Hey! Thanks reviewers, you guys are awesome. As you all can hopefully deduce from the title, this chapter starts about a month before what we saw in the last chapter, so you can all see the build-up (I know it was vague—you're not supposed to get it yet). And a little side note—although you can assume that the Jinchuu arc happened in this story there may be a few negligible details that coincide more with the anime since I saw it first and I'm more familiar with it, nothing earth-shattering, though. Thanks for reading!

Otousan's Lies

Chapter Two: A Month Before

"I know, I know, I'm going!" Kenji muttered crossly, forcefully kicking the gate shut on Yahiko's lofty smirk. That stupid lying cheater, he had challenged Kenji to a duel to decide who would buy the tofu, not a match to see who could use the cheapest tricks. The forbidden technique-"wrath of the end of the era", what kind of dirty excuse for a move was that? And the worst part was that it had worked. Kenji would have had him, if not for that sudden and unexpected blow Kenji thought was intended for his stomach, until Yahiko's foot had veered lower . . .

"That sick little piece of—"

"And don't forget some bandages!" Yahiko called, drawing a smile from Kenji. At least he had that on Yahiko, it was his blood on the training hall's floor, not Kenji's. It had just been a small cut, but they were only using bokkens. The hit certainly wasn't anything to be ashamed of. And Yahiko was lucky Kaoru had stopped the match when she did, or there would have been a lot more of that cheater's blood staining the wood floor.

Yahiko shook his head on the other side of the gate, absently touching the injury on his cheek and smiling. Kenji probably wouldn't speak to him for days, furious that the master of the thousand shiratori had sunk so low just to avoid the embarrassment of being outmatched by a mere teenager. Yahiko only wished it was that simple.

He had known during the fight that none of the Kamiya Kasshin's techniques would catch Kenji off guard, not even the Hawatari (Kenji had mastered it when he was eight), but Yahiko had a few old tricks up his sleeve even Kaoru would be surprised by. Of course, he didn't plan on using something as crude as that technique, but as Kenji had leapt swiftly into the air and prepared to descend upon him with raised sword Yahiko honestly hadn't known what else to do. So he attacked, reducing Kenji to a furious, cursing heap while he could only stare weakly at the obscenity-flinging, would-be victor of the match. Because he had been on the receiving end of that attack before. He had performed it before, but the last time he had seen it so flawlessly executed, he had been only ten. And a very different redhead had been the deliverer.

How on earth can Kenji do the Ryu Tsui Sen?

Kaoru couldn't have taught him, Kenshin never would have (as far as Kenji was concerned his father had never even used a sword) and despite Kaoru's dubiousness Yahiko hadn't either. The only other individual who could have was Hiko, but Kenji had never set foot in Kyoto, his parents had made sure of that.

But how, then?

"Did you see?" he asked quietly, addressing the redhead seated back on the engawa.

Kenshin nodded. "It seems that someone has been a bit too lax in describing Hitokiri Battousai's style to our son," he murmured.

"Describing it?" Kaoru whispered skeptically. "You really think he can do that after just hearing about it?"

"You know how fast he mastered everything you could teach him," Kenshin answered, and Kaoru frowned, reading the question behind his empty expression.

"He doesn't know, Kenshin. You realize that, right?"

"But what if—"

"She's right," Yahiko interrupted, "if he had discovered the truth about your past we would know about it. He isn't one to keep that kind of finding a secret."

"Besides, he's a good kid, Kenshin. I'm sure he didn't even realize what he was doing."

Kenshin smiled insincerely at his wife with a nod. At least one of them had faith in their son. Because while Kaoru seemed confident in a coincidence, to Kenshin that move had been more than uncomfortable chance. Kenji had always been a prodigy, he had always been stubborn and headstrong, he had always held an unwavering determination to be the strongest pupil his mother would ever see, the strongest swordsman period, for that matter. But being capable of a complicated style only two aging men should have known how to carry out that well, that simply wasn't normal.

He wanted to believe Kaoru. He wanted to think it wasn't a big deal, that it was Kenji they were talking about, this sort of thing should be expected, and as long as he didn't realize just how powerful he was everything would be fine. But that would be naive.

