Chapter 2: A brother's burden

*Old Man Totsu's POV*

The first thing I felt when I woke was the stiffness in my neck and the chill of mountain air. The second was the warmth of something draped across my shoulders.

I cracked one eye open and frowned. A blanket—thin, patched in places, but carefully tucked around me. The very same one I’d given the children last night.

Shifting in the chair, I glanced toward the doorway. There they were, still sitting close together on the shop’s floor, the boy already awake, watching me with sharp eyes that reminded me far too much of a grown man’s. The girl stirred beside him, still wrapped in her brother’s arm.

I tugged lightly at the blanket. “This wasn’t mine when I fell asleep.”

The boy didn’t flinch. Instead, he inclined his head slightly, like it was only natural. “Miya’s idea.”

From under his arm, the little girl peeked up, blinking sleepily, but she smiled when she saw me.

“Old man will catch a cold if he sleeps like that,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. “So we gave it back.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. I’d lived alone for so long that I’d nearly forgotten the simple kindness of someone worrying about you. It caught me off guard, though I hid it with a grunt and rose stiffly from the chair.

“You two are strange little brats,” I muttered, folding the blanket over my arm. “But… thanks.”

The days fell into a rhythm. Strange as it was, I didn’t mind the company of the two siblings. The shop, once filled only with the hum of boiling syrup and the rustle of sugar canes, now had the sound of little feet shuffling around and quiet chatter.

It was Miya who first asked how I made the sweets. And once the boy—Kiro—saw her excitement, he insisted on helping too.

“You’ll burn yourselves if you’re not careful,” I grumbled, but I still found myself showing them anyway.

I took them out to the back, where the soil was dark and soft, and the apple tree stretched tall and proud. Rows of sugarcane stood beside it, far too healthy for their age.

Kiro squinted at me. “This isn’t normal, is it?”

I smirked. With a wave of my hand, I drew a faint green shimmer across the stalks, and within seconds, fresh shoots thickened and grew. Apples plumped on the branches. The air filled with the sweet smell of harvest.

Miya’s eyes sparkled. “You can use magic!”

“Not much of it,” I said, plucking an apple to toss her way. “Just enough to grow what I need. That’s how an old man like me makes his candy.”

Back in the shop, the kids helped stir the syrup. Miya hummed, delighted, while Kiro watched the bubbling pot with sharp focus. I turned away only for a moment when I heard it—

“Agh!”

The boy jerked his hand back, red rising across his skin where the syrup had splattered.

“Idiot!” I barked, rushing over. “Didn’t I tell you—”

But then I froze. The burn was fading before my eyes, the angry red softening, vanishing into smooth skin. Within moments, it was as though he had never touched the pot at all.

Kiro blinked down at his hand. Miya stared wide-eyed.

“…I-I didn’t do anything,” the boy muttered.

I grabbed his wrist, turning it over. Perfectly fine. Not even a scar.

That night, I didn’t sleep easy. And in the days that followed, I noticed something worse.

The boy wasn’t sleeping either.

Dark circles never appeared on his eyes. His limbs never drooped with exhaustion. He worked, he ate, but he did not rest—not properly.

Finally, I asked. “How long has this been going on?”

Kiro’s gaze hardened. “Since that night. The night my parents—” His voice faltered, then steadied. “I can’t fall asleep. I don’t feel tired, either. My body… doesn’t get sore no matter how much I do.”

My stomach knotted. Such things weren’t natural even in a world where magic exists. If the orphanage found out, they’d have him locked away for study, or worse. That's how rare and valuable healing abilities are.

“…Maybe you should see a doctor,” I muttered. “Or—” I cut myself off. That would only bring the orphanage sniffing around.

Kiro noticed my hesitation. His lips twitched into the faintest smile, trying to reassure me. “I’m fine, Old Man. Really.”

I stared at him a long moment before sighing. “I’ll keep an eye on you. But you tell me—immediately—if you feel any pain. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

And so, the years passed.

*Kiro's POV*

Seasons changed, one after another, until the years blurred together. Miya grew taller, her smile brighter, though she still clung to my arm when storms rolled in at night. As for me… I carried the same sleepless eyes, the same body that never tired.

By the time I reached seventeen, Miya fifteen, the shop had become more than a shelter. It had become home. And Old Man Totsu, gruff and irritable as he pretended to be, had become something more.

It was on our birthday—a rare day back when we were still new at the shop. He actually closed the shop early—that he brought it up.

“You two,” he said, clearing his throat like the words were caught inside. “Would you… want an old man like me to adopt you?”

Miya gasped, her face lighting up instantly. She didn’t even look at me before blurting, “Yes!”

I stared at him, at the man who once called us brats and sighed at our presence, and felt the weight of everything we’d lost. My throat tightened, but I managed a nod.

“…We’d be honored, Old-.” I stuttered. "Father."

