[A DECADE LATER]
Shujinko lay at the base of the towering tree in the courtyard, its vast canopy spreading so wide it nearly swallowed the sky above him. The trunk loomed overhead, thick and ancient despite its age, reducing him to something antlike by comparison—though he was actually no longer small. Not anymore. He was definitely far above average for his age. He was around fifteen to be exact. In his eyes, the tree was simply enormous, and in its shadow, everything else felt distant.
Grandpa Kyoto had planted it himself five years ago, right in the center of the courtyard he'd paid to have built beside their Tokyo home. Back then, it had been nothing more than a frail little sapling, thin enough to sway at the slightest breeze. But year after year, it had grown—steadily, relentlessly—stretching upward as if it had somewhere important to be.
Kyoto had designed the courtyard without a roof. Part of it was practical—no trapped heat, no need for air conditioning—but there was more to it than that. He liked the sky. Said a home should never forget what rested above it. From here, the family could watch the galaxy spill across the darkness, the stars scattered like embers across the cosmos, endless and quiet and watching.
That was exactly what Shujinko was doing now.
He stared upward, arms crossed and under his red hair, eyes unfocused, tracking the slow drift of clouds as they passed through the gaps in the branches. He couldn't see much of the sky—not with the tree claiming most of it—but that didn't bother him. The fragments were enough.
For the first time in days, he could finally rest.
A swordsman always needed rest. Even one who didn't yet call himself that.
As his breathing slowed, something changed.
At first, it was warmth—soft and familiar—settling beside him as naturally as a shadow at dusk. It wasn't sudden. It didn't startle him. It felt like the way the air used to shift when someone he knew sat down nearby, someone close enough that he didn't need to look to know who it was.
Then came the feeling of attention.
Not watching. Not judging. Just being there—the way his father had been when he'd faltered as a boy, steady and unshakable, never forcing, always guiding.
The warmth carried something else with it—steadiness, patience, a quiet strength that wrapped around him without asking permission. It reminded him of broad hands resting on his shoulders after training, of a soul that never hovered yet never truly left. Something that made him feel smaller and safer at the same time.
And beneath all of that—something calling.
Not with words. Not with urgency. Just a gentle pull, like a voice he'd grown up listening to, encouraging rather than commanding. The kind that didn't tell you what to do, but made you want to stand taller anyway. The kind that said "I'm here," even when nothing else did.
Shujinko swallowed.
His chest felt tight in a way he couldn't explain. The warmth lingered, firm and reassuring, like someone sitting beside him simply to make sure he was still breathing. Like someone who had been searching for him longer than he'd realized.
For a brief, fragile moment, Shujinko had the strange thought that if he turned his head—just slightly—he might see someone there. Not a stranger. Not a threat.
Someone familiar.
The pull strengthened, just enough to make his fingers curl against the dirt. It felt like an invitation. Like a hand extended, waiting for him to take it when he was ready.
His throat burned.
He exhaled slowly and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the feeling down. He didn't understand it, and he didn't want to think about why it made his chest ache the way it did. It had to be exhaustion. Or memory. Or nothing at all.
When he opened his eyes again, the warmth had faded—but the sense of being known lingered, like a fingerprint pressed into his spirit.
Something tapped his shoulder.
Not hard—measured. Intentional.
Shujinko flinched and pushed himself up on one elbow just as the wooden tip of a carved walker withdrew from his sleeve. Grandpa Kyoto stood over him, his frame no longer upright but bent forward with a permanent hunch, as though years of carrying responsibility had finally pressed his spine into submission.
His hair, once long, red, and streaked with gray, was now completely white—thick, coarse strands pulled back loosely, refusing to be tamed. A long white beard spilled down his chest, carefully maintained yet unmistakably heavy with age. Deep lines carved his face, not from weakness, but from decades of discipline, loss, and unbroken will. His red eyes—dimmed slightly by time but no less sharp—studied Shujinko with the same weight they always had.
Kyoto leaned on the walker with both hands, its wood worn smooth where his palms had rested for years.
"Resting already?" he asked.
His voice hadn't softened with age. It carried the same firm, deliberate cadence, each word placed exactly where it needed to be.
Shujinko jolted fully upright, rubbing his shoulder where the walker had prodded him.
Kyoto adjusted his stance, shifting his weight carefully before straightening as much as his back would allow—which wasn't much. He didn't loom the way he once had. He didn't need to.
"Up," Kyoto said. "A swordsman who rests too long forgets why he trains."
Shujinko groaned under his breath but obeyed immediately, scrambling to his feet and brushing dirt from his clothes. The spirit he'd felt moments ago had vanished entirely, leaving behind only a faint ache he couldn't place.
As Kyoto turned, moving slowly but with practiced certainty, the walker tapped softly against the stone with each step—steady, patient, unstoppable.
Age had bent his body.
But it had not bent his authority.
Stone beneath bare feet. Cool air brushing skin. The great tree overhead watched in silence as Shujinko stood before his grandfather, wooden katana held too tight in trembling hands.
Kyoto planted his walker firmly against the stone.
"Before you move," he said, voice low and formal, "you must breathe."
Shujinko straightened immediately, shoulders stiff.
Kyoto's brow creased.
"You are standing like a spear," he said. "Not a swordsman."
He tapped the ground with the tip of the walker—once near Shujinko's feet, once near his knees.
"Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees bent. Comfortably. You are not bowing to the ground."
Shujinko adjusted, wobbling slightly.
"Weight," Kyoto continued, "on the balls of your feet. Agility lives forward. Heels are for the dead."
As if summoned by the words, Shujinko's weight shifted back. Instantly, the walker flicked forward, stopping inches from his ankle.
"If that were a blade," Kyoto said calmly, "you would already be bleeding."
