The trail was thin, more worn by animals than travelers. Dry grass snapped beneath her boots as she walked, the sound barely louder than the wind.
The village sat ahead, tucked into the edge of a plateau like it was trying not to be noticed. A few low houses. A crooked bell tower. Smoke curling from one chimney like a signal no one answered.The wind moved softly across the plateau, bending the tall grass in slow, rhythmic waves. The sun hung warm and lazy in a pale blue sky, its light catching the silver tips of wheat fields that stretched to the horizon. Somewhere in the distance, a village bell chimed once, thin and hollow.
Lying in the middle of that open stillness was a girl.
A wide straw hat covered her face, casting a deep shadow across her closed eyes. A single wheat stalk rested between her lips, bobbing gently with each breath. Her arms were folded behind her head, her body draped across the grass as though it had always belonged there. Beside her, half-buried in green, lay a sword — its hilt worn smooth, its sheath dull with dust.
She hadn't moved in hours.
She didn't need to.
Because peace, in this land, was a delicate thing — something that could vanish the moment you reached for it. And she'd learned long ago that quiet didn't always mean safety.
Her name was Aira.
And once, not long ago, she had lived in a different world.
Years have passed since the blades fell silent.
The great clans have crumbled, and war has faded into whispers.
But in a land where swords built legacies, peace is never truly still.
Not when the ghosts of the old era walk quietly... with steel at their side.
A bell echoed faintly in the distance.
Aira's eyes stayed shut, but the sound stirred something. A memory, worn and unwanted.
She saw her brother standing alone in the arena. Dust in the air, flags barely fluttering. He looked over his shoulder and gave her a small nod — no smile, just calm. Like he already knew how it would end.
Then the sound twisted.
The bell became shouting.
Steel. Blood. Fire.
Her brother stumbled. A blade struck before the match had truly begun. She remembered people screaming. The estate burning. And someone's hand — strong and shaking — dragging her away as everything fell apart.
Her chest tightened.
Aira's fingers curled around the hilt of her sword.
She opened her eyes.
The field was quiet again. Just wind and grass.
But her grip stayed firm a moment longer… before finally letting go.
She exhaled through her nose, slow and even.
"I need to clear my head," she muttered, brushing the dust from her cloak as she stood.
Then, without another word, she turned toward the small village on the plateau — the wheat rustling softly behind her.
Aira kept her head low. The brim of her straw hat shaded her eyes, but her hand stayed close to the hilt of her sword.
She didn't expect trouble.
She never did.
Trouble just had a way of recognizing her face.
As she drew closer, a few villagers glanced her way. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just… cautious. Like they'd seen too many people pass through and leave worse behind.
A child peeked from behind a fence post. An old man leaned against a shutter, chewing on something and not blinking.
Her pace didn't change. The wind tugged at the hem of her cloak, but she walked on, steady
At the village's edge, nestled between two leaning shops, a worn izakaya clung to life in the late afternoon sun. The wooden sign above the door had faded to near illegibility, and the paper lanterns swayed in the breeze like they hadn't been replaced in years.
Aira stepped inside.
Warm air, thick with the scent of grilled fish, old smoke, and cheap sake, pressed in around her. The chatter was low, steady. Locals crowded around short tables, laughing too hard or speaking too softly — the way small towns often did when outsiders walked in.
She approached the counter without a word.
The owner, a grizzled man with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, glanced her way. Her sword caught his eye, but he didn't ask questions.
"Your strongest," she said simply.
He nodded once and poured from a dark bottle, sliding the cup her way.
Aira took her seat in the corner, straw hat still low over her face, one hand resting lightly near her hip. She sipped slowly. Didn't speak. Didn't need to.
The room buzzed on without her. Talks of missing livestock, a merchant's cart gone missing, a government official passing through weeks ago and never returning. Drunken boasts. Whispers about rising taxes. About shadows on the road after sunset.
Aira said nothing.
But she heard everything.