Totsu snorted, wiping his nose like the cold air bothered him. “Tch. Then it’s settled. From now on, you’re my kids.”

Miya hugged him so tightly his back cracked, and for once, I let myself laugh.

School days were always the same for me. Class, then work, then back home to check on Miya and Old Man Totsu. Rinse, repeat. I didn’t need breaks, I didn’t need sleep—so why not fill the hours with something useful?

“Oi, Kiro,” one of my classmates said as we walked out of the academy gates. “You’re heading to your shift again?”

“Yeah,” I said simply.

He groaned. “Man, don’t you ever stop? You’ve got like three part-time jobs, right? You’re insane.”

Another classmate chuckled. “Nah, he’s just built different. I swear, I’ve never seen you look tired, even after all-nighters.”

I forced a smile. If only they knew.

At the café, where I served tables, my manager often gave me the longer shifts. “You’re reliable, Kiro,” she said once. “Never call in sick, never drag your feet. If all workers were like you, I’d be rich already.”

I bowed my head politely. “I’ll keep doing my best.”

But “best” meant never stopping. The wages helped with bills, repairs, and supplies for the shop since Old Man Totsu couldn’t run things the way he used to. His hands shook too much, and his back gave him pain on bad days. So I filled the gaps. Always.

At night, Miya would wait for me at home, nose buried in her phone.

“Onii-chan,” she said one evening, not even looking up as I hung my coat. “What if… what if I became a game developer?”

I blinked at her. “A game developer?”

Her eyes lit up as she spun her phone to show me. “Yeah! This mobile game—it’s so fun, but I keep thinking of ways it could be better. I want to make my own someday. I read that you need a strong computer though, and they’re… expensive.”

I knew where this was going. I sighed. “Miya—”

She pressed on, stubborn. “So maybe I could get a part-time job too? I’d save up for my own computer. That way I’m not just sitting here all day—”

“No.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. She froze, wide-eyed.

“…Why not?”

I sat down across from her, rubbing my temples. “Because someone needs to be here for Father. He can’t run the shop alone anymore, you know that. If you start working, who’s going to keep him company? Who’s going to help him when he can’t stand too long?”

Her lips trembled, torn between arguing and understanding. Finally, she pouted. “…You always get to decide everything.”

“I’m not deciding for me,” I muttered, softer this time. “I’m deciding for us.”

Silence hung between us. I hated being the bad guy, but I couldn’t let her shoulder this weight. I could handle it. After all… I didn’t need rest.

Later, when she had gone to bed, I lingered by the shop counter. The jars of candy gleamed in the lantern light, sweet reminders of the life we’d built together. I looked at my hands—steady, scarless, never sore—and wondered if they’d ever stop.

Would I still be working like this when I was twenty? Thirty? Fifty?

And if I never stopped… would Miya ever forgive me for making her stay still while I carried it all?

A few months later, the weight on my shoulders had only grown heavier. Every day was the same routine—class until late afternoon, then running between my part-time jobs until nightfall. I thought I had gotten used to it, but life has a way of surprising you.

“Takki-kun,” a soft, familiar voice called behind me as I was packing my books after school.

I turned and froze. Standing in front of me was Aoi Kanzaki, the student council president, a model, and the school’s rising star. Her glossy black hair framed her face perfectly, her blazer sharp and neat. She was the girl who seemed untouchable—until now.

“I like you,” she said plainly, without hesitation. Her eyes were steady, her cheeks faintly flushed, but her voice carried no doubt.

For a moment, I felt the world blur. Me? Out of everyone?

But just as quickly, I shook my head. “I can’t,” I said, my tone sharper than I intended. “It would only burden you.”

Her lips parted as if to argue, but I turned, walking away before she could.

“Takki-kun!” she called, her footsteps chasing after me. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

That night, after finishing my shift at the café, I found myself standing in front of a PC store. Rows of glowing laptops shined behind the glass, each one promising opportunity.

Miya’s words echoed in my mind: “I want to be a game developer, onii-chan. But I need a real computer for that…”

My hand clenched around the envelope of pay I’d been saving. It wasn’t much, but maybe—just maybe—it would be enough.

Hours later, I walked into our little home, the weight of a brand-new laptop box in my hands. Miya looked up from where she was sketching on a notebook, her eyes widening.

“Onii-chan… is that—?”

“Happy early birthday,” I said, forcing a grin to hide my exhaustion.

She gasped, running forward, hugging the box like it was a treasure. “I can really…?!”

“Yeah. It’s yours. Make your dream real, Miya.”

Her eyes shone, and she threw her arms around me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

I laughed softly, patting her head. “Don’t thank me yet. Dinner’s waiting too.”

I set down a warm paper bag from the roasted chicken shop on the table. The savory smell filled the room, instantly making it feel like a holiday feast.

