Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART I

Iris 🌸 — A Vow in the Morning Light

I still remember that day...

The day I should have died—

But fate had other plans, when a Samurai came to save me and my parents...

I don't remember his face or voice very well because my feelings were still so mixed up..

But what is clear is that the man had a serene face...

His hands were large and warm as he helped me up...

His smile was so gentle, and his soft voice when he asked if I was okay made me cry...

When my parents begged the Samurai to spend the night at our house so we could repay him by providing him with a warm bed and food prepared from the crops we grew ourselves, unfortunately, the Samurai politely refused.

He said he was currently on an important journey...

So he was in a hurry.

Seeing him reject our offer, my parents and I couldn't force him. We just stood there, watching the figure who saved our lives from behind..

My tears still wouldn't stop flowing from my eyes.

Seeing that amazing figure about to leave my life without being able to know him better made me unable to do anything but let my tears flow more and more..

My heart was beating so fast at that moment.

My body trembled as my cheeks became wet with tears.

Before my lifesaver completely disappeared from my sight,

At that moment, without realizing it, I shouted,

"Mr. Samurai...!"

…!!

My scream startled my parents who were by my side and everyone around us.

But I ignored it and continued,

“I will definitely become a Samurai as strong as you too! I also want to be able to protect the people around me in the future!! And when the time comes, I will definitely meet you someday! So—so—”

At that moment…

At that moment, for some reason, I couldn’t continue—

My trembling, shouting voice suddenly disappeared—

My chest tightened as I struggled to find my voice again.

In that state, I could only squeeze my chest as hard as I could, until finally—

“……”

That soft voice sounded again...

But...

But somehow I couldn't hear those words...

But I was sure...

I was sure those words were the ones I desperately wanted to hear from him at that moment...

So I could only remain silent while the tears flowed freely again...

All I could see at that moment was his figure turning back...

His eyes were directly looking at me...

After that...

The person I had hoped wouldn't leave—

He started walking back towards his destination, away from me...

Continue his journey…

The last thing I saw at that moment, when he was truly about to leave my life, was him waving to me...

His soft smile...

His long, dark, wavy hair gently blowing in the wind...

And also...

Those teasel earrings...?

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The morning sun stretched its pale light over the small farming village, casting long shadows across the fields. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of earth and dew, but Akihiko barely noticed.

His heart was too heavy, and his small hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the bag of supplies his parents had prepared for him.

His mother came first, wrapping her arms tightly around him. Her hands were calloused from years of tending the fields, but they shook slightly as they pressed against his shoulders. Her voice quivered, soft and gentle.

“Akihiko… be careful out there. Listen to your Master and seniors, and… and don’t forget… we’ll always be here for you.”

Akihiko swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill.

His father stepped forward, his broad hands resting firmly on Akihiko’s shoulders, eyes moist but stern, trying to convey both strength and comfort.

“You’ve got courage in your heart, son. Remember why you’re doing this. Train hard, stay true to yourself, and make us proud. But… don’t forget where you came from. No matter how far you go, this home… we will always be here for you.”

Akihiko’s chest tightened. The weight of their love, sacrifice, and expectations pressed down on him, almost too much to bear.

His parents had worked tirelessly, selling what little they could and borrowing from neighbors, just so he could pursue his dream. They believed in him when no one else would.

He knelt briefly before them, hands pressed together, voice thick with emotion.

“Mother… Father… I… I promise. I will train hard, I will become strong, and I will make you proud. I will never forget you… never forget home too!”

His mother pulled him into another tight hug, burying her face in his hair.

“Akihiko, If you miss home, just come home, okay? We’ll always be waiting for you.”

Akihiko could feel her warmth, her steady heartbeat, the softness of her tears against his cheek.

“Three years, Akihiko… three years and you’ll come back stronger. We’ll be waiting and we will always be proud of you.” his father whispered, voice breaking slightly.

His father’s hand ruffled his hair, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

As Akihiko hugged his parents one last time, a memory stirred in his mind—a warm, golden memory that made his chest ache with both longing and determination.

He was younger then, just a small boy of ten, holding a wooden stick clumsily in his hands. He swung it again and again, imagining it was a real katana, each movement awkward and unpolished. His little legs stumbled over the dirt, and more than once he fell to the ground, scrapes forming on his knees.

But even in those moments, he could hear his parents’ voices from the edge of the field.

“Good job, Akihiko! Swing it just like that!” his mother cheered, clapping her hands.

“Keep going, son! Don’t give up!” his father added, a proud grin spreading across his sun-weathered face.

Akihiko remembered the warmth of their presence, the way their eyes sparkled with encouragement, how even their laughter made the harsh world feel softer. Every swing, every fall, every moment of struggle had been met with their unwavering support.

He had fallen countless times in his training, but those voices… those smiles… had always lifted him. They were the reason he had dared to dream of becoming a Samurai, the reason he had kept swinging even when his arms ached and his small body felt weak.

And now, as he stood on the path to the dōjō, ready to face new hardships, that memory surged within him like a flame. His parents weren’t just behind him physically—they were in his heart, their love and faith in him echoing with every step he took.

Akihiko inhaled deeply, holding back fresh tears, and whispered to himself.

“I won’t disappoint them… I’ll become strong… I’ll make them proud…”

The warmth of that memory mingled with the morning sun, wrapping around him like an invisible embrace, giving him the courage to take the first step toward a future he had longed for.

Akihiko’s lips trembled, tears finally spilling down his face. He wanted to stay. He wanted to run away from the uncertainty that lay ahead. But he remembered the words he had once spoken to the mysterious Samurai who saved him years ago.

“One day, I will also be strong and save others.”

That dream burned inside him.

“I’ll be back, Father, Mother..” Akihiko whispered, hugging them one last time.

“I promise. I’ll make you proud.”

The three of them stood there in silence for a few heartbeats longer, letting the emotions linger, the sun casting its golden light over their small family. Finally, with a deep breath, Akihiko straightened, tightened the straps of his bag, and turned toward the long road ahead.

His parents watched him go, their hearts aching but filled with pride.

His mother waved, tears streaming down her cheeks, and his father lifted his hand, calling out.

“Akihiko! Remember… we’re always with you!”

Akihiko looked back once, a faint, determined smile on his face despite the tears.

“I know… I’ll make you proud!”

And with that, he took the first step on a path filled with hardship, struggle, and dreams—carrying not just his own hopes, but the love and sacrifices of the parents who would always be waiting for him at home.

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Akihiko stepped into the new village, his small bag of supplies slung over one shoulder, legs weary from the long journey. The cobblestone streets were crowded with merchants, villagers, and travelers, their voices clashing in a noisy symphony he had never heard before. The smells of cooking food, livestock, and smoke mingled, dizzying him.

He’s finally here..

He slowed, unsure where to put his feet first. Every step seemed heavier than the last. The people walking past him didn’t notice him—or perhaps they did, and some gave small, disapproving glances. A boy his age, dressed in finer clothes, sneered at him as he passed.

“Hah… look at that poor farm boy, wandering around like he owns the place.”

Akihiko swallowed hard, fists clenched around his bag strap. He wanted to respond, to shout back, but he remembered his parents’ words,

Stay humble, Akihiko. Observe, learn, and grow.

He moved carefully, trying to mimic the rhythm of the villagers, how they carried themselves, how they moved with purpose. Yet everything felt strange. Even opening his mouth to ask for directions made him hesitate, his accent marking him as an outsider.

He tried to buy some onigiri at a stall, but the coins his parents had given him were few, and the vendor eyed him suspiciously.

“Is that all? You can’t even afford enough for a proper meal, boy?”

Akihiko’s cheeks burned. He nodded silently, sliding the coins across the counter. The vendor grunted and handed him a small single onigiri. It was delicious, but barely filling. Akihiko bit into it, trying to appear confident even though his stomach grumbled loudly.

As he walked further into the village, the houses grew taller, the streets narrower, and the people’s gazes more curious—or judgmental.

He noticed children playing with wooden swords like him, swinging gracefully, far more skilled and coordinated. His heart sank a little.

“Wo-woahh.. they can do something like that..?” he thought, his hands tightening around his bag.

But he can’t give up.

He have to get stronger…

By mid-afternoon, After Akihiko struggles in the new village, he finally reaches the dōjō—the place he’s been dreaming of for so long.

The dōjō is imposing: tall wooden gates, polished floors, and banners fluttering in the wind.

The sound of swords clashing echoes from inside, along with the grunts and shouts of students in training.

Akihiko hesitates at the gate, clutching his small bag tightly. His heart pounds—not just from the long journey, but from the awe and fear of entering a place usually reserved for noble children.

He steps forward, bowing deeply as he enters, trying to show respect.

“Excuse me… I’m Akihiko. I… I’ve come to train here.” he says, voice small but trembling with determination.

The dōjō master and senior students glance at him.

Some raise eyebrows—he’s clearly not like the other students: smaller, weaker, and plainly dressed. Whispers ripple through the hall:

“A commoner?”

“What is he doing here?”

“Does he even belong?”

A group of older students snickered, crossing their arms. One of them leaned toward his friend and whispered loud enough for Akihiko to hear,

“This is going to be hilarious. Just watch him try to keep up.”

Even some of the younger noble students looked at him with suspicion, their brows furrowed, clearly judging his plain clothes, small frame, and humble demeanor.

The dōjō master, an imposing man with sharp eyes and a lined face, stepped forward. He studied Akihiko silently, his gaze like a blade measuring every inch of the boy. Finally, he spoke:

“So… you are the one who dares enter our halls, a commoner?”

Akihiko’s knees shook slightly, but he bowed again, keeping his voice steady,

“Yes, Sir. My parents have paid for my training for this three years. I… I want to learn, to become strong, and to honor them.”

The master’s eyes lingered on him, cold and calculating, before he nodded slightly.

“Very well. You may train. But know this, the path here is not forgiving. You will be tested beyond your limits. Do not falter, or you will be nothing.”

Akihiko bowed deeply once more, relief and determination mingling in his chest.

“Yes! Thank you so much!! I’ll work hard, Sir!”

But the moment the master turned away, the whispers and laughter returned.

“A burden for the dōjō…”

“Look at his size… he’ll never keep up.”

“Why would the master allow this? We’ve trained our whole lives for respect, and he just waltzes in?”

Akihiko’s stomach twisted, and he felt the weight of every gaze upon him. He gripped the straps of his bag tighter, feeling both shame and fire ignite inside.

Akihiko clenches his fists silently, remembering the promise he made to his parents: he will not give up, no matter what.

By the end of the day, he’s assigned his wooden training sword and a small corner in the dormitory, a place for him to rest before the rigorous training begins the next morning. Exhausted but determined, he lays down on the hard floor, thinking:

I’ve made it this far… now I have to prove myself. I won’t let anyone—my parents, myself, or this dōjō—down.

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First day of the training in the dōjō.

Akihiko arrived at the dōjō early, clutching the little bundle his parents had given him. The wooden gates towered above him, polished clean, and beyond them, rows of noble sons practicing their sword drills in perfect synchronicity. Their hakama flowed neatly, their katanas gleamed.

Akihiko felt it instantly.

He didn’t belong here.

He spotted a group of students practicing sword forms together. With a deep breath, he approached them, trying to summon courage.

“Hello… I’m Akihiko..”

He said softly, bowing politely.

“I… I’m new here, and I hope we can learn together.”

The whispers started the moment he introduced himself.

“A farmer’s son?”

“They let anyone in now, huh?”

“His arms are like twigs. He won’t last a month.”

His small frame made him stick out among the taller, broader students. His clothes, patched carefully by his mother, looked shabby next to their expensive fabrics. Even the wooden bokken he carried bought with his parents’ sacrifices, looked plain beside their polished practice swords.

Training began, and Akihiko threw himself into it with everything he had. But reality hit fast: his strikes were slower, his stamina ran out quicker, his hands blistered until they bled. Every time he stumbled, the laughter came.

One noble boy in particular maybe the son of a Samurai family, sharp-eyed and cruel, took it upon himself to humiliate Akihiko at every chance. He tripped him during sparring, mocked his farm background, even sneered.

“Go back to your fields, peasant. Samurai blood doesn’t flow in your veins.”

Akihiko wanted to scream, but he swallowed it down. He remembered his parents’ faces as they hugged him goodbye. He remembered Mr. Samurai’s smile that night long ago.

During lunchtime, he carried his tray forward some students eating together.

“Mind if I join you? I… I want to learn from you all.”

A boy at the head of the table snorted, waving him away.

“Go sit somewhere else, farm boy. We don’t need company that can’t even handle the basics.”

Another kicked at the edge of his tray, sending it sliding slightly. Akihiko flinched but knelt and caught it, trying not to let his frustration show.

“I… I just want to be friends.”

He whispered, almost to himself.

The students only laughed louder this time, their voices echoing through the hall.

“Friends? Hah! You’ll be lucky to survive here, let alone make friends.”

Later, during discussions about training techniques, Akihiko tried again. He asked questions politely, eager to learn, trying to show his enthusiasm.

“Master mentioned practicing stances before striking, what do you all think about adjusting your weight distribution first?”

The responses were immediate and harsh.

“Stop wasting time with questions no one asked!”

“You’re hopeless… why are you even here?”

“Go away. You’ll just slow us down.”

Akihiko’s heart ached, but he didn’t lash out. Instead, he lowered his head slightly.

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At first, the bullying was just whispers. But as days turned to weeks, it grew sharper.

Every meal, Akihiko sat at the farthest corner of the dining hall. The others crowded together, laughing, trading stories about their Samurai fathers and prestigious families. When Akihiko tried to join in, silence fell, and someone would mutter,

“What would a dirt farmer know about Samurai matters?”

During training, the cruelty became more open. Another student, the noble boy with sharp eyes made it a sport to humiliate him in front of everyone.

“Hold your sword higher, peasant, or do you swing it like you’re harvesting turnips?”

The laughter stung worse than the bruises from sparring.

But the harshest wound came from where he least expected it, his mentor. The dōjō master, a stern Samurai who carried himself with authority, every word he spoke to Akihiko cut like a blade.

When Akihiko struggled to keep up with drills, the master would say,

“This is why peasants don’t belong in these halls. No matter how hard you try, a crow cannot become a hawk.”

When Akihiko dropped his bokken from blistered hands, the master didn’t scold the noble boys who laughed, he scolded him instead.

“Pathetic. If you cannot even endure this, how do you expect to carry a real sword?”

Each night, Akihiko dragged his aching body to bed, only to hear the noble boys still laughing in the next room. Sometimes, they would even sneak in and hide his bokken, or tie his sleeves together so he’d stumble during drills.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to go home.

His parents’ words echoed in his mind,

“If you miss home, just come home, okay? We’ll always be waiting for you..”

And yet… every time the thought tempted him, Akihiko remembered the smile of Mr. Samurai, standing tall with tassel earrings.

That memory burned in him, louder than the laughter, sharper than the insults.

So when the world turned its back on him, Akihiko swore quietly, each night under the moon:

“I won’t give up. Even if the world laughs, I’ll prove them wrong. I’ll become a Samurai.”

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The dōjō lay silent. Tatami mats creaked only under the faint wind. The noble boys slept soundly, their breathing steady, while Akihiko lay awake on his thin futon, staring at the wooden ceiling. His arms ached, his back screamed, his palms were already raw from training. But sleep never came.

Quietly, he rose. Careful not to wake anyone, he slipped out with his plain bokken. The night air was cold, sharp against his skin, but he welcomed it. Under the pale moonlight, he found a corner of the courtyard and gripped his sword.

Then—swing.

Again.

And again.

The wood bit into his hands, reopening half-healed blisters. Blood smeared along the hilt, but Akihiko gritted his teeth and swung harder. His arms trembled, tears stung his eyes, but he forced himself to remember his parents’ calloused hands, worn from farming. If they endured pain for him, how could he stop here?

“Again.”

His voice cracked in the night, but he said it anyway, with every strike.

When exhaustion pulled at his knees, he forced himself upright. When his vision blurred, he fixed his gaze on the stars. When his hands could no longer close around the bokken, he bound them with strips of cloth and kept going.

By dawn, his body had collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving, sweat and blood soaking his clothes. But when the bell rang for morning training, Akihiko dragged himself up, face pale but eyes burning. He never missed a session, not even once.

The others saw only the weak farmer’s son stumbling through drills. What they didn’t see was the boy who fought a battle every night alone, carving strength into himself with every bloody swing.

Akihiko was weak.

But his determination was unbreakable.

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One night, as Akihiko swung his bokken beneath the moon, sweat dripping from his chin, he didn’t realize he was no longer alone.

A sharp laugh cut through the silence.

“So this is where the little peasant runs off to at night.”

Akihiko froze. A small group of noble boys stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms folded, smirks painted on their faces.

“Swinging sticks in the dark? Pathetic.” one sneered.

“Look at his hands! Bleeding like a butcher’s boy.” another added.

Akihiko tightened his grip on the bokken. He wanted to defend himself, to shout that this training mattered, that he would become stronger. But the words caught in his throat.

The rival stepped forward, eyes gleaming with cruelty.

“You think this will change anything? You’re still weak. You’ll always be weak. All this blood and sweat is useless! Because no amount of effort will make you a Samurai.”

Their laughter echoed in the night, louder than the chirping crickets, louder than Akihiko’s own heartbeat.

He lowered his gaze, hiding the sting in his eyes. But even as they walked away, their voices mocking him into the darkness, Akihiko lifted his bokken again. His arms shook, his palms burned, but he whispered to himself, so softly only the moon could hear.

“Even if they laugh… I’ll keep going.”

And so he swung again.

And again.

Each strike was heavy with pain, with loneliness, with defiance.

He would endure the ridicule. He would endure the doubt. Because someday… someday they would see.

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The mocking didn’t stop after that night. In fact, it grew worse.

The more Akihiko endured, the more they wanted to crush him. His quiet persistence, his refusal to give them the satisfaction of quitting only made their cruelty sharper.

One evening, when training had ended and the courtyard emptied, Akihiko lingered behind to practice again. He was mid-swing when a hand slammed into his back, sending him sprawling onto the dirt. His bokken clattered away.

Laughter erupted. The noble boys had cornered him.

“Still at it, peasant?”

 the rival sneered, stepping on Akihiko’s bokken so he couldn’t reach it.

“Didn’t we tell you? It’s useless.”

Akihiko tried to stand, but a sharp kick to his ribs knocked the breath from his lungs. He gasped, clutching his side as another boy shoved him back down.

“You should’ve gone home when you had the chance.”

“Samurai halls aren’t for farmers’ sons.”

Fists and feet rained down, not enough to leave permanent damage, but enough to bruise, to break his spirit. They laughed as he curled up, covering his head, his small body trembling under their blows.

But through the pain, through the ringing in his ears, Akihiko’s teeth clenched. Tears blurred his vision, but he whispered to himself between ragged breaths.

“I won’t give up… I can’t… I promised…”

Eventually, they grew bored. With one final shove, they left him crumpled in the dirt, their laughter trailing behind.

Akihiko lay there for a long time, chest heaving, his body aching everywhere. He could barely move but when his fingers brushed against his discarded bokken, he gripped it tight.

With shaking arms, he pulled himself upright. Blood on his lip, bruises blossoming across his body—yet he lifted the sword again. His swings were weak, broken, but they were his.

The night after the beating, Akihiko limped back to his futon, every step burning. His ribs ached with each breath, his hands were raw and torn, and his face still stung from where he’d been struck.

For the first time since arriving at the dōjō, he didn’t sneak out to train.

He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the wooden sword clutched weakly to his chest.

The whispers from earlier replayed in his head.

“It’s useless.”

“Samurai halls aren’t for farmers’ sons.”

“Go back to your fields.”

Even his mentor’s cold voice echoed, sharper than any kick.

“A crow cannot become a hawk.”

Akihiko’s throat tightened. He turned his face into his pillow, tears spilling silently. For years, he had held on for his parents, for the promise he made to Mr. Samurai, for the dream burning in his chest.

But now… now he wondered if it really was impossible.

Was he foolish to believe otherwise?

His parents’ words haunted him.

“If you miss home, just come home. We’ll always be waiting.”

For the first time, Akihiko thought of it seriously.

What if he just went home?

He could help his parents on the farm, live a quiet life, and no one would laugh at him again.

He wouldn’t bleed for nothing.

He wouldn’t cry himself to sleep every night.

The thought scared him because a part of him wanted it.

Shaking, Akihiko sat up and whispered into the darkness.

“Am I… really not meant to be a Samurai?”

The words broke him more than any fist had. His hands trembled as he looked down at the bokken his parents had bought him. For the first time, instead of hope, he felt only doubt staring back at him.

And that night, under the heavy silence of the dōjō, Akihiko almost gave up.

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The dōjō was full of energy that day, the sound of bokken striking echoed in rhythm. The master stood tall in front of his students, sharp eyes observing every swing.

“Good, good! hold your stance firm!” he said, patting one boy’s shoulder.

The student grinned, puffing his chest proudly as the master smiled warmly at him. Another boy swung slightly off, and the master chuckled gently, guiding his wrist,

“Not like that, look, like this.” The boy nodded, corrected himself, and received another approving nod.

But then it was Akihiko’s turn.

He tightened his grip, sweat dripping down his brow, and swung with all his might. His stance wavered a little, but his determination was burning.