She sat there for a while — long enough for the sake to lose its bite and the warmth of the izakaya to settle into her bones.
Outside, the sun had slipped low, casting long shadows across the same narrow streets she'd walked hours earlier. The izakaya grew louder as the night deepened, but none dared approach her. No one asked her name.
Eventually, she stood.
No grand gesture. No clatter of her chair. Just the soft shift of cloth and the faint creak of wood beneath her boots.
She placed a few coins on the counter — enough to pay, not enough to be remembered — then turned and stepped back out into the evening.
The village looked different now. Not changed, just quieter. Lanterns swayed in the cooling air, casting orange halos on cracked stone. The same old man from before still leaned in his doorway. The same child watched her from behind a gate. But now, no one met her eyes.
Aira adjusted the brim of her straw hat and walked on.
She didn't stay in the village. Just outside its edge, a small room above a weathered store served as her resting place — temporary, forgettable.
As she shut the door behind her, the silence greeted her like an old habit. She set her blade beside the futon, but her fingers lingered on the hilt.
Just for a moment.
Then she let go.
That night, Aira slept without dreams.
The world, however, did not rest.
—
Somewhere else...
Footsteps pounded against cracked stone.
Ren darted through the alleyway, half-laughing, half-breathless, a half-eaten bun clenched between his teeth and his arms full of stolen goods. Behind him, a pair of city guards shouted curses as they gave chase, but their armor slowed them — and Ren had grown up too fast and too lean to ever be caught by men like them.
"Try harder next time!" he called over his shoulder, grin wide as the wind cut past his cheeks.
He turned sharply, ducked under a broken arch, and leapt over a stack of crates like it was second nature. By the time the guards hit the corner, he was already gone — vanished into the city's underbelly like smoke through a sieve.
A few minutes later, Ren crouched beneath a crooked awning in the back alleys of the slums, catching his breath. The sounds of pursuit had long faded. The stolen bag now hung loosely in his grip.
He didn't eat. Not yet.
Instead, he walked a few blocks down, slipping past the shutters of sleeping homes, until he found the spot — a half-collapsed shed where a handful of children huddled together, trying to stay warm with whatever blankets they could find.
Ren stepped into the doorway, tossed the food down gently, and said nothing.
The kids didn't speak either. Just wide eyes and quiet hands reaching for bread they hadn't tasted in days.
Ren smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You remind me of someone," he said softly, mostly to himself. "Skinny kid, starving, barefoot. Couldn't steal worth a damn."
He gave them one last look… then turned and walked off.
Just like that.
No goodbye. No need to explain.
He'd done what he came to do.
Ren walked the winding path back to the rundown shack he called home — tucked between a butcher's back door and a bathhouse long out of business. The boards creaked under his step, but the sound didn't bother him. He lived light on his feet and lighter on the rules.
Inside, the air smelled like old wood, burned rice, and sake that hadn't seen a bottle in weeks.
The voice came before the door even shut.
"You out stealing again?"
Ren didn't flinch. The old man sat by the cold hearth, legs crossed, sake jug in one hand, a wooden training sword leaning against the wall beside him. His hair had once been tied neat, but now it hung loose and tired, like everything else about him.
"Didn't know you were awake," Ren muttered, kicking his shoes off and heading for the corner where he kept his blanket.
"You think I don't hear the guards shouting your name down the alleys?" The samurai's voice cut through the dark like steel. "You get caught doing what you're doing — they won't care how fast you run."
Ren shrugged, unbothered. "Didn't get caught."
"That's not the point."
"Then maybe don't act surprised when I find my own way to fill the rice bowl." Ren turned, half-grinning. "Or better yet, show me how you used to survive before you started drinking through your memories."
The old man didn't answer right away. Just took another slow sip from his jug and stared into the ashes that used to be fire.
"The sword I used to live by ain't worth living by anymore," he finally said. "Don't think I got much left to teach."
Ren dropped onto the floor, folding his arms behind his head.
