Night draped itself over Shimotsuki Village, the moonlight spilling silver onto the quiet courtyard of Isshin Dojo.
On the wooden porch sat Koshiro, calm as still water in a gray yukata, carefully polishing the blade of his cherished katana.
His eyes, hidden behind narrow glasses, barely flickered when he heard the shoji door slide open.
"Kuina," he asked gently, "what kept you out so late by the shore?"
Kuina placed her teacup down, her small face turning serious.
"Father, today at the beach… I met someone," she said, voice tinged with excitement.
"His name is Jin. He's two years older than me. We sparred for hours—and even though he said it was a draw, I know I lost. But… we became friends. A really good friend!"
At the mention of "friend," her expression bloomed into the bright, stubborn happiness only a child could wear.
Koshiro's eyes narrowed to a thoughtful slit behind his lenses.
"Only two years older… and he could stand against my Kuina so easily?"
His voice was calm, but the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed intrigue.
"Tell me, Kuina—how exactly did you two spar? I'm curious about this boy."
No one knew Kuina's talent better than Koshiro himself. Barely five, and already she could overwhelm adult swordsmen-in-training. For a boy only two years older to hold her off and even earn her respect—it piqued the master's interest.
Kuina's cheeks puffed up a bit, remembering:
"Jin's a jerk, Father! At first he just stood there all smug, didn't even dodge—just blocked everything I threw with a short stick…"
She rattled off every detail: the endless strikes, his relaxed stance, the teasing, the quiet corrections, and how he never counterattacked—only defended, calmly and perfectly.
When she finally stopped, Koshiro set his katana aside, the polished blade catching the moonlight.
"I see," he murmured, voice lower. "So he didn't even need to move his feet. Interesting…"
A spark of recognition lit behind the glasses.
"That boy may have already touched the heart of swordsmanship… or at least found his own 'path.'"
He gave a small sigh, shaking his head.
"An extraordinary child—or perhaps he had a remarkable teacher."
Koshiro glanced down at Kuina.
"You said he lives on the west side of the village?"
"Yes, Father," Kuina nodded. "The last house near the forest. He told me so when we parted."
She hesitated, then added, puzzled:
"But, Father… he also said he doesn't use kenjutsu. He called it his own 'blade path.' I don't know what that means…"
For a heartbeat, Koshiro's eyes widened, before settling into a thoughtful gleam.
"A child who at seven has the nerve to speak of his own 'blade path'…"
"Either a monster's talent, or someone who's had guidance from someone formidable," he murmured to himself.
He rose, folding his hands behind his back.
"I'll keep an eye on that boy, just in case."
"It's late, Kuina. Time to sleep."
"Yes, Father."
Her voice softened, obedient as ever.
Meanwhile, the boy himself—Jin—had no clue he'd caught the interest of a master swordsman.
And even if he had, he wouldn't have given a single fuck.
Right then, he sat cross-legged on his bed, sweat drying on his skin.
He guided faint inner force through tired meridians, soothing the micro-tears and calming the trace of wild energy still hiding in his veins.
"Slow… steady… heal the scars first, then build it up again."
A mercenary's patience was forged in battle, and he wielded it now with the same cold discipline.
Morning came.
Jin dunked his face in the stream, cold water chasing away the last of fatigue.
Back in the yard, he leaned against the stone bench, drumming his fingers.
"Morning—drills for Shave," he muttered. "Afternoon—blade work. Night—circulate blood and repair the damn meridians. Once they're stronger, I can start using medicine to harden them further."
His plan set, he stepped onto the worn earth, eyes narrowing.
"Shave…"
In the Marines' ancient texts, Shave meant: in less than half a second, step at least ten times, channeling explosive force into a blur that would fool the naked eye.
"Father's diary said it took him a year to master the first spark… Not bad at all. But I can do better."
Muscles tensed, knees flexed.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
"Too slow. Again."
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud!
"Nope—lost balance. Again!"
He repeated until the sweat blurred his vision and his legs burned.
Afternoon.
Jin lugged a pitch-dark wooden blade, carved from dense heartwood, as long as his arm—and heavy as a fucking anchor.
At wrist and ankles, hundred-pound iron weights dragged on each strike.
"Basic cuts: slash, thrust, sweep, draw, overhead, side, rising. Again!"
Leaves shaken loose by the gust of each swing danced around him. No leaf escaped: every drifting scrap was split, pierced, or smashed by Jin's blade.
Old merc training layered atop this new world's raw force.
Control. Timing. Speed. Explosive power.
The blade hummed with every swing; air whirled around him like a miniature storm.
Nightfall.
Dinner vanished in hungry mouthfuls.
Then Jin washed, sat cross-legged again, and let the energy from meat and marrow soak into tired muscles.
He guided blood and breath to cleanse the dead cells away, repairing what day's training had broken.
And tomorrow, he'd break it all again—stronger than before.
"No fucking rest. Not until this body keeps up with what I really am inside."
No complaint. No regret.
Only quiet determination—and the moon above, watching.
This story is inspired from various fanfics i have read from around the world so if you find any similarities please dont mind . Thank you
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T/N :
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