The snow fell heavier that night, each flake glistening faintly beneath the lanterns that lined the streets of Ringo. The air was still, almost too still, as if the entire district held its breath while watching Kozuki Oden, Mamoru, and the fox Onimaru make their way down the narrow path toward the dark horizon.
Their shadows stretched long and thin, flickering with every passing flame. Oden walked proudly, each step carrying the swagger of a man who had seen the world's oceans and returned alive. Mamoru hurried alongside, his sandals crunching against the snow, his navy-blue haori brushing against his knees, while Onimaru padded silently behind, his fur dusted white with falling snow.
From the doorway of his estate, Ushimaru Shimotsuki stood tall, arms folded, watching them leave.
Then, suddenly Mamoru slowed. As though sensing the weight of his father's gaze upon him, the boy turned. His lips curved into a bright smile, the kind of innocent, unshaken smile only a child could make in such a moment. He raised his free hand high into the cold air and called out, voice breaking through the hush of the night:
"Take care, Father!"
Ushimaru's stern face softened. For a moment, his chest tightened. His eyes blurred. For in that instant overlapping Mamoru's small figure he saw a ghostly image.
The boy had become taller, broader. His face sharper, yet still filled with light. It was not Mamoru he saw but his own younger self, standing there in his youth, smiling with the same fearless conviction. The ghostly figure faded like snow dissolving on the ground, leaving only Mamoru waving brightly.
A smile tugged at Ushimaru's lips. His son… truly, his son.
And with that smile came memory.
Two Year Ago – The Raid on the Eternal Graves (Late in 1498 )
The sharp clack of wood striking wood echoed across the courtyard of the Shimotsuki estate. Mamoru, only four years old then, held a small training bokken in both hands, sweat dripping down his brow as he faced a wooden post. Each strike was wild, unbalanced but filled with determination.
From the veranda, Ushimaru watched, his arms crossed, his eyes both strict and proud.
But the peace of training was shattered when a servant rushed in, breathless, his voice panicked.
"Lord Ushimaru! A raid! Bandits are upon the eternal graves! They've come in great numbers ,our samurai are being overwhelmed!"
Ushimaru shot to his feet instantly, the sharp edge of command snapping into his expression. "Ready the men. We leave at once."
He strode inside, retrieving his paired blades from their stand. The steel gleamed, sharp as moonlight. But then, he turned—to Mamoru.
"Father…?" the boy asked, heart pounding as he clutched his bokken.
"You're coming too."
Mamoru's eyes widened, shock and thrill coursing through him in equal measure. "M-me? Truly?"
"Yes," Ushimaru said firmly. "You've trained. Now you will learn and gather experience. But remember " His eyes bore into his son's. "Do not falter , Strike all in your path. Keep your guard high. Today you will know what it means to wield a blade."
Excitement and fear swirled in Mamoru's chest as he abandoned the bokken and ran to grab Yoriichi, the real sword his father had gifted him but never allowed him to use in combat until now. It was still too long for his frame, forcing him to carry it in his hand, but the weight thrilled him.
(A/N: Like how Rocks carries his , not on the waist but hand)
They took off toward the battle
The battlefield was chaos.
Snow fell thick, painted red with blood. The frozen earth was littered with broken spears, shattered armor, the bodies of both samurai and bandit alike. Torches lit the graveside in flickering fire, casting monstrous shadows as men screamed, clashed, and fell.
When Ushimaru arrived, his presence was like thunder breaking across the sky. He drew his paired swords, the steel singing as it left its scabbards. His voice rang clear:
"Do not falter! Stand your ground! This land is sacred, and we will not let these scavengers defile it!"
Then, with a roar, he charged.
Ten men fell in a single sweeping motion, their weapons shattered, their bodies collapsing in crimson arcs. The samurai of Ringo gasped, renewed vigor filling their arms. Even Mamoru, frozen for a moment, felt awe surge through him. So this… this is my father's strength.
He gripped his sword tighter, dropping the sheath into the snow. Yoriichi gleamed in his hands.
A towering bandit, scarred and reeking of blood, noticed him. He hefted a great axe, his grin savage. "A brat? They send a child against me? You insult me ,I'll skewer you in two!"
Mamoru's small frame shook, but he calmed his nerves, hearing his father's voice echo in his mind.
Flashback within a flashback:
"On the battlefield," Ushimaru once told him, sitting cross-legged across from his son, "there is no room for hesitation. When you draw your sword, you draw it with a purpose. If you have none, do not draw at all. A blade without purpose is weak its resolve cracks, and its wielder dies."
Mamoru had nodded solemnly then, gripping his wooden sword.
The words echoed now as the bandit raised his axe high, the steel glinting in the torchlight.
Mamoru's heart pounded. A purpose. What is my purpose? Why do I draw my blade?
End flashback