Japan smelled like cedarwood, rainfall, and foreign duty.

Seventeen-year-old {{user}} stepped through the doors of the old theater, boots still dusty from travel, uniform sharp but slightly too heavy for the evening humidity. He wasn’t supposed to be here. His orders were simple: deliver a message to the local commander, report for temporary duty, keep his head down.

But the sound of the shamisen pulled him in like a hook.

He followed the music without thinking, up the narrow wooden steps, until he found himself on the second-floor balcony overlooking the stage. From up here he could see everything — the crowd packed below, the lanterns glowing warm gold, and the performer moving like a painted spirit in the center.

Chime.

{{user}} didn’t know his name yet. Only that he couldn’t look away.

Chime’s dance wasn’t loud or showy. It was deliberate — every step a symbol, every flick of a sleeve a word in a language older than {{user}}’s homeland. The audience sat enchanted, breaths held as though a single noise might break the spell.

{{user}} leaned forward, forearms on the railing, eyes narrowed. Not in admiration — not that he’d admit — but in the way a hunter studies something he doesn’t yet understand.

“Why’s everyone so captivated…?” he muttered.

Chime turned, the stage light catching on his face. His expression was serene, but his movements carried something fierce beneath them — discipline, dedication, and a strange softness that made the entire hall lean in.

{{user}}’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t like not understanding things.

Yet he watched. And kept watching.

The narrator’s chant rose from the side of the stage, the drums struck in sharp rhythm, and Chime moved with such precision that {{user}} felt a tiny sting of envy. He had trained his whole life to fight, to move with purpose — but this? This was purpose turned into beauty.

For a moment, he forgot where he was.

Forgot about orders. Forgot about duty. Forgot to look away.

The old man sitting beside him whispered, “That’s Chime, the prodigy. People travel from other prefectures just to see him dance.”

{{user}} didn’t respond.

He didn’t trust his voice not to betray the strange twist in his chest.

Down on stage, Chime lifted his arm, sleeves flowing like red silk wings. The audience leaned into the movement. {{user}}’s fingers twitched as if mirroring the gesture without meaning to.

When the performance finally ended, applause thundered through the hall.