He looked up, waiting—hoping—for correction.

For a word.

For anything.

Instead, the master’s eyes narrowed.

“Hah… sloppy. Do you even have talent, boy?” His voice was sharp, cutting.

“You move like a peasant trying to imitate a warrior.”

The words stung, but Akihiko clenched his teeth. He bowed low.

“Please, Master… show me the right way. I’ll do better.”

But the man turned away.

“No point wasting time on the likes of you. Watch the others, and maybe you’ll learn.”

The other students smirked behind their sleeves. Some snickered openly. And Akihiko… he stood there frozen, his bokken trembling in his hand.

The praise, the gentle smiles that other students received, it was something he never once tasted. Every effort of his was met only with disdain, or worse, silence.

Still, that night when everyone left, Akihiko stayed behind in the cold, practicing the same swing again and again until his arms burned. Because even if his master wouldn’t guide him, he still had a dream to chase. He still had that figure in his memory, Mr. Samurai, the one who once saved his life.

The dōjō had long fallen silent, the lanterns dimmed until the faint glow barely lit the wooden floor. Everyone else had already gone home, their laughter echoing faintly as they walked away together.

But Akihiko stayed.

His bokken gripped tight, his shoulders trembling, he swung again.

Whoosh—the air cut sharply.

Again.

And again.

His palms stung, small blisters forming, but he refused to stop. He knew his stance wasn’t as strong as the others. He knew his swings lacked the sharpness his master demanded. He knew, maybe better than anyone else, that he wasn’t as gifted as the rest.

But still—he wanted so badly… just once… to hear his master say,

“Good job, Akihiko.”

Just once, to see those gentle eyes turn toward him not with scorn, but with pride.

His breath hitched as he dropped to his knees, bokken clattering on the floor. He bit his lip until it bled, holding the sobs in his chest. But in the emptiness of the dōjō, there was no one left to hear him—no one to see his tears as they finally spilled.

“Why…”

His voice cracked, so small, trembling.

“Why can’t you see me too…?”

The tears dripped onto the wooden floor, his fists clenched tight. He pressed his forehead against the ground, shoulders shaking with each silent sob.

He wanted to be stronger.

He wanted to be worthy.

He wanted to be acknowledged—

Just once.

But the only eyes he saw whenever he closed his own… were not his master’s.

They were the eyes of that man from years ago—the strong figure with tassel earrings, who saved him, who had looked at him not with hatred, but with something warm. Someone he didn’t even know by name, yet he carried that image like a flame inside him.

“…I’ll endure it,” Akihiko whispered through his tears, clinging to that memory.

“No matter what, I’ll endure it. Because… one day… I’ll be a samurai too. And I’ll meet you again.”

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That evening, Akihiko lingered near the edge of the training hall, his small hands clutching his bokken so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The others had already gone, but the master still sat near the corner, sipping tea with his back straight as ever.

Akihiko hesitated, his throat dry. His heart pounded so loudly it almost drowned out his own voice when he finally stepped forward.

“M–Master…” his voice trembled.

“Please… could you watch my form? Just once? I… I want to know what I’m doing wrong. If you correct me, I’ll— I’ll do better, I promise. I’ll work harder than anyone else. Please… just once, look at me.”

His eyes, red from the nights of sleepless training, shone with desperate hope. He bowed low, forehead nearly touching the wooden floor, his small frame quivering with the weight of those words.

For a moment, silence.

Then the master finally turned, his expression sharp and cold.

“…Why should I waste my time?”

The words were like a blade slicing through Akihiko’s chest.

“You don’t have talent. No matter how many times I correct you, you’ll never catch up to the others. Watching you swing a sword is pathetic—it’s like watching a child struggle to lift a rock he can never move. Useless.”

Each word struck harder than the last. Akihiko’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His knees buckled slightly, yet he forced himself to stay bowed, fists trembling against the wooden floor.

The master’s eyes narrowed, as though the sight of him was an irritation.

“If you want my time, then become someone worthy of it. Until then don’t waste my breath.”

With that, he turned away, pouring himself more tea as if nothing had been said.

Akihiko’s vision blurred as tears welled up, spilling onto the floor beneath him. He bit down hard on his lip to stop his sobs, but the sound escaped anyway, broken and small.

He had begged.

He had lowered himself completely.

And still… he was unwanted.

“...I’ll… get stronger,”

Akihiko whispered to the empty air, barely able to breathe through his tears.

“I’ll get stronger even if you hate me. One day… someone will see me. I’ll prove it…”

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Every morning, Akihiko was the first to arrive and the last to leave. His little hands were blistered from gripping the bokken, his shoulders aching from swinging it countless times. He copied the movements of the others, but no matter how hard he tried, his steps were always called “sloppy,” his swings “weak.”

The other students received warm nods, gentle corrections, even rare praises from the master of the dōjō. But when Akihiko stood in front of him, he was met with a frown, sometimes even silence—as though his presence itself was a mistake.

“Again.” the master would say coldly, voice flat. Or sometimes, not even that—just turning away to help someone else, leaving Akihiko frozen mid-form, eyes stinging, wondering what he’d done wrong this time.

And yet… he stayed. He endured.

Because deep down, even though he knew he wasn’t gifted like the others, Akihiko longed for the day the master would look at him and say,

“Good.”

Just once.

Just one word to tell him he wasn’t worthless.

But instead, the other students whispered behind his back.

“Why is he even here?”

“He slows us down.”

“Master doesn’t even like him.”

At night, the pain lingered. His arms ached from the harsh sparring, his knees from the deliberate trips, his heart from the silence of his Master’s cold eyes. He sat alone after everyone left, knees drawn to his chest, trying to hide the sobs that wracked his small body.

He knew he wasn’t good enough. He knew his stance was sloppy, his grip unsteady, his movements awkward. He didn’t need their voices to remind him—he already heard it inside his own head.

But still… all he wanted was to be seen. Just once.

For the Master of the dōjō to look at him not with disdain, not with sighs of disappointment, but with the same warmth he gave the other students.

Just once, to hear,

“You did well, Akihiko.”

But the only thing that greeted him was silence. And the weight of eyes that said, You don’t belong here.

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The smell of sweat and old cedar clung to the training hall. The sharp crack of bokken meeting bokken echoed in rhythm  clean, sharp, confident. Except his.

Akihiko’s bokken slipped again, his grip too high, his stance too wide. The thud when his swing landed wrong was enough to make heads turn.

“Wrong again.” the master’s voice cut through the air, cold and flat.

 He walked over, his footsteps heavy, each one sinking into Akihiko’s chest like a weight.

“I—I’m sorry, Master. I’ll—”

“Pathetic.”

Before Akihiko could finish, a rough shove hit his shoulder. He stumbled, the bokken clattering against the polished floor. Laughter flickered around the room — stifled at first, then freer when the master didn’t stop it.

Akihiko bowed quickly, forehead nearly scraping the floor.

“Forgive me! I’ll do better, I promise, just—”

“Do better?” the master snarled.

His hand struck like lightning, grabbing the collar of Akihiko’s gi, yanking him up only to shove him back down again. His knees hit the wooden floor hard, pain spiking through his legs.

The master’s sandal slammed into his side, a sharp kick that knocked the breath from his lungs. Akihiko gasped, clutching at his ribs. The room rang with cruel chuckles.

“Out. I don’t waste my time on useless trash.”

“Master, please—just one more chance! I’ll fix it! I—”

Another kick, harder this time, sent him rolling to the edge of the hall. The students burst into laughter now, no restraint left. No one looked at him with pity. No hand reached out. Just grins, just mocking whispers.

Akihiko’s vision blurred, not only from the sting in his ribs but from the heat burning in his eyes. His hands trembled as he pushed himself up, gripping his bokken tight, clinging to it like the last piece of dignity he had left.

He bowed again — lower, deeper, as if trying to bury himself into the floorboards — and whispered, voice breaking,

“Thank you… for teaching me.”

No one answered.

Akihiko staggered to his knees, ribs aching, palms scraped raw from the shove. His bokken trembled in his grip, knuckles white as he pressed it to the floor for balance. He wanted to stand tall, to bow properly, to show them he still had dignity left  but his body refused him.

The master had already turned his back.

The other students were still at it, bokken slicing through the air, sharp yells bouncing off the walls. Their movements were strong, clean, the rhythm like a song Akihiko could never follow. And with each correct strike, the master’s voice shifted: no longer cruel, but warm, approving.

“Good!”

“Well done.”

“That’s the form. Perfect stance.”

The words fell like salt into his wounds.

Akihiko’s head lifted just slightly, eyes swollen, vision blurred. He saw them, his peers, laughing between drills, smiling at the praise, basking in the master’s approval. Their faces lit up like they belonged here.

For one fleeting moment, Akihiko wished.

Wished he was among them.

Wished he could feel that warmth, hear even once that same pride in the master’s voice directed at him.

But when his gaze shifted, all he found was the memory of those cold eyes, the sting of a sandal in his ribs, the laughter that wasn’t with him but at him.

A breath caught in his throat. His chest squeezed tight, as if someone’s hand pressed down on his heart.

Quietly, he lowered his head again, hiding the wetness streaking down his cheeks.

His steps were unsteady as he left the hall, the wooden floor creaking beneath his weight. Behind him, the lively chorus of training rose louder, swallowing his absence whole, until it was as if Akihiko had never been there at all.

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Outside, the night air was cool, but it did nothing to soothe the fire of shame burning in Akihiko’s chest. His small frame slumped against the wooden wall of the dōjō, his legs pulled up to his chest. The world inside still echoed with laughter, the sound of training strikes, the sharp kiai! that should have been his, too.

He pressed his forehead against his knees, his shoulders trembling. His bokken lay across his lap, its worn surface rough against his skin. Slowly, desperately, his arms wrapped around it , clutching it tight like a lifeline, like it was the only thing tethering him to the dream he refused to let go of.

“Why… why can’t I be like them?”

He whispered into the crook of his arm, voice breaking. His teeth dug into his lip, holding back sobs that forced their way out anyway.

He tilted his head back, staring up at the ink-black sky. His face was wet, streaked with tears he couldn’t stop.

“I know I’m weak… I know I’m clumsy… I know I’m not good enough.”

His voice trembled, each word cracking like glass.

“But still… I just… I just wanted him to look at me once. Just once. Not with hate… not with disgust… just once—like he’s proud of me…”

The words broke into a sob. His small hands trembled as they stroked along the bokken’s edge, fingers tracing every nick, every scar. It wasn’t just wood. It was his only friend, his only witness, the only one that never turned its back on him.

His voice was barely more than a broken whisper, slipping out between sobs.

“I wonder…” he choked, his tears spilling down his cheeks,

“…if someday… there’s someone who will be proud of me…?”

His breath hitched, and he hugged the bokken closer to his chest, rocking slightly like a child trying to soothe himself.

“…Is there really gonna be a day where someone looks at me… and says I’m doing good…?”

His voice cracked, the hope so fragile it almost hurt more than despair.

“What does it even feel like… to be praised…? To… to be smiled at… not hated…”

His tears fell faster, dripping onto the wooden floor beneath him.

“I wonder…” he whispered again, like a prayer, like a wish he knew no one would answer.

But as his voice faded, his tears only fell harder, dripping silently onto the bokken he held as if it could absorb his pain. A

lone in the darkness, Akihiko’s sobs were swallowed by the night, unheard, unseen, uncomforted.

And still, he hugged the bokken like a child afraid of being left behind, whispering to it as if it were his only companion.

“…please… don’t leave me too…”

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Morning sunlight streamed across the courtyard as Akihiko tightened his belt and clutched his bokken, ready to endure another day. His ribs still throbbed from last night’s blows, but he forced his legs forward. He thought only of his parents’ faces, of his promise.

Then his mentor’s sharp voice cut the air.

“You. come with me.”

Akihiko’s heart jumped. For the first time in months, hope flickered inside him.

Maybe…

maybe the Master of the dōjō finally noticed.

Maybe he saw my effort…

But inside the quiet hall, the mentor’s expression was stone. He didn’t sit. He didn’t breathe kindness. His words dropped like lead.

“From this day forward, you are expelled from the dōjō. You are forbidden to continue training here.”

…..!!

Huh??

Akihiko blinked.

The floor seemed to fall from beneath him.

“E–expelled…? But why, Master? What have I—”

The man’s gaze was cold.

“The government has changed its policies. From now on, only children of noble families may train here. You will return home immediately.”

….!!

“No…”

Akihiko’s voice trembled, desperate.

He stumbled forward, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.

“Master, this must be a mistake! My parents—they paid for three years of training, and it’s only been three months. Please! Let me stay! I’ll work harder, harder than anyone else! Don’t take this chance away!”

The dōjō master’s eyes narrowed. His lips curled into something almost like disgust.

“Do you still not understand, boy? Even if the rules had not changed, I would have expelled you regardless.”

Akihiko froze, staring up at him.

“Wh–what…?”

The man’s voice cut like a blade.

“In all my years teaching, I have never had a student as hopeless as you. For three months, you have been nothing but a burden. Weak. Slow. Pathetic. Every time you raise that sword, you shame this dōjō. You shame me.”

Each word slammed into Akihiko’s chest.

He shook his head, choking back tears.

“N-no… that’s not true… I’ve trained every night, I’ve given everything I have—!”

“Enough!” the master barked.

His voice thundered against the wooden walls.

“A crow cannot become a hawk. No matter how much you flap those pitiful wings, you will never rise above the mud you were born in. You are a disgrace!! And I will not waste another second on you!!”

Two senior students stepped forward at his signal, seizing Akihiko’s arms.

He struggled against their grip, his voice breaking into a sob.

“Please! Don’t do this—I beg you! My parents… they sold everything so I could be here! If you expel me, I have nowhere left to go! Please, I’ll work harder, I’ll prove myself—don’t throw me away!”

The master didn’t even look at him.

“Kicked him away from this place.”

They dragged Akihiko across the courtyard as the other students watched.

 Some smirked, others whispered, but none spoke for him.

His heels dug into the dirt, tears streaming down his face.

“Please! I promised my parents! I swore to them I’d become a Samurai! I can’t… I can’t go home like this!”

The gates loomed ahead. With one last shove, the students hurled him outside. The heavy doors slammed shut with a deafening finality.

Akihiko staggered forward, then spun back, fists pounding against the wood until his knuckles split.

“PLEASE! Don’t abandon me! I’ll do anything—anything! Just let me stay!”

Akihiko’s knees dug into the dirt as he sat before the towering dōjō gates. His forehead pressed against the cold wood, hands trembling as they knocked again and again, each strike weaker than the last.

“Please…”

His voice cracked, rough from shouting all night.

“Please don’t send me away… I’ll work harder—I’ll do anything!”

From inside, he could hear the sharp crack of bamboo swords, the shouts of his peers training. His chest ached with every sound. That should have been his place. His dream.

The gate shuddered.

Akihiko’s heart leapt—was it opening? Had his prayers worked?

But instead, it swung open just enough for one of the senior students to step out, his face twisted with contempt.

He grabbed Akihiko by the hair and yanked him up, forcing him to his feet.

“You’re still here?” the senior sneered.

His voice dripped with mockery.

“Even dogs know when they’re unwanted.”

Akihiko winced as the man’s knee slammed into his stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs. He crumpled to the ground, coughing violently.

“I’ll say this once,” the senior spat, towering over him.

“If you dare show your filthy peasant face near this gate again, I’ll break your legs myself.”

He kicked Akihiko hard in the ribs, sending him rolling across the dirt path. The gate clanged shut behind him, the sound final and merciless.

Silence.

Then—voices.

From the street, townsfolk had gathered. Some whispered behind raised hands, others laughed outright.

“Pathetic.”

“Thought he could be a Samurai? What a joke.”

“Look at him—skinny, dirty… he’s an embarrassment.”

“His parents must be fools, raising trash like that.”

Every word cut deeper than steel.

Akihiko staggered to his knees, clutching his side, dust clinging to his tear-stained face. He forced himself to look at them, hoping—praying—that someone, anyone, might offer a hand.

But when his eyes met theirs, all he saw was disgust. Cold stares that stripped him bare, sneers that reduced him to less than nothing. Not one person moved to help. A child tugged at his mother’s sleeve, but she pulled the boy away, as if Akihiko’s shame was contagious.

His throat burned. His chest heaved. He wanted to scream—but no sound came.

Images of his parents surged in his mind—his father’s proud smile, his mother’s warm hug, their sacrifices. They had sold their land, swallowed their pride, just so he could stand where he was now. And all he had done was fail them.

His fingers dug into the dirt until his nails split. He whispered, voice trembling, barely audible:

“I… I can’t go home like this. I can’t…”

For the first time since leaving his village, Akihiko felt the weight of complete abandonment. No dōjō. No future. No place. Just a boy, alone before a closed gate, with nowhere left to go.

Chapter Text

PART II

Morning Glory 🌸 — Legendary Meeting

Akihiko stumbled through the village streets, clutching his aching stomach. Every step felt heavier than the last, his ribs still sore from the senior’s kick. He had no direction, no destination—just the gnawing fear that if he stopped walking, he would collapse and never rise again.

His coin pouch was nearly empty. Just a few scattered sen, barely enough to buy a handful of rice. He clutched it tight, as though the leather might magically grow heavier if he prayed hard enough.

He approached a food stall, the smell of grilled fish and warm rice flooding his senses. His mouth watered. For a moment, he almost forgot everything—he was just a hungry boy staring at food.

“Excuse me…”

Akihiko’s voice cracked as he spoke to the vendor.

“C-could I… have something small? Anything.”

The man eyed his ragged clothes, the dirt smeared on his face, and the trembling hands clutching too few coins. His expression hardened.

“Get lost, kid! I don’t run a charity. Go beg somewhere else.”

The vendor snapped, swatting his hand away.

The coins scattered onto the ground. Akihiko scrambled to gather them, his fingers shaking as laughter rippled from nearby passersby.

He wanted to shout that he wasn’t a beggar. That he was training to be a Samurai, that he had a dream. But the words stuck in his throat, because even he no longer believed them.

As night fell, the lanterns of the town glowed warm and inviting—but none of that warmth reached him. People hurried past, couples laughing, merchants closing shops, the sound of clinking dishes from taverns filled with food he could never taste.

Akihiko found a quiet alley and slid down against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest. His stomach growled violently, but he had nothing left to give it.

He tried to sleep, but the stone beneath him was cold, and every sound—the distant barking of a dog, the heavy footsteps of drunk men, the whisper of passing strangers—kept him half-awake. He shivered, clutching his thin clothes tighter around himself.

Morning came. His body ached, his lips dry, but still he wandered. He tried asking for work—lifting crates, cleaning stalls—but each rejection piled on the last.

“You’re too weak.”

“Not worth the trouble.”

“Go back to your village.”

Each word was a dagger. By the third day, he could barely stand, his steps slow and unsteady. Hunger had hollowed him out; his legs trembled beneath his own weight.

He collapsed in the middle of the street. People walked around him as though he was nothing more than an obstacle, some even muttering in annoyance.

Lying there, cheek pressed against the dirt, Akihiko thought of his parents again. Their faces blurred with guilt in his mind.

I promised I’d make them proud… and look at me now.

Tears slipped down his face, mixing with the dust. For the first time, the fire in his chest—the dream that had burned since he was ten—flickered, so small he feared it would vanish completely.

All he had left was the memory of Mr. Samurai’s gentle smile… and the sound of his promise echoing in the back of his mind.

But here, in the dirt of a street that didn’t care if he lived or died, even that memory felt impossibly far away.

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That night, the air was colder than before. Akihiko curled against the wall of the alley, shivering beneath his thin clothes. His body was weak, hunger clawing at his insides, but worse than that was the ache in his chest.

He closed his eyes, and memories came rushing back, uninvited but cruelly vivid.

The day Mr. Samurai saved him.

That gentle smile, the warmth of a calloused hand ruffling his hair, that tassel earrings, and those memory cut through the night like a blade.

He saw himself at eleven years old, clutching a wooden stick, swinging until his shoulders burned, his small hands blistered and bleeding—but smiling through the pain. His parents watching him, his mother calling out to take a break, his father laughing with pride.

The warmth of their home filled him—the smell of rice cooking, the sound of the wind rustling through the farmland, the soft laughter of two people who gave up everything just so their son could chase a dream.

Tears stung his eyes.

How far away that life felt now.

Here he was, lying in the dirt, nameless among strangers, a failure who couldn’t even last three months in a dōjō. His hands trembled as he buried his face in his knees.

I want to go home…

The thought clawed at him, louder and louder until it drowned everything else. He wanted to feel his mother’s embrace, hear his father’s voice telling him it would be all right. He wanted to sit by their small fire, eat whatever little food they had, and laugh like they used to.

But… he couldn’t.

Even if he had the money for the journey, how could he return? How could he look into their eyes after all the sacrifices they had made for him? His parents had sold their land, borrowed money they couldn’t afford, gone without food themselves—just so Akihiko could stand where he was today.

And what did he do with it? He was thrown out, humiliated, branded a burden and a failure.

If they knew the truth, if they saw him return with nothing but shame… what kind of son would that make him?

The tears came harder, choking sobs muffled against his arms. His chest felt like it was breaking apart, torn between the desperate longing to go home and the crushing weight of his own pride.

