> Spring, Kikuchi Encampment, Central Higo Province – 1551

The smell of rice nearly drove me mad.

I hadn’t eaten in over a day. Maybe longer.

My body felt like it was running on embers, burning through whatever scraps of energy I had left. The scent of food—cooked rice, dried fish, roasted barley—clung to the night air, making my stomach cramp so hard I nearly doubled over.

The Kikuchi encampment was practical, not proud. Tucked into the forest like a wounded beast waiting for the cover of darkness, it had no banners, no grand insignia—only necessity.

I saw men sharpening swords, checking their arrows, tightening their armor straps in silence. There was no boasting, no laughter—just the quiet tension of warriors who understood they could be dead by tomorrow.

And nobody looked at us for long.

A soldier tightening his chest plate gave me a glance—then looked away.

A young warrior near a cart saw Koharu, his gaze lingering only a moment before he shook his head and resumed his task.

There was no hostility. No warmth either. Only wariness.

I barely noticed my eyes had already locked onto the bowls in their hands.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. Just one bite. One bowl. One handful.

I opened my mouth, my voice hoarse from exhaustion.

"Where do we eat?"

Masanari led us to the bank but didn’t stay. He set down a bundle of clothes—fresh, clean, and simple—before speaking.

"Bathe. When you’re done, my men will take you to eat."

Then, without another word, he turned and left.

I didn’t argue or hesitate, that was all I needed to hear.

Beside me Koharu exhaled softly, like she had been holding her breath since we entered the camp.

Two warriors remained behind, standing a short distance away. Their hands rested on their sword hilts, watchful but not hostile.

I barely paid them any attention.

I stepped forward and walked straight into the water.

The cold hit like a blade, shocking the breath from my lungs. But I didn’t stop. I plunged my arms into the river, scrubbing hard. The dried blood—his blood, my mother’s blood—clung to me like a second skin.

I dug my nails into my arms, scraping, erasing, burying.

My fingers trembled slightly.

A few feet away Koharu knelt at the river’s edge, cupping water in her small hands and rinsing her face. Her movements were slow, careful—like she was cleansing herself of something more than dirt.

Neither of us spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

◆◇◆

> War Tent, Kikuchi Encampment, Central Higo Province

The tent was cramped, the air thick with the scent of damp cloth and old parchment. A wooden table scarred from years of use stood at the center, a map of Kyushu spread across its surface, dark lines marking roads and rivers, red ink bleeding across its edges.

A single lantern flickered, casting sharp shadows along the fabric walls.

Inside, the future of the Kikuchi Clan was being decided.

Kikuchi Hidemitsu, a hardened warrior in his forties, slammed his fist against the table.

"We must move now!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the low murmurs of the other men. "The Ōtomo butchered Amabara-mura! If we stay, we die!"

Masanari listened, arms crossed, face unreadable.

A younger retainer nodded. "Our numbers are too few. We won’t last a skirmish."

Hidemitsu’s patience snapped. He turned sharply to Masanari, eyes narrowing.

"And you—bringing in useless strays?" His voice was cold. "You act as if we have the strength to shelter every wandering beggar!"

Masanari didn’t flinch. "Those children lost their home. If we leave them, they will die."

Hidemitsu scoffed, his voice dropped lower. "Then let them die."

The silence that followed was deep and cutting.

Hidemitsu’s gaze darkened, his voice was quieter now, but sharper—

"That boy has seen death. He has survived it. And if he has survived it—" he exhaled, "then he knows how to kill."

A retainer frowned. "If that’s true… he is dangerous."

Hidemitsu’s expression hardened. "You want to drag a child who has blood on his hands with us? A stray beast that has tasted flesh? How long until he turns on us?"

Masanari’s fingers twitched against his sleeve. "He fought to protect his sister."

Hidemitsu's gaze darkened. "And what happens when he fights to protect himself?"

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then, slowly, Hidemitsu exhaled. His next words were quiet.

"We should kill them now. Quickly. Painlessly."

Masanari’s hands curled into fists beneath his sleeves.

"They have no way of surviving alone." Hidemitsu’s voice remained cold. "What we would be doing is mercy."

Masanari’s lips parted slightly—his only visible reaction.

Then—

"The Kikuchi do not kill innocents!"

Harutora’s voice broke the silence.

The boy who had barely spoken now stood firm, his gaze locked onto his uncle.

Hidemitsu turned slowly, his features hard as stone, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face."

Then, after a long pause, he smirked. "Truly, my lord listens to reason." His voice was laced with mockery. "You will listen to your uncle, for you are still just a child."

Harutora’s fingers curled into fists beneath the table.

"Ojiue." His voice remained steady. "When I took leadership of this clan, I was afraid and lacked experience. I will always appreciate your counsel—truthfully, I am still afraid."