Shujinko squeaked and leaned forward too fast, nearly toppling.
Kyoto sighed.
"Again."
They repeated it. Again. Again.
Shujinko's breathing was uneven—short, sharp gasps that made his shoulders rise.
Kyoto shook his head.
"In through the nose. Down. Into the belly."
Shujinko tried. Failed. Tried again.
"Still wrong."
Sweat formed at his temples. His legs burned from holding the stance. Every time his weight drifted too far, Kyoto corrected him—sometimes with words, sometimes with the light but merciless tap of the walker.
"Center," Kyoto said. "Lose it, and you become an invitation."
Finally, after what felt like forever, Kyoto nodded once.
"Acceptable."
Shujinko beamed—just a little.
"That does not mean good," Kyoto added.
The smile vanished.
"Now," Kyoto said, lifting the walker, "the Five Universal Techniques."
He stepped forward.
"Cortar. The Wide Cut."
Shujinko swung.
Too hard. Too wide. His hips didn't move, only his arms, and the blade dragged his balance with it. He stumbled forward.
The walker tapped his ribs.
"Your hips drive the blade," Kyoto said. "Not your shoulders. The sword follows your body."
Shujinko reset, biting his lip.
He tried again, twisting his torso this time. The cut was cleaner—but he overextended, feet sliding.
Kyoto shook his head.
"Wide does not mean careless."
They repeated it until Shujinko's arms ached.
"Sasu," Kyoto said. "The thrust."
He pointed the walker directly at Shujinko's chest.
"Line of attack. The tip does not wander."
Shujinko stepped forward and thrust—but the blade veered slightly.
Kyoto knocked it aside.
"Your target does not move," Kyoto said. "You do."
Shujinko swallowed and focused, keeping the tip aligned, stepping forward fully this time. It still wasn't perfect, but it didn't drift.
Kyoto nodded once.
"Sorasu."
Kyoto brought the walker down sharply.
Shujinko panicked and raised his blade straight up to stop it.
The impact rattled his arms painfully.
"No," Kyoto said immediately. "You do not stop force."
He repositioned Shujinko's blade at an angle.
"You guide it."
Kyoto struck again.
This time, Shujinko angled the blade, and the walker slid off with a scraping sound. The shock was lighter—but still enough to make his arms shake.
"Better," Kyoto said. "Again."
Chap came next.
"Vertical strike," Kyoto instructed. "Power is leverage."
Shujinko raised the sword overhead and brought it down with all his strength.
It was sloppy.
Kyoto stepped aside effortlessly.
"Push with one hand," Kyoto said, adjusting Shujinko's grip, "pull with the other. Strength comes from opposition."
Shujinko tried again. Slower. More controlled. Still weak—but aligned.
Kyoto nodded.
"Borokku."
Kyoto swung the walker straight toward Shujinko.
Shujinko raised his sword edge-first—
"Flat," Kyoto snapped.
He corrected Shujinko mid-motion, forcing the blade sideways.
"Brace with the lead hand. Rear hand guides."
The walker struck.
Shujinko held—barely. His arms screamed. His knees shook.
But he did not fall.
Kyoto lowered the walker.
"That," he said, "is a block."
Almost two hours had passed since Kyoto had first guided Shujinko through the courtyard, yet it felt like a lifetime compressed into a single, punishing rhythm.
Shujinko's arms ached from holding the sword steady, his legs trembling beneath him, knees threatening to buckle with every shift in stance. Sweat slicked his hair, ran into his eyes, and stung, but he didn't dare look away. Kyoto's voice had been constant, cutting through the fatigue with precise corrections: "Hips forward. Center your weight. Feet shoulder-width. Lead hand braces. Rear hand guides." Every misstep brought another sharp, measured instruction.
Cortar had nearly toppled him the first few tries, forcing him to drive the wide arc with torso and hips while keeping his balance. Sasu left him wobbling as he struggled to extend fully toward the walker without overreaching. Sorasu demanded he redirect momentum instead of meeting force head-on, Chap forced him to coordinate push and pull instead of relying on arm strength alone, and Borokku—meeting the walker square with the flat of his blade—left his muscles quivering, threatening to surrender entirely.
Each strike, each block, each repeated correction seemed endless.
And yet, when Kyoto finally lowered the walker and stepped back, Shujinko's body was spent. Arms burned, knees shook, chest heaved in ragged gasps.
His hands, slick with sweat, still gripped the hilt, and for the first time, he allowed himself to feel the weight of accomplishment beneath the exhaustion. Two hours had passed in relentless drills, corrections, and repetitions. Two hours of being pushed to the edge of his small strength. And he had not fallen.
Soft clapping echoed from the doorway. Shuza, hair silvered, eyes gentle, stood beside Kaori, fully gray-haired, proud and straight-backed.
"Well," Kaori said, a gentle smile tugging at her lips, "would you look at that? The boys… working together, learning together, bonding with one another."
Shujinko managed a weak laugh, wobbling slightly on his legs.
"You did well," Shuza said softly, smiling, her eyes on Shujinko. "That workout… It takes more than most could endure, son, momma is proud."
Kyoto inclined his head slightly, voice steady and low. "It is sufficient. There's always time to be great."
Shujinko lowered his sword fully, chest heaving, muscles trembling—but somewhere in the exhaustion, a new steadiness began to root in him. Two hours of relentless training had passed, and though his body begged for rest, something deep inside felt a flicker of strength.
"Wash up," Kyoto said, beginning his slow, hunched walk back inside. "Then come eat. Dinner is prepared"
As they followed, Shujinko glanced once more at the courtyard, to the tree, the sky—and felt that quiet warmth again, faint but insistent, as though someone was silently guiding him. The door closed behind them, and for today, training was done.