I can’t… I can’t go back…

His body shook as his stomach growled painfully, but he couldn’t even find the strength to move anymore. The world blurred with fever and exhaustion. His breath came shallow, each one weaker than the last.

Above him, the night sky stretched endlessly, stars flickering like distant, untouchable flames.

“I… I’m sorry, Father… Mother…”

He whispered hoarsely, voice cracking.

“I… I tried…”

And then, finally, Akihiko’s strength gave out. His body slumped onto the cold stone, his thin frame trembling as darkness slowly closed in around him.

In the haze of his weakness, images of his parents flashed again—his mother’s smile, his father’s laughter. He could almost smell the smoke of their hearth, hear the distant sound of cicadas in the fields. For a fleeting second, it felt so real, so close—like if he just reached out, he could touch it.

“...Father… Mother…”

His cracked voice whispered.

“...I don’t… want to die here…”

His whisper was barely audible, a plea to no one, to nothing.

Tears streamed down his face, carving paths through the dirt on his skin. He was starving, fevered, alone, and unwanted. Everything he had dreamed, everything he had fought for—it had all crumbled into dust.

His eyes fluttered, heavy, fighting to stay open. The stars above blurred into streaks of light.

Is this the end…?

His chest rose in shallow, ragged breaths. Each one weaker, each one slower.

The sounds of the village dimmed. The whispers, the footsteps, the laughter of strangers—all fading into a distant echo.

And there, in the cruel silence of the night, Akihiko’s body finally surrendered.

He lay motionless on the cold street, his fever burning him from the inside, breath faint as if it could vanish with the next breeze.

Somewhere, far away in his fading consciousness, he heard it—his mother’s voice, soft and warm.

“Akihiko… don’t give up, my son.”

A final tear slid down his cheek as the darkness gonna swallowed him.

Then—

“Heeelp!! Somebody help me!!”

The piercing cry cut through the chatter of the market street. Everyone froze, eyes shifting toward the narrow alley where a little girl was cornered by two rough-looking bandits.

The men laughed, sneering as they tugged at her sleeve. The child sobbed, trembling.

The crowd muttered, but no one moved.

“They’re dangerous…”

“Not my problem…”

“What a shame… poor child…”

Akihiko’s head snapped up. His breath caught. His vision swam, yet in his heart—it was as if time folded back.

Five years ago.

His parents and him cornered by bandits, their cries of fear. His own helpless sobbing. And then—the shining memory. That man. The Samurai who stood tall, blade flashing, courage unshaken. The man who saved them.

Something flared in Akihiko’s chest. His eyes burned. His body shook. He was barely alive, yet…

“If he could protect us back then… then I…”

Without thinking, his legs moved. He stumbled forward, shoving his way past the onlookers until he stood between the girl and her attackers.

Arms outstretched, body trembling like a candle in the wind.

“Stop! If you want to hurt her… you’ll have to go through me first!”

His voice cracked, raw, yet it echoed with desperate resolve.

The bandits blinked, then burst into cruel laughter.

“What’s this? A rat in rags thinks he’s a Samurai?”

“Look at him—he can barely stand. He’s skin and bones!”

“Hey kid… do you want to die?”

One leaned down, grinning wide, his breath foul.

The crowd murmured, some chuckling, some shaking their heads.

“Is that boy insane?”

“He’ll just get himself killed…”

“Pathetic…”

Akihiko didn’t waver. His legs nearly buckled, but he forced them straight, shielding the sobbing girl behind him. His lip quivered, but his words came out in a whisper—

“D-don’t cry. I’ll… protect you. I promise.”

The first blow landed. A fist cracked against his cheek. His head snapped sideways, and he fell to his knees, blood already dripping from his mouth.

Gasps scattered through the crowd—but no one stepped forward.

He clawed at the ground, forcing himself upright. His knees shook violently. His vision spun. But he planted his feet again.

Another blow. His ribs screamed. He choked, coughing blood, yet his arms stayed open, guarding the girl.

Another kick to the stomach. His tiny body folded, wheezing. He could barely breathe. Yet somehow—somehow—he staggered up again.

The bandits grew irritated.

“What’s wrong with this brat? Doesn’t he know when to quit?”

A blade flashed.

“Let’s just end him.”

The crowd gasped, stepping back. Akihiko’s eyes widened, but still—he braced himself. His heart thundered, terror clawed at his chest, yet his thoughts screamed—

“Even if it kills me… I won’t move…!”

Steel swung down—

—but a louder clash rang out. Sparks flew. The bandit’s blade was deflected.

Akihiko blinked through blood and haze. Figures moved into the alley, sharp and precise, blades drawn. Their uniforms were clean, their forms strong, their strikes practiced.

The bandits faltered, cursed, and finally fled into the shadows.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

“Look at them fight!”

“Such skill—true Samurai apprentices!”

“They saved the child!”

The dōjō students.

Akihiko’s heart plummeted. He knew those faces—every one of them. The sneers, the laughter, the cruel voices that haunted him every day at training.

The little girl immediately ran to them, sobbing, clinging to their sleeves.

“Thank you! Thank you, oniisan! You saved me!!”

The mother bowed deeply, tears streaming, praising them with gratitude. The crowd’s cheers grew louder, hands clapping, voices praising their bravery.

No one noticed the broken boy who had stood first.

No one saw Akihiko, trembling in the dirt, his blood mixing with the dust, his chest heaving as if each breath might be his last.

Until—

“Well, well, well.”

The familiar, mocking tone cut into him like a blade. One of the dōjō students turned, smirk curling his lips.

“If it isn’t the peasant boy? Didn’t think we’d see you again.”

Laughter rippled among them.

Another stepped closer, crouching slightly so the crowd could hear.

“You tried to be a hero, didn’t you? Hah. Look at you. Face in the dirt, bleeding all over, nearly got yourself killed before we showed up.”

The crowd’s murmurs turned into sneers. Some chuckled cruelly. Others whispered—

“Was he trying to play Samurai?”

“How pathetic…”

“He should’ve stayed out of the way.”

Another student sneered openly, crossing his arms.

“You’ve always been pathetic. Three months in the dōjō, and you were nothing but a burden. Couldn’t hold a sword right. Couldn’t keep up. Always dragging everyone down. Honestly… you’re an embarrassment. A disgrace to even stand in the same training yard as us.”

The words slammed into Akihiko harder than fists ever could.

The student spat near his face.

“Look at you now. Rolling in the dirt, like the street rat you are. You should be grateful we showed up—you’d be dead already if not for us.”

The crowd laughed. Some pointed. Some shook their heads with disgust.

Akihiko trembled, His fingers dug into the ground until his nails cracked. His chest rose and fell in shallow, broken gasps. His body screamed to collapse—but his heart… his heart screamed louder.

“I tried… I really tried. I gave everything. I bled, I cried, I trained in the dark, I never gave up… but still… still…”

His vision blurred with tears. He couldn’t raise his head.

“…Its all useless..”

The dōjō students turned their backs, basking in applause, smiles wide as the crowd hailed them as heroes. The little girl clung to one of them, not even glancing once at Akihiko.

The cheers echoed like thunder. The laughter cut like knives.

And Akihiko remained crumpled in the dirt, unseen, forgotten. A shadow among the cheers. A boy who tried to be a Samurai—and was trampled by the weight of a world that never wanted him.

The cheers did not fade even as the dōjō students sheathed their swords and walked away with proud shoulders. The mother lifted the girl into her arms, bowing again and again to the young warriors who had “saved” her child.

The gate of applause closed shut, leaving Akihiko crouched in the dirt like something discarded.

He tried to push himself up. His elbows trembled, his arms buckled, his body collapsed again with a dull thud. Blood mixed with dust on his lips. He could barely breathe through the sharp knives of pain cutting into his ribs.

Still, he forced himself to rise on shaking knees. His head stayed low, bangs covering his face, hiding the tears that streamed down. His throat tightened so much it hurt to swallow.

Around him, people walked past. A few glanced his way, wrinkled their noses, and muttered under their breath.

“Pitiful…”

“He should know his place…”

“Disgusting to even pretend he could fight.”

Their words clung to him like tar.

Akihiko staggered out of the street, clutching his stomach, leaving faint bloody footprints in the dust. His legs were numb, his mind clouded. He didn’t know where he was walking. He just needed to move. Away from the noise. Away from the laughter. Away from the eyes that looked at him like filth.

When the alley swallowed him, silence pressed in—so heavy it made his chest ache.

He leaned against a wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold ground. His breath rasped like old paper tearing. His fingers clutched at his thin chest, his heart beating weakly, as if even it wanted to give up.

And then the memories returned. Unstoppable. Cruel.

His mother’s hands, calloused from work, placing coins into his palm.

His father’s voice, trembling but firm: “Akihiko, go. This dōjō will give you a future. Make us proud.”

The smiles, the tears, the way they waved goodbye at the station, believing their son would one day return stronger.

Akihiko’s body shook as he buried his face into his dirty hands.

“Father… Mother… I-I’m sorry…”

He wanted to go home.

God, he wanted it more than anything.

To sit in that warm room again, where the floor creaked and the air always smelled faintly of smoke and rice. To hear his parents’ laughter. To feel safe.

But he couldn’t.

If he went home now, what would he say?

That he was too weak?

That the dōjō threw him out for being worthless?

That he had failed, not even lasting a year?

He could see their faces already—his mother’s worried tears, his father’s silence heavy with disappointment. The shame would crush them. It would crush him.

“No…”

His voice cracked into the empty alley.

“No, I can’t… I can’t go back. I can’t…”

His stomach growled, twisting painfully. He hadn’t eaten properly in days. He pressed his arm over it, but the ache only deepened. His throat was dry, lips cracked. Every breath burned in his chest.

The world blurred around him. His body leaned sideways, too tired to hold itself upright. He slumped against the wall, sliding lower and lower until his cheek pressed against the filthy stone.

His vision darkened at the edges. His limbs felt cold.

“So this is it? I’ll just… fade away here? Like trash no one wanted?”

The thought pierced him, sharper than any blade.

Tears slipped down his dirt-streaked cheeks. They fell silently, leaving tiny wet marks in the dust below. His lips trembled as he whispered, almost childlike—

“I just… wanted to be a Samurai like him…I wanted to protect other people too..”

The night settled heavy around him. The street grew quieter, the last murmurs of life fading into silence.

Alone. Forgotten. Broken.

Akihiko’s body lay curled in the shadows, his breath shallow, his eyes half-lidded, staring into the dark void that slowly pulled him under.

"HEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE??!!"

Akihiko was immediately startled by the village guard standing in front of him. He could sense the guard was angry with him.

Just as Akihiko was about to open his mouth—

The guard’s hand was already raised, ready to shove Akihiko down the dirt road once again.

“Get out! You’ve caused enough trouble for this village!” the man barked.

His grip on Akihiko’s ragged collar merciless. The onlookers muttered, whispering how disgusting it was to see such a boy loitering, starving, nothing more than a nuisance.

Akihiko’s knees trembled. He couldn’t even muster the strength to fight back anymore. His voice cracked as he begged,

“P-please… I just…”

The guard snarled and yanked him forward.

And then—

CLANG!

The sharp, cold ring of steel cut through the air. The guard froze. Everyone’s eyes snapped toward the sound.

A blade—polished, flawless—rested at the guard’s wrist. The edge gleamed faintly not pressing enough to cut, but enough to warn.

The owner of that sword stood tall: a boy, no older than fifteen. His hakama was spotless, his stance elegant yet brimming with quiet power. That silky cherry red brown hair, posture too composed for someone his age. Along with that black eyepatch, his deep red eye—piercing, calculating, carrying the weight of someone who had already seen countless battles.

“Tell me,”

The boy’s voice was calm, but sharp as the steel he carried.

“Is that how you show strength? By raising your hand against a half-dead child?”

The guard stammered, his bravado crumbling.

“W-who are you to—”

But before he could finish, the boy’s gaze silenced him. It wasn’t just nobility. It was dominance. The kind that demanded obedience without a word.

The crowd murmured, shocked. Whispers,

“Isn’t that the noble family’s heir?”

“The prodigy…”

“Hayato-sama…”

The Prodigy, Young Master Hayato.

The guard blinks in shock.

“Y-young master Hayato…” His tone instantly shifts to nervous respect.

Hayato’s gaze doesn’t waver. His voice, cool as steel, cuts through the murmurs.

“Is this how you treat the desperate? Ganging up on the weak?”

The guard stammers, trying to justify himself.

“H-he’s a nuisance, young master! Always hanging around, causing—”

“Enough.”

One word. Cold. Absolute. The guard lowers his head, unable to continue.

Akihiko, still on the ground, dares to look up. His breath catches. His vision blurs—but not from exhaustion. His eyes fix on that detail—the tassel earrings.

They sway with Hayato’s every movement, just like that day.

His mind fractures with memory—

A sword flashing against firelight.

A warm hand on his trembling shoulder.

A calm voice telling him, “You’re safe now.”

And those tassels earrings, searing into his soul.

Five years ago.

The man who saved his family.

The man he swore to follow.

Akihiko’s lips tremble. His chest tightens.

“No… no, it can’t be… He’s… not the same age as me… He—”

But his heart refuses to let go. His heart knows.

Tears blur his sight as he whispers, broken, almost to himself,

“T-those… earrings…”

But the rational part of him screamed—no, it’s impossible. That man was older, a seasoned warrior in his forties.

“This boy? He’s the same age as me… barely fifteen.”

And yet…

Every movement, every step, every glance of this mysterious boy felt exactly the same as that day. The same calm, the same precision, the same authority.

Akihiko’s chest heaved. He wanted to cry. His lips quivered. He whispered, almost to himself,

“…it’s… not him… but… it feels like him…”

Hayato finally glanced at him, his eyes cold but measuring. He spoke, calm but commanding,

“You’re reckless, yet persistent. Not many would even survive this long after being beaten down by the world.”

Akihiko’s throat constricted. No one had ever said such a thing to him—not a teacher, not a bully, not even his parents.

Hayato turned back to the guard, his aura sharp, unyielding, and the guard lowered his head, defeated.

Then, without another word, Hayato began to walk away.

As Hayato disappeared into the fading sunlight, Akihiko collapsed again, exhausted and trembling—but inside, a tiny ember of determination flared, ignited by the echo of a long-lost memory and the presence of this mysterious boy

Akihiko’s legs trembled violently beneath him. His body screamed with pain—ribs stabbing, knees raw, palms bleeding from scraping the dirt—but he could not let Hayato disappear.

Every step, every inch of movement, felt like dragging himself through a storm of fire and stone.

“…wait… please… don’t… go…”

Hayato paused mid-step, his sharp eyes catching a flash of movement in the dirt. He turned slightly, curious but composed, and froze for a heartbeat.

There, crawling along the dusty path, was the boy from moments ago—bloodied, battered, every inch of him trembling, yet still moving.

Akihiko’s fingers tore at the ground, dragging his exhausted body inch by inch, eyes fixed on Hayato’s retreating figure.

For a fleeting second, Hayato’s expression softened—not in kindness, but in measured observation.

The boy was desperate, weak, stubborn… reckless.

“Tch…”

Hayato muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

“Look at you. You’re pathetic.”

He stepped closer, deliberately slowing his pace so that Akihiko could see him clearly. Standing tall, the wind catching his tassel earrings, he looked down at Akihiko without bending, his gaze piercing.

“Listen to me.”

Hayato said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority.

“You’re weak. You’re starving. You’re beaten down by the world already, and yet here you are… crawling after me like some lost child chasing shadows.”

Akihiko’s chest heaved, lips trembling. He tried to speak, but his voice was barely a whisper,

“I… I have to… I must…”

Hayato’s eyes narrowed, sharp and unyielding.

“Stop. Save your strength. Go back to your parents. They wait for you. They care for you. There’s no shame in returning. You’ll survive longer, at least, if you let go of this foolish obsession.”

Akihiko’s trembling hands gripped the dirt tighter. His eyes burned with defiance, even as his body threatened to collapse completely.

“…I… can’t… I… won’t… give up…”

Hayato crouched slightly, sharp eyes fixed on Akihiko’s trembling, bloodied form.

“Why can’t you go home? Is it about the money?”

Akihiko’s chest heaved, voice raw and desperate,

“…No… it’s not about money… I… I… can’t… I can’t disappoint them… my parents… they worked so hard… for me… for this…”

Hayato tilted his head, expression unreadable. He scoffed softly, a hint of disbelief in his tone.

Of course… a noble boy like me wouldn’t understand this foolish pride.

This is probably bullshit.

He reached into his haori and pulled out a few gold coins, tossing them toward Akihiko.

“There. Take these. Leave this village tonight. If someone beats you again, I will not help you.”

Akihiko’s eyes widened, voice cracking as he tried to respond

“…W-wait! I… I—”

But Hayato didn’t wait.

He straightened, tassels swaying in the fading sunlight, and walked away, ignoring the desperate calls of the little boy who crawled toward him, voice breaking.

“…Please… don’t go…!”

Akihiko fell to his knees, chest heaving, blood and dirt streaked across his face. The coins glinted in the dirt beside him, but it wasn’t the money he wanted—it was the man who had just walked away, the boy with the same aura as Mr. Samurai, leaving him alone to fight for his own survival.

Yet even as despair clawed at his heart, the ember of determination flared brighter. His pride, his promise to his parents, and the memory of the man who saved him years ago forced him to act.

Akihiko picked himself up, clutched the coins, and limped into the shadows of the village, still chasing a distant figure, still refusing to surrender—even when every part of him screamed to collapse.

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Hayato had already returned to his grand, elegant noble house. The air was calm, the corridors quiet, and the lanterns cast warm, steady light across the polished floors.

He had just begun to unwind from the day, thinking that the boy—weak, battered, and stubborn—would finally give up and return home.

But then, a shout pierced the calm night. Sharp, insistent.

“Young master! There’s… a boy outside… asking to meet you!”

Hayato’s eyes narrowed, already knowing who it was. A small, desperate flicker of amusement crossed his face. He let out a soft, resigned sigh.

“I see…” he muttered, voice calm and measured.

“Send the guards. Make sure they sent him away immediately. Do not let him in.”

The servant nodded respectfully, hurrying to carry out the order. Hayato returned to his evening, folding his hands lightly behind his back, his expression serene and unbothered.

Moments later, he heard another clatter, another shout, faint but persistent—Akihiko’s voice, calling after him through the walls of wealth and comfort.

But Hayato did not stir. Not even a muscle. He simply turned onto his side, letting sleep take him, ignoring the small, desperate boy who refused to give up.

Outside, in the shadowed courtyard, Akihiko’s voice echoed faintly, raw with exhaustion and determination:

“…Young master… please …”

And though Hayato did not respond, a small, imperceptible crease formed between his brows—a subtle acknowledgment that he had indeed heard the boy, even if he would not show it.

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The night continued, quiet in the grand house, yet in the darkness, one small ember of determination burned in the street below—one that would not be extinguished so easily.

The noble house was quiet again, lanterns glowing softly in the corridors. Hayato had settled in, expecting the weak, battered boy to finally vanish, swallowed by exhaustion and despair.

But then… voices. Loud, insistent, shattering the calm night.

“I… I must… see Young Master Hayato!”

Akihiko’s voice, raw and trembling, carried through the gates. He had been kicked away before, beaten back by guards, yet here he was, dragging his exhausted body up the grand steps again. Dirt and blood streaked his face, legs shaking, hands scraped and raw, but his eyes burned with the same determination that had carried him this far.

“Please… I… I must meet him! I’ll not leave!”

The guards scowled, stepping forward.

“I told you! Leave! You’re not welcome here!”

Akihiko fell to his knees for a moment, gasping for breath, but then pushed himself up again.

“…I… I can’t leave… I… I have to… I must… see him!”

One guard stepped closer, baton raised, voice gruff,

“Kid… you’re crazy! Go home, or I’ll throw you out myself!”

Akihiko’s voice grew louder, desperate, defiant,

“…No! I… I’ll not go! I… must speak with him! I… I can’t go home… not yet!”

Inside the grand house, Hayato’s sharp ears caught every word. He leaned slightly from his window, not moving a muscle, not stepping down.

His expression was calm, almost bored.

“Keep him out.”

He said to the servant at his side, voice low and steady.

“Do not let that boy in. Under no circumstances.”

The servant bowed, nodding, hurrying to enforce the command.

Outside, Akihiko’s exhaustion grew heavier with every step, yet his determination refused to bend. He was kicked, pushed, shouted at, mocked—but still, he rose again and again, voice cracking but unwavering:

“…I… I will… not give up… I… I must… meet him… Young Master Hayato…”

Inside, Hayato heard every word. The servants, the guards, the echoes of the boy’s pleas—all of it. And still… he did not move.

He did not intervene.

He simply instructed his men again, more firmly this time.

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The night was heavy and quiet, the kind of silence only snow could bring. Flakes fell softly, blanketing the streets and rooftops, turning the world into a ghostly white canvas. Inside his grand noble house, Hayato felt a subtle unease.

Something was missing tonight—the relentless, desperate voice of the boy who had made such a scene over the past days.

“Where is that boy?”

His voice, calm but sharp, cut through the dim light of the corridor.

“The boy… did not come tonight, Young Master.” replied the servant, uneasy.

Hayato tilted his head, expression unreadable.

Has he finally given up? Is he back home, nursing his pride and bruises?