A pause.

"But I will NOT bring shame to the Kikuchi Clan by resorting to such barbaric means."

Masanari tilted his head slightly. A small smile flickered across his face.

"Well said, my lord."

Hidemitsu sneered. "Then your father would be ashamed of you."

A heavy silence followed.

Harutora didn’t flinch.

Hidemitsu exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Foolish sentiment. But do as you wish."

He turned and left without another word.

Harutora straightened.

"Break camp. We move south immediately."

The retainers bowed and began filtering out.

Harutora’s hands were still clenched.

He did not let himself tremble.

Masanari lingered for a moment. Then, finally—Harutora spoke quietly.

"Keep a close eye on Ryōma."

Masanari bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord."

The lantern flickered, casting shadows that stretched like silent specters along the tent walls.

By dawn, the Kikuchi would no longer be here.

◆◇◆

> Kikuchi Encampment, Central Higo Province

The first bite of rice nearly broke me.

The warmth spread through my body like fire, chasing away the hollow ache in my gut. I didn’t think or breathe. I just ate.

The bowl had barely touched my hands before I was devouring its contents at a terrifying pace. Rice, miso, pickled radish—gone in seconds. A piece of dried fish? Swallowed whole, bones and all. I drank down tea like it was life itself.

The Kikuchi retainers sitting nearby paused mid-bite, staring in a mix of disbelief and horror.

One warrior glanced at his own half-finished meal. Then at me. Then back at his bowl.

Another leaned toward his companion, whispering, “Did we just bring in a starving beast?”

A few chuckles, but most just stared.

Koharu, sitting beside me tilted her head slightly, eyes half-lidded as if bored. Her small hands wrapped around a warm tea cup, fingers tapping against the ceramic.

Then, as if commenting on the weather, she said—

"If you stare at him, he'll eat your food too."

The way she said it—soft, distant, certain—sent a visible shudder through the closest soldier. He inched his bowl away without thinking.

I barely noticed. I was already onto my third bowl.

Harutora was nowhere in sight, which meant this was my first real chance to breathe since we got here.

I stuffed another mouthful of rice into my cheeks and, between hurried chews, grumbled something at the men still staring—

"Mhh mnffh… nhn gonna hiff tha’?"

The words came out completely unintelligible, muffled behind swollen cheeks packed full of food.

There was a brief pause of silence.

One soldier blinked. “…Did he just threaten us?”

His companion nodded gravely, "It sounded like ‘Are you gonna eat that?’ but I think he meant something worse."

Another warrior looked down at his rice, “…Should I be afraid?”

A beat passed. Then someone laughed nervously.

Another snorted.

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And just like that, the strange, tight tension in the air broke apart. A few warriors chuckled, shoulders loosening slightly. Not warmth, not camaraderie—just a moment of absurdity in a place where laughter had been scarce.

I barely noticed. I was already reaching for another bowl.

Then, suddenly—

“Break camp! We move immediately!”

The sharp voice of a retainer cut through the air, snapping the Kikuchi men into motion.

Metal clattered. Armor plates tightened. The tension returned in an instant.

I looked up from my now-empty bowl. “Hah?”

A nearby soldier yanked his pack onto his shoulder, barely sparing me a glance. “Ōtomo scouts could be close. We’re leaving now.”

More voices carried through the camp:

“Move quickly! Take only what you need!”

“Burn anything we can’t carry—no traces left behind!”

“We’re finally meeting up with the main group?! We can see our families soon!”

I scowled. “Tch. That bastard Harutora said we could rest!”

Koharu sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression unchanged.

She didn’t blink at the commotion. Didn’t even shift her posture. She only spoke after a short pause, her voice as calm as ever.

“You shouldn’t complain, Nii-sama.”

I glanced at her, but she wasn’t looking at me. Her gaze was fixed on the flames rising in the distance, the Kikuchi warriors dismantling the camp, erasing its existence.

Her fingers curled slightly around her sleeve.

“We are fortunate to be here.”

A lazy shrug rolled through my shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. I get it."

The crackle of flames drew my gaze upward.

Several warriors had already set parts of the camp ablaze. What they couldn’t carry, they would destroy. No banners. No insignia. No signs left behind for the enemy to track.

By the time dawn reached its peak, the Kikuchi Clan would be gone.

I exhaled, pushing myself to my feet.

Koharu rose beside me, her small fingers brushing against my sleeve. A quiet touch.

A reminder that we were still moving forward.

I pulled my tattered cloak tighter around my shoulders, watching the last of the encampment collapse into the flames.

The Kikuchi were marching south.

And we were marching with them.

