> Spring, Kikuchi Encampment, Central Higo Province – 1551

The Kikuchi encampment stirred with restless energy.

Men gathered in clusters, murmuring beneath the flickering torchlight. Some stood with arms crossed, faces unreadable, while others leaned on their weapons, eyes filled with interest. The air was thick with dust, kicked up by shifting feet and the cool night breeze.

At the center of it all, a thin red string stretched between two wooden posts. Hanging from it motionless was a single ofuda—a talisman inscribed with sacred calligraphy.

The test was simple in appearance, yet to the warriors surrounding us, it was a ritual of weighty significance. It was not merely about striking a target. It was about revealing the unseen.

I shifted my weight, glancing around. “Why the hell does this feel like a festival?”

Masanari returned carrying two wooden bokken under his arm. He passed one to me and another to Koharu before stepping back.

Koharu studied the wooden sword in her hands, her small fingers barely wrapping around the hilt. She turned toward Harutora. “Why is everyone watching?”

Harutora’s gaze remained on the ofuda, arms folded, his features composed but firm.

“Tests like these don’t happen every day.”

She followed his words.

"For warriors," he continued, "watching raw talent emerge is like witnessing a blade take shape in the forge. The weak fade into obscurity, while the strong carve their names into history or mark themselves as threats to be cut down."

The words sat heavy between us.

I exhaled loudly, rolling my shoulders. “Tch. No pressure, then.”

Masanari chuckled, but the sound barely broke the tension.

Hidemitsu exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re wasting time Harutora. Bushidō is for warriors. This child…” he gestured toward me with a lazy flick of his fingers, ”...is gutter filth.”

I grinned. “Ohhh, I get it now.”

Hidemitsu’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re just scared, old man.”

The warriors nearby tensed.

I shrugged, spinning the bokken loosely in my hand. “No shame in it. I’d be nervous too if I was past my prime and a kid might show me up.”

Hidemitsu’s jaw tightened.

“Have your fun while you can boy,” he muttered, voice low. “A rat with a wooden sword is still just a rat.”

I stuck out my tongue at him, crossing my eyes and making a ridiculous face. “Blehhh!”

For a moment, the tension cracked as several warriors let out short amused breaths.

Hidemitsu’s face twisted with fury, his fingers curling into fists.

“Cut that brat’s tongue out!”

The command snapped through the night air like a blade.

Masanari, ever composed, stepped forward. “Take it easy, Hidemitsu.” His lips curled slightly. “Enjoy the show.”

Hidemitsu’s glare could have burned a hole through steel.

Koharu and I stepped forward.

The murmurs around us hushed as we approached the red string.

Her small hands tightened around the bokken, fingers pressing lightly against the wood.

Masanari watched her carefully. “Whenever you’re ready.”

She inhaled softly, her grip steady. Then with a quiet step forward, she lifted the wooden blade and struck in a single fluid motion.

The air barely stirred.

The ofuda remained completely still.

A whisper of confusion rippled through the crowd.

Masanari narrowed his eyes slightly. “That was… unusual.”

A nearby warrior narrowed his brow, his gaze fixed on the ofuda. “I could have sworn I felt something. The Ki shifted, but then it was just... gone.”

Hidemitsu clicked his tongue, arms crossed. “Tch. I knew it.”

He didn’t even try to hide his satisfaction.

“That girl’s no warrior. As I said we shouldn’t have wasted time on strays.”

Koharu lowered the bokken.

She didn’t react to Hidemitsu’s words.

She simply let go.

The wooden sword dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

Harutora frowned. “Koharu… do you want to try again?”

She met his gaze. “I don’t think the sword likes me.”

Some warriors chuckled under their breath.

Hidemitsu scoffed. “A child with no fire in her blood has no place here!”

I clenched my jaw, watching Koharu closely.

Masanari cleared his throat, cutting through the noise. “Enough. She took the test as expected. We move on.”

I stepped forward, stretching my arms above my head. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

The bokken felt solid in my grip. Lighter than I expected, but balanced.

I inhaled.

Exhaled.

Then swung.

The ofuda trembled.

A ripple of silence spread through the gathered warriors.

I frowned, tightening my grip. That wasn’t enough.

I swung again, this time with greater force and precision, the movement more focused.

The ofuda drifted off the string… slowly… as if caught by an unseen current.

