The sun crept over the horizon, bathing the village of Takashima in warm, golden light. Fields of rice and barley swayed gently in the morning breeze, a rhythmic dance that echoed the quiet, steady life of the villagers. For all its simplicity, Takashima was a sanctuary—a place where war was only a distant whisper, carried by travelers who passed through on their way to more dangerous lands.

Kenzo Ishiro sat beneath an ancient cherry tree at the edge of the village, his katana resting across his knees. He sharpened the blade with slow, deliberate strokes, the sound of whetstone against steel blending with the rustle of leaves overhead. His dark hair fell over his face, hiding the intensity in his eyes as he worked. The sword gleamed in the morning sun, its edge honed to perfection. Yet for Kenzo, it was never sharp enough. It could always be better, always be deadlier.

“Still at it, huh?” came a familiar voice.

Kenzo didn’t look up. He recognized the voice immediately—Kuroshi. He had a knack for sneaking up on people, though Kenzo always knew he was coming. Kuroshi was dressed in a loose, white kimono, his silver hair a wild mess as usual. He approached with a crooked grin, hands stuffed into his sleeves as he leaned casually against the tree.

“You’re going to wear that blade down to nothing if you keep this up,” Kuroshi teased.

Kenzo kept sharpening. “Better to have a worn blade than a dull one.”

Kuroshi crouched beside him, studying the katana with a mock-serious expression. “You’ve been sharpening that thing every morning for years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually use it. What’s the point of carrying a sword if it never leaves its sheath?”

Kenzo paused, his hand hovering over the blade. “It’s not about using it. It’s about being ready. A blade that isn’t prepared to cut is as good as a stick.”

Kuroshi sighed and flopped onto his back, staring up at the cherry blossoms above. “You sound just like your father. Always preparing for a war that may never come. You know, not everything has to be a battle, Kenzo.”

Kenzo finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting Kuroshi’s. “And what do you think will happen when the war does come? Do you think these fields and trees will protect us? Do you think words will stop an army?”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Kuroshi shrugged, plucking a fallen blossom from the ground. “I think we’re safe here. Takashima isn’t worth an army’s time. We’re small, unimportant. No one’s coming for us.”

Kenzo snorted. “That’s what every village thinks before it’s burned to the ground.”

The weight of Kenzo’s words lingered in the air. Kuroshi sat up, his grin fading as he studied his friend. He saw the tension in Kenzo’s shoulders, the way his hands gripped the katana just a little too tightly. This wasn’t just a habit for Kenzo—it was an obsession.

“You’re carrying too much, you know,” Kuroshi said softly. “It’s not your job to protect this whole village.”

Kenzo’s expression darkened. “If not me, then who?”

The two sat in silence for a while, the wind carrying the faint sounds of the village waking up. Farmers called to one another as they worked in the fields, and the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed faintly in the distance. Life in Takashima went on, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in Kenzo’s mind.

Finally, Kuroshi broke the silence. “You know, not every problem can be solved with a sword.”

Kenzo leaned back against the tree, resting the katana across his knees. “And not every problem can be solved with words.”

Kuroshi chuckled. “That’s why we make such a great team. You’re the sword, and I’m the words.”

Kenzo shook his head, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I don’t think the world cares about teams, Kuroshi.”

“Maybe not. But it should.”

As the sun climbed higher, the sound of footsteps approached from the direction of the village. Both Kenzo and Kuroshi turned to see an elderly man shuffling toward them, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. It was Elder Ryoma, one of the village’s leaders.

“Kenzo, Kuroshi,” the elder called, his voice trembling with age. “We have visitors in the square. Travelers from the west. They bring troubling news.”

Kenzo stood immediately, slipping the katana into its sheath with practiced ease. “What kind of news?”

Ryoma hesitated, his expression grim. “They say the war is spreading. Villages like ours are being attacked.”

Kenzo’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Kuroshi, who looked equally alarmed, though for a different reason.

“Thank you, Elder,” Kenzo said, already moving toward the village. Kuroshi hesitated for a moment before following.

The square was crowded by the time they arrived. A group of five travelers stood at the center, their clothes dirty and torn. They looked like they had been on the road for weeks, their faces pale and drawn. The oldest among them, a man with a grizzled beard and a tattered cloak, addressed the crowd.

“We came from the western provinces,” the man said, his voice rough but steady. “The armies are moving east. Villages like yours—small, peaceful—are being raided for supplies. Those who resist are… not spared.”

Murmurs of fear rippled through the crowd. A woman clutched her child tightly, while an old man shook his head in disbelief.

Kenzo’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “How far away are they?” he asked, stepping forward.

The traveler looked at him, his eyes tired. “Two weeks, maybe less. If you’re lucky, they’ll pass you by. If not…”

The implication was clear. Kenzo turned to Kuroshi, his expression grim. “We need to prepare.”

Kuroshi frowned. “Prepare for what? You heard him. If we resist, they’ll destroy us. Maybe there’s another way.”

“There is no other way,” Kenzo snapped. “If we don’t fight, we die. It’s that simple.”

Kuroshi opened his mouth to argue, but the determination in Kenzo’s eyes stopped him. Instead, he looked back at the frightened villagers and saw the fear in

their faces. For the first time, he wondered if Kenzo might be right.