The three of them ate like men who had not known the comfort of a proper meal in months.
Inside the little hut, the steam rose in soft clouds from a great wooden pot. The man with the red tengu mask had ladled generous portions into low bowls and set them before Mamoru, Gyomei, and Onimaru without fuss. Mamoru didn't pause to think about manners; he simply bowed his thanks like he had been taught, then dug in with the naïve, ravenous joy of a child who believed every bowl might be the last.
The rice was plain, but cooked perfectly each grain separate, warm and yielding. There was a strip of grilled fish ,crispy skin, tender flesh and a small plate of pickled greens that cut the richness of the meal with a bright tang. Mamoru inhaled, slurped, chewed. Onimaru ate slowly but with intent, nose buried in his bowl, his tail thumping contentedly against the straw mat. Gyomei, who had not moved easily to the table before, sat the largest man of the three but ate with a quiet, careful reverence, as though each mouthful was a rite.
They were starved. From Bakura to Amegase they had ran . Mamoru and Onimaru, and Gyomei with a leaden, painful tread without the luxuryof stopping . Hunger had sharpened every sense; now, plate after plate vanished into them.
The masked man watched, arms folded, amusement and something like approval in the tilt of his head , his cooking was unmatched across the lands , he told himself. When Mamoru's eating slowed and his fingers sought for yet another helping, the boy's cheeks full, the man finally spoke.
"You three have the appetites of wolves," the tengu masked man said. The voice was low, edged as if it could cut, but not unkind. "Eat till you'rehearts content"
Mamoru's chopsticks stilled. He bowed again, eyes bright. "Thank you. We're… very grateful."
As Mamoru pushed his bowl aside for a breath, something caught the man's eye: the long familiar shape of a sword hilt, the curve of a sheath propped against the post where Mamoru had tucked it to eat more comfortably. The masked man's gaze sharpened.
"That blade," he murmured, more to himself than to the room.
Mamoru, already half leaned back in his seat, froze. Big hands paused mid-reach for another bite. Onimaru's ears perked. Even Gyomei glanced in the direction of the sheath, suspicion in his posture.
"Where did you get that?" the tengu masked man asked, rising to his feet. He moved across the room with a craftsman's measured step, the mask catching the firelight and throwing its painted eyes into shadow. When he stood before the sword he did not reach for it carelessly his fingers hovered, reverent, as if touching a sacred tool.
Mamoru swallowed food "It was given to me when I was born," he said simply. "I am Shimotsuki Mamoru. My father Ushimaru, the daimyo of Ringo entrusted it to me, as tradition in Ringo says they give a blade at birth."
The masked man's hand went to the sheath. For a moment his breath caught just enough that the feathers of the mask's edge trembled. He said, almost without thinking, "May I… see it?"
Mamoru eased the blade free and held it out. The sword slid from its scabbard with a soft, clean whisper. The metal had a shine to it and was cold under the hut's light, there was a single character engraved on the blade "death"死
the gaurd was fine and singular an artistry that made the tengu man pause, brows drawing together under his mask.
He lifted it carefully and turned it, tracing the length with a smith's eye. He frowned once, then the expression shifted into something like astonishment. "This forging… I have seen many hands that tried to copy this piece of art , but few can even come close. Who could've made this?"
Mamoru said something about a hyottoko masked blacksmith who didnt give his name ."The blade is called Yoriichi."
The man's response was not what Mamoru expected.
"Yes ive read about that , how the blacksmith didnt even engrave his name on the blade" the masked smith said, voice low. He pointed to a racked blade on the wall. "Thats Nidai kitetsu .The feel of this blade reminds me of a kitetsu blade ."
Mamoru blinked. "Kitetsu blade ?What could that mean?"
The now named masked man Hitetsu, smirked under the mask in a way that was almost a nod. "I've forged a lot of blades in my times ,among those blades being the great grade blade Ame no habakiri and cursed blade Sandei kitetsu "
He turned the blade in Mamoru's hands with gentleness, like a man handling a sleeping animal. "Kitetsu blades…are cursed. Not by old spirits alone, but by the intent of their forging , they are forged to be as deadly as possible . Many are made in anger, hunger, with a will embedded. :
The word "cursed" hung in the hut air like a bell. Mamoru's stomach fluttered worry.
"What is a cursed blade?" Mamoru asked, voice small.