forbidden tag

The first lesson Aiko Takahashi learned about swords was this: They did not forgive. The second lesson was harsher—neither did society. She stood barefoot on the polished wooden floor of the Takahashi dōjō, the scent of incense and oiled steel settling deep into the walls. Morning light filtered in through the paper shōji screens, casting pale shadows across the weapon racks that lined the room. Every blade there had history. Every blade had blood. So did her family. Aiko tightened her grip around the bamboo hilt of her shinai, knuckles whitening not from fear but anticipation. At eighteen, she moved with the confidence of someone who had never known weakness. Her posture was flawless—spine straight, shoulders relaxed, feet planted with lethal balance. Across from her, three men hesitated. They were older. Bigger. Trained. And afraid. "Takahashi-sama," one of them said carefully, bowing just enough to signal respect but not surrender. "Perhaps we should stop here." Aiko tilted her head. Her black hair was tied high, strands clinging to her neck with sweat. Her eyes—sharp, dark, unflinching—studied him with quiet contempt. "Why?" she asked coolly. "Are you injured?" The man swallowed. "No." "Then raise your sword." The command fell like a guillotine. They obeyed. The moment the first shinai moved, Aiko vanished. Her strike came fast and precise—bone-deep even through bamboo. The man cried out as his weapon flew from his hands. Before the second opponent could react, she pivoted, twisting on the ball of her foot, delivering a blow to his ribs hard enough to send him crashing into the wooden pillars. The third barely had time to gasp. Her sword met his throat. She stopped a breath away from impact. Silence. Aiko exhaled slowly, lowering her weapon. "You see?" she said. "None of you can defeat me." The men bowed deeply now, shame heavy in their movements. They retreated without another word, leaving her alone in the dōjō—alone with her thoughts, and with the weight of a truth she had carried for years. She was too strong. Later that evening, Aiko sat in silence at the low dining table, the soft clink of porcelain the only sound breaking the stillness. Her father, Hiroshi Takahashi, presided at the head, his presence dominating the room more than his words ever did. He was a man carved out of reputation and fear—a power broker in a society that thrived on controlled violence. The 1980s had polished Japan's surface into economic brilliance, but beneath it, old traditions still bled. "Tournaments are no place for you," her father said at last, voice calm but immovable. "You have embarrassed enough men already." Aiko's jaw tightened. "I haven't lost." "That is precisely the problem." He set down his cup. "A Takahashi daughter is not meant to be admired for strength alone. You will marry well. You will advance the family." She met his gaze, fire burning in her chest. "I will fight." "No." The word was final. "Especially not against men like him." Her grip tightened beneath the table. She knew who he meant. Every fighter in the city knew him. Ren. No family name. No lineage. No rank. An orphan raised in back-alley dōjōs and underground rings, his name was whispered with equal parts awe and disgust. He fought like someone who had nothing to lose—and everything to prove. Rumors said he had never been formally trained, yet even masters fell to his blade. And worse—he had refused her once. The memory burned hotter than any wound. The night had been loud with rain, neon lights reflecting off wet pavement outside an illegal sword match. Aiko had stepped forward, challenging him openly, her family crest visible on her sleeve. Ren had looked at her only once. "You shouldn't be here," he'd said quietly. Then he'd turned away. Humiliation had tasted sharper than steel. Now, standing alone on the veranda, Aiko stared into the darkened garden, fists clenched at her sides. One day, she promised herself, I will find someone strong enough to defeat me. And when she did— She did not yet know that fate was sharpening its blade in the form of a boy with nothing, and a sword that did not care about birth or blood. Only skill. Only will. And only love that would be forbidden the moment it ignited.