Taito had prepared himself meticulously.
This was his first real combat mission, and he treated it with utmost seriousness. Before leaving, he even polished Konkoe, his beloved sword. The silver edge gleamed brightly, reflecting his face like a mirror.
Yoriichi, on the other hand, looked far more relaxed.
He still wore his crimson flame-patterned haori, with black garments underneath. His hakama no longer dragged along the ground—he had grown nearly ten centimeters taller, his posture straighter and more composed.
The two soon arrived at the gathering point.
Three others were already waiting in the clearing—this would be their team for the mission.
"Yo! Yoshitoki! Long time no see—came pretty early, didn't you?" Taito called out cheerfully.
The samurai with a tied topknot turned slowly. The first thing Yoriichi noticed was his sharp, hawk-like nose.
Yoshitoki narrowed his eyes and snorted.
"You're the late one, Taito."
Then his gaze shifted to Yoriichi.
"Why is there a kid here? Don't tell me you've fallen so low you're babysitting nobles now."
He drew his sword slightly and gestured toward Yoriichi.
"Pathetic."
Taito merely chuckled, offering no explanation. To him, an adopted son was no different from a biological one—both were people he would entrust his life to.
The other two team members, a man and a woman, also turned their attention toward the strange pair.
This was the Land of Iron—not the chaotic Warring States era of old. Children didn't march to battle carrying weapons taller than themselves. Back then, families needed five or six children just to ensure survival.
But now, no one expected a child this young to be anywhere near a battlefield.
"Nice to meet you! My name is Yoriichi. Please take care of me!"
Taito puffed out his chest proudly and patted the boy's head, as though announcing to the world:
"This is Yoriichi—Mifune-sama's adopted son. The man who will one day stand at the Daimyō's side."
Yoshitoki froze.
He had assumed Taito, arrogant as ever, had simply become a noble's sword instructor—another warrior seduced by luxury and wine, drifting into decadence like so many others before him.
But Mifune's adopted son?
That was a different matter entirely.
The other two were equally stunned.
They all knew what kind of man Mifune was—a war hero in his thirties, a man widely regarded as the next leader of the Land of Iron. His reputation was known from the pleasure districts to the remote temples.
"I'm Omisako," the woman said, bowing politely despite her earlier cold expression.
"Hirota Seichi," the man beside her said flatly. "Since everyone's here, let's move. Slow cattle end up on the butcher's block."
Though he didn't name names, the sarcasm was obvious.
Taito raised an eyebrow. Hirota Seichi… The name rang a bell.
"Our mission is to secure Matsuo Town," Hirota continued. "Ensure trade routes remain open. The last caravan was completely looted—even the horses were taken."
"The Ame shinobi are getting bold," Taito muttered. "Kicking up trouble on Iron Country borders while still fighting Konoha… Hanzō's ambition really stretches towards the horizon."
"Careful," someone scoffed. "Overeating gets you killed."
Though their tones differed, their stance toward the enemy was unified.
They boarded the merchant caravan together. Matsuo Town lay on a major trade route linking the Land of Iron to other nations. The merchants had hired protection after repeated raids.
Bandits and ronin were common in the region—parasites who extorted villages and burned homes without remorse.
The carriage rattled violently along the uneven road. To avoid ambushes, the caravan took a narrow, rarely used path. The elderly driver chewed on tree bark absentmindedly, an old habit from wartime days when survival alone was a blessing.
Taito, Yoriichi, and Omisako shared one carriage. Hirota and Yoshitoki rode ahead to guard the lead wagon.
Taito found it odd that such a small caravan had hired five samurai—it felt excessive.
Omisako occasionally tried to strike up conversation. Taito had heard of the Omi family—minor nobles from Kyoto who had risen through trade and generous tributes to the Daimyō.
She studied the two across from her.
Taito looked utterly ordinary—hardly the image of Mifune's student. More like a young noble traveling for leisure.
She lifted the curtain slightly, letting in fresh air, trying to dispel the faint scent of incense.
Yes—this man had brought a sachet on a mission.
Yoriichi, meanwhile, looked completely baffled by the situation.
He brought perfume…?
As for the child—
Cute, but that birthmark on his forehead…
An ominous sign.
Omisako glanced sideways at Yoriichi. His red-and-black hair was nothing like Mifune's ash-gray. They didn't look related at all.
"Yoriichi… may I call you that?"
He nodded and carefully took something from inside his robe.
Omisako leaned forward instinctively.
'Is that a weapon? A charm? Something Mifune gave him?'
Instead, a faint aroma drifted out.
She froze.
Grilled fish.
Her eyes flicked toward Taito.
The scent was unmistakable.
Her father had traveled often when she was young, leaving her mother to raise her and her brothers alone. She remembered standing by the doorway, watching her brothers weave baskets in town while her mother fetched water from far away—despite a well being nearby, reserved for nobles.
When she was hungry, her mother would somehow produce a fish from the bamboo basket, smiling proudly.
Five people would share one fish.
Her brothers argued over the portions, but never took from the youngest.
Her mother always took the head, savoring it slowly as if it were a feast.
Those were the happiest days of her life.
And now—
Yoriichi held out the fish.
"Big sister," he said softly, "would you like some? Aunty Toyoko made it. She's the best cook in the estate."
Omisako stared at him.
She couldn't understand his intent.
Was he trying to curry favor? Was this some calculated move?
No.
Children didn't think like that.
He had simply seen someone who looked hungry—and offered what he had.
Her throat tightened.
She turned her face toward the window to hide the tears welling in her eyes.
But nothing escaped Yoriichi's sight.
He simply smiled faintly, holding the fish out steadily.