A single slip of paper, weightless on the wind.

The murmurs stopped.

No one moved.

Harutora’s eyes widened, and Masanari’s expression shifted. The amusement that usually played at the edges of his features faded, replaced by something far more serious.

Hidemitsu froze, unable to mask his astonishment.

I blinked. “So does that mean I pass, or—”

The encampment erupted.

Dozens of voices overlapped, disbelief and awe rippling through the gathered warriors.

“Impossible…”

“That was the Silent Blade!”

“A Divine Bushidō Affinity?!”

“The rarest and deadliest gift a swordsman can have.”

I frowned. Divine Affinity? I didn’t know what that meant, but judging from their reactions, it was important.

The warriors didn’t disperse easily. Even as orders were given, they lingered, whispering amongst themselves.

“With talent like that, maybe he should stay with us,” one retainer murmured.

Harutora, still processing inclined his head slightly.

Hidemitsu clenched his fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “A stray wielding divine talent? Unacceptable.”

Harutora exhaled. “Masanari.”

Masanari’s posture straightened, his usual casual demeanor fading.

“Train him.”

The words dropped like stones into the quiet.

Masanari studied me for a long moment. Then finally, he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Harutora turned, his gaze landing briefly on Koharu.

She was watching him, her dark brown eyes calm.

His expression remained unreadable, but there was something calculating in the way he observed her.

She simply stood there.

“Why Masanari?” Koharu asked.

Harutora smirked, though without humor. His gaze lingered on Koharu before drifting to the dark treetops, as if recalling something distant.

“A blade like that…” he murmured, almost to himself. He exhaled quietly,

“My brother once told me—if you don’t sharpen a blade properly…” His eyes flickered to me, his voice low and deliberate.

“…it’ll cut the wrong way.”

◆◇◆

The night loomed over the encampment. Shadows pooled beneath the torchlight, flickering like dying spirits grasping at their last embers of life.

Sleep was an ambush.

I didn’t slip into it. I was dragged under, yanked into the abyss before I could even form a coherent thought. The exhaustion in my bones was absolute, a force heavier than steel, pressing me into the hard-packed dirt of the bedroll Masanari had thrown at me.

The nightmares came almost instantly.

Fire.

Screams.

The stench of burning flesh clung to the air, thick and suffocating, an inescapable brand on the senses.

I stood in the center of Amabara-mura, but something was wrong. The village loomed unnaturally, its buildings stretching skyward, their thatched roofs curling like grasping fingers. Flames licked at the heavens, devouring the sky in hungry waves. Beneath me, the ground pulsed with something dark and restless, the same weight that had pressed against my chest that night.

The night I killed him.

And there she was.

My mother knelt in the dirt, her violet eyes locked onto mine. Blood dripped from her parted lips, pooling at her knees, spreading outward like ink spilled across parchment. But she wasn’t dead.

The samurai stood behind her, his blade gleaming wet with crimson. His face was nothing but shadow, but his mouth twisted into a cruel grin.

"Run," my mother whispered.

Her voice sounded wrong. Warped and layered, as if multiple voices spoke through her at the same time.

I tried to move. My feet were buried in the ground, sinking, consumed.

"Run."

The samurai raised his sword.

"Run, Ryōma!!”

The blade fell—

I shot awake with a rushed inhale, my ribs aching.

But the pain wasn’t from the nightmare.

A boot had slammed into my side.

The first thing I noticed was the cold. It seeped into my skin, clinging to the sweat still slicking my body from the nightmare. The second was Masanari’s voice.

"Wake up, little wolf."

I groaned into the stiff fabric beneath me, gripping at the dirt like I could anchor myself to it. "Didn’t you people tell me to rest?!"

Masanari crouched beside me, tilting his head with a confused look on his face.

“Oh? I thought you wanted to learn Bushidō."

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The words cut through the haze of exhaustion like a blade through cloth. My body moved before my mind could catch up, jerking upright so fast the world tilted around me.

"YES, SENSEI!"

A few Kikuchi retainers, the only ones awake at this cursed hour, snorted from their positions around the dying embers of last night’s fires.

"He’s already calling him sensei?"

"Poor bastard doesn’t know what he just signed up for."

Masanari only smiled. "Glad to hear it. Training starts now."

I blinked at the sky. Dark, star-strewn, not even a hint of sunrise.