"Then stop talking like you're supposed to be my father."
Silence stretched long between them. Not cold — just familiar.
Eventually, the old man leaned back and muttered, mostly to himself, "Damn kid's gonna get himself killed."
Ren smirked in the dark.
"Not today."
The shack settled into silence again, broken only by the quiet shifting of blankets and the creak of the old floorboards as Ren stretched out on the mat. Moonlight slipped through the crooked shutters in long, narrow lines.
The ex-samurai let out a low sigh, the kind that had weight behind it.
"You ever think about leaving this place?" he asked suddenly, voice softer now, stripped of the earlier edge.
Ren blinked up at the ceiling. "Leaving? For what?"
"World's bigger than this gutter. Bigger than stealing rice and dodging guards." He paused. "I didn't always sit around drinking dust. Once, I followed a banner. Wore a blade proud. Thought I'd die for something that mattered."
Ren scoffed lightly. "Did you?"
The old man didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, eyes staring into someplace far beyond the shack's rotting boards.
"Nah." His voice cracked like dried parchment. "I lived long enough to regret it."
Silence again.
Ren turned on his side, facing the wall now, his voice low but firm.
"Then maybe I'll do better."
The samurai gave a tired chuckle. "You'll do something, that's for sure."
Outside, the wind nudged the door gently. Inside, neither of them spoke again.
The old man leaned his head back against the wall again, eyes flickering toward the rafters like they might whisper back something worth hearing.
"You know the name Akebono, boy?"
Ren blinked, half-asleep already. "Sounds like some sake brand."
The old man snorted. "It was a clan. A real one. Old blood. Disciplined. Respected. People used to bow when that name passed their ears."
A beat passed. The room felt colder somehow.
"They're gone now?" Ren asked, voice more cautious.
"Torn apart. From the inside. Betrayal, cowardice... pride. Pick your poison." He closed his eyes. "There was a girl. Young. Too young. Not meant to carry a blade. But sometimes the sword finds you, not the other way around."
Ren frowned, sitting up slightly. "So what happened?"
The samurai didn't answer.
He only said, quieter this time, "Some stories aren't ready to be told again."
Outside, the wind stirred dust along the road. Ren lay back again, eyes open now.
He didn't understand the name Akebono, not yet.
But something about the way the old man had said it — like he was speaking to ghosts — stuck with him as the darkness closed in.
Aira woke with a start.
The peace she'd managed to carve out in sleep — fragile, fleeting — was already fading. She sat up slowly, blinking through the thin light creeping through the paper-paneled window. Her hand instinctively found the hilt of her sword beside the futon, fingers curling around it not out of fear, but habit.
Muffled voices leaked through the wooden walls. One of the tenants below was shouting again.
"Some punk's causing a scene outside! Third time this week!"
Aira exhaled, long and sharp through her nose. Her jaw tightened.
So much for peace.
She slung her cloak over her shoulders, fastening the strap across her chest with practiced ease. Every step creaked softly beneath her as she descended the stairs of the humble inn, the wheat stalk she had left on the bedside table forgotten for now.
Her sleep was sacred — one of the few places untouched by memory. The fact that something had disturbed it... that was enough reason to end it quickly.
Outside, the early sun bled faint gold onto the plateau. A small crowd was already forming near the gates.
Aira adjusted the brim of her straw hat and kept walking — calm, measured, blade within reach.
If trouble had come to her peace, it would answer for it.
She must've jinxed it, she thought bitterly.
Because just as she passed the crowd, a rough hand clamped down on her shoulder.
"How is there room for this lowly woman but not for me?!" the man bellowed, breath sour with liquor and pride.
The crowd flinched. Murmurs rose.
Aira didn't turn. Not right away.
Her fingers flexed once at her side — not toward her blade, not yet. She let the silence stretch, heavy as the weight of his grip.
Then, with a voice like cold steel:
"Take your hand off."
The man scoffed. "Or what? You'll cry?"