Near the riverbank Kenji had restlessly collapsed onto the warm grass, face down, with a still empty tofu bucket in hand.

What a joke. He had seen the looks on his parents' faces when the match had drawn to a close. And he knew it wasn't Yahiko's attack that had shocked them, but his own. He should have known better than to let them see what he could do. But honestly, just because it wasn't Kamiya Kasshin . . .

"Kenji?"

Great, his father. Didn't they even trust him to run simple errands?

Kenji rolled onto his side and opened one eye, shielding the other from the sun with his arm.

"Otousan."

Kenshin seated himself near his reclining son, fixing his eyes on the river. "That was an interesting match." Kenji scowled and rolled back onto his stomach. And so it began, another one of his father's seemingly nonchalant and increasingly irritating interrogations.

"Yeah," he muttered, "what of it?"

"I didn't recognize the move you tried at the end. Did your mother teach you?" Kenji snorted.

"No."

"Ah, taking secret lessons at the Maekawa dojo behind our backs, are you?"

"No Otousan, no one taught me," Kenji murmured in exasperation. "I just . . . heard about it once."

So that was it. Now Kenshin only had to figure out who had been telling his son about Hitokiri Battousai . . . as if that would be easy.

"Where?"

"Around."

Kenshin sighed tiredly, and Kenji smiled to himself. What had his father expected? He wasn't going to just hand all of the answers to him, he wasn't an idiot.

"How long?"

Kenji quirked an eyebrow and slowly raised his head. "What?"

"How long?" his father repeated. "How long have you been trying these techniques without our knowledge?"

Kenji settled back onto the ground, this time facing away from Kenshin.

"Awhile," he offered.

"How long, Kenji?"

Kenji fixed his eyes on a spider crawling slowly toward him and exhaled forcefully, driving the arachnid to a sudden halt. If only he could go back and change that match . . . his father was rarely stubborn but he always won on those few occasions when he was, like now. There was no avoiding it, he had to tell him eventually . . .

"A few years."

Kenshin was grateful that his son was looking in the opposite direction, because he imagined the ill feeling he had suddenly experienced hadn't put a particularly pleasant expression on his face. A few years? And none of them had noticed it? Where had he been practicing? When had he been practicing? And most importantly, what? Kenshin had the odd feeling that what they had seen today was barely a hint of what his son was capable of.

"Wa-Why?"

Kenji casually reached for his foot and removed his zori, slapping it down swiftly on the again moving spider. Kenshin winced.

"Because I'm bored, Otousan," Kenji suddenly growled, replacing his shoe. "Did you both honestly expect me to keep training in nothing but the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu when I had learned every technique? It's not satisfying anymore."

"You could teach."

"I don't want to teach, Otousan. I want to be powerful, and this style can't offer me anything."

"Please do not speak of your mother's passion and your livelihood as though it were useless," Kenshin gently scolded.

"I mastered it when I was a kid."

"As did Yahiko."

Kenji immediately soured. "Yeah, and look at what a professional swordsman he is."

"Kenji, he didn't—"

"It doesn't matter," Kenji interrupted, "he has to teach anyway. He's got Tsubame and Shinya to support. I don't have those responsibilities."

"Then what is it you want to do?"

Kenji slowly rolled onto his back at the intriguing question, wearing a smile of unnerving audacity. And that's when Kenshin's seemingly flawless plans ground to a too-sudden halt.

"I'm going to find Hitokiri Battousai."

Battousai?

For just a moment, everything stopped.

Kenshin choked on nothing, clearing his throat and laughing nervously when Kenji gave him a questioning look. He'd figured that his son had at least heard of Battousai, but wanting to find him?

"H-Hitokiri Battousai?"

"Yeah, Battousai. Do you even know who he is?"

Kenshin didn't know if he should laugh at Kenji's naivete or cry. Did he know who Battousai was? Him, of all the people who could be asked . . .

