The sound of steel against cloth echoed softly through the room. Mamoru sat cross-legged by the open window, the fading sunset painting warm golds across his face. He moved the polishing cloth in slow, steady circles along the gleaming blade of his katana, Yorichii. Every motion was careful, reverent like a monk tending to sacred scripture.
Behind him, Gyomei sat on his knees in full meditation posture, hands clasped together in prayer, his back perfectly straight.
Mamoru glanced over his shoulder, a single bead of sweat sliding down his temple.
"…You know," he said, breaking the silence, "you don't have to move into my room, Gyomei."
Gyomei opened one eye. "As your retainer, I must remain close at all times. I cannot allow you to face danger without me nearby."
Mamoru blinked, exasperated. "Danger? We're in my house, Gyomei. The biggest threat here is tripping over Onimaru's tail in the hallway."
As if on cue, Onimaru curled up near the doorway gave a small bark, thumping his tail against the floor.
Gyomei remained still as stone. "Even in peace, a warrior must remain vigilant."
"Where did you even hear that ,you've lived in the mountains until now!!"
Mamoru sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "At least pick the room next door. You're huge, and there's barely space to stretch my legs here."
Gyomei hesitated, then gave a solemn nod. "Very well. But…."
Mamoru smiled faintly. "Fine, you can stay tonight. But no snoring."
"I do not snore," Gyomei said with absolute conviction.
Onimaru barked again.
"…You do snore," Mamoru muttered.
After a brief chuckle, he set Yorichii on its mount against the wall and turned his attention to a small, worn book resting on his desk. Its leather binding was cracked with age, the pages faintly yellowed. The faint emblem of a sun surrounded by nine lines and Nichirin's name beneath it was barely visible on the cover.
Mamoru picked it up carefully, brushing off the dust. "This is it. Nichirin's journal."
Gyomei leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "Thats the swordsman your father spoke of … one of the ancient swordsmen."
"Yeah," Mamoru said quietly. "A man from our clan ,someone who lived more than eight centuries ago. I figured I'd start reading it tonight. Want to listen?"
Gyomei nodded. "If you'll allow it."
Mamoru opened the journal. The pages were rough, some torn clean out, others blotched with old ink and faint blood stains. The writing was archaic, but still legible.
He began to read aloud.
"We faced an enemy that could not die no matter how many times we cut .
Even now, the image haunts me. The swords of the council struck true hundreds of cuts that should have felled any mortal men. Yet the enemies rose again, wounds sealing as if time itself obeyed its will. Our strongest strikes, our finest techniques ,none of it mattered. Its existence mocks the concept of death itself."
Mamoru's hand trembled slightly as he turned the page. "An enemy that doesn't die…? That's…"
Gyomei's brow furrowed. "Impossible. Even demons can be slain. What kind of being could survive countless fatal wounds?"
Mamoru shook his head. "I don't know. But this isn't just some samurai tale , Nichirin fought beside others like him. They called themselves the Council of Swordsmen."
The next few pages were damaged. What words remained were jagged and broken, stitched together by time.
"With all of our forces, I never thought we'd lose.
I do not know what happened. We had power, resolve, and the warrior of liberation on our side . Yet in the end, the light was swallowed. The Kingdom… fell. Our banners burned beneath the shadow of something beyond comprehension."
The room fell silent. Even Onimaru, sensing the tension, raised his head slightly.
"So… they lost," Mamoru murmured, the weight of history sinking into his chest.
Gyomei's voice was low. "Even the greatest warriors can fall. But if they could not win ,what kind of power were they facing?"
Mamoru swallowed hard. "Something we can't imagine."
He turned another page.
"I was among the few remaining members of the Council.
I did not escape unscathed. I lost a leg and an arm to the world . Before the kingdom fell completely, one of our healers forged for me prosthetics ,metal and lacquered wood bound by Ryou. They allowed me to fight, even as it all came crashing down.
Mamoru ran a finger along the faded sketch on the page a rough drawing of an armored man with one metal leg and arm, standing amidst ruins.
"Nichirin survived that?" he whispered.
Gyomei looked impressed. "To continue fighting after such loss… his will must've been indomitable."
Mamoru nodded silently, then turned the next brittle page.
"I was able to retreat into the land of Wano with a handful of samurai and a few from the Kozuki.
We escaped through the storms. Many perished along the way, but the seas showed mercy. We found refuge in the mountains, where the wind howled less violently than the screams of the dying world we left behind. "
Mamoru leaned back slightly. "So that's how the Kozuki made it back to Wano… ."
Gyomei folded his arms. "That means the Kozuki and all the land of wano were involved in this war ."
Mamoru exhaled slowly. "But yet this war is remembered by no one . Not even history books remain. How ?"
He flipped through several missing sections before reaching the next legible passage.
"Word is that we lost Davy's family and clan
I can only hope that none of them fell into the hands of the enemy..."
Mamoru frowned deeply. "The Davy clan, I've never heard of them."
"Nor have I," Gyomei said quietly. "But perhaps their descendants still live, hidden or forgotten."
Mamoru nodded. "Maybe. He wrote that he hoped they survived."
He turned to the next entry.
"Thanks to Neferetari, the Poneglyphs were spread out.
It was her final act of defiance. The knowledge of the old world, etched in eternal stone, scattered across the seas, what a great sacrifice by her '
Mamoru's eyes widened. " Poneglyphs ... stones that carry the history of the world , could this be the reason why there are no history books about the void period? ..."
Gyomei glanced at him. "I believe so , normal books can be burned , this must've been the solution at the time ."
Mamoru nodded. "Exactly... "
He turned the last surviving page. The ink here was faint, but the tone was resolute like the final breath of a warrior who refused despair.
"Not all is lost.
We will live to fight another day. Others will rise where we have fallen. Perhaps in a hundred years, perhaps in a more but our blades, our will, and our truth will be reborn. Our wills will live on ."
Mamoru slowly closed the book. The sound of the closing cover seemed to echo through the room.
Neither of them spoke for a long time. The candle flickered, its light dancing across the worn journal.
Gyomei finally broke the silence. "To think… all this was forgotten by time."
Mamoru looked out the window, where the night sky stretched endlessly above Ringo. "Forgotten but not lost , there must be more information on the poneglyphs."
He placed the journal down with quiet reverence. "If they once stood against the undying… then maybe one day, we'll have to do the same."
Onimaru gave a soft bark, almost as if in agreement.
Mamoru smiled faintly, though the weight of what he'd read still lingered in his chest. The flickering candlelight reflected in his eyes, which now carried a new depth .
"Let's rest for tonight," he said softly. "Tomorrow… we begin training."
And as the candle burned low, the journal of Nichirin lay silent beside them its remaining words whispering across centuries, a forgotten history and a promise of awakening once more.