"Now? The sun isn’t even up yet!"

"Then move faster," Masanari said, already striding away.

I scrambled to my feet, my limbs protesting, my mind still catching up. This was my first real lesson in Bushidō.

And it was going to be hell.

◆◇◆

It started with running.

A lot of running.

Through the trees, over jagged terrain, up inclines that felt steeper than mountains. My breath tore ragged from my lungs, my heart slamming against my ribs like a war drum.

Masanari jogged beside me like we were out for a leisurely morning stroll.

"This is pathetic," he said, watching me struggle up a slope of loose gravel. "You ran for your life just days ago. Where’s that energy now?"

I gasped, sweat stinging my eyes. "That was different!"

"How so?"

"I wasn’t carrying your stupid katana then!"

Masanari laughed like my suffering was the finest form of entertainment.

"That’s part of your training," he said, nodding toward the katana strapped to my waist. "A blade should feel like an extension of yourself."

"It feels like an extension of my grave!"

I wasn’t sure when it happened, but we had an audience now. A few Kikuchi warriors had woken and gathered to watch.

"Think he’ll last?"

"I’d bet a day."

"Too generous. Half a day, tops."

I gritted my teeth and forced my legs to move.

I was going to make them all eat their words.

Then the world lurched.

The moment I reached the peak of the incline, my knees buckled. my body locking up in resistance.

And then I fell.

The impact was dull, but the wet squelch beneath me was worse.

I groaned, rolling onto my side, my hands sinking into the damp earth. No, not earth.

Mud.

A puddle.

The water rippled from my fall, murky and unsettled. But when it stilled, the reflection looking back at me was not my own.

I saw myself.

For the first time in days, I truly saw myself.

Dark violet eyes, almost black in the murky reflection, stared back at me. They were wide, alert, and alive. Beneath them, the sharp lines of my face stood out against the filth smeared across my skin. My hair was a mess, strands falling into my eyes, damp from sweat. But it wasn’t the exhaustion or the dirt that struck me.

It was the way my expression had changed.

This wasn’t the face of the boy who had lived in Amabara-mura, who had stolen food when he was hungry and bickered with Koharu over dumb things. That boy was gone.

What looked back at me was someone else entirely.

The wolf Masanari had called me.

Something deep inside my chest tightened. It wasn’t pain or grief, but something else.

A pull. A pulse.

Like a starved flame gasping for air, desperate to grow.

The same feeling had gripped me when I killed that man.

That moment. Standing over his body, his blood warm on my hands, the stench of death curling in my lungs.

Something had stirred then, rising from deep within me.

I swallowed hard.

Then I pressed my hands into the mud, pushed myself upright, and kept running.

By the time we finished, I wasn’t sure if I was dead or just wished I was.

I collapsed onto the dirt, my body screaming, my breath coming in ragged bursts.

Masanari crouched beside me, his shadow blocking the barely rising sun.

He exhaled through his nose, then said evenly, "A samurai’s strength is not in how he draws his blade, but in how many times he has fallen and stood again."

I groaned into the dirt. "Then I should be the strongest damn samurai in the world by now."

Masanari only smirked. "That was the warm-up."

I bit back a curse, barely resisting the urge to collapse.

And yet, beneath the exhaustion something lingered.

That spark. That heat.

Like my body was reacting to something deeper than just training, something inside me was waking up.

Masanari watched me carefully, his amber eyes gleaming in the early light.

He had noticed it too.

I didn’t know what it was but I knew one thing.

I was going to survive this.

◆◇◆

…Or so I thought.

The morning stretched on, the pale light of dawn creeping over the horizon. My body was wrecked, every limb ached, every muscle burned, yet Masanari wasn’t done with me.

"Push-ups," he said, arms crossed. "As many as you can. Start now."

I barely made it past ten before my arms started trembling.

By twenty, my jaw ached from clenching my teeth.

At thirty, my breath came in short, uneven gasps.

"Is that it?" Masanari asked.

I glared up at him between strained exhales. "Gimme… gimme a second!"

The Kikuchi warriors nearby exchanged glances, watching with mild amusement.

"He won’t last much longer."

"He’s stubborn, I’ll give him that."

"I should place a bet on how long before he collapses."

I ignored them. I wasn’t going to quit.

I forced myself up again, only for Masanari to press his foot against my back.