Or… has something worse befallen him?

A quiet knot of concern twisted unexpectedly in his chest.

Without another word, Hayato stood, sliding into his haori.

“Young Master…?” the servant asked, alarmed.

“It’s the middle of the night, snow falling, bitterly cold… where are you going?”

Hayato’s dark eyes did not waver.

“I don’t know. I just want some air.”

He stepped into the night.

The snow clung to his haori, cold and wet, but he barely noticed. His mind wandered—back to the boy, beaten, weak, foolishly stubborn.

Is he alive?

Has he been hurt again?

Or has he finally gave up?

The streets were empty, silent under the snow’s quiet blanket, yet Hayato’s gaze scanned every shadow.

Then—movement.

A small figure in the distance, hunched, struggling, yet impossibly determined.

Akihiko.

His body was battered—scrapes and bruises marked every visible inch of skin, blood streaked his dirt-stained clothes, and snowflakes melted into the wet mess.

His breathing was ragged, every inhale a fight, every exhale a gasp of exhaustion.

But still…

He swung the bamboo stick with all his might.

Every swing was shaky, every step wobbly, but every motion burned with a raw, unyielding will.

Hayato’s lips twitched—not a smile, not pity, but a flicker of something buried deep. Every desperate, trembling movement of the boy tugged at something he could not name.

The relentless drive, the unwillingness to yield to exhaustion or humiliation—it was almost painful to witness, yet impossible to look away from.

Snowflakes clung to Akihiko’s hair and clothes, weighing him down, but he did not stop. His small hands were raw and bleeding, the bamboo stick slick with snow and blood, yet he continued.

Every swing, every step, every ragged breath screamed,

I will not give up. I will become strong. No matter what.

Hayato took a step closer, still in the shadows, observing.

He noticed the tremble in the boy’s legs, the quiver of his fingers, the desperate determination burning behind his eyes.

He could see it all—the exhaustion that should have crushed him, the pride that kept him standing, the fire that refused to die even in the cruel cold of the snow.

A sharp gust of wind blew through the street, biting and icy, and Akihiko shivered but did not falter. Hayato’s chest tightened in a way he did not expect.

How… how can someone so small, so weak, carry such fire?

For a long moment, he simply watched.

No movement.

No intervention.

Just observation.

And yet, in his stillness, he felt something stir—a rare, unacknowledged feeling. Respect. Intrigue. Perhaps even… awe.

Akihiko’s chest heaved violently, sweat and snow mingling with blood on his face. He fell to his knees briefly, shaking, but muttered through gritted teeth,

“…I… I will not… give up… I will… become strong… no matter what…”

The words, raw and fragile, cut through the night.

Hayato’s sharp eyes softened imperceptibly, just enough to betray that he had noticed.

He didn’t step forward.

He didn’t speak.

But the quiet acknowledgment in his gaze spoke louder than any words could.

The snow fell heavier now, blanketing the world around them, yet the boy kept swinging, kept pushing, kept fighting his own weakness, his own despair. And for the first time, Hayato realized that this boy—foolish, stubborn, battered, and weak—was something extraordinary.

The snow continued to fall silently, cold flakes landing softly on Akihiko’s sweat-drenched hair and raw, bleeding palms.

His legs trembled violently beneath him, his chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths.

Every inhale was a fight, every exhale a whisper of exhaustion.

He swung the bamboo stick one last time, then collapsed.

The ground was icy, unforgiving, but he didn’t care. His body had no strength left to rise.

He tried to push himself up—tried to fight against the weakness—but his arms shook violently and gave way.

A single drop of snow fell on his head.

And then another.

His eyes barely opened, blurred from pain, exhaustion, and blood mingled with snow and sweat.

But then… the snow stopped.

Blinking through the haze, Akihiko lifted his head—and froze.

There..

Hayato knelt in front of him.

Not standing tall, not distant, but kneeling.

The umbrella in Hayato’s hand shielded them both from the falling snow, casting a small circle of warmth and protection in the cold night.

His dark red eye, usually sharp and unreadable, were soft, almost… sad.

Akihiko tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his lips trembling.

Words caught in his chest.

Hayato’s voice broke the silence before he could say anything,

“Why… why are you working this hard…? Why are you not giving up?”

The words were quiet, almost fragile, laced with something Akihiko had never seen in Hayato before. Not coldness, not pride, not superiority—but sadness, concern, and… a trace of admiration.

Akihiko’s chest heaved, exhaustion and emotion making him tremble as he met that gaze. The eyes that had always seemed untouchable, untouchably sharp, now looked human, looking at him like he mattered.

Snow melted into the tears streaking his face as he whispered, almost collapsing under the weight of his own emotions,

“…Because… I hate my weak self… I want to be like him… I want to be like Mr. Samurai… I want to save other people too…”

Hayato’s gaze did not waver.

The corner of his lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile appearing, almost imperceptible, but enough to fracture the icy mask he always wore.

His eye, sharp and unreadable for so long, flickered with something unfamiliar—something like awe, or admiration, or the beginning of care.

“…what is your name?”

For the first time…

Since he came to this village, he’s the first one who asking his name.

Even everyone in dōjō doesn’t bothered to know his name.

“…. A-akihiko, young master..”

Silently, Hayato extended his hand.

Not commanding, not demanding—but offering.

“Can you walk?” he asked, softly.

Akihiko’s lips trembled.

Exhaustion and disbelief battled inside him, yet he nodded, his eyes wide, shining with both hope and fear.

Slowly, almost reverently, he reached toward Hayato’s hand.

The moment their hands met, Akihiko felt the difference immediately.

Hayato’s hand was warm, strong yet so smooth, steady, and reassuring, a stark contrast to Akihiko’s own small, raw, sweaty, wounded, trembling fingers.

And Hayato felt it too—the fragility, the desperation, the courage that burned so fiercely in the boy’s hands.

Gently, almost impossibly tender for someone like him, Hayato closed his fingers around Akihiko’s.

He lifted him slowly, supporting his weight, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause.

Snowflakes landed around them, silent witnesses to the first touch that would begin their bond.

Hayato helped Akihiko stand fully, the boy swaying, trembling, but slowly finding balance.

He did not speak again.

He simply turned and walked ahead, the umbrella shielding them both from the cold.

Akihiko’s chest heaved. Every muscle ached, every bone protested, yet he obeyed instantly.

He walked behind Hayato, step by painful step, letting the taller boy lead the way. Each step through the snow carried with it years of struggle, humiliation, and determination, now tempered by the faintest spark of hope.

And Hayato… for the first time in a long while, felt something stir in his chest.

He did not allow himself to look at the boy behind him.

He did not speak.

But inside, something melted—something that had never melted before.

That stubborn, battered, broken boy, so unlike any noble he had known, had pierced through the walls he built around himself.

The snow swirled around them, cold and silent, yet in that fragile bubble under the umbrella, warmth lingered. Not from the fire of a hearth, but from something far more powerful—the quiet, unspoken connection of two souls beginning a journey together.

As they approached the gates of Hayato’s grand estate, the household was already awake, servants preparing for the usual late-night routines and guards pacing the perimeter.

“Young Master! Are you okay???” a servant called, hurrying toward Hayato.

But when they saw Akihiko trailing behind the young master, the air seemed to freeze.

Before anyone could notice the frail figure behind him, the guards instinctively tensed, hands reaching for the boy, mouths opening in the familiar shouts meant to chase him away.

Hayato raised a single hand.

Just a small gesture, but it carried an undeniable authority.

The guards froze mid-step. Their muscles locked, their instincts screaming to act, yet they could not disobey.

“Leave him.”

Hayato said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of command. It sliced through the confusion, cold and precise.

Every servant and guard hesitated, eyes wide in disbelief.

They had seen the boy the past nights—weak, ragged, causing chaos. And yet, here was their young master, commanding protection over him.

Hayato did not flinch, did not soften.

He simply took a step closer to Akihiko, the small boy still trembling against him, snow melting into his bloodied hair.

“Clean him up.”

Hayato instructed, voice steady.

“Treat his wounds. Give him dinner. And prepare a room for him tonight.”

Silence followed.

Then a servant, finally finding courage, stammered,

“Y-yes, Young Master…”

The other servants moved cautiously, they approached Akihiko cautiously, their eyes wide with surprise.

They had never seen someone so ragged, beaten, and exhausted enter the noble estate—not without guards dragging him away.

But Hayato’s words hung in the air like a command of steel,

“Clean him up. Treat his wounds. Give him dinner. And prepare a room for him tonight.”

With hesitant hands, the servants guided Akihiko to a chair near a small fire that crackled softly, casting flickering light across his bruised face. One servant gently brushed the snow from his hair, careful not to touch the blood matted into it. Akihiko flinched slightly at the touch, but the warmth from the hand was strangely comforting, unlike anything he had felt in days.

Another servant brought a basin of warm water. Akihiko stared at it, stunned—he hadn’t felt warmth like this on his skin for so long. With careful hands, the servant dabbed the water onto a soft cloth and began gently cleaning the blood and grime from his face. Each touch was tender, deliberate, as though they feared hurting him further.

Akihiko’s breathing was shallow, chest heaving, as he realized how fragile and small he felt under their careful attention.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had treated him so gently, not the dōjō, not the streets, not anyone. His hands, bruised and raw from gripping the bamboo stick, twitched as they were washed, the water bringing both relief and sting.

A servant tended to his arms and legs next. Bruises and scrapes from the bandits, the streets, and the dōjō’s harsh training were carefully examined. Ointments were applied with gentle precision, rubbing slowly to avoid causing pain, yet giving warmth and care. Every motion was deliberate, almost reverent, as though they were handling something precious—and fragile.

Akihiko’s eyes welled with tears, not just from the sting of his wounds, but from the shock of being treated like a human being instead of a nuisance or failure.

When the last scrape was cleaned, and his small body was wrapped in a clean blanket, one servant handed him a bowl of steaming soup. Akihiko trembled as he held it, the warmth radiating into his frozen hands and chest. He took a tentative sip, feeling life and hope slowly trickle back into him.

One by one, the servants left, casting furtive glances at Akihiko as they quietly closed the door behind them. The boy finally exhaled, sinking into the warmth of the blankets, feeling the exhaustion of the past days pressing down on him. His body ached, every muscle screamed, yet for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt safe.

But he wasn’t truly alone.

At the edge of the room, standing silently in the shadows, was Hayato. His dark red eye studied Akihiko with a quiet intensity.

He did not move, did not speak, yet his presence filled the room in a way that made Akihiko acutely aware of him.

Akihiko’s eyes flicked up, finally noticing him. He tried to speak, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper,

“…Young Master…?”

But before he could finish, Hayato’s lips curved into a gentle, almost soft smile.

His voice was low, calm, yet somehow carried warmth that made Akihiko’s chest tighten.

“Night.”

With that single word, Hayato turned and quietly closed the door, leaving Akihiko alone in the warm, dimly lit room.

The boy blinked, heart pounding, staring at the door that now separated them.

The memory of his calm, gentle smile lingered in the room, a quiet echo that made Akihiko’s heart feel strangely lighter, warmer, and… hopeful.

For the first time in days, he allowed himself to relax into the warmth, to feel safe in the care of someone who had silently watched over him, protected him, and yet—without a single command—acknowledged him.

The snow continued falling outside, the world remained cold and harsh, but inside that small room, something fragile and unspoken had begun between them.

Akihiko’s eyes slowly closed, exhaustion finally claiming him, but in the back of his mind, that gentle smile lingered, a seed of hope, a quiet promise that this night was only the beginning.

And somewhere behind the closed door, Hayato remained still.

Not moving to check, not speaking another word.

But in the quiet of the night, he let himself feel it—the stirring of something he had never let himself feel before.

A strange, quiet fascination… perhaps even a flicker of admiration… for the boy fall asleep in the room, small, battered, trembling—and yet unbroken.

Chapter Text

PART III

Gardenia 🌸 — Blossoming Closeness

Morning light spilled softly through the paper windows, casting a warm glow across the room. Akihiko stirred under the futon, every muscle in his small body still aching from the exhaustion and bruises of the past days. He tried to push himself up, but a sharp twinge of pain made him wince.

“Stop moving. Your body isn’t ready yet. You’ll hurt yourself more if you move like that.”

From the doorway, Hayato leaned casually against the frame, his calm, measured gaze resting on Akihiko.

Akihiko froze, hesitating, embarrassed.

“..yo-young master?”

He wanted to explain, but Hayato stepped closer, his voice gentler this time.

“Eat first. You’re too weak, too skinny.”

Akihiko nodded quietly, a small blush creeping across his cheeks.

“Yes… young master,” he murmured, feeling shy but somehow comforted by the attention.

Hayato motioned toward a low table where a simple breakfast had been prepared: steaming rice, grilled fish, and a few vegetables. Akihiko’s stomach growled softly. He lowered himself carefully to sit cross-legged, hands pressed together in thanks.

“Young master, Th-thank you… for everything yesterday.” He said, voice trembling slightly.

“I didn’t do much. You wouldn’t have survived if I hadn’t arrived in time.”

Hayato shrugged, though there was a quiet warmth in his eyes as he watched Akihiko reach for the food.

For a while, they ate in comfortable silence, only the soft clatter of chopsticks and the quiet creak of the floorboards filling the room. Akihiko stole glances at Hayato, noticing how calm and collected he was, even in this simple moment. There was a pride there, yes, but also a careful gentleness that made Akihiko’s heart feel lighter than it had in days.

Finally, Akihiko spoke, his shy voice barely above a whisper.

“You… you’re really strong, aren’t you, young master? Even more than the Samurai in the dōjō I’ve been trained before…” His words faltered, a mix of awe and admiration.

Hayato’s eyes softened at that, a flicker of amusement in his calm expression.

“Strength isn’t just about fighting. You’ll see… in time.”

Akihiko nodded, cheeks flushing again.

“I… I want to be strong. I want to help people… like him… like you.”

Hayato’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, silent, observing the determination in Akihiko’s bright, earnest eyes.

For the first time, the young master allowed himself to feel a small tug at his heart, the warmth of responsibility mixed with genuine care. He didn’t say it aloud, but in that quiet morning, he silently acknowledged the boy beside him.

“Finish your breakfast, then rest.” Hayato said softly, breaking the silence,

Akihiko nodded obediently, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips. For the first time in a long while, he felt safe, seen, and a little hopeful. He noticed Hayato still watching him, not with scrutiny or disdain, but with something quiet, protective, and almost gentle, like a shield around him without a word spoken.

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Morning light filtered softly through the paper windows again, painting golden streaks across the room. Akihiko stirred under the futon, this time with slightly more energy than the previous day. His bruises and soreness had faded just enough that he could move without wincing at every step.

Hayato was already seated near the small table, quietly organizing some papers and scrolls, though he looked up as Akihiko stretched and yawned.

“Morning.” he said simply, voice calm but carrying a note of warmth.

“Good morning, young master.”

Akihiko replied, his voice a little brighter than yesterday. There was still a shy hesitation, but it was mixed now with a spark of his old cheerfulness.

“Sit. Eat first,” Hayato instructed gently, motioning toward the breakfast he had prepared—a little more than yesterday: steamed rice, miso soup, fish, and some pickled vegetables.

“You need strength if you’re going to stand up straight,” he added, his tone soft, almost teasing.

Akihiko sat down, bowing politely before beginning to eat. As he ate, he felt the weight of yesterday’s exhaustion lifting, replaced by a flicker of curiosity and hope. He stole glances at Hayato, noticing the subtle ways he observed him—not with judgment, but with careful attention.

“You… you didn’t eat much yesterday,”

Hayato remarked quietly, as if noticing something small but important.

“Don’t try to force yourself. Take your time.”

Akihiko nodded, cheeks warming at the gentle concern in Hayato’s voice.

“I… I’ll try. Thank you, young master.” he said softly, feeling a small swell of happiness in his chest.

As they ate, Hayato asked quietly,

“Where exactly are you from?”

Akihiko’s face brightened as he spoke, his shyness giving way to his natural, cheerful storytelling.

He described his small farming village, the warm, loving home of his parents, and the dream that had brought him this far.

Hayato listened silently, his calm eyes tracking every movement, every word, though he made no interruption.

He’s… really listening… like he actually cares…

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The morning light had barely broken through the shōji, soft gold brushing against the quiet noble house. Akihiko stirred awake on the futon the servants had kindly laid for him, his body aching from half-healed wounds. Every breath still stung, but what weighed heavier than the pain was the feeling gnawing at his chest: guilt.

The warmth of the blanket, the scent of fresh rice gruel that had been left for him, the gentle murmur of servants preparing the day — none of this belonged to him.

He was just… a street boy. A low-born who should be scrubbing floors, not lying under silken covers.

With trembling limbs, Akihiko pushed himself upright, nearly biting his lip from the sting that spread across his body. Slowly, carefully, he dressed himself in the plain yukata the servants had given him. Then, gathering all his courage, he stepped out into the quiet corridor.

Each step felt heavy. But still he walked. Until he stopped in front of Hayato’s sliding door. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, shaking slightly, before he finally knocked.

Inside, the young master’s calm voice answered,

“Come in.”

Akihiko slid the door open with a bow so deep his forehead nearly touched the tatami. He didn’t dare raise his eyes to Hayato’s figure, perfectly poised in the room. His voice wavered as he spoke,

“Hayato-sama… please forgive me for disturbing you this early.”

His fists clenched against the tatami.

“But I cannot… I cannot remain in this house, resting and receiving kindness, without doing anything. Please… allow me to work as a servant here. Let me sweep the corridors, fetch water, chop wood—anything. If I am to stay here, I cannot… I cannot be nothing but a burden to you.”

The words poured out, his throat tight, his shoulders trembling. For a long heartbeat, silence filled the room.

Hayato’s brows furrowed, his voice steady but touched with sternness.

“You are wounded. You need rest, not work.”

Akihiko flinched, pressing his head lower. His forehead was still pressed against the tatami, his voice low but filled with determination.

“Hayato-sama… please, I am alright. My body may hurt, but I can endure it. I have endured worse all my life. If I do nothing here, if I simply rest—then I am nothing but a parasite in this noble house.”

He raised his head just slightly, eyes shimmering with a quiet, desperate fire.

“Please let me serve. Even if it’s just sweeping the yard or carrying buckets, I will do it.”

Hayato’s jaw tightened, his brows drawn. His answer came swiftly, firm as steel.

“No.”

Akihiko’s eyes widened.

Hayato stepped closer, his voice sharper now, though beneath it there was a thread of worry.

“You are still wounded. Do not speak so lightly of ‘enduring.’ Endurance does not make broken bones heal. You are reckless.”

Akihiko’s fists trembled on the tatami. He bit down on his lip, but he didn’t back down.

“But if I just… rest like this, if I only take and take… then what am I? A beggar who crept into a house far above his station. I know I am low-born—I have no right to defy your words, Hayato-sama. If you order me to do nothing, then I… I will obey.”

His voice faltered, his gaze dropping to the floor again, heavy with shame. The proud stubbornness that had carried him this far wavered, swallowed by the weight of his own place in the world. His chest ached—not from his wounds, but from the feeling of being utterly powerless.

Hayato’s eyes softened at the sight of Akihiko’s hunched shoulders and downcast face. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant rustle of the garden outside.

Then, quietly, Hayato exhaled a long sigh.

“…You fool.” Hayato murmured.

“You carry shame where none exists. You mistake kindness for debt.”

Akihiko blinked, startled, but still too overwhelmed to speak.

Hayato’s voice dropped into something softer, though still tinged with reluctant resignation.

“Very well. If your pride will not allow you to sit idle, then you may assist the servants with light chores. But hear me well, only tasks that do not strain your body. The moment you falter, the moment I see you push yourself too far, I will stop you. Do you understand?”

Akihiko’s breath hitched. His lips trembled as he raised his head at last, eyes shining with both relief and something dangerously close to tears. He bowed deeply again, but this time his voice was steadier.

“Yes… Hayato-sama. Thank you so much!”

Hayato looked down at him, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips.

“…Stubborn boy.”

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The first time Akihiko stepped into the servants’ quarters, the air turned heavy. His presence was like a pebble dropped into still water—ripples of whispers spread immediately.

He bowed deeply, his voice trembling but determined.

“Please, allow me to work alongside you.”

But instead of warmth, he was met with cold stares.

One of the older servants, a stern woman with sharp eyes, narrowed her gaze.

“You? Work here? This is no place for strays picked up from the street.”

Another servant, a younger man carrying a bundle of laundry, scoffed openly.

“So Hayato-sama’s taken pity on you, has he? Don’t think being under his protection makes you one of us. You’ll just slow us down.”

Akihiko lowered his head, clutching his fists at his sides. The sting of their words sank deep, but he didn’t retreat.

“I… I only wish to help. I will not be a burden. Please, just give me a task.”

The servants exchanged doubtful glances. Finally, with a shrug, one of them tossed him a broom.

“Fine. Sweep the back courtyard. And don’t get in our way.”

Akihiko accepted the broom with both hands, bowing again. His grip trembled, not from fear, but from the effort of holding himself upright through the pain of half-healed wounds.

The courtyard was wide, covered with fallen leaves. Each sweep of the broom sent fire up his arms, his ribs aching with every motion. Sweat ran down his temples, his breathing grew ragged—but he kept moving.

