The morning air was cold.
I opened my eyes to the wooden ceiling above me, pale with soft light. A quiet creak echoed as I sat up on the futon, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
Still early. No voices. No footsteps. Just the distant sound of rustling bamboo.
I slid the paper door open and stepped out.
Mist clung to the ground like a second skin. The garden stones were wet with dew. Tall trees swayed gently, whispering secrets only they understood.
I stood there for a moment. Breathing. Listening.
Then I reached for my sword.
The steel felt cool in my hand.
Step. Breathe. Swing.
Again.
And again.
Father always said discipline begins in silence. In repetition. In things no one sees.
I believed him.
"Ryo!"
A sleepy voice broke the calm.
I looked back.
Hina stood there, arms tucked into her sleeves, hair messy from sleep. Her slippers slapped lightly against the wooden floor as she walked over.
"You're already swinging that thing?" she yawned.
"I couldn't sleep."
She squinted at me. "Liar. You're just trying to look cool in the mist."
I gave a small shrug. "Is it working?"
She sat down on a stone, resting her chin on her knees. "Maybe. A little. Just don't start talking to your sword again like last time."
"That was one time."
"One very weird time."
I let out a small breath through my nose. Close enough to a laugh.
She looked up at the sky, still half-asleep. "We leave today, right?"
"After breakfast."
"I hope the road isn't bumpy." She sighed. "I always feel like puking when the wheels hit rocks."
After breakfast, we prepared to leave.
Father inspected each sword and tied each crate down twice. Daizen Tsukihara — samurai, veteran, and master of sharp glances. Even the rice bags stood straighter when he passed.
Mother wrapped extra cloth around Hina's scarf, her fingers quick and graceful. Ayame Tsukihara — kind but unshakable. She could catch a lie in a whisper.
Ichiro, our carriage driver, loaded the final bundle onto the cart. He was quiet, strong, and had arms thicker than most tree trunks. Always wore the same faded vest, even in the cold.
"I think we'll reach the next village before sundown," he said, tightening the ropes.
Father nodded.
I glanced down the road, thinking of her again.
Yuki Hanazawa.
My fiancée.
It was an arranged engagement But I didn't mind. She was calm, smart, and always spoke with honesty. In a world full of masks, she never wore one.
Hina elbowed me in the ribs.
"Thinking about her again?" she whispered.
"No."
"Sure."
The road stretched on.
We passed rice fields swaying in the breeze, small hills bathed in golden light, and trees that bowed with age.
Hina leaned against the carriage window, humming a little tune.
Ichiro hummed too. A different tune. Off-key and proud.
Mother poured tea from a small flask, steady even on the bumpy path. Father stared out at the horizon, hands resting on his lap, unmoving.
I watched everything. The colors. The way the wind moved the grass. The silence between the trees.
At noon, we stopped by a stream.
Hina jumped out and kicked off her sandals. She stepped into the water without hesitation.
"It's freezing," she said with a laugh.
"Don't fall in."
"I'm not a baby."
She splashed water toward me anyway.
I dodged, barely. She grinned.
Mother sliced apples by the water. Father leaned against a tree, sharpening his blade, lost in thought.
For a moment, everything felt far away.
No duties. No expectations. Just sky and stream.
Clouds gathered in the late afternoon.
Dark ones. Heavy and quiet.
Ichiro slowed the cart. "We won't reach the village before the rain starts."
He pointed to a small pillar of smoke in the distance.
"Over there. Might be a home."
Father nodded. "Let's go."
We followed the path through the tall grass until we reached a modest house beside a rice field.
A man stood outside, stacking firewood.
"Excuse me," Father said. "We're travelers. May we shelter here for the night?"
The man bowed deeply. "Of course. I'm Genjiro. Please, come in."
The house smelled of wood and rain.
Inside, Genjiro's wife, Natsu, served us hot tea while preparing rice. Their daughter, Haru, peeked at us from behind her mother's sleeve — small, curious, probably no older than four.
"You honor us," Genjiro said, watching Father carefully. "I never expected guests like you."
"You didn't have to go through all this," Mother said gently.
"It's nothing," Natsu replied. "You're travelers. You're tired. That's enough."
Haru kept staring at me.
"She likes you," Hina whispered.
"She's just staring."
"You're bad with kids."
"I'm bad with you."
After dinner, Genjiro led us to the back of the house.
"You may use both rooms," he said. "My family will sleep in the hallway."
Father shook his head. "No. We'll take only one room."
"Please, I insist—"
"I won't take your daughter's rest for my comfort," Father said, voice calm but firm.
Genjiro paused. Then bowed. "Understood."
Ichiro rolled out his mat in the hallway, placing his spear beside him.
But I couldn't sleep.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
I sat up, picked up my blade, and quietly slid open the door.
The night air hit my skin like a whisper.
The moon hung low in the sky. Fireflies drifted lazily above the rice fields. Everything was bathed in silver.
I stepped into the grass.
Breathed.
Listened.
Something glowed near the edge of the woods.
I walked closer.
Oyster mushrooms. Bright and strange.
I followed them.
The trail led deeper into the trees, into the quiet heart of the forest.
Eventually, the woods opened into a clearing by the river.
Moonlight spilled across the water. The air was still and cold.
Perfect for silence.
Perfect for training.
I took my stance.
Drew my sword.
And moved.
One breath at a time.
To Be Continued…