◆◇◆

> En Route to Kikuchi Main Forces, Higo Province

The Kikuchi forces moved in a tight, disciplined formation, weaving through the wooded hills in near silence. Harutora rode in the center, Masanari led from the front, and Hidemitsu guarded the rear. Every position was chosen with intent.

And so was the way they tried to separate me and Koharu.

It wasn’t subtle.

Koharu had been placed near Harutora’s personal guard, while I was pushed further up the column, closer to the marching retainers. A wedge, driven between us.

A test? A precaution?

Didn’t matter.

Of course they’d be wary of me. A stray dog that had already drawn blood.

I understood, but that didn’t mean I liked it.

Koharu was still riding with Harutora.

A few paces back, I caught glimpses of their conversation.

Harutora spoke softly to her, his tone lighter than it was with his retainers—though still distant, still carrying the weight of formality.

Koharu, as always, just listened.

She had that effect on people.

No matter the age, status, or temperament, they always ended up talking to her.

Maybe it was her silence. Maybe it was something else.

I squinted, watching them.

Why is that bastard so kind to her, yet so cold to me?

Something else caught my attention—Harutora’s posture.

His movements in the saddle were stiff, slightly awkward. His grip on the reins was firm, but there was a hesitation in his handling of the horse.

Still learning, huh?

Masanari, with his broad shoulders and relaxed stride, made for an imposing figure at the head of the formation.

His armor, while well-kept, lacked ornamental excess—built for function over vanity. A warrior’s armor. No unnecessary weight. No gilded embellishments.

His hair, a deep chestnut-brown, was tied in a practical topknot, strands of it swaying slightly as he walked.

His eyes however had a hawk-like amber that held calm and made it difficult to read him.

After watching him for a while, I finally spoke up.

"Hey, Ox-face."

Masanari’s brow twitched, but amusement flickered across his face. "Ox-face?"

"Yeah. You look like a stubborn old ox."

Some of the retainers walking alongside him inhaled rigidly.

Masanari, however, only chuckled. "And what does that make you?"

"A hungry wolf," I said, flashing my teeth.

His smirk widened. "And what makes you so hungry, little wolf?"

"That guy." I jerked my chin toward Harutora.

Masanari followed my gaze. "Lord Harutora? What about him?"

I shrugged. "Dunno. Something about him bugs me."

A slow, measured breath left Masanari’s lips. "You should go easy on him."

One eyebrow lifted. "Why?"

Masanari didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze drifted forward, his brow creasing slightly, as if weighing his words.

"Some burdens are heavier than they look."

The words lingered.

A noble’s burden?

What kind of burden did a pampered heir carry?

The march was long.

The silence was boring.

So when my gaze fell upon Masanari’s katana, something in me stirred.

The scabbard was a deep midnight blue, the lacquered wood etched with faint silver streaks, like wind cutting through the night. At the base, near the hilt, was a simple engraving of a crescent moon.

Just enough to be elegant—a blade meant to be used, not admired.

I want to hold it.

So I said exactly that. "Let me hold it."

A retainer riding beside Masanari choked on air.

"W-What?!"

Another turned red with fury. "A samurai’s blade is sacred! You should never ask to hold another man’s weapon!"

I shrugged. "Who cares?"

His face darkened.

"You—!"

Before he could launch into some long-winded lecture, Masanari actually laughed.

"You’re an odd one, aren’t you?"

Then, to everyone’s absolute horror, Masanari unhooked the scabbard from his belt and held it out.

"Fine. You can carry it."

The retainers nearly fell off their horses.

"Masanari-dono, you can’t be serious!" one of them protested. "You heard what Hidemitsu-sama said about the stray beast—"

Masanari ignored them.

He tied his horse’s reins to another retainer before turning toward Harutora.

"With your permission, my lord, I’d like to walk with our young wolf for a bit."

Harutora’s gaze briefly met Masanari’s.

Then, with silent approval, he nodded.

The retainers grumbled, but they didn’t object further.

And just like that, I was holding Masanari’s katana.

It was heavier than I expected.

Masanari smirked. "Tell you what—if you can carry that all the way to the rendezvous, I’ll treat you to udon at the next inn."

A grin crept onto my face. "And if I lose?"

"You have to shut up for the rest of the journey."

A snort escaped me. "You’re on, Ox-face."

The retainers groaned loudly in exasperation.

The dirt road stretched before us.

Masanari walked beside me, watching my grip on his weapon.

Then, casually—"Were you afraid?"

A blink. "Huh?"

"When you killed that man. Were you afraid?"

A grin spread across my face. "Of course not. I had to protect my family."

Masanari watched me carefully.

"That wasn’t a samurai."

A frown. "What? Of course it was!"

