Crack!
The bamboo sword finally shattered.
The charred tip fell at Yoriichi's feet, still glowing faintly as sparks drifted down. The heat forced him to shift his footing slightly.
Taitō looked down at his scabbard.
The finely crafted wooden sheath—made from cypress—had been split clean through. Even the blade inside bore a small chip. His heart tightened at the sight.
"Hey! Who are you?!" Shinnobu shouted angrily, finally realizing that this older boy had stepped in to save him.
Taitō ignored him completely.
His gaze was locked on Yoriichi, as though nothing else existed.
Up close, he realized just how small the boy was. From a distance it hadn't been obvious, but standing before him now, Yoriichi barely reached two-thirds of his height—probably not even a meter tall. Even standing on tiptoe, his head would barely touch Taitō's chin.
"That sword technique just now…"
Taitō asked slowly, barely able to hide his excitement. "Who taught it to you?"
That strike—It surpassed everything he knew.
None of the sword forms he had learned could compare to that blazing slash. That heat, like the sun itself… even he couldn't replicate something like that.
Chakra?
The thought crossed his mind.
He had seen shinobi breathe fire before, using chakra to perform jutsu. But chakra users were extremely rare in the Land of Iron. His knowledge of it came only from rumors and secondhand accounts.
Yet this child—
Could he really have used something similar?
In Taitō's mind, Yoriichi had to be the student of some hidden veteran. There was no other explanation. A child creating such a technique on his own was unthinkable.
A three- or four-year-old inventing a sword art stronger than anything recorded in history?
That would be absurd.
"Mine," Yoriichi answered quietly.
Then his eyes rolled back.
His small body collapsed forward, falling into Taitō's arms. The mark on his forehead dimmed, and the violent energy within him finally settled.
He had reached his limit.
Starvation, Cold, Injuries, Exhaustion.
His body could no longer endure it.
Taitō caught him and lifted him onto his shoulder.
Stepping over the scattered charcoal and broken bamboo, he turned and walked straight toward Mifune's residence.
This child…
He would show him to the world.
Let everyone see the birth of a new era—and the rise of a future master swordsman.
Shinnobu stood frozen behind him.
From start to finish, Taitō never spared him a single glance. It was as if saving him had been nothing more than an afterthought—like picking up an unwanted item off the ground.
When given a choice between a gifted prodigy and an arrogant noble child…
The answer was obvious.
---
"Mifune-sama."
Taitō laid Yoriichi gently on the tatami. The boy slept soundly, chest rising and falling steadily.
Mifune stared in surprise.
"Didn't you just leave? Who is this child?"
"He is the sun," Taitō said softly.
The veteran samurai frowned and stepped forward. His eyes lingered on the frail, ragged boy before him.
Three years old? Maybe four?
No matter how he looked at it, the child seemed far too small to be associated with something as grand as the sun.
"Give him some water," Mifune ordered.
A servant quickly brought a bowl and carefully fed Yoriichi.
As the water passed his throat, Yoriichi stirred. His dry lips regained a hint of color, and he instinctively grabbed the bowl, gulping it down greedily.
He had never tasted water this clean.
Beggars were never allowed to drink from wells.
"Urgh…" He let out a small burp as he woke.
The servant chuckled, and Yoriichi flushed in embarrassment.
Only then did he realize where he was.
A vast estate.
He had never seen a place this grand before. In the past, even walking near noble houses would get him beaten away with sticks.
"You… what's your name?" Mifune asked.
Yoriichi looked up—and froze.
A samurai.
Swords lined the wall behind him.
Panic surged through his body.
He dropped to the floor immediately, pressing his forehead to the ground.
Grandpa had told him—
Don't look at samurai.
Don't speak unless spoken to.
Never stand before them.
He had once seen a beggar beaten to death for failing to bow.
Grandpa only wanted him to live.
Taitō knelt as well, excitedly explaining everything—how Yoriichi fought, how the sword ignited, how the technique burned with the power of the sun. To emphasize his point, he even handed Mifune the damaged blade.
Mifune examined it carefully.
The burn marks… The split scabbard…
Anyone could cut wood.
But this—
This was heat.
Real heat.
He pictured the scene: a flaming sword slashing down.
If it were anyone else, he wouldn't believe it.
But the boy…
"…So you want me to take him as a student?" Mifune asked quietly.
"Yes!" Taitō slammed his head to the floor. "He's the most gifted person I've ever seen!"
Mifune sighed.
"…Very well."
Taitō shot up in joy.
"But—" Mifune continued calmly, "he must prove himself."
He turned his gaze toward Yoriichi.
"If he can last three exchanges against Masao, I'll take him in."
Masao—the servant who had given Yoriichi water—stepped forward respectfully.
"Yes."
Taitō's expression stiffened.
Masao wasn't like Shinnobu.
He was a real samurai.
Not a prodigy, perhaps—but strong enough to serve directly under Mifune.
Yoriichi looked up at the man standing before him.
The man smiled kindly.
Yoriichi immediately lowered his head again, pretending not to see anything at all.