"I lived through the revolution, Kenji, if you'll remember," Kenshin managed to force out. "I've heard stories. What I want to know is how you've heard of him."

Kenji's face colored in sudden embarrassment. Maybe he should have thought ahead and planned for this part of the conversation . . .

"Kenji . . ."

"I told you already, I've just heard stuff around."

"Around," Kenshin repeated doubtfully.

"Yes."

"Why do I imagine there's a humiliating and illegal story behind this?" Kenshin groaned facetiously.

The shade of Kenji's face deepened.

"Kenji?"

"It wasn't my fault Otousan, I swear!" Kenji blurted. "Yahiko was—"

"Yahiko!"

"Yeah, he was watching me a long time ago and some buddies of some guy named 'Sanosuke' showed up and wanted to go gambling—I guess Yahiko knew them so he took me along and—"

"He took you with him?" Kenshin moaned. "How old were you?"

Kenji cringed instinctively. "Nine?"

"Wha—"

"But they didn't let me drink, I promise! Yahiko got a little tipsy and passed out, and that's when the other guys started talking about Hitokiri Battousai, but that's all that happened!"

"And you were foolish enough to believe their drunken stories and impulsively decided to find the man? And you still haven't grown out of that fantasy?"

Kenji glanced nervously at his father, whose face suddenly seemed darker and more . . . confused?

"Otousan," he started slowly, "their anecdotes may have been slightly vague, but in them I saw the style I'd already mastered severely overshadowed by another. Any man that well-known and skilled has to have more power than Okaasan's dojo can ever offer. I know he exists and I want to learn from him—"

"No!"

Kenji paused and looked disbelievingly at his father. That was a word he'd never heard from this parent, and he never would have expected so much force behind anything Kenshin said.

"What?"

"No. You will not throw your life away searching for a long-forgotten murderer. Do you really think those stories even held any truth? Why didn't you bother to ask your mother and I?"

Kenji sat up and stared at him incredulously. "Are you serious? You honestly think I was stupid and naive enough to ask you about something like that? As if you actually would have told me anything . . ."

"At least I wouldn't have lied—"

Kenshin stopped and cringed. He should have phrased that differently. He would have lied. He had lied.

"Well it doesn't matter anymore anyway, now you know."

"If this was your plan, why did you keep training?"

"To avoid suspicion and appease you both, of course. Besides, I wasn't ready to leave and look for him then, I was just a kid."

"And when will you be ready?"

"As soon as the right opportunity presents itself."

"You're not going."

"What? Otousan, that's not fair—"

"It's dangerous and foolhardy. You have no idea where he is."

"I'm not a child anymore Otousan!" Kenji cried, standing. "You can't lock me away in the dojo forever!"

"Kenji," Kenshin replied calmly, "you don't know what you're getting yourself into."

But the warning flowed through Kenji unheeded. He only frowned.

"What do you know? You and Okaasan have never seen any real battles, and I don't want boring petty lives like yours! I'm leaving when I'm ready, and you can't stop me!"

Kenshin began massaging his temples. Oh, the irony . . .

"Go home, Kenji."

"No!"

"You're not going."

"Yes I am! You don't know what I'm capable of Otousan, and it's not my fault that you're afraid of it!"

Kenji snatched the tofu bucket from the ground and stormed off, leaving his father staring after him in pensive disappointment. His son was right. Kenshin didn't know what he could do, and he was scared . . . and his son also was growing up, at his age Kenshin had been a widowed assassin . . . though Kenji didn't know that. Kenji didn't know anything, and after all these years they couldn't let that change, could they?

Twenty minutes later Kenji slammed the full tofu bucket down in front of his mother and stalked back out of the dojo, kicking the gate out of the way when he reached it and immediately heading for the docks. It was busy there, they wouldn't find him.

Would they always restrict him like this? They didn't understand his burning desire for more power, his need of it.

"Himura-san?"

Kenji turned angrily on the voice to find a stranger standing behind him, a . . . police officer? Seriously? They had notified the police to track him down?

"What do you want?" Kenji demanded roughly.

The man smirked and held out an envelope.

"To present an opportunity."