Someone chuckled in the back of the crowd. That was all it took.
In a blink, Aira spun — her hand moved, not to her sword, but to his wrist. She twisted. Hard. He hit the dirt with a crack of surprise and ego.
Gasps flared from the bystanders. The tension broke like a dropped plate.
Aira stood over him, not out of anger — but the kind of patience you only learn by losing too much.
"I came for a drink. Not a scene," she said, brushing off her cloak. "Next time you put your hands where they don't belong, you'll lose them."She walked off as the man groaned, nursing more than bruises.
The streets had quieted. Whatever trouble she stirred with her fist seemed to settle with the dust she kicked up walking away. Back at the inn, no one spoke of it, but when she returned to her room, she found a fresh bowl of rice and tea waiting—no note, just a quiet gesture of thanks. She didn't smile, but she didn't throw it out either.
By morning, she was gone again.
Aira walked beyond the edge of the village, to where the hills rolled out like waves against the earth. Past the tree line, a small clearing waited — the ground smoothed by hand, stone markers laid at the edges to mimic the practice yards of old dojos. This place was hers. Built with her own hands, in solitude. Her one tether to discipline.
She tied her cloak at the waist and unsheathed her blade.
The wind caught the hem of her hakama as she moved — slow at first, almost meditative. Then faster. Precision in every cut. A form passed down and buried, now brought back to life by the rhythm of her steps and breath.
She didn't know the girl was watching.
Just at the edge of the trees, half-hidden behind a leaning trunk, stood a small figure — maybe ten, maybe younger — dressed in worn sandals and a tunic too big. Eyes wide, lips parted. Watching not out of fear, but awe.
Not many trained like this anymore. Not many carried themselves like her.
Aira paused only for water. She saw the girl then. Didn't speak. Just nodded once and returned to her stance.
The girl didn't run.Aira resumed her practice, the sound of her blade cutting air steady and sharp. Each motion etched discipline into the soil beneath her feet. She could feel the girl's gaze still lingering, and while it might've once made her uneasy, now it simply reminded her she wasn't entirely alone in the world.
After her final form, Aira sheathed her sword in one clean motion. The silence returned, broken only by the soft rustle of wind through the trees.
The girl hadn't moved.
Aira turned, stepping to the edge of the clearing where her water flask lay. She picked it up, took a long drink, then gestured with her chin.
"You've been staring long enough to memorize at least three forms," she said plainly. "What are you waiting for?"
The girl blinked, then stepped out from behind the tree, hands clasped nervously. "I've… never seen anyone move like that before," she murmured.
Aira raised an eyebrow. "That's not a reason. That's an excuse."
The girl hesitated, then took a step closer. "I want to learn," she said.
Aira studied her for a long moment. The girl's stance was uncertain. Her eyes weren't.
"Come back tomorrow. Before dawn," Aira said. "If you're late, don't bother coming again."
The girl's eyes lit up — not with joy, but with something more grounded. Determination. She bowed quickly, then turned and sprinted back toward the village.
Aira watched her go, then sat at the edge of the clearing, sword across her knees.
She didn't know why she said yes.
Maybe it was the same reason she built this place.
Or maybe, deep down, she wanted something — even something small — to outlive the silence.
The next morning came with dew still clinging to the grass, the rising sun casting long golden shadows across the plateau. Aira stood barefoot in the field, her blade drawn but resting against her shoulder. Her cloak had been folded and placed on a nearby rock, and the quiet of the morning was broken only by the soft crunch of footsteps approaching from the trail.
The little girl returned, as promised, clutching a wooden branch shaped vaguely like a sword. It was too long for her and clumsy in design, but she held it with both hands like it mattered.
Aira raised an eyebrow. "You're early."
"I didn't sleep much," the girl said with a grin. "I kept thinking about your sword. The way it sings when it moves."
Aira hid her surprise beneath a slow exhale. "The sword doesn't sing. You just don't know how quiet the world can get when your life depends on one thing."
