The morning mist hung low over the training field behind Shimotsuki estate . Dew shimmered on the grass like tiny blades, each glinting beneath the first breath of sunlight. The still air was broken only by the sharp sound of wooden swords clashing ,thwack, thwack, thwack!
Mamoru lunged forward, his foot digging into the dirt, bringing his bokken down in a precise vertical slash. Ushimaru deflected it with one hand, his movement effortless, the impact echoing like a distant drum. Mamoru didn't stop ,he pivoted, reversed the swing, and came from the side. Ushimaru stepped in instead of back, his counter so fluid it looked more like a dance than combat.
Their wooden blades collided again and again, a rhythm of blows that filled the air like thunder rolling across the hills.
Ushimaru's stance was unshakable. His breathing calm and rhythmic. Mamoru's, by contrast, came in sharp bursts, his muscles tightening with every swing. His strikes were powerful but raw, his intent clear but his form unrefined.
Then crack!
Ushimaru slipped inside Mamoru's guard and tapped his wooden blade against Mamoru's ribs, sending him stumbling backward.
Mamoru clenched his jaw, sweat rolling down his face, but his grip didn't loosen. He attacked again, faster this time, his sword slicing through the air in arcs that cut the mist itself. Ushimaru met every strike, his body moving with a natural grace that came only from decades of mastery.
It wasn't brute strength that overwhelmed Mamoru ,it was control. Ushimaru flowed like water, his parries carrying the weight of storms.
Mamoru swung one last time, but Ushimaru caught the blade under his arm, twisted his wrist, and with a single motion disarmed him. Mamoru's bokken flew into the air before landing flat in the grass.
Breathless, Mamoru fell back, staring up at the sky.
"Damn…" he muttered between gasps. "Not even close."
Ushimaru smiled faintly, resting his wooden sword on his shoulder.
"You're strong, Mamoru however you still have your ways to go ."
Mamoru looked up, determinationrtched on his face . Ushimaru crouched beside him, his eyes sharp yet kind.
"There's a realm beyond simple swordsmanship the Realm of Cutting Steel."
Mamoru blinked, his curiosity immediately piqued.
"The realm… of cutting steel?"
Ushimaru nodded. "There are swordsman who can cut the hardest of steel even mountains . One thing they all have in common is that they'veall reached the realm of cutting steel . Swordsmanship that cuts anything is not true swordsmanship "
Mamoru sat up, listening intently. Ushimaru stood, looking toward the distant mountains.
"Once you reach that realm you are no longer just an ordinary swordsman."
He turned back to Mamoru with a grin. "And for that reason, we'll be sparring every single day from now on."
Mamoru exhaled deeply. "Every day. Im ready!"
Ushimaru chuckled. "Good. Then it'll work."
On the engawa ,Gyomei and Onimaru had been watching silently. Gyomei's face was calm, though his face gleamed faintly with admiration.
When the spar ended, Gyomei rose slightly and said, "That was impressive swordplay, Lord Mamoru."
Mamoru rubbed the back of his neck and smiled faintly. "Not enough. I'm just an average swordsman at best ."
Ushimaru, overhearing, shook his head. "Average is where every master begins "
He turned his attention to Gyomei. "Speaking of which… Gyomei, I'll be taking you to a friend of mine soon. He can train you better than I ever could."
Gyomei tilted his head. "A friend?"
"Yes," Ushimaru replied, his tone growing serious. "One of the strongest men i know in Wano. "
Mamoru's brow furrowed. "Stronger as you ?"
Ushimaru smiled faintly. "You'll see soon enough."
Mamoru and Gyomei exchanged puzzled looks. A friend of Ushimaru's, as strong as him? Just who could that be?
Hakumai — The Rengoku Household
Steam drifted from freshly cooked rice as Kyojuro carefully set down three bowls on a low wooden table. The house was quiet ,too quiet. Outside, the wind rustled the trees, but inside, silence lingered like a shadow.
Senjuro sat across from him, his small hands resting on his knees. He stared at the untouched plate meant for their father.
Kyojuro glanced at it too, a sadness flickering in his eyes before he forced a smile. "Eat up, Senjuro. Sweet potatoes and rice."
Senjuro nodded quietly, though his appetite was faint.
Moments later, the shoji door creaked open. Their father, Shinjuro Rengoku, stepped through taller than both, but hunched, with heavy eyes and two gourds hanging from his hand by a rope. The smell of alcohol preceded him.
He didn't say a word, walking straight past them toward his room.
Kyojuro called out, "Father, I made food for you!"
Shinjuro stopped, still facing away. "I'll eat later," he muttered, his voice hollow.
Kyojuro hesitated. "Father… will we resume training tomorrow?"
There was silence. Then, without turning around, Shinjuro replied coldly, "No. There's no point. Someone without innate talent or a powerful body like you ,can never become strong."
Ever since their mother passed away to illness not long ago their father has drowned himself in alcohol, locking himself in his room all day .
The words hung heavy in the air as he shut the door behind him.
Kyojuro stared at his bowl quietly. For a moment, his hands trembled. Then ,he remembered his mother's gentle voice echoing in his mind:
"Kyojuro, you were born with immense strength and talent. Use that strength to protect the weak. The strong must protect the weak. Grow strong, like your father."
Kyojuro blinked, a tear forming but never falling. He straightened his back, forced a smile, and took a hearty bite.
"TASTY!!!" he exclaimed, his voice filling the quiet room like a burst of sunlight.
Senjuro blinked in surprise, then smiled—a real, warm smile. He picked up his chopsticks again and began to eat beside his brother .