough.
He could afford his own food. He could train harder. He could think clearer, sleep warmer, and walk with his head held a little higher.
One night, after finishing a long chakra control session and eating grilled fish with thick sweet potatoes, Hajime collapsed onto his mat, too tired to move.
As his eyes drifted shut, he felt it again, that subtle pull, like being drawn backward into the depths of his own mind.
He opened his eyes and stood once more in the black, endless mental space. There was no floor, no sky, only the void and the glowing, floating container at its center. The geneseed hovered silently, its sealed form pulsing like a second heart in the dark.
Hajime approached it slowly, his hands at his sides.
"I'm still not ready," he said softly. His voice echoed in the empty vastness. "But I'm getting there."
The geneseed didn't reply. It never did.
But its pulse felt steadier now.
As if it agreed.
That night, Hajime fell asleep with a full stomach, ink-stained fingers, and fire in his chest.
He was still just a boy.
But now, he was a boy with purpose.
And for now, that was enough.