Shujinko sat on the edge of his bed, legs dangling just above the floor, heels brushing the wood every so often as if to remind himself he was still there. His room was dim except for the long stretch of sunset pouring through the open window, painting the walls in amber and soft rose. The curtains stirred lazily in the evening breeze, carrying with it the distant scent of city rain and warm stone.
From where he sat, he could see the skyline of Tokyo beginning to settle into the night. Buildings that had been loud and alive hours ago now rested in shadow, their lights flickering on one by one like restrained stars. The sky was caught in that fleeting moment between day and dark—gold melting into violet, clouds glowing as if lit from within. It was the kind of view that felt unreal, like it shouldn't exist for more than a few breaths.
The city itself had to be fast asleep. Birds offered their final calls before sleep, owls answered from somewhere unseen, and grasshoppers filled the pauses with a steady, rhythmic buzz. Even the air felt slower.
Shujinko rested his hands on his knees and stared outward, chest heavy. The choice still sat with him, unanswered, as the sun slipped lower and the light slowly began to fade.
He knew he'd have to give an answer sooner or later.
It had only been a handful of hours since the invitation had been spoken aloud in the courtyard, yet it already felt as though an entire lifetime had been pressed into the space between then and now.
Shujinko remained seated on the edge of his bed, the last traces of sunset fading from his walls. Night had fully claimed the sky, and with it came the weight of silence—quieter than before. The kind that demanded answers. Somewhere beyond his door, the muted sounds of dinner drifted down the hall: the soft clink of utensils, the low murmur of voices, the presence of someone who did not belong to this house but now sat at its table all the same.
Chairman Kyo was waiting.
They all were.
Shujinko leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His gaze dropped to the floor, unfocused, thoughts circling like restless birds.
'Would joining the Swordsman Trainings actually make me stronger?'
The question felt dangerous the moment it surfaced. Strength had always carried a price in his family. It had shaped his grandfather's discipline, carved lines into his mother's eyes, and burned his father down to ash.
It had helped Papa once. That much was very true.
The academy. The training. The same path his father had walked—one that had sharpened him into something formidable, something legendary. Shujinko swallowed hard, his chest tightening as memory crept in uninvited.
Firelight. Snow. The cabin.
Tokochi's name surfaced next, unbidden, followed immediately by the image of his mother standing in smoke, refusing to look back. The past had teeth, and it sank them into him easily. Maybe he wasn't strong enough for this. Maybe it would take something from him that he didn't even know he still had.
Hope.
His hands trembled slightly.
"I could just say no," he murmured to the empty room. The word safety lingered nearby, tempting and soft. 'Stay here. Train with Grandpa Kyoto. Sleep under familiar stars. Live. Eat Grandma Kaori's delicious meals!'
He closed his eyes.
That was when the warmth returned.
It wasn't sudden. It didn't crash into him or demand his attention. It simply… arrived. A quiet presence, settling beside him the way it had earlier in the courtyard, like someone sitting close enough that their shoulder almost brushed yours. The air around him felt fuller, steadier. Warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
Shujinko's breath caught.
The feeling carried no words, yet it spoke all the same. Persevere. Stand. Become.
It was the same presence he had felt beneath the tree. The same gentle pressure that had urged him forward during training, that had steadied his shaking legs when he thought he might collapse. It wrapped around his heart now, firm but kind, like hands resting on his shoulders.
It reminded him of his father.
It reminded him of Tokochi.
Shujinko inhaled slowly, deeply, the way Kyoto had taught him. The fear didn't vanish—but it stopped owning him. In its place grew something sharper. Purpose.
"If I stay," he whispered, "I'll always wonder."
The warmth pulsed, faint but encouraging, like a heartbeat.
"I'll do it," Shujinko said softly.
The words surprised him with how steady they sounded. Not for glory. Not for safety. But for the legacy he carried in his blood—and for the brother he would one day have to save.
He stood.
The house felt different as he stepped into the hallway, as though it already knew what he'd chosen. Light spilled from the kitchen ahead, accompanied by the low cadence of conversation. Laughter—restrained, polite—belonged to Kyo. The rest was his family's.
When Shujinko entered, the room quieted.
They had been eating together, the table fuller than usual. Plates of steaming food sat half-finished, cups paused mid-reach. Kyo sat composed at one end of the table, posture immaculate, dark suit unwrinkled even at this late hour. He turned first, sharp eyes settling on Shujinko with unmistakable focus.
Kyoto looked up next.
The old man's expression shifted instantly—something like anticipation flickering beneath his stern calm.
Shuza rose from her seat without realizing she'd done it, concern written plainly across her face. Kaori remained seated but attentive, hands folded, gaze piercing in that quiet, formidable way she possessed.
Shujinko swallowed.
"I… I've decided," he said.
The words seemed to hang there, fragile.
Kyo inclined his head slightly. "We are listening."
Shujinko squared his shoulders. His exhaustion was still there—his body sore, his mind frayed—but beneath it ran that steady warmth, grounding him.
"I'll accept the offer," he said. "I'll go to the academy."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Kyoto let out a low, satisfied breath. His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Good, good" he said simply. "This is great for you boy—great for us."
Shuza crossed the room in two strides and pulled Shujinko into a tight embrace. He felt her fingers clutch at his back, felt the faint tremor she tried to hide.
"Be careful," she murmured. "And don't forget what you are."
Kaori rose then, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were bright, though her voice remained steady. "You will endure," she said. "That is what this family does."
Kyo stood.
He adjusted his cufflinks once, a precise motion, before speaking. "Then it is settled," he said. "At first light tomorrow, preparations will be completed. We depart immediately."
His gaze lingered on Shujinko, assessing—not doubting, but measuring. "There will be no delays."
Dinner resumed after that, quieter but warmer somehow. Plates were finished. Tea was poured. The weight of tomorrow pressed closer with every passing minute, yet Shujinko found himself almost eager beneath the nerves.
This was right.
When the table was finally cleared and the night wound down, the house began to prepare for morning. Shujinko lay awake later, staring at the ceiling, heart racing—not with fear, but with resolve.
For the first time since the cabin burned, he believed he had chosen correctly.
And somewhere, unseen, that warm presence remained—watching, guiding, proud.
Tomorrow, everything will change.