Myron Malcohm Beckles is just an average teenager in the 21st century, living the typical life of a high school student. However, his world is turned upside down when a tragic car accident seemingly ends his life. Instead of fading into darkness, My...
Twenty minutes had passed, and Myron was still in the courtyard, practicing his sword swings and refining his Flame Breathing forms. His body moved fluidly, each slash of his sword cutting through the air with precision as the black and crimson flames followed in a graceful arc. He had to prepare himself—mentally and physically—for the mission ahead in Asakusa. There was no room for mistakes.
"*SECOND FORM: RISING SCORCHING SUN!!*" Myron yelled, his voice filled with determination as he swung his blade upward. The black and crimson arc of flames surged with his movement, rising toward the sky and briefly illuminating the courtyard beneath the morning sun.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
He exhaled heavily, but something wasn't right. His body wasn't responding the way it usually did. Fatigue crept into his muscles far sooner than he expected. He looked down at his hand, his grip on the hilt of his sword loosening as sweat dripped from his fingers.
"What the hell is happening? Why do I feel so tired... and it's only been less than 30 minutes?" he muttered to himself, confusion settling in. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his body felt heavier than usual.Glancing around, the wisteria trees framed the courtyard, their blossoms casting soft shadows on the ground. Normally, their presence was comforting, but today, it felt strangely oppressive.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
His vision blurred for a moment, and he stumbled slightly. "I feel kind of woozy..." Myron shook his head, trying to clear the fog clouding his thoughts. His body was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. He had trained countless hours before, even sparred with Rengoku and Uzui in far harsher conditions. Yet, this exhaustion felt different—unnatural. Something was wrong.
As he tried to steady himself, the sound of footsteps echoed from the mansion. A low murmur of voices followed, growing louder as they approached. Myron's heart sank. He turned his head toward the side door, and his eyes widened in recognition.
A group of seven women stood at the doorway, their expressions shifting between shock and confusion. Myron's blood ran cold as he realized who they were—the same women from the hot springs last night. Memories of the incident came rushing back like a tidal wave: their screams that echoed like sirens, the flying buckets and towels, and the sharp sting of the slap still fresh in his mind. His face flushed red with embarrassment.
