It rained the day the sky broke.
And not the poetic, moody kind of rain. No, this was the "angels tripped and dropped their water tanks" kind of downpour — loud, relentless, soaking through every inch of fourteen-year-old Ren's too-thin hoodie as he sat on the curb in front of a ramen shop that smelled like burnt soy and sadness.
He hated the rain.
And not just because his socks were wet. Or because his ramen was cold.
He hated it because every time it rained, he remembered that day.
The plane.
The fire.
The silence.
His parents... gone.
Oi! Kid! You planning on getting pneumonia out there, or do I gotta throw a noodle at you?"
Ren didn't look up. He knew that voice too well.
Uncle Jin — owner of the world's most suspicious ramen shop, master of insults, and the man who somehow kept a kitchen knife sharper than his wit.
Ren mumbled, "I was thinking pneumonia. Sounds easier than school."
A wet slipper slapped the pavement beside him.
"Smart mouth for someone who still cries during fried egg scenes in anime," Uncle Jin said, yanking Ren up by the hood like a soggy grocery bag. "Inside. Now. I made the spicy broth. The one that punches back."
Ren gave in. Not because of the threat, but because Jin's spicy broth did punch back — and frankly, Ren needed a fight he could win today.
The ramen shop, "Hot Fist Ramen", was barely held together with duct tape, fire hazard signs, and pure spite. But to Ren, it had become home. Sort of. If you ignored the suspicious basement, the missing floorboard near the register, and the fact that Uncle Jin once beat up a Yakuza with a ladle.
Ren slurped quietly, watching steam rise like ghosts from his bowl.
Uncle Jin sat across from him, drinking beer and pretending to read the newspaper upside down.
Then, without warning, he said it.
> "They didn't die by accident
, Ren."
The steam froze mid-air. Or maybe Ren just did.
"…What?"
Uncle Jin folded the paper and set it down, eyes suddenly sharp — too sharp for a man in a bathrobe and panda slippers.
"They were hunted. Marked. Your family wasn't normal, Ren. And neither are you."
Ren blinked. "Is this… one of your weird anime pitches again? 'Cause last time you told me I was a reincarnated dumpling general."
"This isn't a joke."
He leaned forward.
And in his eyes, Ren saw something that rattled him deeper than any punch ever had.
Fear.
Genuine, quiet fear.
"Your father," Jin continued, voice lower now, "was part of a secret bloodline. Fighters. Guardians. A war that's been hidden from the world for centuries. And now… they're
looking for you."
There was a pause.
Ren's chopsticks slowly fell into the bowl.
"…Dude."
"What?"
"You couldn't have told me this before midterms?"
Uncle Jin stared. Then burst out laughing, loud and tired. "There it is! That's the sarcasm. You're a damn Fujimora, alright."
"But I'm not strong," Ren muttered, the humor fading. "I'm just… me."
Jin stood up. His back cracked like old wood.
Then he pointed to the Do Not Enter sign taped over the kitchen door.
"We start tomorrow."
"Start what?"
"Training. Real training. Not that YouTube push-up junk. You're gonna learn to punch through walls, block blades with your palms, and maybe — maybe — survive high school without dying."
Ren opened his mouth to argue.
Jin cut him off.
> "If you ever wanna find the truth… if you ever wanna face the one who destroyed your family… then stop whining and finish your ramen."
"…Can I puke first?"
"Only if you clean it."
Outside, thunder cracked.
Up in the sky, something invisible shifted — like a god blinking.
Ren didn't know it yet, but the moment he stepped into that basement the next day, the path to war, power, and gods would begin.
And it all started here…
In a sketchy ramen shop.
In the rain.