From the kitchen window, whispers drifted out:

“He’s weak. He won’t last an hour.”

“Just look at him—he’s about to collapse.”

“Pathetic.”

Akihiko bit down on his lip, refusing to let the words break him.

I endured beatings far worse than this. I starved days on end. If I cannot sweep a floor, then what right do I have to stand in Hayato-sama’s house?

His arms shook violently, the broom dragging unevenly across the stones. He stumbled once, falling to his knees. For a moment, the servants smirked—satisfied.

But then, slowly, Akihiko forced himself back onto his feet. His face was pale, his body trembling, but his eyes burned with quiet, unyielding fire.

He kept sweeping.

By the time the sun leaned west, the courtyard was spotless. His hands were blistered, his breaths shallow, but he stood straight and bowed again toward the servants, who could only watch him in stunned silence.

From a shadowed corridor, unseen by them all, Hayato leaned against a pillar. His arms were crossed, expression unreadable, but his eye… carried the faintest flicker of pride.

“…Stubborn boy,” he murmured under his breath.

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The next morning came cruelly.

Akihiko woke before the roosters crowed, his body screaming with pain. His back throbbed, his ribs burned, and his palms were raw with angry red blisters from clutching the broom too tightly.

When he tried to sit up, a sharp lance of pain nearly knocked the breath out of him. For a moment, he pressed his forehead against his knees, shivering, every muscle begging him to lie back down.

But then he whispered to himself,

“…If I stop now… then everything Hayato-sama gave me… will mean nothing.”

With trembling hands, he dressed himself and slipped quietly out of his room, the corridors still hushed in predawn silence.

In the servants’ quarters, the senior servants were already stirring, preparing for the day. The stern woman from yesterday noticed him first. Her brows furrowed.

“You again? Didn’t you wear yourself half to death yesterday?”

Akihiko bowed deeply, wincing as his body protested the movement.

“Please… give me another task. Anything. I can endure it.”

A scoff came from the younger man who had mocked him before.

“Endure? You can hardly stand. What use is a half-crippled boy? Go back to bed before you shame yourself further.”

The words pierced him like arrows, but Akihiko didn’t raise his head. He kept bowing, his forehead nearly touching the wooden floor.

“I beg you. I don’t want to be useless here. Please… let me try.”

The woman clicked her tongue, her face hard, but her eyes flickered for just a moment.

“…Tch. Fine. Since you’re so desperate to prove yourself—take these.”

She shoved a heavy bucket of water toward him. The wood sloshed as he grasped it, arms trembling from the weight.

“Scrub the veranda outside the main hall. Make it shine before the master rises. If you collapse halfway, don’t expect pity.”

Akihiko’s chest heaved, but he nodded firmly.

“Yes.”

He carried the bucket out, each step making his knees buckle. His wounds screamed with every movement, but he gritted his teeth and knelt at the wooden boards, scrubbing until his blisters split and stung. The water turned red with faint trails of blood—but still, he scrubbed harder.

Behind the sliding doors, unseen, Hayato had woken earlier than usual. He sat in silence, listening to the faint scraping outside. When he slid the door open just a crack, his eyes widened at the sight—

Akihiko, pale and drenched in sweat, hands raw, scrubbing with all the strength his frail body could muster.

For a long moment, Hayato said nothing. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, his jaw tense.

But he closed the door again, leaning his back against it.

“…Foolish boy. Why must you hurt yourself so… just to stay by my side?”

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Akihiko’s body was at its breaking point.

The day stretched long, every chore another test of endurance. Carrying buckets, scrubbing, sweeping—it all piled onto his battered frame. By the time the sun climbed overhead, sweat drenched his thin clothes, his face ghostly pale.

When he tried to lift a tray of tea for the elder servant, his arms trembled so violently that the cups rattled. One slipped, shattering against the polished floor.

The room fell silent.

The younger servants hissed sharply.

“Tch! Look what you’ve done!”

“Do you think this is some beggar’s hut, boy?!”

Akihiko dropped to his knees immediately, his hands trembling as he picked up the shards. His voice was hoarse.

“I—I’m sorry! I’ll fix it, I’ll do better—please forgive me!”

But as he tried to stand, his legs buckled. He stumbled against the wall, clutching his side where his wound screamed in protest.

The servants’ irritation only deepened. One of them sneered,

“Always in the way. Always slowing us down.”

Another muttered,

“This is what happens when a low-born is brought into a house like this. He’ll only drag the rest of us down.”

Akihiko bowed his head lower, tears stinging his eyes.

“I’ll try harder—I swear, I won’t fail again. Please… just give me another chance…”

But his words only seemed to anger them more. One of the senior maids, her patience gone, gestured sharply to another servant.

“Fetch the chief steward. Let him decide how to deal with this boy.”

Akihiko’s heart froze.

The chief steward… the highest authority among the servants of the household. If he came, it would mean punishment—perhaps dismissal from the estate altogether.

Still, Akihiko pressed his forehead to the ground, whispering through his cracked voice,

“Please… I can endure it. I’ll prove myself. Don’t throw me away…”

His shoulders trembled, his wounded body near collapse. And yet, even with pain and humiliation crushing him, he still refused to stop.

The steward arrives, tall and stern, his footsteps echoing against the floorboards. All the servants bow in silence, relieved that finally someone will handle the “troublemaker.”

He looks down at Akihiko, who’s still kneeling, his head lowered, hands pressed to the tatami floor.

The steward’s voice is cold.

“Enough. This house cannot afford a boy who brings chaos into its order.”

He circles Akihiko slowly, his gaze sharp like a blade.

“You were brought here out of pity, nothing more. If you cannot perform a servant’s duty without failure, then you do not belong in these halls.”

Akihiko’s body trembles, but he forces himself to speak.

“I—I can do it! Please… don’t cast me out. I’ll work harder. Even if it costs me my body, I won’t fail again!”

The steward cuts him off sharply, his voice rising.

“You’ve already failed. A servant’s mistake is not just his own shame—it is the shame of the entire household! Do you understand, boy? Your incompetence stains the name of this family!”

The younger servants flinch but say nothing—they agree.

The steward then delivers the blow.

“If this continues, I will personally request to the Young Master that you be removed. This house is no charity.”

Akihiko bites his lip until blood rises, his forehead still pressed against the floor. His voice cracks.

“Please… anything but that. If I cannot stay here, I have nowhere to go…!”

The steward has just finished his cold words, Akihiko is on his knees, forehead nearly pressed to the wooden floor, whispering apologies and promises through his trembling lips. His body is swaying slightly, weak from wounds and exhaustion, but still he forces himself to bow deeper.

The room is silent except for his ragged breathing…

And then—

shhkkk—

 The sliding door opens.

A pair of sandals step across the tatami.

The steward freezes mid-sentence. The other servants drop their gazes to the floor immediately. And Akihiko, with his head still lowered, doesn’t even dare to look up.

That calm but sharp voice cuts through the heavy air,

“What is happening here?”

Hayato stands in the doorway, his young master’s robe falling elegantly around him, but his eyes are cold—so cold the steward flinches. He walks closer, his presence commanding the entire room without raising his voice.

When he sees Akihiko’s frail figure kneeling there, swaying like he might collapse at any moment, Hayato’s jaw tightens. His hand clenches into a fist at his side.

The steward stammers, trying to explain,

“Y-young Master, this boy has been careless in his duties. He brings disorder to the household. I was merely reminding him of his place—”

But Hayato doesn’t even spare him a glance. He kneels in front of Akihiko, lowering himself to the same height, and says softly but firmly,

“Raise your head, Akihiko.”

Akihiko hesitates, trembling, until Hayato reaches out and lifts his chin with surprising gentleness. Their eyes meet—Akihiko’s wet with shame, Hayato’s burning with quiet fury at those who dared to humiliate him.

“So… you’ve failed again?”

Akihiko’s body jolted. Slowly, he lifted his face—eyes wide, filled with shame.

“Y-yes, Hayato-sama… I—I will do better, I swear it… please, forgive me…”

The servants waited, tense. Surely, punishment would come.

But instead, Hayato only let the silence stretch before he said.

“If you stumble again, Akihiko… you will have to face the consequences yourself.”

The words were sharp, carrying weight like a blade’s edge, yet there was no anger behind them. Only a test.

Akihiko’s eyes widened, his lips trembling as he bowed again, whispering.

“Yes… I understand… I won’t fail again…”

Hayato gave a small nod. Then, turning slightly, he added for everyone to hear,

“No one is forbidden from learning through failure. But if he insists on walking this path, then he must endure it until the end. Let him.”

The servants stiffened in shock.

They had expected their young master to scold the boy, maybe even cast him out of service. Instead, he gave Akihiko both a warning and… permission.

Hayato’s gaze lingered on his Akihiko one last time—something unreadable flashing in his eyes—before he turned away, his robe sweeping behind him as he left the room.

Akihiko remained kneeling, his chest heaving, but in his heart… he felt strangely relieved. His master hadn’t rejected him. Not yet.

The moment Hayato’s footsteps faded down the corridor, the room stirred back to life. The steward exhaled through his nose, clearly unsatisfied with how lenient the young master had been. He gave Akihiko one last glare before walking away, muttering something about “shameful.”

Around him, the other servants started whispering among themselves. Their voices were low, but Akihiko could hear them as if every word was aimed straight at his heart.

“Why does the young master let him stay?”

“He’s just a stray picked off the street… nothing more.”

“He drags us down every time, yet Hayato-sama doesn’t punish him… it’s disgraceful.”

“Maybe the boy’s pitiful look is enough to soften even our master.”

The words stung. Akihiko kept his head bowed, his hands clutching the fabric of his simple yukata tightly. He wanted to answer them, to prove them wrong, but his throat wouldn’t open. All he could do was murmur to himself.

“I… I’ll get stronger. I’ll do better. I won’t be useless again…”

One of the younger servants sneered as they passed, whispering just loud enough for him to hear:

“You’ll never be one of us.”

Akihiko’s chest tightened—but then he remembered Hayato’s words, spoken in front of everyone.

“If he insists on walking this path, then he must endure it until the end.”

Endure…

So Akihiko bit his lip hard, swallowed down the sting of tears, and forced himself to stand up again. Even if his body ached, even if everyone turned their back on him—if Hayato still allowed him to try, then he couldn’t stop. Not now.

The next morning came heavy with mist. The sky was still dark when Akihiko’s eyes fluttered open. Every part of his body throbbed—his shoulders stiff, his arms weak, and his legs trembling as if they belonged to someone else. The wounds hidden beneath his clothes screamed with every small movement, reminding him of the day before.

For a fleeting second, the warm futon beneath him tempted him to stay. His body begged him not to move. But then, in his mind, he replayed the whispers.

“You’ll never be one of us.”

The sneers, the disappointed look in the steward’s eyes, the doubt. And louder than all of them, Hayato’s steady voice,

“If he insists on walking this path, then he must endure it until the end.”

That was enough. He pushed himself up, teeth clenched, sweat forming on his brow though the air was cold. His knees almost gave out as he stood, but he forced his trembling legs forward.

He washed his face quickly in the courtyard’s stone basin, the water biting cold against his skin. He didn’t want to look fragile. He wanted to look capable.

By the time the first senior servants entered the kitchen, Akihiko was already there, standing with a determined fire in his eyes despite the exhaustion etched into his face.

“Please,” he said, bowing deeply. His voice cracked but did not waver.

“Allow me to try again today. I swear I won’t make the same mistakes as yesterday. I… I can endure it.”

The senior servant—a woman who had served the household since Hayato was a child—looked him over with sharp, skeptical eyes. Her gaze lingered on his pale complexion, the way his hands trembled slightly as he gripped his sleeves. She clicked her tongue.

“You should be in bed, boy. You’re a burden to us all,” she muttered. But Akihiko only bowed deeper, his forehead nearly touching the floor.

“Even so,” he whispered, “please let me work.”

She sighed, shaking her head, but finally thrust a small basket into his arms.

“Fine. Chop these vegetables and don’t ruin them. If you do, you’ll answer to me.”

“Y-Yes!” Akihiko’s voice rang with desperate relief.

But his hands—clumsy from fatigue—struggled. The knife wavered. He nicked his finger once, twice, the sting making his body jolt. He swallowed the pain, kept going, whispering apologies when the slices came out uneven. He worked slowly, sweat beading at his temples.

The other servants muttered among themselves, some laughing quietly at his stubbornness. Yet Akihiko did not raise his head. He only repeated in his heart: Endure. Endure. Endure.

By the time the morning sun climbed above the trees, his wounds ached so badly he could barely stand. Still, he carried the basket to the kitchen head with trembling arms, his smile strained but genuine.

“Here. I… I finished it.”

She eyed the uneven cuts, the drops of blood staining the vegetables where his fingers slipped. Her frown deepened.

“Pathetic,” she muttered. “You’ll never last like this.”

The words pierced him, but Akihiko only bowed again.

“Then I’ll do better tomorrow.”

From the dim corridor, Hayato stood with arms folded inside his wide sleeves, posture tall and unreadable. The faint light from the courtyard lanterns traced the edge of his face, but his expression gave nothing away.

He had been there longer than Akihiko realized—long enough to see the boy stagger from his futon at dawn, to see his steps falter but never stop. Long enough to watch him bow again and again, begging for the smallest task despite the disdain of the household servants.

When Akihiko’s trembling hands fumbled with the knife, Hayato noticed it immediately. The blade slipped, crimson drops stained the vegetables, and still the boy pressed on with tight lips and lowered eyes. The senior servants muttered, scolded, even raised their voices at him. Yet Hayato never moved from the shadows.

Not once did he step forward to ease the boy’s burden. Not once did he silence the harsh words.

Because this was the test.

If you truly wish to stay by my side… prove that you can survive even without my protection.

Hayato’s dark red eye followed every movement—the way Akihiko’s shoulders shook but never collapsed, the way he bit his lip and whispered apologies with bowed head. He was clumsy, his work messy, his wounds reopening beneath his clothes. Yet there was no bitterness in his eyes—only desperate determination.

When the senior servant finally scolded him again, calling his effort pathetic, Hayato’s gaze lingered on Akihiko’s face.

The boy’s smile wavered, faint as a dying flame, but he still bowed and said,

“Then I’ll do better tomorrow.”

That single sentence hung in the air, heavier than any apology.

Hayato’s brows furrowed—so slight no one else would notice. For the briefest moment, something flickered in his chest. Guilt? Admiration? He could not name it.

But instead of speaking, he turned silently and walked away, his footsteps soundless on the polished wooden floor.

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Days turned into weeks.

Akihiko’s body still ached with wounds that had not fully healed, but he refused to let them chain him to a futon. Each dawn, he rose before the rooster’s call, bowing to the senior servants and begging once more.

“Please let me try again today.”

At first, they gave him scraps of tasks meant for failure—hauling water buckets too heavy for his thin arms, scrubbing floors until his hands blistered, carrying firewood that bit into his shoulders. He stumbled, he spilled, he fell to his knees more times than he could count.

But little by little, the boy learned.

His grip on the water pails steadied. His hands toughened against the wooden floors. His steps quickened and surer with each trip across the courtyard. His wounds still pulled painfully beneath his clothes, but his endurance grew each day, like a stubborn weed that refused to be trampled.

Some servants began to murmur in the shadows, reluctant to admit the change.

“He lasted this long?”

“He doesn’t give up easily, does he?”

Yet the pride of the noble household ran deep. To them, Akihiko was still a low-born boy—a stray brought in by their young master. His efforts could never wash away his birth.

And so, even when he set the trays neatly, even when the kitchen fire burned just right under his care, even when his hands no longer shook with inexperience, their praise never came. Only curt nods, dismissive glances, and silence.

But Akihiko never complained.

Every night, as his body throbbed with fatigue, he whispered to himself in the darkness.

“Tomorrow, I’ll do better. I can’t be useless here… I have to prove myself worthy of Hayato-sama’s kindness.”

From the shadows of the veranda, Hayato often watched this unseen struggle. His eyes followed Akihiko’s back as he bowed low to the servants who gave him no acknowledgment, as he worked until his knees wavered, as he forced a smile in place of tears.

Hayato never stepped in. Not yet.

The turning point came one stormy evening.

The winds howled against the sliding doors, rain pounded the tiled roofs, and the noble house was in disarray. The chief servant barked orders as a roof leak flooded the east corridor, and everyone scrambled to save tatami mats and furnishings from the water.

In the chaos, one of the younger maids slipped, her hands full with a tray of bowls. The heavy ceramic crashed to the floor, shards scattering across the wet wood. She froze, pale and trembling, already expecting the chief’s wrath.

But before the sharp voice could lash out, Akihiko darted forward.

With bare feet splashing through the puddles, he crouched low, shielding her with his own thin body as he gathered the shards with bleeding hands.

“It’s not her fault,” he said quickly, bowing his head, his voice firm but trembling.

“The storm made the floor slick. Please… scold me instead.”

The room fell into silence for a breath.

The chief’s eyes narrowed, but Hayato’s shadow had fallen across the corridor, his presence unspoken yet heavy. The other servants hesitated, their pride pricking them—but none could deny the sight before them: Akihiko, hands sliced red, face pale with pain, still bowing deeply as the younger maid wept behind him.

For the first time, no one mocked him.

The chief clicked his tongue, but instead of berating, he only muttered,

“Clean it up properly. And next time, watch your step.” He turned away, issuing orders elsewhere.

When the storm finally eased, Akihiko remained kneeling, carefully picking up each shard until the floor was spotless. His palms stung, his knees bruised, but he smiled faintly at the maid.

“It’s alright now. Don’t cry.”

From the shadows, Hayato’s hand tightened slightly at his side.

The boy had endured humiliation, pain, and rejection, yet in that moment—protecting another instead of himself—he shone like a blade just beginning to take shape.

The servants still did not praise him. But their silence was no longer as sharp.

That night, after the storm had passed and the house was finally quiet, Akihiko sat in his room. His palms were wrapped in rough bandages, stinging each time he moved, but he didn’t complain.

The younger maid he had shielded earlier had slipped him a quiet “thank you” with teary eyes before retreating, and that alone made him feel… lighter, despite the pain.

Just as he leaned back, exhaustion pressing heavy on his body, the paper door slid open.

“Akihiko.”

That voice—calm, low, carrying the weight of authority.

Akihiko scrambled to his feet despite the ache, bowing deeply.

“Y-Young Master, forgive me, I—”

“Sit.”

Hayato’s tone left no room for argument.

Akihiko hesitated but obeyed, lowering himself back onto the floor. His eyes stayed down, nervous. He wasn’t sure what kind of punishment awaited him for overstepping, for daring to take the blame earlier.

Instead, Hayato knelt in front of him. Without a word, he reached for Akihiko’s hands. The boy stiffened, startled, as Hayato carefully untied the crude bandages and inspected the cuts. The candlelight flickered against Hayato’s sharp features—eyes focused, jaw tight, yet strangely gentle.

As Hayato carefully dabbed the cloth against his raw skin, Akihiko couldn’t even look at him. His fists clenched tightly on his knees, trembling—not from the sting of the wound, but from the storm in his chest.

Part of him screamed,

“This is wrong! I’m just a low-born… I don’t deserve this kindness. I should’ve been punished, not treated.”

But at the same time, another part whispered softly inside,

“Warm… this is warm. Is this what it feels like to be cared for…?”

His face flushed with shame, yet his heart fluttered with happiness. He wanted to push Hayato’s hands away, to say “Please don’t dirty yourself for me!” but the truth was… he didn’t want those hands to let go. He didn’t want this moment to end.

When Hayato finally tied the bandage and said,

“You did well today.”

Akihiko’s breath hitched.

Tears brimmed at the edge of his eyes, and before he could stop himself, a single drop slipped down. He quickly bowed his head lower, afraid Hayato would notice. But inside… inside, he had never felt more alive, more seen, more human.

As Akihiko lowered his head, desperately trying to hide the tear that slipped down his cheek, Hayato’s hand stilled. He had been about to reach for another strip of cloth, but instead… his gaze softened.

“...Akihiko.” His voice was low, steady, but carried a warmth that pierced through the silence.

Akihiko stiffened, refusing to lift his face. His shoulders trembled slightly as if bracing for rebuke. But then—he felt Hayato’s hand, gentle and sure, brushing against his cheek. The young master’s thumb caught that single tear before it could fall any further.

“Even the strongest men shed tears,” Hayato murmured.

“It does not make you weak. It makes you honest.”

Akihiko’s breath hitched. His chest ached with the weight of emotions he had buried for so long. He wanted to protest, to say “I’m just a servant, I have no right—” but when he finally dared to glance up, he met Hayato’s eyes.

There was no judgment there. No scorn. Only that calm, unwavering gaze—like a lantern in the dark.

Hayato offered the faintest of smiles.

“So long as you are under this roof… you will never bear your pain alone.”

Akihiko’s lips parted, but no words came. Instead, his tears broke free. Silent, trembling sobs shook his body as he quickly tried to bow lower, ashamed. But Hayato reached out and placed a steady hand on the back of his neck, holding him upright—not forcing, not commanding, but supporting.

And in that stillness… for the first time in his life, Akihiko allowed himself to weep freely, knowing someone was truly there to catch him.

Akihiko’s sobs were quiet, but heavy—each one muffled against his own trembling hands. Hayato remained there beside him for a moment, simply watching with that unreadable expression. Then, slowly, he placed his palm on Akihiko’s shoulder.