For a moment, as Miya beamed at me, clutching her laptop like it was the future itself, I forgot the ache in my muscles. I forgot the endless jobs, the bills, the sacrifices.

All I saw was my sister smiling. And for me, that was enough.

*Miya’s POV*

School was always a mix of sunshine and shadows for me. I was the kind of girl who laughed easily, who made silly jokes that had half the class chuckling. Teachers liked me, boys were friendly, and even some girls stuck around just because I always had candy on hand from Dad’s shop.

But not everyone loved me.

Jealousy was sharp, and it found me quick. Whispers turned to sneers, sneers turned to pranks, and soon pranks turned to fists. They said I was “fake.” That I acted too perfect. That I was only liked because I clung to my brother.

I tried ignoring it. I tried smiling through it. But the bruises on my arms and legs made it impossible to hide forever.

So I escaped. Into the tiny glowing screen of my phone, into the pixelated worlds where monsters could be defeated and quests always had rewards. For once, I was the hero. And little by little, the thought grew inside me: I want to make these worlds myself. If people can’t love me here, maybe they’ll love the games I create.

That night when Kiro surprised me with the laptop, my heart nearly burst. I promised myself then: I wouldn’t just dream. I’d work hard, I’d create, I’d share his burden. I’d protect our family too, in my own way.

But promises are hard to keep when fists keep finding you. The bullying escalated. This time it wasn’t just jealous whispers—it was upperclassmen, bigger, stronger, dragging me into corners of the campus where no one could see.

Some classmates tried to defend me, God bless them. But it only made things worse. The older girls didn’t stop—they doubled down. My laughs became quieter. My body ached more often. Still, I smiled whenever Kiro looked my way. I didn’t want him to worry.

But Aoi-san's brother noticed.

 And he told Aoi-san, and Aoi-san told my brother.

I'm sorry, Onii-chan I couldn't even lift your burden in school.

*Kiro's POV*

When Aoi stopped me after class, I expected another round of her soft persistence, her stubborn hope that I’d let her in.

Instead, she grabbed my wrist, eyes fierce. “It’s your sister.”

My chest tightened instantly. “What about Miya?”

Her voice shook, but she didn’t flinch. “My little brother’s in the classroom next to hers. He told me… they’re bullying her. Bad. Upperclassmen. She—she’s getting hurt, Kiro"

I didn’t remember running, only the doors slamming open, my footsteps pounding down the hall. My classmates—my boys from the part-time job and the gym—they saw my face and didn’t even ask. They followed. They knew.

Because they’d met Miya. They knew the little sister who shared her lunch, who cheered them on at practice, who made everyone feel like they mattered. She didn’t deserve this. She deserved the world.

And they were hurting her.

I'm was a provincial champion who claimed titles for taekwondo, kickboxing, jujitsu, and muay thai. Who got paid to spar with rich amateurs who wanted to “try fighting” without really bleeding for it. I thought having those titles would scare people enough to leave my sister alone, turns out there are animals out there.

Here’s the thing most people at school didn’t know: I wasn’t just some washed-up fighter or an overworked kid with too many part-time jobs.

I'm a fighter an underground fighter who stepped into rings with bloodstained mats, where the crowd didn’t care about fairness—only about who could still stand after the bell.

I wanted to go pro, I also wanted to pursue a doctorate in medicine, but that was slow money.

The hallway smelled like disinfectant and adrenaline. Lockers clang as the crowd parts; whispers press against my ears like a second wind. When I push through, Miya’s face is a bruise in the middle of a lineup of sneers—upperclassmen smirking, one boy laughing too loud, another girl holding Miya’s hair like a ribbon. The boyfriend stands off to the side, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes flat as stone.

Aoi’s voice scratches at the edge of my hearing—“Kiro—” she says, but I don’t hear it. I only hear Miya’s thin breaths, the sound of someone trying not to make a noise that will break everything.

The first two boys move like they’ve practiced this: flashy kicks that belong more to taekwondo videos than to real anger. One of them spins a high roundhouse, heel whistling past Miya’s temple. The other throws an eager front kick to her ribs, more show than force. I see the opening before their feet land.

I don’t think. I act.

I step forward and the world tightens. My foot finds the floor, cold and steady. I pivot on my heel, breath matching the beat of my muscles—years of Muay Thai drilling settling into reflex. The front kick aimed at her lands on my forearm. Pain blossoms, sharp and immediate, but it’s the kind of pain I know and bargain with. I guide his momentum past me with a small, controlled counterstep and a palm to his sternum that stammers the air from his lungs. He doubles over before he hits the floor.

His friend tries to spin again for another flashy kick. I block, my shin meeting the inside of his thigh to break his momentum—an ugly, efficient check born of late-night sparring with pros who didn’t care for grace. He staggers, face surprised. I don’t give him a chance to recover. A low push sends him back into a row of lockers. The cheap metal groans; his swagger deflates into coughing and stunned silence.