The girl nodded like she understood, even if she didn't. Then Aira asked, more gently, "What's your name?"
The girl looked up. "It's Mio."
Aira repeated it to herself softly. Mio.
"Well then, Mio," she said, stepping into a firm stance, "show me how you hold that stick."
Mio raised it. Her grip was too tight, her feet uneven, and her arms shaky with effort—but her eyes were locked on Aira's, unwavering.
Aira circled her once, then adjusted the girl's stance with two fingers on her elbow and a tap on her foot.
"You want to learn the way of the sword," Aira said, standing in front of her again. "Why?"
Mio blinked. Her voice dropped to a quieter tone. "Because people only listen when you have one."
The answer caught Aira off guard. For a moment, she wasn't in the field anymore—she was standing in her brother's shadow, listening to nobles dismiss her before the blade ever touched her hand.
She knelt to Mio's height.
"The sword can make people listen," Aira said slowly. "But it can also make them fear you. Or hate you. You sure you're ready for that?"
Mio didn't flinch. "I don't want to be feared. I just don't want to be ignored."
Aira nodded once. "Then let's make sure you're never either."
And with that, they began.
The sun climbed higher as the morning wore on. Mio stumbled through basic footwork drills, swinging the stick with more determination than precision. Aira corrected her sparingly, letting the girl learn the rhythm of movement first, the language of breath and balance.
Aira didn't speak much — not out of coldness, but because she knew how rare silence was in a world that demanded so much noise. Mio, though, filled the quiet with questions between swings.
"Were you taught by someone like you?"
"No."
"Did you ever lose a fight?"
"Not one that mattered."
"Why do you always look sad when you talk about the sword?"
That last one made Aira pause.
She crouched again, picking up a thin blade of grass and rolling it between her fingers. "Because it reminds me of everything it couldn't stop."
Mio didn't know what to say to that, so she just nodded and swung again.
They trained until noon, when the heat made it unbearable. Aira let the girl rest beneath a crooked tree, pouring water from her flask into Mio's hands. The girl grinned, face flushed and messy with sweat.
"Tomorrow?" she asked.
Aira gave a small nod. "Tomorrow."
As Mio turned and began jogging back toward the village, Aira lingered. Her hand hovered near her sword's hilt — not in tension, but in reflection. Mio's reason… it was simple. Honest. I once had one, too.
The sun beat down on another corner of the world — a rougher edge, where sweat smelled like desperation and the dirt didn't wash off easy.
Ren stood in a dimly lit room beneath the floorboards of an old bathhouse. The air was thick with heat and tension. Around him, the muffled roars of a restless crowd filtered through the cracks in the wood above. His hands tightened around the handle of a worn wooden katana — chipped, scarred, and slightly heavier than regulation. It wasn't much different from the real thing… except it didn't kill fast.
Behind him, the ex-samurai finished wrapping his own faded haori tighter around his waist. He walked up slowly, setting a firm hand on Ren's shoulder.
"Keep your guard low — just enough to bait him. Don't over-commit. And remember: footwork saves fools more than steel ever did."
Ren gave a crooked smile. "You're nervous."
"No," the old man replied. "I've just seen too many boys walk in thinking they've got nothing to lose… until they do."
A beat passed. The sound of a wooden bell rang above them. Ren adjusted his grip.
"This is the final match," the old man added, voice quieter now. "Eyes will be watching. Some you don't want. But all that training — all those mornings I caught you swinging at air when you thought I was asleep — it won't go unnoticed."
Ren rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and grinned.
"Good. Then let 'em see everything."
He pushed open the door with his shoulder, stepping into the underground arena as a wave of sound crashed into him. The crowd surged — a storm of gamblers, drunks, and blood-hungry eyes. But Ren didn't flinch. His blade may have been wood, but his spirit was iron.
The ring waited.The ring stank of sweat and spilled sake.