A gentle pat… pat… The touch wasn’t overbearing, nor forceful. Just enough to remind Akihiko—I’m here. You’re not alone.

Hayato’s voice came low, soft as the faint night breeze slipping through the shoji screens.

“Good night, Akihiko.”

With that, he stood, his steps light and unhurried as he slid the door open. For a brief second, the candlelight framed his figure—broad shoulders, composed posture, a noble who had chosen to lower himself to tend to a servant’s wounds.

And then he was gone, leaving Akihiko in the quiet of the room.

The boy’s tears still rolled down, but his heart… his heart felt different. Warmer. Softer. Like a tiny flame had been lit inside him.

For the first time, as he buried his face into the futon, Akihiko whispered to himself, voice shaking but full of something new,

“...Good night, Hayato-sama.”

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The morning sunlight slipped gently through the paper windows, painting golden lines across the tatami floor. Akihiko walked carefully down the corridor, balancing a lacquer tray in his hands. On the tray lay a bowl of steaming rice, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and miso soup—everything neatly arranged by the senior servants.

But Akihiko’s hands trembled slightly, not because the tray was heavy, but because of the memory of last night.

Hayato’s hand tending his wounds.

Hayato’s quiet voice telling him that he was doing his best.

Hayato’s hand patting his shoulder with rare tenderness before leaving him with a soft, “Good night.”

Every step Akihiko took, his chest tightened.

How could a noble… someone so high… do that for me?

The thought filled him with both guilt and a warmth he didn’t dare name.

He reached Hayato’s door, his breath catching in his throat. He raised a trembling hand, knocked softly, and heard that calm voice from inside.

“Come in.”

Sliding the door open, Akihiko bowed deeply, his eyes lowered.

“Y-Young Master… your breakfast.”

Inside, Hayato was already awake and sitting straight, his posture flawless as always. His hakama was neat, simply yet gracefully. He turned his head, and his sharp, composed gaze landed on Akihiko.

“Thank you, Akihiko.”

Just with those words. Simple. Gentle.

But Akihiko’s ears flushed red immediately. He shuffled forward on his knees, placing the tray down before Hayato with all the care he could muster, though his stiff movements made the dishes clink together faintly.

Hayato’s eyes lingered on him—not stern, not harsh, simply watching. Akihiko kept his head low, too flustered to meet those eyes. The silence stretched, heavy only to him. His thoughts ran wild.

He must think I’m clumsy… I shouldn’t even be here… Last night, why did he…?

His heart thumped so loud he feared Hayato might hear it. The room smelled faintly of fresh tatami and warm miso soup, but to Akihiko, it was the scent of Hayato’s presence that made his chest swirl.

Finally, Hayato spoke, his tone even but softer than usual.

“You woke early.”

Akihiko blinked, his lips parting.

“Y-Yes, young master… I—I wanted to…” He faltered, his fingers twisting nervously in his sleeves.

“I wished to be of service.”

For a brief moment, Hayato’s expression softened—just slightly. Almost unnoticeable. But Akihiko caught it, and that tiny shift warmed him so deeply he nearly forgot to breathe.

Hayato reached for his chopsticks and began to eat, as calm and composed as always. He didn’t say anything more, but his silence wasn’t cold. It was steady. Patient.

Akihiko, still kneeling nearby, lowered his head again, hiding the small smile that tugged at his lips. The warmth of last night still lingered, and though he felt unworthy, a quiet joy filled him.

For him, just being able to serve Hayato—even in this small way—was enough.

As Hayato picked up his chopsticks, his gaze flickered briefly to Akihiko. He noticed the boy’s shoulders stiff, his hands resting on his lap but clenching and unclenching as if trying to hide the trembling. His posture was respectful, but the air around him carried unease—too different from his usual stubborn, almost fiery persistence.

Hayato chewed silently, but in his stillness, his mind observed.

…So, he remembers last night.

After another moment, he set down his chopsticks, the faint click against the tray echoing softly. Akihiko flinched slightly at the sound, and Hayato’s sharp eyes caught it immediately.

He spoke, his tone calm, steady—like water over stones.

“Your hands… they are shaking.”

Akihiko froze. His breath caught, his eyes wide before quickly lowering again.

“I—Forgive me, Master… I didn’t mean—”

But before Akihiko could tumble further into apologies, Hayato continued, his voice quieter, but firm enough that the words could not be ignored.

“You need not be so tense.”

Akihiko blinked, his head snapping up for just a second in surprise before dropping again, his ears red.

Hayato regarded him for a moment longer. Then, almost uncharacteristically, he added,

“Last night was not a burden. Do not think of it as such.”

Those words fell heavy into Akihiko’s chest. His heart squeezed, warmth flooding through him. He couldn’t form an answer—his voice stuck in his throat—so he only bowed deeper, hoping Hayato wouldn’t notice the way his lips curved into the faintest, uncontrollable smile.

Hayato returned to his breakfast without further comment, as if the conversation had never happened. But for Akihiko, those few words were enough to chase away the nervous tremble in his hands.

Hayato, as always, finished his meal in neat silence. Every bite, every motion was precise and composed, a picture of noble discipline. When at last he set the chopsticks down across the empty tray, Akihiko straightened his back slightly, waiting for the silent cue.

Hayato glanced once toward him, then gave the smallest nod.

“You may take it.”

Akihiko quickly rose, bowing deeply before stepping forward. His hands were steady now—though his heart wasn’t—and he carefully lifted the tray, making sure nothing clattered or shifted. He bowed again, deeper this time.

“Excuse me, Young Master.”

Hayato didn’t answer. He only looked at the boy for a moment longer, his eyes unreadable, then turned his gaze away as Akihiko slid the door open.

Outside, once the panel closed softly behind him, Akihiko released the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. His heart pounded against his ribs, loud enough that he pressed the tray tighter to his chest, as though to keep it hidden from the world.

He noticed…

The thought replayed in his mind—Hayato had noticed his trembling. But instead of scolding or mocking, those words had come,

You need not be so tense. And, Last night was not a burden.

Walking down the corridor, his footsteps light but quick, Akihiko felt a smile creep to his lips. A shy, secretive smile, one he wouldn’t dare show in front of the others. His chest ached with warmth.

“Hayato-sama…” he whispered under his breath, almost soundless, as though the name itself was too precious to spill into the morning air.

By the time he returned to the kitchen, his expression had settled back into something neutral, but the warmth inside him lingered. Hidden beneath his lowered gaze, the faint smile still tugged at the corners of his lips.

When Akihiko returned to the kitchen, tray in hand, the morning bustle was already in full motion—pots steaming, rice being portioned, servants moving in their quiet rhythm. He set the tray down with care, bowing his head low as he murmured,

“I’ve returned from Young Master’s room.”

One of the senior servants, an older woman with sharp eyes, glanced up from where she was arranging dishes. Her gaze lingered on him a moment too long.

“You’re unusually quick today,” she remarked, not unkindly but with a pointed curiosity.

Another, a younger man polishing cups, snorted softly.

“And look at that face. Did something good happen up there? You look like a fool trying to hide a smile.”

Akihiko’s ears burned red immediately. He ducked his head, fumbling with the tray as if polishing an already spotless corner might save him.

“N-no! I-it’s nothing like that…!”

The older woman arched a brow, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press further. Still, a faint smirk played on her lips, as if she had seen something she wasn’t supposed to.

Akihiko tightened his grip on the tray, heart hammering in his chest.

They can’t know… this feeling… this warmth inside me. It’s mine alone.

But even as he tried to hide it, the small, stubborn smile kept tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Akihiko had been moving through the corridors with a small stack of folded linens in his arms, his mind still tangled with last night’s memory.

The way he looked at me… the way his hand touched my shoulder… “good night”...

His chest ached strangely with warmth, and before he realized it, his steps grew clumsy, his attention far away.

Then—

Thud!!

The collision jolted the linens out of his arms. Akihiko’s eyes went wide as he looked up—straight into Hayato’s calm, unreadable gaze.

“Young Master—??!”

The words slipped out in a gasp, panic swelling in his chest. Without thinking, Akihiko reached out with trembling hands and lightly touched Hayato’s shoulder, then his arm, scanning his Master’s figure as if making sure he wasn’t hurt.

“Are you alright? I—I didn’t mean to—”

Hayato froze.

His body stiffened at the sudden contact. No one touched him—not servants, not villagers—no one dared.

But this boy… this low-born, with his wide frightened eyes and trembling fingers, had just done so without hesitation.

For a second, Hayato only stared, stunned into silence.

But before Akihiko could pull his hands away, voices echoed from the end of the hall.

“Akihiko!”

Two senior servants rushed forward, shock flashing across their faces. The older man’s voice was sharp.

“How dare you touch Young Master in such a careless manner!”

Another clucked her tongue, eyes wide.

“Have you no sense of your position? He is not someone you can treat so casually!”

Akihiko’s heart sank. Realizing what he had done, he quickly bowed so deeply his forehead nearly touched the floor.

“F-forgive me! I wasn’t thinking—I just—! I didn’t mean to be disrespectful!” His voice trembled, guilt heavy in his chest.

The servants looked ready to scold him further, their faces tight with outrage. But Hayato’s silence cut through everything—he was still standing where Akihiko had touched him, expression unreadable.

Akihiko froze the moment he realized what he had done.

His hand had brushed against Hayato—accidentally, completely innocent—but in the strict hierarchy of the noble house, that simple touch was a huge mistake for a low-born boy.

His chest tightened, cheeks burning hot, and he immediately bowed deeply, forehead nearly touching the polished floor.

“I-I’m so sorry, Young Master! I didn’t mean to… please forgive me…”

His voice was trembling, small, almost breaking under the weight of his fear and shame.

Hayato stood perfectly still, dark red eye calm, quietly observing the boy. There was no anger in his gaze—only a gentle, almost amused patience, like he was letting Akihiko learn on his own.

Akihiko straightened just a little, then bowed again, deeper this time.

“I… I didn’t know… I should have been more careful! I-I… I beg your forgiveness!”

The servants whispered behind him, some tsking softly, clearly annoyed at the boy for touching their master so casually.

But Akihiko didn’t care about their eyes—he was entirely focused on making amends to Hayato, over and over, bow after bow, voice shaking with sincere apology.

Hayato’s lips curved into a soft, gentle smile. His voice was calm, warm, and utterly unlike the sharp reprimands Akihiko feared.

“Akihiko…” he said quietly, stepping a small pace closer.

“Be careful next time. That’s all. There’s no need to apologize so much.”

Akihiko’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. He blinked rapidly, still bent low, voice barely above a whisper,

“B-but… I… I…”

Hayato crouched just a little, not to intimidate, but to meet him more gently, placing a hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder.

“Really… just be careful. That’s enough,” he repeated softly, his smile never fading.

“You’re not in trouble.”

Akihiko felt heat rush to his ears, cheeks burning brighter, but his heart soared with relief. Slowly, he straightened a little, still bowing just a fraction, trembling, voice still tiny and sincere.

“Y-Yes, Young Master… I will… I will be careful…”

Hayato’s hand remained on his shoulder, warm and steady. The touch was soothing, comforting, almost protective, and Akihiko felt a shiver of happiness run down his spine. He had been terrified of punishment, but instead, he received gentle guidance and patience, a soft reassurance that made him want to serve his master even better.

Finally, Akihiko lifted his head fully, still flushed, eyes shining with a mix of embarrassment and admiration. He gave one last deep bow, voice soft but full of devotion.

“Thank you, Young Master… for forgiving me…”

Hayato chuckled softly, almost like a whisper of wind.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said warmly, letting his hand linger for just a moment longer.

“Just… be careful next time.”

Akihiko’s lips trembled into a small, shy smile. He nodded, heart pounding, and felt an odd warmth bloom inside him—the first real sense that, even as a low-born boy, he could earn the master’s trust and affection, simply by being careful, humble, and sincere.

And though he was still slightly embarrassed, he felt lighter, braver, and quietly happy, knowing that Hayato had not scolded him, that he had simply been guided gently—and that somehow, he had already begun to capture the master’s soft, patient smile. 

After his initial encounter with Hayato, Akihiko felt both relieved and determined. He had escaped direct reprimand from his master, but he knew the noble household had its own rules—and the other servants were keenly aware of the boundaries he had crossed.

He moved carefully through the polished corridors, carrying a tray of tea to the sitting room. Every step was deliberate, bowing his head slightly, hands steady, doing his best to follow every unwritten rule he could remember.

But just as he reached the far end of the hall, he felt a firm grip on his arm, yanking him slightly aside. Before he could react, two senior servants had him pulled into a shadowed corner, out of Hayato’s sight.

“Akihiko!” the older man scolded, voice low but sharp, eyes narrowing.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing? You can’t just… touch the young master like that!”

Akihiko’s eyes widened, cheeks flushing hot, and he dropped to a deep bow instinctively.

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I… I didn’t know!” His voice trembled, small and sincere, carrying all the weight of a boy terrified of having overstepped.

The maid beside the steward folded her arms, lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’re too close. Even if he didn’t seem angry, it’s not your place to be so familiar. You need to know your boundaries, boy. Nobles are not like ordinary people—never forget that.”

Akihiko’s hands gripped his tray tightly, knuckles white.

“Y-Yes… I understand,” he whispered, bowing again and again.

“I… I’ll be careful… I’ll… I’ll do better…”

The senior servants exchanged a look, slightly softened by the boy’s humility.

“Hmph. You’d better. We can’t have anyone thinking a low-born can act so freely around the young master. You’ve been warned.”

Akihiko’s stomach twisted, not from anger but from a mix of embarrassment and determination. He lowered his head and murmured, voice tiny:

“Yes… I will work harder… I will not repeat the same mistake again …”

After they released him, he quietly went back to his chores, every movement precise and careful, silently promising himself that he would never make the same mistake again.

As he polished the floors, dusting each corner meticulously,

As he carried water up the stairs with measured steps,

As he prepared meals and tidied rooms with unwavering focus,

He moved quietly but diligently, aware that every gesture mattered, every action spoke of his respect and devotion. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the other servants began to notice.

The boy from the low-born family who was so humble, so careful, so respectful…

The boy who worked tirelessly without complaint, even when scolded…

The boy who seemed to carry a quiet, unwavering devotion to their young master…

And though he hadn’t yet won their hearts fully, small glances and approving nods began to appear, tiny acknowledgments that he was more than just a low-born boy—he was someone who could be trusted and valued.

Meanwhile, Hayato watched quietly from a distance, smiling softly to himself. He could see Akihiko’s diligence, the careful way he moved, the way he held himself humble yet determined. He didn’t intervene—he wanted Akihiko to learn, grow, and show his devotion naturally.

And Akihiko, though flushed from embarrassment and tired from work, felt a quiet pride in his effort, a burning desire to serve his master faithfully and earn the trust of everyone in the household, even as he remembered the sharp words of the senior servants.

Weeks had passed since Akihiko first arrived at the noble house. Every day had been a challenge of humility and diligence, every chore a test of patience, and every glance from the senior servants a reminder of his low-born place. Yet, Akihiko had never wavered.

He polished the hallways until the floors gleamed like mirrors.

He carried trays of tea and meals with perfect balance, careful not to spill a drop.

He swept, dusted, cooked, and tidied with tireless devotion, always bowing politely, always speaking softly.

The senior servants had watched his every movement, initially skeptical, muttering among themselves about the “bold, low-born boy” who dared to be so close to the young master. But gradually, their murmurs softened into quiet acknowledgment:

The maid who had first scolded him now nodded approvingly whenever he passed.

The steward, who had been strict and gruff, began giving him more important tasks, testing his care and precision.

Even the most critical servant, who had whispered about him behind closed doors, now offered a rare small smile, seeing his gentle diligence and unwavering respect.

One afternoon, Akihiko was alone in the servants’ hall, carefully folding freshly laundered robes. He had lined each one perfectly, checking twice to ensure every crease was precise.

The senior servants walked in quietly, observing him.

The steward’s arms were crossed, but his eyes were softer now.

The maid’s lips twitched into a gentle smile.

Another servant leaned forward slightly, nodding almost imperceptibly.

Akihiko felt their gazes, but he didn’t falter. He bowed low, head almost touching the floor, and whispered,

“I… I will continue to do my best… always.”

The room was silent for a moment, the air heavy with tension—but then, one by one, the servants began to acknowledge him.

The steward cleared his throat, voice quiet but approving.

 “Akihiko… you have learned well. Your care and humility are… commendable.”

The maid added softly,

“You… you are different from what we expected. You’re earnest, polite… and… capable. Keep this up.”

Even the once-critical servant nodded, voice low,

“I… see now that you truly respect the young master and the household. You may stay and serve here as you wish, if you continue like this.”

Akihiko’s eyes widened!

His heart swelled with a mixture of relief, pride, and disbelief. He bowed again, this time from the heart, voice trembling slightly but filled with gratitude.

“Thank you… thank you all… I will not disappoint you…”

From a distance, Hayato had been watching quietly. He leaned against the doorway, dark eyes soft, a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

He saw Akihiko, still low to the ground, bowing repeatedly, so earnest and sincere.

He saw the other servants nodding, their expressions softening, warming, and finally accepting the boy.

He saw the moment Akihiko’s small shoulders straightened, eyes shining with quiet pride and determination.

Hayato’s chest swelled with a quiet, tender warmth. In that moment, he thought to himself:

“I didn’t make a mistake taking him here… I knew from the start he belonged. Look at him… he’s earned his place, not just with me, but with everyone in this house.”

A small laugh escaped his lips, soft and unassuming, almost like a whisper carried by the wind. His little disciple—once just a low-born boy who had touched him by accident—had now found a place here, respected, cherished, and valued.

Akihiko’s heart still beat rapidly, cheeks flushed, but now with a mixture of happiness, relief, and pride.

He had proven himself every single day, with careful steps, tireless work, and humility that shone brighter than any noble title.

Hayato took a deep breath, eyes lingering on him. The boy’s devotion, courage, and sincerity filled him with pride. Every small action, every polite bow, every careful gesture—it all led to this moment, where Akihiko had finally stolen the hearts of the household and earned his place.

And Akihiko… though he had yet to notice Hayato watching from afar, felt a quiet happiness deep in his chest, knowing that even in the eyes of those once skeptical, he had proven his worth, step by step, day by day.

The last of the servants had returned to their chores, leaving the hall quiet and bathed in the soft golden light of late afternoon. Akihiko, exhausted but happy, finished tidying the last tray, carefully setting it down and bowing out of habit, a gentle smile on his face.

From the shadowed doorway, Hayato watched him. His heart swelled at the sight: the boy he had taken in, once timid and low-born, now moving with quiet confidence, yet still humble, polite, and devoted.

Hayato stepped forward silently, letting his presence announce itself softly. Akihiko felt it immediately—the familiar warmth, the pulse of his young master’s presence—and his cheeks flushed, but not with fear this time.

Before he could even speak, Hayato reached him, hand brushing lightly against his shoulder. Akihiko froze, eyes wide. Then, without hesitation, Hayato pulled him gently into a warm embrace, pressing his cheek softly against the boy’s.

Akihiko stiffened for a moment, then melted, letting himself lean in. All the tension, the fear, the nervousness of the past weeks seemed to fall away. His small hands rested lightly against Hayato’s chest, and a quiet sigh escaped him—a sound full of relief, joy, and gratitude.

Hayato chuckled softly, low and warm, brushing a hand through Akihiko’s hair.

“You’ve done well, Akihiko,” he murmured, voice gentle.

“Look at you… you’ve earned your place here. Not just with me… but with everyone in this house.”

Akihiko’s lips trembled into a small, shy smile, eyes sparkling.

“Young..M-Master…” he whispered, voice tiny, full of emotion.

“I… I tried… I wanted to… make everyone trust me… and… I… I wanted… to serve you…”

Hayato humming in quiet affection.

“I know,” he murmured.

“I’ve watched you… every single day. And I’m so proud of you.”

Akihiko’s hands instinctively gripped the front of Hayato’s robes, hugging him tighter like a little kid, feeling utterly safe and loved. Hayato held him gently, letting the warmth flow between them, soft kisses brushing his cheeks, fingers lightly ruffling his hair, every movement whispering,

 You are cherished. You belong here.

The boy’s heart raced, cheeks burning, yet he felt completely at peace. He couldn’t stop the bright grin that spread across his face as he hugged Hayato even tighter, letting himself be spoiled, adored, and treasured for who he was.

Hayato pulled back just slightly to look into his eyes, smiling softly.

“You see, Akihiko… this house… it’s yours now too. You’ve earned it, every single bit. And I… I’ll never let you forget how precious you are.”

Akihiko blinked, overwhelmed with happiness, hugged him tighter, small arms wrapping around him like a lifeline, still grinning like a little kid, cheeks flushed, heart soaring. Hayato’s hands rested on his back, thumbs brushing soothing circles, letting him feel completely safe, loved, and cherished.

The golden light of the afternoon washed over them, warm and gentle, marking the moment Akihiko had truly found his place—not just in the household, not just at Hayato’s side, but in a heart that would always treasure him.

And Hayato, watching him smile against him, thought quietly to himself.

“I didn’t make a mistake bringing him here… he’s everything I ever hoped for… and more.”