The ground rushed to meet my face.

"Keep going," he said.

I sputtered, my voice muffled against the dirt. "That’s cheating!"

"It’s training," he said, as if that made it better. "Strength isn’t just about pushing limits. It’s about holding steady under weight. Endurance is the difference between victory and death."

"The weight is your foot!"

"Life’s unfair." His tone was far too casual.

I swore vengeance.

◆◇◆

Ki control came next.

Masanari sat cross-legged in front of me, posture relaxed, breath even. The air around us was still, filled only with the rustling of trees and the distant murmurs of soldiers breaking camp.

"Ki exists in all things," he explained. "To control it, you must first recognize it. Feel it. Guide it."

I nodded. "Alright."

"Close your eyes."

I did.

"Focus on your Hara—the center of your energy."

I inhaled deeply.

And then, I felt it. The feeling of the world fading around me.

A flutter of something, barely a breath, barely a pulse, thrumming deep in my core. It wasn't just warmth, but a movement. Like unseen currents shifting beneath my skin.

The moment I focused on it, it responded, steady and natural, like a pulse.

Masanari exhaled. "Hah. That was quick."

A nearby warrior scoffed. "Tch. That’s irritating."

I opened my eyes, frowning. "Wait. That’s it?"

Masanari studied me for a long moment, tilting his head slightly. "You connected with it, yes. But control is one thing—mastery is another. Refining it, wielding it in combat… that’s where the real work begins."

I blinked. "I thought this was supposed to be difficult."

Koharu sitting nearby, tilted her head. "Nii-sama."

I turned to her. "What?"

She observed me for a brief moment, then closed her eyes.

The shift was immediate.

Like ripples across a still pond, the air adjusted around her, smoothing into place, carrying an unseen weight that settled with quiet precision.

Masanari’s easygoing demeanor faded just slightly. His gaze sharpened as he watched her.

Koharu opened her eyes and giggled, "It’s easy! It feels like breathing, doesn’t it?" She bounced slightly where she sat, pleased with herself. "It’s kind of fun!"

I grinned. "Right? That’s what I was thinking!"

The warriors exchanged glances.

"Two strays, and they both pick it up like nothing."

"That kind of instinct isn’t normal."

"Maybe we should’ve tested them earlier."

Masanari ignored them, his attention still on me. "You’ve got the foundation, but that’s the easy part. Now do it a thousand more times."

I nearly screamed.

By the time morning fully arrived, my body had nothing left to give.

I lay sprawled on the ground, drenched in sweat, limbs refusing to move. Around me, the Kikuchi warriors packed up the last of the camp, breaking down tents and securing supplies.

They loomed over me, far too entertained.

"Not bad for a stray," one muttered.

"He’s going to collapse during the march."

Masanari’s shadow fell over me.

"Get up," he said.

I groaned. "No."

His boot nudged my ribs.

"Come on, little wolf. We’re doing this again tonight."

I cracked one eye open. "I have to survive the march first."

Masanari grinned.

For the rest of the journey, training became my new existence.

Before the sun rose, Masanari forced me through footwork drills and blade techniques until my arms felt like dead weight.

By midday, I marched alongside the Kikuchi forces, my body screaming from the morning’s torment.

At night, the real hell began.

Masanari pushed me harder, weaving combat drills with relentless endurance training. My legs burned from running, my arms ached from swinging the bokken again and again. Balance, control, reaction—he knocked me off-center at every turn, forcing my body to adjust before my mind even caught up.

"You’ll thank me later," he kept saying.

Koharu trained as well, but differently. While I was being run into the ground, she practiced stillness, breathing, focus, and the subtle control of Ki. I thought it was pointless at first.

Until one night, when she followed the same Ki training I did, and the air adjusted around her again.

Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. But perfectly precise, as if the world itself made space for her presence.

Masanari noticed. His expression barely shifted, but his gaze lingered longer than usual.

She was picking it up faster than I was.

She didn’t gloat or tease, just smiled softly and continued.

I huffed and kept working.

By the time we reached the inn, my arms, legs, and probably my soul had stopped functioning.

Yet somewhere beneath the fatigue, something else had taken root.

A hunger.

◆◇◆

> Kisaragi Inn, Southern Higo Province

I slammed my hands down onto the counter, eyes ablaze with hunger-driven madness.

