The mind is only a barrier

The next day was for Sakoshi Kurosawa, a gentle mist of dawn glow seeping through the gaps in the shoji doors of his room. It was in striking contrast to the memories of the storm that still vaguely flashed coolly like lightning in the back of his mind and woke me up. For rolling, his waking up was a slow transition from the comfort of a dream to the sharpness of reality. The calm of Ren's house still managed to hug him tightly, offering him an oasis of relaxation, devoid of all the everyday troubles and tribulations that awaited him ahead. He lay still for a few moments, letting his senses get used to the light rustle of leaves outside the window and the far booming of the village that had already woken up but had not yet come to life.

With a sigh, he shifted his weight to one side, making himself want to get up. He rose from the bed slowly and measuredly; it was evident that the morning part of the day had already been worked out to the smallest detail. Each of his movements was a well-thought-out ritual, the essence of which was respect. He carefully unfolded the futon, then folded it fastidiously, returning the room to its original state of quiet, clean, spaciousness.

After he set up the table, Sakoshi headed to the first of his morning ablutions: the splash of cold water. He was accustomed to this cold refreshment, a tonic shock of energy that reminded him of the challenges and opportunities the day may bring. The entire process was intentional preparation, not merely of the body but also of the spirit. His ritual here was Spartan; each action without frivolity focused solely on the task. Then, he dressed, choosing his clothes as practically as possible, giving subtle hints and signals of his proper station in the village.

Much of his life and demeanor was communicated in the clothes he wore. They were severe and sturdy but practical and chosen with exquisite care. Finally, as Sakoshi readied himself to leave Ren's, he took a moment and collected his thoughts. This process, too, occurred in silence, but its importance could not be understated. At that threshold, he was leaving his private home for the wide world, and we were connected to that world by respect, duty, and a shared experience of hardship. He was not yet entirely within it, but here, on the threshold of a new day, he was nearly there. At this moment, Sakoshi left Ren's house in the morning. He was entirely present in that time and place, rooted in his simple yet profound ritual. People would see a figure of immediate strength and deep calm bound to them by history and experience.

On this bright morning, when Sakoshi Kurosawa decided to take a walk through the village, a place lit by an almost unbearable first light in which the shadows were long and the paths worn smooth by the passage of many generations, something nearly invisible but unmistakably impactful about the older man's demeanor has changed. Usually reserved and withdrawn, his eyes have altered; as the glint plays within those ancient depths, the man seems engaged and inquiring.

Sakoshi was gifted, in a way few others ever were, burdened with the ability to read and almost taste another person's thoughts with only a moment of eye contact, seeing not their minds but their souls. As the man bypasses the villagers, his gaze meets every one of them, a brief connection that lasts barely an instant but offers more than a spoken conversation ever could. The thoughts he slips into are not his own but those of the grocer, the seamstress, the grieving mother, the determined father; his extraordinary ability is not an intrusion but a silent understanding of the hearts around him.

To a passerby, the glance is nothing more than a brief meeting of gazes, a neighborly acknowledgment of one person to another in a small, close-knit town. Yet, for Sakoshi Kurosawa, it was a whole mural, a painting of despair, grief, pain, and hope in equal measures. The older man felt through the mother's glance anxiety of the future and the father's determination to build anew; he grasped through the teenager's exuberant glance the carefree way the child's heart beats. Through the composite heartbeat of the village, Sakoshi Kurosawa walked.

And yet, with such a gift also came a curse, a curse of knowledge that Sakoshi bore with quiet dignity. To see into the minds of others was a pilgrimage through their fears, hopes, and secrets, a journey that demanded the ultimate compassion and sense of responsibility. And yet, Sakoshi made that pilgrimage, a stroll down the road he knew better than any other. For all that he saw, however, Sakoshi pretended not; even the most astute observer would not have been able to detect the evidence of his ability. However, it proved a tool in establishing not only understanding but a connection as well.

As he walked through the village, Sakoshi became a gentle reminder of understanding, embodying the power of wisdom and compassion. But his quiet gift allowed him to see that the barrier pain and loss had erected between hearts still existed. And he vowed to erode it with every heartbeat. Thus, Sakoshi's walk through the village, something he had done almost every day, became more than what it had always been; it became a pilgrimage of the soul. For each person Sakoshi looked at, for each silent exchange, the warrior wormed his way deeper into the village, not just a guardian of might, but one of the spirit as well. And he walked toward the road unending, his heart and mind lulled by a silent whisper of those he had come to consider his own.

