The mechanic arm

  The village where Kenzhi lived was hidden in the forest, about 50 km from Osaka, like a ghost from the old world. Narrow paths between tall trees led to small houses made from remnants of pre-war buildings, metal sheets, and wood. There was no real electricity here, only generators powered by fuel that had to be harvested at great risk. The light from lamps made of old bulbs and chunks of bulletproof glass softly scattered across the streets, creating an illusion of comfort. But everyone living here knew—the comfort in this world was a lie.

  Kenzhi was always at the center of attention. During the day, he played like a child, even though he hadn't been a boy for a long time. He crafted all sorts of things—mechanical spiders that scurried across walls and suddenly started squealing, small robots chasing chickens, and even homemade smoke grenades that he tossed into fires, making the flames change color. The children screamed in delight, the adults grumbled, but no one could really stay mad at him. After all, he didn’t just play around—he fixed generators, restored water purifiers, created things that allowed the village to survive.

  "One day, this kid's going to blow himself up," grumbled old fisherman Takeo, watching Kenzhi attach something suspicious to his arm.

  "More likely, he’ll blow us all up," muttered blacksmith Goro.

  But Kenzhi only laughed in response, shrugging.

  At night, when the streets quieted, he stayed in his workshop. He sat at a table covered in parts, sorting through them in his hands, but not in any hurry to assemble anything. Sometimes, he turned on an old voice module, from which his teacher's words echoed over and over.

  "You must decide—will you be just a garbage collector... or the one who rebuilds?"

  Kenzhi listened to these words like a prayer, but he never found an answer.

  No one saw how he stared at the ceiling, his eyes closed. No one heard how his breath became uneven. No one knew that the night wind, which swept through the village, carried away not only the leaves, but his silent sobs.

  Hayato entered the village quietly, but his presence immediately made the air tense. The armor of the Techno-Samurai reflected the faint light of the lanterns—smooth, engraved plates of bronze steel combining ancient style with advanced technology. Even when his steps made no sound thanks to the damping system of the armor, he was impossible to ignore.

  Kenzhi was the first to notice the guest, though he pretended not to care.

  "The great warrior has decided to show up," he drawled, watching as Hayato handed the elder a small box. "This is what you ordered," Hayato said calmly.

  The elder accepted the parts with reverence, as if he were handed something truly important, not just spare parts.

  "You've traveled a long way, stay the night. The road is dangerous."

  "I won’t refuse."

  Kenzhi rolled his eyes.

  "Ah, the mysterious traveler. Even your name sounds like it was etched on an ancient blade."

  Hayato glanced at him but didn’t say a word.

  "Of course! Not a single emotion, all stoic and deep. You aren’t a hired philosopher, are you?"

  "You talk too much," Hayato replied in a flat tone.

  "Well, well! Our first contact with a deity!" Kenzhi theatrically raised his arms. "Maybe you even know how to fix generators? I’m suddenly curious to hear the great warrior’s opinion on wiring!"

  Hayato didn’t take the bait.

  "You should spend more time working and less talking."

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  Kenzhi squinted, looking down at him—though, considering their height difference and Hayato’s imposing Techno-Samurai armor, the gesture looked more comical than challenging.

  "Oh, you’ve really pierced me with your wit," he smirked. "Do what you want."

  He turned and walked off into the night, leaving the elder and the guest alone.

  The elder sighed and looked at Hayato.

  "Don’t judge him too harshly."

  "He’s a fool who hides his fear behind mockery."

  "Perhaps. But sometimes, laughter is all that’s left to a person."

  Hayato didn’t respond, but a few hours later, when the village had plunged into darkness, he activated his camouflage mode. His armor changed—it seemed to dissolve into the night, hiding him from sight. He left the village and silently followed Kenzhi.

  Kenzhi wandered the outskirts for a long time before stopping at an old hangar, where the mech that had killed his teacher was stored. He just stood there, staring at it, before slowly collapsing to the ground and burying his face in his hands.

  Hayato watched.

  He didn’t know why he was following this man. Perhaps he was trying to understand why Kenzhi irritated him so much.

  Or maybe, he was searching for something in him that he hadn’t seen in people for a long time.