"Innkeeper!" My voice rang through the inn like a battle cry. "Bring me a bowl of udon so big it could drown a man!"

A few warriors choked on their drinks. Others burst into laughter.

The retainers leaned in, already placing bets.

"He’ll only make it to 4 bowls."

"I say he makes it to six."

"Seven. The brat eats like a demon."

The inn creaked with age, its walls darkened by years of smoke and sake. Kikuchi warriors filled the space, their voices blending with the clatter of chopsticks against lacquered bowls.

Near the entrance, Harutora traced the worn carvings on a wooden pillar, his fingers pausing over an old name.

"You’ve been here before, haven’t you?" Koharu’s voice was quiet but certain.

Harutora exhaled. "A long time ago,” he paused without explaining further. "The main force should be camped above the cliff. From there we’ll cross over to Satsuma province."

Koharu tilted her head. "Then we’ll see them soon?"

Harutora’s smile was faint. "Yeah. Soon."

A shamisen player had taken the stage, plucking a melody that wove through the warmth of the room. The flickering lanterns painted soft gold light across faces—men who had seen many battles, laughing over bowls of steaming broth, momentarily untouched by the weight of war.

I licked my lips, my entire soul dedicated to this meal. The first steaming bowl arrived, the scent of rich broth, fresh green onions, and thick, hand-pulled noodles hitting my nostrils like divine intervention.

I grabbed my chopsticks. The moment they touched the noodles, I moved like a starving animal.

The first bite? Heaven.

The second? Transcendence.

The third? I didn’t even remember eating it—I was somewhere between existence and nirvana.

Before I knew it, I was approaching my third bowl.

Masanari sitting across from me, dragged a hand down his face like he was witnessing a tragedy unfold. "I have made a grave mistake."

He turned to the nearest Kikuchi warrior, voice thick with suffering. "Do you see this? Do you see the destruction I have brought upon my own finances?" He gestured dramatically at me, his free hand clutching his chest. "This isn’t a boy. This is a walking famine. A demon born from the depths of starvation itself!"

The Kikuchi warriors erupted into laughter, slapping their thighs and shaking their heads as I tore through my second, then third bowl.

Harutora who usually carried an air of careful distance exhaled sharply, the closest thing to a laugh I had ever seen from him.

Masanari wasn’t done. He leaned forward, bracing both hands against the table as if he needed support to process what was happening. "Ryōma. Listen to me." His voice dropped, serious. "If you eat one more bowl, I will have to sell my armor. Do you understand the weight of this situation?"

I ignored him.

A fourth bowl arrived.

Masanari let out the deepest, most dramatic sigh of his life. "I’ll never financially recover from this."

Koharu, sitting beside me, took a slow sip of tea, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Nii-sama, at this rate, you’ll need a monk, not a meal."

The nearby warriors choked back laughter.

"Shall we hike the mountain today?" one warrior asked, loosening his armor straps. "We can see our families!"

"Soon," Harutora murmured, leaning back against the pillar. "Let’s just enjoy this moment. Who knows the next time we’ll get a meal like this?"

I was on my fourth bowl when I felt it.

Not a chill. Not a sound.

Just… a shift.

Like the air had lost its weight—

The door slammed open.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Lanterns flickered, casting long wavering shadows across the inn’s wooden floor. The shamisen player hadn’t moved, her fingers frozen mid-pluck. The scent of broth, sake, and roasted fish still lingered, but the warmth had drained from the room.

A figure stood in the doorway.

His stance was unsteady, swaying slightly as if the very act of standing had become a battle.

He took a step forward… then another. His breath rattled in his chest, each inhale a struggle.

The dim light finally caught his form.

A Kikuchi soldier.

No one spoke. No one moved.

I felt Koharu’s small fingers tighten around the sleeve of my kimono.

Harutora straightened, pushing off the pillar. "What happened?"

The soldier's throat bobbed. His lips parted but no words came. He swayed, barely holding himself upright.

Masanari moved first, his steps quick but measured. He caught the man by the shoulder, steadying him before he collapsed. "Who did this?" His voice was firm, but beneath it, something colder lurked.

The soldier exhaled raggedly. His entire body trembled, whether from blood loss or something deeper, I couldn’t tell. His fingers clenched weakly against Masanari’s forearm.

"The main force is…"