Spring, Harima Province, 1598.

"Tch. What a waste of time."

Musashi exhaled sharply and sat down, tossing his blade onto the dirt beside him.

Training had gone well. His strikes were clean. His stance was solid. But something about tonight felt off. The old lady hadn’t corrected him once.

Not a single complaint. Not a single insult.

That wasn’t normal.

He leaned back, stretching his toned, conditioned body, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. His long, unkempt black hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat from the night’s training. He wiped it away, exhaling in amusement.

"What, no wisdom today, Old Lady? Or did I finally become perfect?"

Silence.

Across from him, the old woman sat by the fire, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the flames. Her white hair, loosely tied, hung over one shoulder, the dim glow casting shadows over her sharp, noble features. A face once suited for courts and battlefields—now worn by time.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Still nothing.

Musashi clicked his tongue. "You're awfully quiet. Makes me feel like I did something wrong."

Then, without thinking, he grabbed a half-full sake jug from her side, took a swig, and made a face. "Gah!! This is terrible!"

That was when she looked at him.

Not a glare. Not the usual annoyance. Something else.

For a moment, she didn’t see him.

Not him.

Her fingers twitched, like she had reached for something she forgot wasn’t there. Then, after a long pause, she pulled a book from her belongings.

She didn’t look at him as she handed it over.

"Take it."

Musashi frowned but took it anyway. The cover was worn, the leather aged, but the ink of its title remained bold.

Kokutenma.

He turned it in his hands. "Huh. Fancy name. What is it?"

"Read it."

That was all she said.

Musashi rolled his eyes. Dramatic as always. But when his fingers tightened around the book, something else tightened in his chest.

Like standing at the threshold of something that should have been long forgotten—but wasn’t.

He opened it.

And the past returned.