At the heart of the village, Sakoshi quickly found a simple café that promised a brief respite from the silent burdens of the day. It seemed to be a brief return to normalcy in his convoluted world, a warm and friendly establishment that emanated the scent of fresh coffee and warm baked goods. Waiting in a corner seat, inconspicuous and quiet, he settled for a simple breakfast—a rarity amidst a life of Spartan simplicity. The waitress who welcomed him looked tired but graceful, with a sincere smile but weary from the relentless pace of life.

In the brief moment of connection, during which Sakoshi allowed himself tentative, silent conversation with the people around him, he realized that her look spoke volumes. She barely held together, a single mother of two, equally holding on to hope and despair. Her daily routine was a tightrope walk driven only by a love far more profound and robust than Sakoshi would care to experience. Her mind was preoccupied with matters of bills and of the daily grind she needed to survive – the quiet specter of the alcoholism that seemed but a faint hope to get away from the pressures that devoured her, if only for a moment.

However, she was also strong, a will-power-driven survivor who wouldn't allow her to succumb to life's harsh conditions. Her love for her kids was apparent, and her struggle to hold the roof above their heads and provide for the loving devotion of a mother who would give her life in a second if that could save her children. This narrative was so familiar – the struggle and tales of those living in this small village, enduring similar struggles.

Her story impacted Sakoshi. That morning, his expression tensed. A simple meal he would have, he thought to himself, transformed into a chance for him to make a difference, an opportunity to show a small act of kindness in a way that she would notice but no one else would. He would order breakfast and add a generous tip onto the bill, with an understanding of a silent battle and, with a glance, the strength it took from her. It was small but spoke volumes about the nature of kindness Sakoshi valued so profoundly. In this moment, they crossed paths: a soldier and an unbreakable mother, sharing the pain in their silence and the assurance that, ultimately, it was love, strength, and humanity that kept the darkness away. The meal lingered in Sakoshi's memory as he finished and left the café.

From his concealed booth, Sakoshi's gaze strayed to the open archway. A single view provided a sneak peek into the kitchen, wherein the cook, a figure of constant industry amongst the hiss of steam and clang of clatter, went about his business. In this quick encounter, Sakoshi saw more than just the appearance of an individual comfortable and familiar with his work patterns. He also saw the hidden discord that defined the man he saw in that midst. For the cook, each step was another staccato in a brutal dance of a mind poisoned by addiction. Each breath was an opportunity to pause and escape his situation, only to be consumed by the need for another equally temporary one. There was only the unending torment of a need to fight against a seemingly impossible hold on this man. This awareness struck a chord with Sakoshi.

It brought to his mind the awareness that all men struggled in darkness, facing opponents greater and fiercer than those the world saw. It was a moment of realization that here, even the cook who provided endlessly to the students was just another broken man under the guile of a sustaining weed. It struck lances of empathy through him. This was his destiny, to see how each person under his care and passing by his watch struggled. This was the weight of his silent charge—to become a guardian not just against assassins and foreign threats but against the unseen enemies that threatened to tear this life around him apart.

Sakoshi witnessed the struggle at hand, not only the chains that bound the cook; it was in the possibility of redemption, the chance of a way out, no matter how difficult and cruel. It was as if the struggle reminded me of some undying ember within each human being, the possibility of change and the power of hope. As Sakoshi finished his last meal and decided to leave the warm haven of the café, he wondered about the little ways he could show his support, his understanding of the fellow's battle, and his solidarity with it without trespassing into the privacy of his silent confessions. With a smile, a simple "thank you" for the meal, or a glance filled with quiet understanding, Sakoshi wanted to convey his silent message: in the shadow, you struggle with, there is light, even if you cannot see it yourself.

As he left the café, Sakoshi took the stories of the people he encountered. The tapestries of the human experience were woven with hope, struggle, and quiet optimism. He continued along his tracks across the village just as before. Every step taken was filled with a deep commitment to serving and protecting, to be a source of strength to the battle nobody else witnessed, and kindness in a world without any trace.