Ren cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, holding the wooden katana loosely in one hand. Across from him, his opponent paced — heavier, older, and twice as grim. Scars crossed the man's arms like tally marks. This wasn't someone who fought for fun. He fought to hurt people.
The crowd jeered, hungry for blood.
Ren smirked anyway.
The bell rang.
The first blow came too fast. Ren barely ducked in time as the wooden blade hissed past his cheek. A second swing caught his ribs — he staggered, coughing. The ex-samurai watching from the alley flinched, but didn't move.
Ren blinked through the sting of sweat. This guy's serious.
He parried another strike, but his block wobbled. The opponent followed with a heavy shoulder slam, knocking Ren back into the ring's edge.
Laughter erupted. "Drunk already?" someone yelled.
Ren spat blood. "Working on it," he muttered.
His fingers tightened around the sword.
The next time the man lunged, Ren stepped forward — deliberately off balance, arms swinging too wide. It looked foolish.
Until it wasn't.
He dipped at the last second, letting the strike sail over, and his body turned like a pendulum. Momentum carried him, and the wooden blade came crashing across the man's ribs.
WHACK.
The hit echoed. The man's face twisted — not in pain, but surprise.
Ren straightened, sway in his legs like the floor wasn't quite stable.
"First Sip..." he murmured. "...'Stagger Before the Storm.'"
He didn't stop moving — legs loose, arms flowing like water. His opponent advanced again, trying to read his rhythm, but there wasn't one. Ren stumbled left, only to snap right. A wide hook missed, but the follow-up jab with the hilt nailed the man in the gut.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't clean.
But suddenly Ren was leading.
The opponent wiped blood from his mouth and snarled. He charged again, this time smarter — locking Ren's arm mid-swing, kneeing him in the side, and slamming a forearm into his chest. Ren hit the ground hard. Groaned. His eyes fluttered.
Then he grinned.
"Still thirsty," he whispered.
He kipped up — messy but fast — and swung the katana in a wide arc, striking the man across the leg. Both fighters staggered, panting. The crowd was silent now.
This wasn't a joke anymore.
This was war in slow motion.The two stood swaying, breathing hard. Splinters flaked from their battered swords. Ren's hands trembled — not from fear, but from the fire in his arms and ribs. He could barely feel the bruise blooming over his eye. Everything blurred.
The crowd leaned in.
And just as the opponent raised his weapon again — everything slowed.
A sound in Ren's head, distant and gravel-rough:
"The third sip," the old man had said once, beneath the wash of moonlight in their crumbling dojo. "That's the one people forget. Not rage. Not bluffing. It's the one where you're quiet enough to listen… then fast enough to answer."
Ren had been younger then. Less scarred. "Sounds like a sneak attack."
The ex-samurai had snorted. "Call it what you want. But if a man overcommits—" he motioned with his fingers, "—you give him a sip of regret. Fast. Final. And you make damn sure he never drinks again."
Back in the ring, Ren blinked. His opponent's blade was mid-swing, body fully committed. Wide. Predictable.
Too easy, Ren thought, and stepped forward into the strike.
The wooden blade scraped his shoulder — barely — but his body was already moving, not against it, but with it. His katana tilted like it was falling… until it didn't.
CRACK.
The counter came lightning-fast — a spinning, rising elbow to the man's chin followed instantly by a whip-crack strike across the temple with the wooden blade. Clean. Sharp.
The man dropped.
Dead silence.
Then an uproar.
Ren stood over him, chest heaving, sword still trembling in his grip. He didn't even realize his lip was bleeding. The crowd roared like they'd just watched a ghost swing.
In the shadows, the ex-samurai nodded once.
Ren staggered back toward the alley, raising the katana like a drunk toasting the moon.
"Guess I finally got to that third sip," he muttered, and disappeared into the dark.
The rooftops above stayed still.
A small figure, hidden behind broken tiles, watched him vanish.
She couldn't have been more than twelve. Dirt-streaked cheeks. Wide eyes.
She didn't speak. Just stared.
Then turned and ran.
End of Chapter.