"The Ōtomo hire outsiders. Bandits, mercenaries. The men who attacked your village were likely just that—strays lured in by the promise of stolen wealth."

I scoffed. "Does it matter?"

Masanari chuckled. "To you? Maybe not. But to most samurai, it would."

His brow creased. "Why does it matter?"

Amusement flickered in his eyes. "Because most samurai are trained in cultivation."

I squinted. "Cultivation?"

"You really don’t know?"

"I know what swords are. That’s enough."

A booming laugh. "No, it’s not."

He adjusted his armor. "Cultivation is what separates warriors from mere fighters. There are three paths—Bushidō, Shugendō, and Onmyōdō."

The names sank in.

Bushidō. Shugendō. Onmyōdō.

Masanari continued, his voice measured and steady.

"Every warrior follows a path, but not every path is open to them."

He glanced at me, watching carefully.

"Cultivators have something called Fated Compatibility."

I frowned slightly. "Fated Compatibility?"

Masanari nodded. "It determines what path a person can walk, how far they can go, and what limits they will face."

His words carried weight.

"Most people have an affinity for only one path," he explained. "Some rare individuals have two. And only few in a generation… There are those born with all three."

My throat felt dry. I swallowed hard but said nothing.

Masanari continued.

"Bushidō—'The Way of the Warrior.' Strength, precision, and the blade—this is its foundation."

I tilted my head slightly, intrigued. "So it's for swordsmen?"

Masanari nodded. "And warriors of all kinds. It isn’t just about wielding a weapon—it’s about turning your entire body into one. Mastering control, reaction, and lethal intent. The best Bushidō cultivators can cut before their opponent even realizes they’ve drawn their blade."

A slow nod of understanding left me.

Masanari moved on.

"Next, Shugendō—'The Way of the Ascetic.' Those who walk the mountain’s path become like stone—unyielding, unshaken."

My fingers curled slightly. "What does that mean?"

"It means their bodies become a fortress." Masanari’s voice carried something close to respect. "Shugendō cultivators train their endurance, their pain tolerance, their ability to harness natural Ki. Fire cannot burn them. Cold cannot slow them. They can walk for days without food or water and emerge stronger than before."

My head dipped slightly, absorbing every word. That sounded useful.

Masanari continued.

"And last is Onmyōdō—''The Way of Yin-Yang.' Perception, balance, and the unseen forces—Onmyōdō shapes fate itself."

That made me pause.

"Shapes fate? That sounds like nonsense."

Masanari chuckled. "To a Bushidō fighter, it might—but Onmyōji cultivate a different kind of strength. One that doesn’t rely on the body, but the mind and soul. They read the flow of Ki in everything, summon spirits, manipulate elemental forces, and some can alter probability itself."

My grip on the katana tightened. "That's insane…" I muttered under my breath, eyes widening.

Masanari studied my reaction.

"Cultivation isn’t just about strength—it’s about control." Masanari’s gaze flicked to the katana in my hands. "Ki isn’t just energy—it’s the bridge between mind, body, and the world around you."

Ki.

I had heard the word before, but I had never thought about it beyond strength.

I straightened slightly. "Then teach me."

Masanari chuckled, shaking his head. "We’ll see."

He continued explaining that most Kikuchi followed Bushidō, but others—like Harutora—had multiple affinities.

Born into a clan, given status, trained from childhood—he never had to fight for it. And now, he had multiple affinities too? How much more was fate planning to hand him?

Something tightened in my chest.

Harutora again.

That bastard has everything.

Before I even realized it, I blurted out—

"I bet I have an affinity for Bushidō!"

Masanari let out a booming laugh, shaking his head. "I love the spirit, little wolf!"

The march slowed as we reached a clearing tucked between the trees. No fires, no excess noise—just a quiet, hidden place to rest.

Men moved efficiently, setting up camp with practiced discipline. Even exhausted, the Kikuchi remained wary.

Masanari tossed me a rolled-up cloak. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be just as long."

I dropped onto the rough ground, Masanari’s scabbard resting against my lap. Sleep tugged at me, but something buzzed under my skin—an excitement I couldn’t quite shake.

Then—

"Ryōma."

Harutora stood nearby, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in the dim moonlight. His dark blue hair, tied back in a loose but controlled topknot, shifted slightly in the night breeze, a few strands falling over his forehead.

"You think you have an affinity for Bushidō?"

I smirked. "What, you doubt me?"

Harutora’s gaze flicked toward Koharu.

"Both of you. Stand up."

Koharu tilted her head, then rose without hesitation.

Masanari, still lingering nearby, watched with quiet amusement.

Harutora adjusted the glove on his right hand.

"Let’s find out."

The night air stilled.

And the Fated Compatibility Test was about to begin.