That’s when the girl—leader-of-the-pack—moves. She’s the one who sent the rumor trains whispering down the hall. Unlike the boys, she doesn’t need theatrics. Her strikes are compact, practiced; I recognize elements of jujitsu in the way she shifts weight, looking for a clinch, a leverage point. She goes for Miya’s arms, trying to control, trying to humiliate.

I wedge between them.

Her hand finds my shoulder; the contact is a promise of chaos. She tries to hook my arm and pull me into a throw. I brace, rooted. Years of grappling with river-slick opponents teach me balance and micro-adjustments. Her wrist slips as I lower my center, my weight a wall. She tries to twist—judo-style—for leverage, but my knees drop and I turn my hips. Her attempt to pull me off balance becomes the opening I want. I hitch my own weight, and the movement sends her over my hip in a textbook sweep. She lands with a thud, the breath goosed from her lungs.

The boyfriend—big, broad-shouldered—comes at me then, all anger and entitlement. He’s a different animal: heavy, less refined, more dangerous. He throws hands, wide and punishing, like someone who clubs rather than composes. I let him, because letting him expend himself is the quickest way to end this. His first jab grazes my cheek; nothing to it. I take the second inside, close distance, and my elbow meets him like a hammer—short, compact, designed to stop forward momentum. The sound of his breath catching is a small victory.

He tries to clinch, to smother me with size. Now it’s Muay Thai—elbows and knees in four-count bursts. I pin his arm, create a frame along his shoulder, then jam my knee up into his thigh. He roars and loosens his grip. My forearm hooks behind his head; I twist, use my hips to torque his spine, and fold him sideways. The hallway fills with the impact—a dull, final thump. He hits the lockers and slides down, dazed.

The girl scrambles up, desperate now, and lunges for Miya a second time. She aims a cheap, vicious knee at my sister’s stomach. I don’t calculate; I move. A low Muay Thai check becomes a redirect; my shin intersects her raised leg, and she folds. Before she can gather herself, I’m behind her, a tight clinch that turns her struggle into leverage. I bring her down to the ground and let the jujitsu that’s been hammered into me finish the argument: I secure an arm, rotate my hips, and trap her with a controlled, humiliating pin. She gasps, surprised, struggling against the weight of someone who has been in more than a few cages.

They’re not professional fighters—none of them are—so the tide turns fast once the pressure is steady and accurate. My chest drums; my breath remains a metronome. The sleepless years have made me efficient at expending only what’s necessary. That efficiency is what keeps me standing while the others break.

Some of my classmates pile in around the doorway—boys from the café, a couple of gym regulars. They don’t need instruction; they see a friend in trouble and they act. Scuffles break out at the edges, more chaotic than mine: elbows, shoves, the desperate unpredictability of kids who measure pride in fistfuls. I don’t have time to watch each of them. I only watch Miya.

She’s trembling now, eyes wide, tears catching in the corners. Aoi is there too, hands trembling, trying to pull her boyfriend away. But the worst of it is done. The girl who started it is pinned, wheezing, a red smear blooming on her cheek where she misjudged impact. The boyfriend curls around himself in a knot, groaning.

The bell for the next period finally bleats—an almost trivial sound that snaps the bystanders out of the tunnel. Teachers swarm. Phones out. The world shifts from fever to consequence in a heartbeat.

I stand, breath steadying. The adrenaline’s aftertaste is bitter in my mouth, but the immediate heat around my ribs settles into a colder, more practical focus: Miya is safe. My palms thrum where impacts landed. A bruise is already flaring along my forearm, but no more than that.

Someone—Aoi, maybe—throws me a look that’s both relieved and terrible with questions. I catch sight of my knuckles; faint white scabs, the prajioud tied tight around my bicep like a dark promise. The boys stare at me differently now, with a mixture of awe and a new caution. The teachers are doing what teachers do—separating, lecturing, calling names into a microphone of bureaucracy.

They’ll ask questions later. Someone will complain. There will be detention and paperwork and the predictable moralizing in a week’s time. For now, Miya clings to my sleeve like a life preserver, and Aoi’s brother limps by, nursing a cracked lip and a bruise shaping on his jaw.

“Are you okay?” Aoi asks, voice small.

I pull Miya close, feel her breath against my neck. “Yeah,” I say. It’s enough for now. I let her squeeze my hand until her fingers go numb.

Later, inside the quiet of the shop, after ice packs and bandages, the adrenaline finally negotiates with exhaustion. My muscles do ache—a slow, deep throb—but nothing like the near paralysis I see in others when the same damage happens. I sit on the counter, press the heel of my hand into the bruise, and taste metal on my tongue. Fighting isn’t clean. It’s not noble. It is what I do.

And tonight, like every night I don’t sleep, it bought my sister another sunrise.