  Morning in the village started slowly. The first rays of sunlight pierced through the thick foliage, casting a golden glow on the streets. People emerged from their homes, stoked the fires, checked the generators—routine life.

  Hayato was already preparing to leave. He stood at the edge of the village, securing his sword sheath and checking his weapons. Everything was in order. He had stayed here too long.

  And, of course, it was at that moment that Kenzhi appeared.

  "Oh, here comes our magnificent warrior! Are you going to disappear into the shadows again like a mythical ghost?"

  Hayato didn’t even turn his head.

  "You again."

  "Of course! How would you spend your morning without me?" Kenzhi theatrically spread his arms. "Something’s missing, right? A bit of wit?"

  Hayato slowly inhaled, as though testing his patience.

  "I don’t argue with jesters."

  "Oh, you say it as if you have a choice."

  Kenzhi smirked and took a step forward.

  "How’s it going with the Techno-Samurais? 'Honor, duty, discipline'? Great warriors following a code, right?"

  Hayato stared at him silently, as if analyzing every movement.

  "You know what I see?" Kenzhi continued. "I see you’re scared."

  Hayato narrowed his eyes.

  "You’re afraid that if you stop even for a moment, you’ll have to think about why you’re moving forward at all."

  Silence hung between them.

  "Want to fight?" Hayato finally asked.

  Kenzhi grinned widely.

  "No, no, my friend! I just like getting under your skin."

  Hayato relaxed his stance slightly.

  "Pathetic amusement."

  "Maybe. But it suits me."

  Kenzhi spread his arms, as if inviting more debate, but Hayato had already turned to leave.

  "Well, well, you’re giving up so easily? Not even going to throw your code in my face?"

  Hayato froze but didn’t turn around. His voice was steady, but it held strength.

  "Don’t give up. Fight. Your Teacher wanted that, didn’t he?"

  Kenzhi froze.

  Far in the distance, birds sang. Leaves rustled quietly in the wind.

  He stared at Hayato’s back but didn’t say a word.

  The Techno-Samurai left, leaving him alone.

  Kenzhi stood, completely bewildered.

  How did he know about the Teacher?

  The day was unusually quiet.

  No one heard Kenzhi blowing things up, tinkering, or even arguing with anyone. He didn’t tease the fishermen, didn’t throw strange chemicals into the fire, didn’t chase children with his mechanical contraptions.

  He simply sat in his workshop, not touching any tools.

  The elder noticed this immediately.

  When the sun began to set, he came to him.

  "You’ve been quiet today," he said, sitting next to him.

  Kenzhi only smirked, but there was no longer the usual cheer in that smile.

  "Do you miss my jokes?"

  The elder didn’t answer. He simply watched.

  Kenzhi sighed and rubbed his temples.

  "He left this morning. You know that."

  "Yes."

  "He said something to me. Something he couldn’t have known."

  The elder didn’t move.

  Kenzhi squinted.

  "You told him about the Teacher."

  "Yes."

  Kenzhi nodded, as if he had expected that.

  "I thought so."

  He stood up, grabbed a couple of tools from the table, threw some parts into a bag—nothing that could give away where he was going.

  The elder watched as he prepared, but didn’t ask any questions. Only when Kenzhi headed for the door did he finally ask:

  "Where are you going?"

  Kenzhi didn’t stop.

  "…"

  No answer.

  Only the sound of his footsteps, fading into the night.

  The next morning, Kenzhi returned.

  But he wasn’t alone.

  Behind him moved a huge mechanical shadow—a battle mech, a Yungui, used in combat by the Chinese gods of machines, even before the rise of the synzin. The very one that killed Kenzhi’s teacher, Ishiharu. Now it moved smoothly, obediently following Kenzhi, like a loyal dog that had lost its will.

  The villagers recoiled in horror. Some grabbed weapons, but no one dared to shoot.

  Kenzhi could barely stay on his feet. His clothes were covered in dirt and scorch marks, one mechanical arm sparked, but he didn’t even notice.

  He took a few shaky steps forward and fell to his knees.

  A barely audible whisper escaped his lips:

  "Teacher... I did it... I surpassed you... and avenged you..."

  He smiled, but there was no joy in his eyes. Only emptiness.

  And behind him, amid the ruins of the old world, stood the machine he now controlled.