Sakoshi walked out into the cool morning air, leaving the comforting warmth behind the café and stepping back into the shadowed village beneath the soft morning sun that bathed its streets in its gentle embrace. Around him, the town awakened a living, breathing being of its own. The people, each a world and a teller of a million untold stories and unseen battles, returned to their nests and began to enact their daily lives. His steps, as was his habit, carried him from point to point among the villagers around him. It was not an aimless movement but observation jutting with quiet purpose – bubbling and illuminating his quiet face like the soft morning light on the village streets. It was a unique ability in which Sakoshi was privileged only to glimpse the minds of those he shared eye contact with, gestured with tactful discretion, and deepened empathy.

A glance between people and Sakoshi glanced at myriad narratives that were far too lengthy and should have had access to full stories. The young artist worried over the canvas, awaiting her judgment, swirling with inspiration and doubt. The fisherman, more experienced with age than with youth, furrowed his eyes with worry over a future he could not predict, pride over the generational legacy he'd hold and pass his children along with; the teacher clutched her book with passion, interspersed infinity voices and hopes of the future, determined as ever and unable to contain the love and loss in those brief blinks. The silent strokes painted a vast mural of humanity. Sakoshi glimpsed fear, hope, dreams, and struggle – fundamentally, he saw the connection. His quiet empathy laid bare the shared humanity almost always dissipated beneath the thick veil of isolation.

Nevertheless, in a sea of tales, Sakoshi stood apart, a vigilant protector on a journey marked by a solemn oath to preserve and serve. In many ways, his traverse through the village was an acknowledgment of his pledge to people, a sacred promise reiterated in mere steps and glances. By the time he had explored every corner, Sakoshi was a spectral figure, a watchful spirit, still strong not just in a skill of arm but also in the depth of compassion and the breadth of understanding.

In a world where others were sealed books to most, he was a reader between the lines, the secret message in each silent plea and virtue, a cry for kindness and purpose for the same guardianship that knew no outer boundaries. And, as the evening crept upon the village once more, Sakoshi's wandering led him back to the silent embrace of Ren's abode, the cavern of shadows that granted him time to meditate, ponder, and rally for another vista. When the tale was said and done, and the disembodied souls were touched, they did in quiet fidelity — for a tale never ends — tethered him to them and their lives, a vow his life made and defined.

Even as Sakoshi Kurosawa followed the familiar path back to Ren's house, the journey was colored by an underlying meditation, an inquiry into the morality of his unnatural ability. The whispers of silent thoughts, that woven fabric of human musings never for other ears, colored his existence from the moment of his birth. He could not remember a moment when he did not hear them, echoes of embroidery that painted the village in variegated colors and sound. And yet, Sakoshi understood the responsibility that accompanied his power. It was a fine line, the boundary between attainment and assault, the difference between privacy and comprehension.

The village was a group of fine threads, individual thoughts that intertwined over and under through the warps and wefts of their shared community. Sakoshi suddenly felt the weight of the trust that implicitly resided upon him, a protector not merely of bodies but also the innermost sanctity of thought. Sakoshi's journey took him along the pathways of thought, twisting shadows that pieced together the tapestry of his intentions. Was it right for him to have access to the thoughts of others, even if his internal motivations were good? What was the difference between helping someone and imposing his will upon them? All the questions raced through his mind, and he knew that with every step that brought him closer to Ren's, he took two more into his consciousness.

Sakoshi's ultimate conclusion put him in a place of acceptance and determination. He realized that his gift, while powerful, was little more than a tool, a means to protect better and provide for the village entrusted to his care. He did not long to exploit or pry but to understand, feel, and stand beside his fellow villagers in times of great trial and triumph. In the end, Sakoshi's heart told him that his gift was a means of connection, a silent statement that none who struggled or rejoiced ever truly stood alone.

This realization invested his gift with a renewed sense of purpose. It was not simply about the power to read minds but the ability to build community, anticipate need, and assist before a word was spoken. With this conviction stirring in his heart, Sakoshi finally returned to Ren's house, the meditative weight of his thoughts firm within his being. His gift was a part of who he was, a part of his place within the village. As he crossed the threshold into Ren's sanctuary, Sakoshi, at last, carried him the silent dreams and fearful beseeching of the villagers and a new determination to use his gifts with discretion, wisdom, and, above all else, kindness.

