When Blood Falls Silent

Mai’s muscles were still burning. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from the raw energy still spinning through them, like a wild animal that hadn’t finished devouring its prey. She couldn’t explain what she had felt during the fight with Tiffany. She didn’t understand how she’d survived. But what echoed in her more than anything was the moment after. That look. That smirk. And more than that—the whisper before Tiffany vanished into the shadows: “You’re not bad. That’s rare.”

Mai returned to the camp drained. Michael didn’t say a word. He just stared at her, sipped from his dark pipe, and turned his eyes to the fire.

“So, you survived.”

“I’m not looking for a medal.”

“You won’t get one. No applause either.”

She sat on the dirt across from him. Her red hair looked darker now. Not just from mud, but from something inside that had dimmed.

“You know her?”

“Tiffany? Enough. Maybe too much.”

“You trained her?”

He laughed. Not happily. “No. She’s not the type to be trained. She’s the type that burns her instructors.”

Silence.

“Then why did it feel like she... tried to understand me? Even for a second?”

“Because she saw in you something she hated in herself.”

The next morning, Mai woke before sunrise.

For the first time, not from a dream about her mother.

But from laughter.

A soft laugh, feminine, like it came from a distance—but it was too close to her soul.

She got up, shook the dust from her clothes, and walked.

On the way, Michael stopped her:

“Your next path leads through Nagasaki. You’ll find Yamora there. Tell him I sent you.”

“Yamora? Are you serious?”

“No. But you’re going anyway.”

Nagasaki didn’t welcome her warmly.

Rain. Again.

The streets are too quiet. Air is too heavy.

And every step led her deeper into a city once rebuilt—and again fallen.

She found Yamora’s dojo at the edge of a narrow traditional alley.

The door was open.

On the floor sat an old but sturdy man, dressed in white ninja robes, eyes sharper than blades.

“Michael’s girl.”

“Mai.”

“Your name matters less than the question: why are you here?”

“To understand. The flowers. What am I? Why I’m not dead yet.”

He stood slowly.

Every movement radiated control.

Not power—control.

“If you want to understand, you’ll have to fail.”

“I’m used to failing.”

“Not the right kind.”

He tossed her a wooden staff.

“Try to hit me.”

She lunged.

She moved fast—red fast.

But Yamora simply... disappeared.

Not really—he just moved. Slowly. But enough. And she struck empty air.

“Power isn’t speed. Or blood. Or revenge.”

He caught her wrist—and without effort, flung her backward.

“Real power is when you don’t have to use it.”

She coughed. Rose. Again.

“So why am I alive? Why does the rose burn my soul?”

Yamora stepped closer.

“Because you’re full of poison. Because you crave to kill. And you don’t realize it’ll kill you first.”

She stayed there.

Three days of training with no power. No aura. Just movement. Breathing. Intention.

And on the fourth day, someone arrived.

“So this is the rose girl.”

That voice.

Mai turned—Tiffany stood there.

Yellow. Smiling.

Like a sad clown who didn’t know she was one.

“What are you doing here?”

“Wondering how a girl with red hair managed to touch me in battle.”

“I didn’t touch you.”

“You did.

In the heart.

Half a second.

But I felt it.”

Yamora came out.

“Your student?”

“I belong to no one.”

“Good.

There’s only one place in the world for people like that.”

“I’ve already been there,” she whispered.

She stepped toward Mai.

Not in threat.

Not in warmth.

In something else. Like... an offer.

“Wanna see something beautiful?”

“Not now.”

“When you see it, you won’t forget.”

That night, Mai didn’t sleep.

She wasn’t afraid.

But she felt like something had broken.

Not from a strike.

From longing for something she’d never known.

And she asked herself:

“If Tiffany were different... maybe I would’ve been Tiffany.”

The next day, Yamora opened a wooden drawer and pulled out an old card.

“You want to know what the Dragon Rose is?”

“Yes.”

“Then know this: it’s not a flower.

It’s a decision.”

He handed her the card.

On it—a painting of a massive rose. Black-red.

And in its center—an eye.

“To find it, you must let go of everything you know.

Even Michael.

Even yourself.”

“Then why start?”

“Because you’re not Mai anymore.”

She didn’t answer.

“So who am I?”

“You’re what’ll be left after you burn everything else.”

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