Chapter Text

PART IV

Lotus 🌸 — Rising Through Struggle

The night was quiet, the snow falling softly outside, muffling the world in a peaceful white. Inside Hayato’s house, the gentle glow of lanterns barely reached the dark corners of the room where he slept.

But the silence was shattered by a low, distressed murmur, followed by sharp, terrified cries echoing through the hall.

Hayato shot upright, heart thundering. His sharp ears immediately recognized the sound of panic—of someone in terror.

It didn’t take a second to know whose voice it was.

“Akihiko…?”

He muttered under his breath, already swinging his legs out of the futon.

Throwing on his haori, he dashed through the hallway, the wooden floors creaking beneath his swift steps. Each shout and trembling voice drew him closer, panic rising in Hayato’s chest—

Bursting into Akihiko’s room, he found him thrashing violently, fists clenched, teeth gritted, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his pale forehead.

His eyes darted wildly, as if the cruel students and his old mentor’s harsh words were standing in front of him, ready to punish him again.

“No… please… I didn’t mean… I tried…”

Akihiko’s voice trembled in the darkness, a strangled whisper turning into a scream. His small body shook uncontrollably, trembling on the futon as if trying to shrink away from invisible hands.

Hayato’s chest tightened. He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside the boy.

“Akihiko! Look at me! It’s me! You’re safe!” he called, voice calm but urgent, shaking the boy gently to bring him back to reality.

Akihiko’s eyes flew open, wide with panic, pupils dilated, and he screamed again, lashing out instinctively.

“N-no… they’re here… they’re going to hurt me… I’m useless…”

Hayato acted quickly, sliding his arms around Akihiko, holding him securely but gently, letting the boy’s trembling body press against his.

“Shh… none of that is real anymore. It’s just a dream. I’m here. You’re safe.” he murmured, letting the warmth of his presence anchor Akihiko.

The small boy’s sobs wracked his body, tears running freely, his voice breaking with fear and guilt.

“I… I failed… I’m not strong… I can’t… I can’t do anything right…”

Hayato’s heart ached, a sharp pang stabbing through his chest.

How could someone so small, so kind, have endured so much cruelty, humiliation, and suffering?

The panic in Akihiko’s voice—the desperate pleas, the trembling, the sobbing—made something inside Hayato shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Akihiko… it’s me… I’m here… it’s alright…”

The boy flinched, shaking violently, still caught in the grip of his nightmare.

“I-I… I tried… I tried… I’m useless… they hate me… I’m… I’m nothing…”

Hayato’s fingers brushed the sweat-soaked hair from Akihiko’s forehead, and his chest tightened further. The thought of all the chaos and pain this small boy had endured long before he came into Hayato’s care was almost unbearable.

He had seen hardship before, but never the pure, raw aftermath of years of neglect, bullying, and hopelessness reflected in a child’s eyes.

Tears pricked the corner of Hayato’s eyes as he held Akihiko closer, letting him lean against his chest.

“Shhh… none of that matters now. You’re safe. I’m here, and I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.” he whispered, voice trembling despite himself.

Every sob, every tremble, every whisper of guilt and fear that Akihiko released made Hayato’s heart ache more.

This boy deserved warmth, safety, and hope, yet he had been left to face the shadows of the past alone… until now.

As Akihiko’s breathing gradually slowed, leaning weakly against Hayato, the young noble’s fingers gently stroked his back.

“You’re alive, Akihiko… you’ve survived everything. And now… now you don’t have to face it alone.” Hayato murmured, his voice low, heavy with emotion.

Seeing the once-bright, cheerful boy reduced to trembling and sobbing, Hayato’s heart ached unbearably, and yet a spark of resolve ignited within him.

No matter what it took, he would protect this boy, and help him reclaim the light he had lost.

Minutes—or maybe hours—passed in silence, broken only by Akihiko’s shaky breaths and occasional whimpers. The boy’s tears soaked through to Hayato’s clothing, and his small frame shivered with exhaustion. His cries grew weaker, his energy draining away until he could barely hold himself upright.

Finally, Akihiko’s trembling slowed, his sobs becoming soft hiccups, his body melting into Hayato’s embrace.

His eyelids drooped, heavy and soaked, until he could no longer keep them open. With a faint, exhausted sigh, he collapsed completely, burying his face into Hayato’s chest, letting sleep overtake him completely.

Hayato’s chest ached as he felt the boy’s tiny body go limp against him. He didn’t move, didn’t shift, didn’t let go for even a second. One hand continued to cradle Akihiko’s head, the other wrapped securely around his back.

“Sleep now… Akihiko.”

Hayato whispered, voice low and tender, carrying a weight of unspoken promises.

“I’ve got you. I won’t let anything hurt you. Not ever.”

Outside, the snow continued to fall silently, the world wrapped in cold and stillness, but inside that room, warmth and protection held the boy completely. Akihiko’s soft, even breathing finally replaced the panic and sobs, and Hayato remained motionless, a steadfast guardian holding the boy he had just witnessed endure years of pain in one night.

Hours might have passed, but Hayato never moved, never let the fragile boy slip from his arms. Every slight twitch, every exhalation, every soft sigh was met with his unwavering presence.

He would not leave.

He could not leave.

Not now, not ever.

As his gaze swept over Akihiko’s battered form, his chest tightened painfully. The boy’s hair, usually a little wild from his untamed energy, was matted and tangled, some strands sticking to the sweat and tears streaking down his face. The sides of his head were bruised, the temples marked with small scars—souvenirs of yanks and strikes that no child should ever endure.

Hayato’s eyes moved lower, catching the abrasions and raw marks on Akihiko’s palms, remnants of desperate practice with a wooden stick, hands that should have been soft and cared for but instead told the story of endless struggle and self-punishment. His thin, fragile frame made the prominent collarbones and rib outlines painfully visible, each shadow and curve a testament to the boy’s malnourishment and exhaustion.

A wave of anger and grief surged through Hayato. His jaw clenched, his fists tightening instinctively as his chest burned with righteous fury and helplessness.

How could anyone—anyone at all—have treated this small, kind, and bright boy so cruelly?

How could the students and even his mentor have inflicted such pain?

And yet, in the same moment, there was awe. Awe at the tenacity, courage, and indomitable spirit of the boy who had survived all of it. Even now, completely exhausted, broken from crying, Akihiko had not given up, had not let the darkness claim him entirely.

Tears, unbidden, pricked Hayato’s eyes, mixing grief, anger, heartbreak, and an almost suffocating need to protect.

Every soft sigh of Akihiko against his chest, every trembling movement, set Hayato’s heart ablaze with emotion—pain for the boy’s suffering, fury at those who hurt him, and a profound tenderness that made him cling even closer.

Akihiko, still exhausted from sobbing, slowly began to notice the intensity in Hayato’s gaze. The boy’s body was limp, but he could feel the warmth, the strength, and the care radiating from Hayato’s arms.

For the first time in a long time, Akihiko felt truly seen—not as a weak, broken child, but as someone who deserved protection, love, and the chance to rise.

Hayato’s voice broke the silence, low and trembling, yet fierce.

“I… I cannot let this continue… No one will ever… ever hurt you like that again, Akihiko. Not while I’m here.”

The words, filled with raw emotion, reverberated through the quiet room. Akihiko, exhausted and trembling, pressed his face closer to Hayato’s chest, finally surrendering to sleep, trusting the warmth and protection of the boy who had only just arrived in his life but already held his shattered heart so gently.

Hayato stayed still, holding him through the night, never once letting go, his heart torn between grief, anger, tenderness, and a fierce resolve—a silent vow forming in the quiet snow-laden night:

“I will protect you, and make sure you never feel this pain again.”

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The soft light of dawn spilled gently through the shoji screens, painting the room in hues of gold and pale pink. Akihiko stirred, eyelids heavy and face still wet from tears, the remnants of his panic and nightmares lingering in his expression.

Slowly, he realized… he was still in Hayato’s arms.

His heart skipped, a mix of embarrassment and relief flooding through him. He tried to pull back slightly, but Hayato’s steady arms held him just enough to provide warmth and security. Akihiko’s small hands instinctively clutched at Hayato’s haori, grounding himself in the presence of someone who had protected him through the night.

Hayato noticed the movement and gave a small, soft sigh, brushing a stray lock of hair from Akihiko’s damp forehead. His eyes, gentle yet sharp, studied every detail—the tangled hair, the faint scars along his temples, the bruises still fading, the thin frame that had endured far too much for one so young. His chest tightened painfully, a mixture of heartbreak and awe.

“You’re awake.”

Hayato said quietly, his voice low and calm, carrying a quiet reassurance that seemed to wrap around Akihiko as tightly as his arms did.

“Good… you’re safe.”

Akihiko swallowed hard, still trembling slightly.

“…I… I’m sorry… for… last night.”

He murmured, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“I… I didn’t mean… to wake you, young master…”

Hayato shook his head gently, his thumb brushing lightly across the back of Akihiko’s hand.

“No… you don’t need to apologize. You were… scared. I just… wanted to make sure you were safe.”

His voice held a softness Akihiko had not expected, a gentle firmness that made the boy’s chest ache with relief.

Akihiko’s gaze dropped to the ground, eyes still glossy from sleep and tears.

“I… I’ve… never… been… like this before…”

His voice faltered.

“I… I failed… at everything… at the dōjō… at being… strong…”

Hayato’s brow furrowed slightly, a mix of concern and curiosity flashing in his eyes.

“Failed? What do you mean?”

Akihiko hesitated, his hands tightening around Hayato’s haori as he drew a shaky breath.

“…At the dōjō… I… I trained… every day… every night… even when they laughed at me, even when they hit me… even when… my mentor… said I was useless… a failure…”

His voice broke, but he pressed on, eyes shining with the rawness of his honesty.

“I… I worked so hard, but… it was never enough… they… they humiliated me… and I… I couldn’t… I…”

He choked on his words, tears spilling freely again, and Hayato’s chest tightened painfully.

He had seen the boy’s small, battered body last night, but he had never truly seen the depth of his suffering, the shadows that haunted him.

Anger flared briefly, anger at those who had treated Akihiko so cruelly, but it was immediately tempered by a deep tenderness.

Hayato leaned closer, voice low, gentle, almost a whisper,

“You… survived.”

Akihiko blinked up at him, confusion and a flicker of hope mixing in his expression.

“I… I… survived…” he repeated, as if testing the word on his tongue, tasting the unfamiliar warmth of reassurance.

“Yes,” Hayato said, his gaze softening further.

“Despite everything… you’re still here. Despite the pain… you’re still standing.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“…That alone… is remarkable.”

Akihiko felt his chest tighten, his lips trembling, but a small, tentative smile flickered across his face. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt truly seen—not as weak, not as a failure, but as someone worthy of care, someone capable of being strong someday.

Hayato’s thumb brushed across the back of his hand again, a gentle anchor.

“Rest for a while,” he murmured.

“You need to regain your strength first. No more pushing yourself too hard… not yet.”

Akihiko nodded slowly, feeling the warmth in his chest bloom, mingling with the tender, protective gaze of Hayato’s eyes.

“I… I will, young master” he whispered, voice soft, almost reverent.

Hayato’s lips curved in a small, approving smile, a quiet pride flickering in his gaze.

“Good. Take your time. I’ll be here.”

And in the soft, golden dawn, Akihiko let himself lean fully into Hayato’s arms, the nightmares of yesterday softened by the presence of someone who had already begun to understand him, care for him, and protect him. The first thread of trust wove itself between them, fragile but unbreakable—a bond that would one day grow into the foundation of everything Akihiko had ever dreamed of becoming.

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The estate was silent, wrapped in the stillness of midnight. Snow pressed heavy against the roof tiles, and the only sound was the faint hiss of wind sneaking through the shutters.

Then—Hayato stirred awake. His warrior’s instincts caught something unnatural in the silence. A faint, muffled sound. A trembling voice carried down the corridor.

“Stop… don’t… please… I’m sorry—I’m sorry—”

Hayato’s eyes snapped open. He recognized that voice. Without hesitation, he rose from his futon and strode quickly down the hall, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The sounds grew clearer, more desperate. A low whimper, the creak of bedsheets, and then a strangled cry.

He slid Akihiko’s door open.

The boy writhed in his futon, face damp with sweat, fists clutching the blanket as though it were a shield. His lips trembled with broken apologies, his body jerking as if invisible hands struck him.

Again?

“No… don’t hit me again… I’ll do better, I promise—please don’t look at me like that—!”

Hayato’s chest tightened. He crossed the room in two strides and knelt beside him, gripping his shoulders firmly.

“Akihiko! Wake up. It’s me.”

But the boy’s eyes flew open in terror. He gasped as though pulled from drowning, his body convulsing with panic. He shoved at Hayato’s chest blindly, his breath ragged and shallow.

“No—no, please, I’m sorry—I’ll try harder! Don’t throw me away, please don’t—!”

“Akihiko!” Hayato’s voice rose, sharp and commanding, cutting through the haze of fear. He seized the boy’s trembling wrists and pulled him into his arms.

“It’s over. No one’s here. It’s just me.”

The boy’s strength crumbled instantly. He clung to Hayato’s robe with white-knuckled hands, sobbing into his chest. His whole body shook like a cornered animal, each breath a wheeze between cries.

Hayato held him tighter, jaw clenched against the ache in his throat. He stroked the boy’s damp hair, whispering in low tones until the sobs grew softer. Only when Akihiko’s trembling eased into exhausted whimpers did he settle, falling limp against Hayato’s embrace.

Hayato didn’t let go.

Not that night.

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The storm had eased, but the cold was merciless. Moonlight spilled across the courtyard, turning the snow into shards of silver.

Hayato had woken again—not to Akihiko’s voice this time, but to the sound of wood striking wood. A dull rhythm, harsh, unsteady.

Frowning, he pulled on his haori and stepped into the icy night. His breath clouded instantly, the cold biting his skin.

And there, in the middle of the courtyard, stood Akihiko.

His thin frame was drenched in sweat despite the cold, his breaths ragged, his arms shaking as he swung a wooden training staff again and again into the practice post. His injured side was wrapped in bandages. His legs quivered, but he forced them to hold, again and again, until his body nearly collapsed with each strike.

Hayato’s heart lurched.

“Akihiko!” His voice cut through the night.

The boy froze mid-swing. His head whipped around, wide eyes shining with guilt and fear under the moonlight. His lips parted as though to explain, but no words came. His chest heaved, every breath a struggle.

Hayato approached swiftly, his cloak trailing behind him. He wrenched the wooden staff from Akihiko’s trembling hands and flung it aside, his voice a mix of fury and heartbreak.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?!”

Akihiko flinched, but then—he clenched his fists, lowering his gaze. His voice was hoarse, trembling, but defiant.

“I… I can’t stop. If I stop now, I’ll never catch up. If I stop, I’ll always be weak… always be nothing.”

Hayato stared at him, his chest heavy.

This boy… this boy was tearing himself apart piece by piece, clinging to the edge of survival just to prove he was worth something.

Hayato’s voice dropped, low and grave.

“You’re broken, Akihiko. Body and spirit both.”

“N-no young master! I still—

“Akihiko, listen to me.”

“…..”

“This path will only destroy you. The best thing for your future, for your soul is to go home. Back to your parents.”

….!!

“Eh…?”

“Yes.. Back to your parents. That’s what the best for you.”

…!!

The words struck like a blade. Akihiko’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in shock.

“N-no…! Please, don’t—don’t send me back. I can’t! If I go home like this, I’ll only bring shame to them. They already gave everything for me to train. If I return like this, as a failure—”

His voice broke, tears brimming in his eyes.

“—I’ll disappoint them more than anything else!”

Hayato’s throat tightened, but he steeled his voice.

“Your parents would rather see their son alive, than buried under his own pride. I’ll write them myself. I’ll tell them it wasn’t your fault the dōjō cast you out. I’ll even send coin enough to restore what they lost for your training. They will not hate you, Akihiko. They will be glad to hold you again.”

Akihiko shook his head violently, tears falling.

“No! You don’t understand—! If I go back now, like this… I’ll never forgive myself! I’d rather die trying than face them with empty hands!”

Hayato’s chest twisted painfully, but he turned his back.

His voice was like ice.

“You don’t have a choice. At dawn, my men will escort you home.”

Akihiko’s breath caught. His body shook, torn between begging and screaming.

“Hayato-sama! Please—please don’t do this to me! Don’t throw me away too!”

But Hayato did not turn back.

He walked away into the shadows of the corridor, his cloak trailing, his fists clenched so tight they trembled.

Behind him, Akihiko fell to his knees in the snow, sobbing helplessly into the frozen ground. The courtyard echoed with his broken cries, and Hayato shut his eyes against the sound.

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The first light of dawn spilled over the snow, turning the courtyard pale gold. The air was biting cold, every breath a sting in the lungs. Hayato stood in the entryway of his home, arms folded inside his haori, watching as two of his trusted retainers prepared the carriage.

Inside, a small bundle of belongings had already been packed. Not much. A few spare robes, some bandages, and the wooden staff Akihiko clung to as though it were his lifeline. Hayato had ordered it packed against his will.

He stood rigid, his expression calm, unreadable. But his jaw was tight, and his hands hidden beneath his sleeves trembled.

Behind him, footsteps.

“Hayato-sama!”

The voice cracked. Breathless.

Hayato turned—and saw Akihiko rushing toward him. His eyes were red and swollen from crying all night, his hair unkempt, his frame even thinner in the morning light. He looked like a boy carrying a hundred years of grief in his chest.

Akihiko stumbled to a stop before him, breath misting in the cold air. His hands clenched at his sides, trembling, desperate.

“Please… don’t send me away.”

His voice was hoarse, almost a whisper.

“I beg you… don’t make me leave.”

Hayato’s gaze softened for a moment—but he steeled it instantly.

He had made his decision.

For the boy’s sake, for his survival.

“Akihiko. This is for the best. Your body can’t endure more punishment. Your heart needs rest. At home, with your family, you will heal.”

Akihiko shook his head violently, tears already welling again.

“No… no, you don’t understand! If I go home like this, it will break me. My parents sold everything for me to join the dōjō. If I return now, as a failure, I’ll be spitting on their sacrifice. I’ll be showing them their son wasn’t worth it!”

His voice cracked, raw with despair.

“I can’t face them like that, Hayato-sama… I can’t…”

Hayato inhaled sharply.

The boy’s words were knives to his chest. But he forced his tone into steel.

“I already write to them. They will know it was not your fault. They will know you were wronged. I also  give them coin enough to reclaim what they lost. You will not shame them—you will return as their son, not a burden.”

But Akihiko stepped forward, grabbing fistfuls of Hayato’s sleeve. His thin hands trembled violently against the heavy fabric. He looked up, tears streaking down his cheeks, his lips quivering.

“That’s not what I need!”

 His voice broke into a sob.

“I don’t care about excuses or money—I just want… I want the chance to keep going! I want to stand! I want to fight! If you send me away, you’re no different from them—you’re throwing me away too!”

The words struck Hayato harder than any blade could. His eyes widened, just for a second. He could feel the tremor in the boy’s body, the desperation clawing at his soul.

Akihiko’s tears fell like rain onto Hayato’s sleeve. His voice grew softer, weaker, but each word burned with truth.

“You… you’re the first person who’s ever held me when I cried. The first one who didn’t hit me when I was weak. If even you… send me away… then what do I have left…?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Only the wind through the trees, the faint stamping of the horses in the snow.

Hayato’s heart twisted, an ache deep in his chest he could not ignore.

He wanted to say something—to ease that pain in the boy’s eyes—

But if he let himself falter now, all of his resolve would shatter.

He forced his hands to unclench and pried Akihiko’s trembling grip off his sleeve. His voice came out quiet, cold, though it quivered deep beneath.

“Enough. At dawn’s end, you will leave. This is not a request. It is an order.”

Akihiko’s breath stopped. His lips parted in disbelief, his whole body stiffening. For a moment, he stood frozen, staring up at Hayato as if the world had just collapsed.

Then the boy fell to his knees, his hands hitting the ground, sobbing so violently it tore at the air. The sound was raw, primal, filled with a despair no words could contain. His tears melted the snow beneath him, darkening the white earth.

Hayato turned his back. He could not bear to watch. His hands, hidden in his sleeves, shook uncontrollably, nails biting into his palms. Each step away felt heavier, as though chains dragged him down.

Behind him, Akihiko’s broken voice carried through the courtyard, piercing, trembling.

“Don’t throw me away too, Hayato-sama… Please… please…”

Hayato closed his eyes. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to kneel and hold the boy again. But he forced himself to keep walking, his expression carved into stone.

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The sun climbed higher, painting the snow in cruel brilliance.

After their heated argument, Akihiko did not emerge from his room.

At first, the servants thought he was simply sulking, and they knocked gently on his door, reminding him of breakfast and prepared to leaved soon.

No answer came.

Hours passed, and the tray they left outside his room remained untouched. The servants whispered in hushed voices, worry creeping into their eyes. One dared to peek in, only to see Akihiko curled tightly in his futon, facing the wall, unmoving like a statue carved from sorrow.

The house, usually so orderly, now felt stifled with unease. Finally, the servants approached Hayato, bowing low as they confessed their worries.

“Young master, the boy… he locked himself inside his room, shall we—?”

