Ryu slipped out before the others stirred, his tattered kimono clinging damp with dew. The cold bit at his bare feet as he crossed the muddy paths of Hikari's slums. His black hair hung loose over his brow, amber eyes sharp despite the wear of sleepless nights. At sixteen, he bore the grime of the gutters and the weight of a life always watching its back. But even so, his dreams burned, stubborn and bright, like a lantern in a storm—dreams of a sword, of honor, of becoming something more than mud and blood.
He passed the House of Fallen Blossoms without a glance, the lanterns still dim, the laughter from last night now only echoes. The alleys thinned as he neared the forest's edge, where cherry blossoms floated like ghosts in the morning mist. The trees stood solemn and crimson, untouched by the world's rot, and as Ryu entered their quiet, the grime on his skin felt distant.
The forest was cold and still. Every step crunched the leaves beneath his sandals, a sound loud in the hush. His thoughts turned over and over—Jiro, the drunken samurai who could've killed him. Taro, with his scarred hands and warnings clipped by silence. The mysterious ronin. Hana's fear had been real. Taro's evasion even more so. Whoever he was, he wasn't a passing shadow.
A few steps deeper, he froze.
There, between pines, lay a campsite. Bare bones, but recent. A ring of stones still clung to ash, faint smoke curling upward. A worn bedroll, a bag of rice slumped against a tree. Not long abandoned.
Ryu crouched low, heartbeat rising. He touched the ash—warm. Someone was still near.
Then—cold steel at his neck.
"Don't move."
The voice came like stone grating on stone. Low. Measured. Unflinching.
Ryu's breath stopped. The blade's edge kissed his skin—sharp, precise. A single twitch and it would open him.
"I'm not here to steal," he said, voice steady, heart rattling in his chest.
A pause.
Then the man moved into view, the katana still close but no longer pressed to kill. He stood tall, lean, his kimono a tattered blend of black and white, edges frayed from battle. His chest was scarred, visible beneath the open fabric. His face was sharp, hardened like stone, with fiery red hair flowing wild in the breeze. His eyes—piercing, intense, unwavering—watched the crimson trees with a warrior's resolve.
"A slum rat," the man muttered, half amused. "No threat."
The katana slid back into its sheath with a soft whisper. Ryu exhaled slowly, arms still half-raised. The man's presence was weighty—not like Jiro's drunken menace, but something colder. Controlled. Dangerous.
"What's your name?" the man asked, lowering himself onto a fallen log beside the fire pit.
"Ryu," he said, cautious. He sat across, wary but unwilling to run. "Yours?"
The man poked at the ash with a stick, as if deciding how much to give. "Call me Kaze."
Ryu knew that wasn't a name, not really. It was a title, a mask. But the slums respected silence and secrets. He didn't press.
"You a samurai?" Ryu asked, nodding toward the blade resting against the log. Its scabbard was scratched and old, but the metal it held gleamed.
Kaze's face shifted. The humor vanished, replaced with something darker. "Was. Not anymore."
A ronin, then. It struck Ryu like a pulled string—tight, uneasy. Taro's warning echoed, but Kaze didn't move like a threat. He sat like a man who'd already fought his wars.
"What brings you here?" Ryu asked, glancing toward Hikari's distant roofs.
"Cities are noise. Forests are quiet." Kaze's eyes narrowed. "What about you, slum kid? Not many wander this way unless they're running."
Ryu hesitated. "Just needed to breathe. Things are… heavy."
Kaze tilted his head. "Heavy for a boy?"
Ryu's jaw tensed. "Yakuza came sniffing. A drunk samurai nearly killed someone I care about. And someone's hunting my friend. A real hunter, not some street thug."
Kaze's eyes sharpened, but he only nodded. "Sounds like life. Someone always reaching for your throat."
The forest stirred around them. Birds called softly, and light filtered through the cherry blossoms. Ryu stared at the firepit, warmth settling in his bones. He didn't understand it, but being near Kaze felt… safe. Like standing beside a cliff and knowing it wouldn't fall.
"You ever dream of more?" Ryu asked, voice quiet. "Beyond the gutters?"
Kaze looked at him for a long time. "Once. I dreamed of banners. Of honor. Of being the kind of man stories remember. That dream ended when the blood didn't stop."
Ryu swallowed. "I want to be a samurai. Not like Jiro. A real one."
Kaze chuckled, low and rough. "Real samurai die just the same. But dreams—dreams are what you hold when everything else slips."
"I fought one last night," Ryu said, almost embarrassed. "Used a chair leg. Stupid, I know."
Kaze blinked. "Chair leg?" He let out a sharp breath. "Guts over brains. Still standing, though?"
"Barely. He cut me." Ryu showed a faded line across his side. "Worth it."
Kaze leaned forward, something new flickering behind his eyes. "You fought to protect someone."
Ryu nodded.
"That matters."
There was silence, but it felt full, not empty.
Then Kaze stood, brushing off dirt. "Show me."
Ryu blinked. "What?"
"Show me how you fought. Pick up a stick."
Ryu found a branch, solid and weighty, and held it like he had in the brothel. He swung, sloppy and wild. Kaze watched, unmoving, then stepped in and adjusted his grip—his hands rough but firm.
"Not like that. Loosen your fingers. Feel the weight."
Ryu swung again. This time, it moved cleaner.
Kaze nodded once. "You've got instinct. No training, but fire. Ever heard of Sword Aura?"
Ryu shook his head.
"It's the spirit in a blade. A samurai's soul, made real."
Kaze unsheathed his katana slowly. Then he moved.
A single arc, fluid as wind. The air shimmered in the wake—like heat off stone, a flicker that made the forest hush. Even the blossoms seemed to pause.
"That's Sword Aura," he said, sheathing it. "Takes control. Heart. And time."
Ryu's eyes were wide. "Can I learn?"
Kaze shrugged. "If you live long enough."
He sat again, gaze turning distant. "Why'd you fight that samurai?"
"For Yumi," Ryu said. "She's my family. So is Taro. Hana. I'd die for them."
Kaze looked at him, and something in his flinty eyes softened—like a scar beneath armor. "Family's rare. Hold it tight." Then, quieter: "But don't let it blind you. Sometimes the people behind you… have knives too."
Ryu flinched, sensing truth behind the words. Was Kaze warning him? About Taro?
Kaze stood again. "Lesson one. Balance. A samurai lives in his feet."
He took a stance—grounded, ready. Ryu copied him, legs shaky.
"Lower. Feel the dirt."
Ryu shifted. It felt stupid. Then it felt right.
Kaze nodded once. "Good. Do that every day."
Ryu smiled, barely. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Yet."
Kaze waved him off. "Now get lost. I need sleep."
Ryu hesitated. "I'll come back."
"If you survive," Kaze said with a smirk, settling onto the log.
As Ryu left, the stick still in hand, he glanced back once. The red-haired ronin sat among the ash and blossoms like a spirit from a forgotten war.
By the time Ryu reached Hikari's edge, the sun had climbed high. The House of Fallen Blossoms creaked awake. He could hear Yumi laughing inside. Taro's voice. Home.
But his mind stayed in the trees—with Sword Aura, with the whisper of a katana through still air, and with a warning:
Family can blind you.