Sakoshi stood in silence in Ren's empty home and prepared to face the coming days; for now, he knew that the gift he had received was not one to read minds but the heart, to be able to bind the village together in every unseen way. His arrogance was nonexistent, and with understanding remained a deep desire to contribute and be a part of the system in ways that made for a guardian in every way. If anything, the resolve had never been used with humility in how he used it after this, for he had been pledging to every unwritten, done, and known drowned with the courage to live and read with every step he took.

With the gentle silence of the evening and his thoughts gently pressed into his mind with a gentle force, Sakoshi Kurosawa proceeded through the familiar rituals of the night to prepare himself for bed. Ren's house was filled with calm and kind evening air, bringing the promise of night and the end of yet another chapter in the odd patchwork of the village's life. The first part of the evening ritual consisted of cleansing Sakoshi's physical body of the dust and grievance of the day.

The chill of the water was a physical purification, yet it was also a symbolic cleansing of the day's grime. It felt as though the coolness sluiced the burden from his skin, leaving only the excellent consolation of the evening. Every stroke was gradual, deliberate, each moment an acknowledgment of the abyss between evening's twilight and night's bed. The second part of the night's ritual was carried out at a relaxing, quiet pace, matching the halls of the night on which it was built. The lanterns threw gentle shades of the room around him, providing it with a warm light that spoke of protection and the feeling of home.

Sakoshi checked for all possible quirks and problems and last-minute tests he could detect, all with the understanding that they would have to wait until morning. In the private deprivation of his quarters, Sakoshi made his path to the futon laid carelessly on the tatami mat floor. The utilization of a single piece of bedding was symbolic of his modest way of living. He knelt on the hard floor beside it, actively controlling his thoughts. The only time he spent in meditation before he was unintentionally weakened was this: the rest of the quiet time of the night. hões. As Sakoshi took his place on the firm mattress, he felt the soft fabric wrap all around him at the exact moment the room embraced him with the comfort of silence.

The environment would turn into a cul-de-sac, a cozy hideout that would hold the tranquil alleviation that surrounded him for the remainder of the night. With a tired smile, Sakoshi allowed himself to forget the day. With a coo of drifting air, the sensations of walking through the cobblestone road and holding private conferences with only his looks were pulled away from him. He was left at the edge of consciousness, where a dim chamber of darkness lay in wait to embrace him in its deepest corners.

Thus embraced with the warm blanket of peace, Sakoshi Kurosawa floated upon the ocean of night, the buoyancy turning to allure as he gradually approached the comfort of sleep. It was in the shelter of Ren's house where he would set his will straight again when he allowed himself to forget the agreement they had signed that morning. Ren would remain utterly unaware of Sakoshi's doings during the night; no one knew of Sakoshi Kurosawa's silent nightly watchfulness of the village; only the dark would be his witness.

As the new day dawned, Sakoshi Kurosawa greeted the morning with the same measured, deliberate routine that anchored his existence in a rhythm of simplicity and intention. The gentle early light of dawn that filtered through the shoji served as a serene herald for the room, and Sakoshi soon rose to fold his futon with the same care with which he had been given the sacred night's rest. Ablutions were the next step, and they were accomplished with the same kind of mindful spirit with which he undertook banal acts such as washing and dressing. Finally, dressed in clothing that was functional without being unseemly and that did not place him outside the unspoken social strata to which he belonged within the village, he set out, already gesturing mentally towards the cafe that had become a source of meditation along his route.

The path was usual, and it took him through the village's heart, which was now awakening to its own set of routines. They recognized him, each absorbed in their task, measured or essential, and Sakoshi nodded. He was a part of this village, a component that changed daily while remaining the same, a fabric that stayed alive only because it moved. His greetings to the worker in the carpenter's shop, the wife in the store, and the children playing in the yard were as warm as their smiles to him. He passed to the cafe, and opening the door, he was washed in the warmth of the interior and the aroma of coffee and baked goods brewing inside. The waitress recognized him; her smile was professional and friendly.

Sakoshi was conscious today; he had seen parts of her story the previous day and remembered them. Legally separated but good at her job, a young woman who deserved good fortune in her life, and Sakoshi nodded to her with the same respect for the struggles and strengths of womanhood he did in his prose. He sat down at his booth and just being there felt him with a quiet strength. He set to eat; the food was well-prepared, fresh in buttered and steaming bread, and with a cup of black and strong coffee.

WC: 3776
TWC: 3776
EXIT

WC Claims:
+3750 towards double mastering Eye Mind Reading (No handseals)
Dumping remaining WC