Hayato, who had been silent all day, lifted his gaze just once. His voice was calm, but carried a weight that silenced them instantly.

“Leave him.”

The servants hesitated.

“But… young master—”

“Leave him.”

His tone was firm, but his eyes betrayed something else—an ache, a helplessness that he could not bring himself to show.

So they obeyed. The trays remained. The boy remained. And Hayato carried the heaviness alone.

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Night fell again, the house wrapped in silence and snow. But sleep eluded Akihiko. Beneath his futon, he lay awake, his chest heavy, his body trembling from weakness and cold sweat. He had not eaten, not spoken, not moved more than to curl tighter into himself. His lips were dry, his stomach hollow, but his heart ached far louder than his hunger.

Go home… He wants to send me away. Back to Mother and Father. Back as a failure…

His throat tightened as the shame pressed down. He had dreamed of returning to them triumphant, as a Samurai worthy of their sacrifices. Instead, all he could see was their disappointed faces, the weight of their lost belongings, their silent grief at a son who could not endure.

Akihiko pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, swallowing down the sob that threatened to escape. He thought he had no more tears left, yet still they burned his eyes.

That was when he heard it.

Thwack!

Whoosh!!.

The air itself seemed to ripple, crisp and sharp against the still night.

Akihiko blinked, sitting up slowly.

There it was again—thwack, whoosh, thwack.

The sound of wood cutting through the air with a force both terrifying and precise.

Barefoot, wrapped only in his thin sleeping robe, he rose. Each step felt heavy, but the sound drew him, pulling him down the silent hallways until he reached the open courtyard.

And there—under the pale light of the moon and the drifting fall of snow—stood Hayato.

He moved with a bokken in hand, but it was no ordinary practice. Each strike was a perfect blend of power and grace, his stance unwavering, his movements flowing as if the air itself bent to him.

The snow, disturbed by the wind of his swings, scattered like petals around him, yet none dared to touch his form. His presence was commanding, yet calm—each motion deliberate, honed by years of discipline.

Akihiko froze in the shadows, eyes wide, his breath stolen from his chest.

It was beautiful.

No—he was beautiful.

Not in the way of handsome faces or fine clothes, but in the aura that radiated from every strike, every step.

It was the same brilliance Akihiko had once seen long ago—the mysterious Samurai who had saved him as a child.

That same awe, that same light.

A living vision of what it meant to be a true warrior.

Tears welled without warning, spilling hot against his chilled cheeks. He pressed a hand to his mouth again, muffling the sob that tried to escape.

That’s it… That’s what I wanted… To be someone like that.

His chest ached, a hollow pain tearing deeper with every swing Hayato made. Because now, standing here frail and broken, he knew.

No matter how desperately he tried, how much he bled, how much he begged… he would never stand where Hayato stood.

He would never shine like that.

His knees gave way, and he sank against the wooden frame of the doorway, silent tears streaming down as he watched. Every strike of Hayato’s bokken was a reminder of the distance between them, a distance too vast to cross.

And yet… even in the ache of his despair, he could not look away. His heart broke, but his soul clung to that vision, trembling with the same admiration that had ignited his dream in the first place.

For in that moment, Akihiko realized—Hayato was not just strong. He was the very embodiment of what Akihiko had chased all his life.

And Akihiko… was nothing.

Snow kept falling. Hayato’s breath remained steady, his movements never faltering. And hidden in the shadows, Akihiko wept quietly, caught between awe and heartbreak, unable to tear his eyes away.

The sound of Hayato’s bokken ceased.

Snow drifted down in silence, and in that sudden stillness, Hayato finally noticed the faint shadow slumped in the doorway. His sharp gaze softened the moment recognition struck.

“Akihiko?”

His voice was low, worried. He stepped forward quickly, sheathing the bokken at his side.

“What are you—”

But before he could finish, Akihiko’s trembling voice cut through the night.

“…It’s useless.”

The words were so small, so fragile, yet they struck harder than any blade. Hayato halted mid-step, his breath catching.

“What…?”

Akihiko’s hands clenched weakly into the fabric of his robe, his head still bowed. His voice quivered, but it kept spilling out, unstoppable.

“It’s all useless, isn’t it?”

He whispered, louder this time, the tears soaking his cheeks fresh again.

“All the effort… all the training… all the hard work I’ve done… It doesn’t matter. Because I’ll never…”

His throat closed, but he forced it out,

“…I’ll never be like you. Or anyone else at the dōjō. No matter what I do, it’s not enough.”

Hayato took another step closer, his voice gentler, trying to cut through.

“Akihiko, that’s not—”

But Akihiko shook his head violently, cutting him off before he could even reach.

“That’s why… all of you want to send me away, right? Because I’m just a burden.”

His words came in broken gasps, each one cracking his own chest further open.

“I was too weak… too pathetic… and now, even here, I’m still… still nothing.”

“Akihiko—”

“Don’t.”

His voice cracked, sharp and trembling, almost pleading. His small hands pressed harder against his face as if to shield himself.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t tell me lies just to make me feel better. I know what I am. I know what you see when you look at me…”

His shoulders shook, the snow beginning to cling to his hair and lashes.

 “A failure. A boy too broken to stand, clinging to dreams he’ll never reach. That’s why you… That’s why you’re sending me home…”

“Akihiko, no—”

“THEN WHY DID YOU SEND ME AWAY???!!!”

….!!!

The words tore out of him like a scream from the deepest wound in his chest. His small frame shook violently, as if that memory—his old master’s words,

“I’m ashamed to have you as my student”—was replaying in front of his eyes.

He pressed his palms hard against his ears as if trying to shut out ghosts only he could hear.

“Why does everyone always throw me away? Why am I never enough?!”

Hayato froze.

The boy’s cries shattered the night, raw and jagged, every word stabbing straight into his chest. He wanted to say something—anything—but his throat closed up.

What words could mend a heart crushed so many times before?

Akihiko’s sobs grew harsher.

“It hurts… it hurts so much… I don’t want to be hated anymore… I don’t want to be thrown away again…”

Without thinking, Hayato moved.

He stepped forward, dropped his bokken into the snow, and knelt in front of the boy. His hands reached out, trembling slightly, before he took Akihiko’s icy hands and pulled him against his chest.

The boy stiffened—but only for a second. Then, as though the last thread of his strength snapped, he collapsed into Hayato’s embrace, his small fists weakly clutching at the man’s clothes.

“Akihiko…”

Hayato’s voice was hoarse, almost breaking as he tightened his hold, shielding the boy from the cold night, from the snow, from the world that had already taken too much from him.

For a long moment, only the sound of Akihiko’s sobs filled the air. They were loud, unrestrained, painful—yet Hayato didn’t shush him. He let him cry, because he knew these tears had been buried for far too long.

Then, in the midst of that broken wailing, Hayato whispered.

“…I was scared.”

…..!!

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Quiet, fragile, but heavy enough to still Akihiko’s sobbing for just a heartbeat. The boy blinked up at him, eyes swollen and red, confused through the blur of his tears.

Hayato swallowed hard, his lips pressed close to Akihiko’s ear as he whispered again.

“I wasn’t sending you away because I didn’t want you… I was scared.”

His grip tightened.

“Scared of failing you. Scared that I couldn’t protect you. Scared that keeping you here would break you even more.”

Akihiko’s lips trembled, his chest heaving as fresh tears slid silently down his cheeks.

Hayato shut his eyes, pressing his forehead gently against the boy’s hair.

“But I was wrong. Pushing you away only hurt you more… and that’s the last thing I ever wanted.”

His voice cracked.

“I’m sorry, Akihiko.”

The boy didn’t answer.

His hands only clutched tighter onto Hayato’s clothes, his body trembling like a lost child clinging to the only warmth he had left in the world.

And Hayato, with his own chest tightening painfully, could only hold him tighter still—as if swearing silently that he would never, ever let him fall again.

The night air was sharp, laced with the faint scent of snow. Akihiko’s sobs had finally run dry, leaving only the faint sound of his shaky breaths pressed into Hayato’s chest. His thin shoulders rose and fell with exhaustion, his face blotchy and damp from crying.

For a long time, silence stretched between them, broken only by the muted rustle of winter wind against the eaves.

But then—Akihiko noticed something.

Hayato’s arms around him weren’t steady. They trembled. His chest, usually solid and immovable, shivered faintly against Akihiko’s cheek. It wasn’t the cold—Hayato’s warmth enveloped him like a hearth.

No… this was fear. Real fear.

Those words he had said earlier—“I was scared”—echoed in Akihiko’s mind.

At first, he had thought they were a lie, a desperate excuse to cover the sting of rejection. But now, feeling the shiver in that strong frame, hearing the faint irregularity of his heartbeat… he realized it wasn’t a lie at all.

Hayato was scared.

The thought stunned him. This man—who carried himself with the strength and dignity of the Samurai he idolized, who stood unshaken even when facing storms or steel—was trembling because of him.

Because of Akihiko.

For a moment, the boy just froze. Then, hesitantly, as though moving on instinct, his arms crept upward. His small hands clutched the back of Hayato’s robe, careful but firm. And for the first time, Akihiko hugged him back.

The warmth seeped into Akihiko’s chilled bones, and his eyelids fluttered, heavy with both exhaustion and something softer. Without realizing it, his lips curved faintly. A tiny smile ghosted across his face—not joy, not triumph, but relief. The kind of relief that came from knowing that, for once, he wasn’t being discarded. He wasn’t being abandoned.

This man didn’t want to send him away because he was worthless.

No—he wanted to keep him safe.

And even if it still hurt, that realization soothed something raw inside Akihiko’s chest.

He pressed his cheek tighter against Hayato’s chest, listening to the rapid, uneven heartbeat beneath. The sound reassured him more than words ever could—it was proof. Proof that Hayato’s care wasn’t empty. Proof that he mattered.

His throat burned, but this time not from crying. His voice, when it finally left his lips, was small and unsteady, yet clear enough to cut through the silence.

“…Hayato-sama.”

The man stirred slightly, tilting his head down, but Akihiko didn’t lift his face. He just clung tighter, his words muffled against the fabric of Hayato’s robe.

“…Do you think… I’ll be able to become a Samurai one day?”

…..?!

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t even a demand.

It was hope. Fragile, wavering, but alive.

And as he whispered it, a faint smile remained on his lips—tender, almost childlike—as though, just by asking, he was allowing himself to believe again, if only a little.

Hayato’s breath caught.

Of all the things Akihiko could have said, this was the one he hadn’t been prepared for. The boy’s voice—fragile, trembling, but lined with a tiny, impossible smile—echoed in his ears like a prayer.

Do you think I’ll be able to become a Samurai one day?

For a moment, Hayato couldn’t move. His throat tightened painfully, words lodged deep inside, refusing to form.

Because the truth—the truth he had seen with his own eyes—was that Akihiko had no natural gift, no innate brilliance. His body was frail, his stance flawed, his strikes lacking. Even the dōjō masters had cast him out.

By every measure… Akihiko was unfit to walk the path of the warrior.

But when Hayato looked down now—at the boy clinging to him, at those trembling hands clutching his robe, at the faint, fragile smile on lips still raw from crying—he saw something that defied every measure.

He saw a boy who, despite being broken again and again, still asked if he could stand.

He saw a boy who carried shame and pain, yet still reached toward hope.

He saw… himself.

Hayato’s chest tightened until he could barely breathe. Slowly, he lowered his chin, resting it gently against Akihiko’s hair. His arms tightened just a fraction more, as if he could shield him from the cruel weight of the world.

His voice, when it came, was low and rough—stripped bare of the calm mask he usually wore.

“…If you keep asking that question, Akihiko… then yes.”

A pause. His breath trembled against the boy’s hair.

“You will. One day, you will.”

For a heartbeat, silence pressed between them. Akihiko blinked, stunned, his body stiff in Hayato’s arms. He slowly leaned back just enough to look up, eyes wide and glistening with fresh tears.

“R… really?” his voice cracked, fragile like a thread about to snap.

“You’re… not just saying that?”

Hayato’s jaw tightened. He lifted a hand and placed it carefully on the boy’s cheek, brushing away the damp trail of tears with the edge of his thumb. His calloused fingers were rough, but his touch—so impossibly gentle.

“Akihiko,” he said, his gaze unwavering,

 “I have seen Samurai with talent. I have seen men born into skill, who never once struggled the way you have.”

His voice lowered, heavy with meaning.

“…And I have also seen them fall. Because they never learned what it truly meant to fight, to endure.”

Akihiko’s lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling too quickly.

Hayato exhaled shakily, and his hand moved from Akihiko’s cheek to the back of his head, holding him close again.

“You… are still standing, despite everything. Despite every scar, every humiliation, every time the world told you that you were useless. And even now, after all of that—you still want to rise. That spirit…”

His voice wavered.

“That spirit is rarer than talent.”

Akihiko’s tears flowed freely now, but they were different—softer, warmer. He bit his trembling lip, clutching the fabric of Hayato’s robe as though it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Hayato pulled in a breath that shook in his chest.

“…So yes, Akihiko. If you keep walking this path, if you don’t let go of that spirit… I believe you can become a Samurai. Not just any Samurai.”

His voice grew firmer, steadier.

“A Samurai who carries honor in every scar.”

For a moment, Akihiko couldn’t breathe.

The weight of those words crushed and lifted him all at once.

His throat burned as he tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken whisper.

“…Hayato-sama…”

His small body trembled violently, but this time—not from despair. Slowly, hesitantly, his arms crept around Hayato’s back, clutching tightly. And then, against the warmth of that steady heartbeat, Akihiko smiled through his tears.

A small, fleeting smile, but real.

Hayato hummed softly in response, not letting go.

There was a long pause.

Akihiko’s fingers curled tighter, his knuckles whitening against Hayato’s sleeve.

His chest heaved once, twice, before he forced himself to speak.

“…If I… if I truly can become a Samurai…”

His voice cracked, and he had to bite down on his lip to stop it from breaking completely.

“…then please… please…”

He pulled back suddenly, just enough to look Hayato in the eyes. His own were red and swollen, tears still clinging to his lashes, but his gaze—it burned.

“Please become my master!”

….!!!

The words burst out of him, sharp and desperate, yet steady in their resolve. The rawest truth of his heart.

Hayato’s breath caught.

His dark red eye widened, shaken—not by the request itself, but by the sheer weight of it.

He could see it all in the boy’s gaze..

The pain, the fear, the endless scars carved into his soul… and beneath it all, the unyielding will to keep standing, keep fighting, keep chasing a dream that the world had tried to rip away.

Akihiko bowed his head, tears spilling freely now, dripping onto Hayato’s robe.

“I’ll endure anything. I’ll work harder than anyone. I’ll never complain, never stop, never give up—so please, Hayato-sama… I beg you, don’t send me away.”

His small fists trembled as they clung to Hayato’s chest.

“Please… let me stay. Let me walk this path… under you.”

Hayato stared down at the boy, at the fragile body trembling before him, and felt something stir deep within his chest—a mix of fear, pride, and an ache he couldn’t name.

Slowly, his hand reached up, steadying Akihiko’s shoulders.

“…Akihiko,” he murmured, voice low, almost hoarse.

“Do you understand what you’re asking?”

Akihiko nodded fiercely, tears flying off his lashes.

“I do! I do, Hayato-sama!” His voice rose, louder, firmer.

“Even if my body breaks, even if the world laughs at me again—I’ll still keep going. Because… because you’re the first person who made me believe I could.”

Something inside Hayato cracked at those words.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, drawing in a slow, unsteady breath.

When he opened them again, there was no hesitation left.

His hand came down gently atop Akihiko’s head, fingers pressing lightly into his hair.

“…Very well.”

…..!

Akihiko’s breath hitched, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Hayato’s lips curved, faint but firm.

“From this moment on… you are my disciple.”

The boy’s knees gave out, and he collapsed forward, clutching Hayato’s waist as sobs poured out of him—louder, freer than ever before.

But these tears weren’t only from despair.

They were from relief, from joy, from the overwhelming weight of finally being accepted.

Hayato held him through it all, one arm wrapped protectively around his small frame, the other still resting on his head like a silent vow.

“…Then rise, Akihiko.” he said softly into the boy’s hair.

 “And one day, you will stand as a Samurai not beneath me—but beside me.”

Akihiko was still crying into Hayato’s chest, sobs shaking his small frame, but little by little, the sound softened. His voice cracked with each breath, but his hands didn’t loosen their grip on Hayato’s robe, as though terrified that if he let go, this promise would vanish like a dream.

Hayato simply stayed there, holding him, steady as stone against the storm raging inside the boy. His eyes softened in the candlelight, gazing down at this child who had just entrusted his whole soul to him.

When the silence finally stretched between them, Akihiko pulled back slightly, rubbing at his swollen eyes with trembling fists. His lips quivered, but there was a shy smile peeking through the tears.

“…So… this means… I’ll really be your disciple, Hayato-sama?”

Hayato exhaled, the faintest chuckle escaping his lips, though it sounded more like a sigh of surrender. He reached out, gently brushing away a tear trailing down Akihiko’s cheek with his thumb.

“Yes, my first and maybe only disciple actually. No one will send you away. Not anymore.”

Akihiko’s breath hitched again, but this time his tears didn’t return. Instead, he looked up with a spark in his gaze—fragile, but alive.

“…Then…”

His small voice wavered, but there was hope in it.

“Will you… teach me? Truly teach me? Not just sword swings, but… everything? The way you move, the way you stand, even the way you breathe…”

His eyes widened with a kind of awe.

“…It’s so beautiful. I want to be like that. Like you.”

Hayato froze for a moment, struck by the boy’s words.

Beautiful.

It wasn’t how warriors were normally described. But looking into Akihiko’s trembling sincerity, Hayato felt the weight of what the boy had seen in him—the same aura that once pulled him toward his own teacher years ago.

“…If that’s what you want,” Hayato said quietly, lowering his head until his forehead almost touched Akihiko’s,

“Then I’ll give you everything I have. My strength, my knowledge… even my failures. All of it. You’ll inherit it all.”

Akihiko’s lips parted in wonder, his cheeks flushing from the closeness, from the overwhelming promise pressed into those words.

“…Hayato-sama…” he whispered, almost reverently.

“I’ll never let you down. I swear it.”

For a long moment, neither moved. The flicker of the candle painted their shadows together against the wall, as though binding master and disciple in something unspoken but unbreakable.

Then Hayato pulled back slightly, placing both hands on Akihiko’s shoulders. His voice was firm, but his eyes softened with something that bordered on tenderness.

“Akihiko,” he said.

“From tonight onward, you are no longer a boy who was cast out. You are my disciple. Remember this. Hold onto it. Even when the world rejects you again, this bond will remain.”

Akihiko nodded so hard it almost looked painful, his messy hair bouncing.

“…Yes! I’ll remember. I’ll never forget this night.”

A small, tired laugh slipped from him as he wiped at his wet cheeks.

“…It’s strange. For the first time… I don’t feel like a burden.”

Hayato’s chest tightened at those words. He didn’t say anything—only pulled Akihiko into his arms once more, resting his chin lightly on the boy’s head.

“…That’s because you never were.” he murmured.

Outside, the snow fell silently, blanketing the world in white. But inside that room, for the first time, Akihiko felt warmth.

A warmth he could cling to.

A warmth that promised he would never again be left alone in the dark.

Chapter Text

PART V

Hellebore 🌸 — Master-Disciple Bond Begins

The morning air still bit with winter’s chill, but for Akihiko it was the most welcoming breath he had taken in months. The courtyard stones were damp from melting snow, faint wisps of mist curling between the rooftops.

His hands clutched the wooden sword he had polished over and over while bedridden, and though his grip wasn’t perfect, his arms didn’t shake like before.

His body once frail, wrapped in layers of bandages and weakness, now stood straight, filled with an uncontainable light.

He almost couldn’t believe he was here.

Standing.

Waiting.

Training.

When Hayato finally appeared from the shadows of the veranda, his figure tall and composed as ever, Akihiko nearly burst out of his skin with joy.

He bowed deeply, his words tumbling out in a rush.

“Hayato-sama! I’m ready! I—please, teach me everything today!”

Hayato’s gaze lingered on him, calm and evaluating. He had expected nervousness, hesitation. Instead, he found eyes that shone like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It tugged faintly at his chest, and he spoke with a dry calmness that didn’t quite hide his amusement.

“You look as though you’ve already conquered the world, Akihiko.”

Akihiko’s grin only widened, his cheeks flushed with pride.

“It feels like I have, Hayato-sama! Today… I finally begin the path I’ve always dreamed of!”

A quiet chuckle escaped Hayato’s lips.

The sound was rare, but it warmed the courtyard more than the sun.

“If your spirit alone could wield a blade, you would already surpass me.”

Akihiko’s face lit up like a lantern at night, his body practically vibrating with excitement.

But instead of drawing his bokken, Hayato simply crossed his arms.

“Put it down.”

Akihiko blinked, confused.

“Eh? But… aren’t we starting sword practice?”

“Not yet.” Hayato’s tone was firm, yet not unkind.

“The sword is nothing without the body. And the body is nothing without the breath. We begin there.”

Akihiko hesitated, then quickly placed the bokken aside. He straightened, chest swelling with determination, ready to absorb every word.

Hayato stepped closer, his presence commanding yet strangely reassuring.

“Close your eyes. Stand tall. Now… breathe.”

Akihiko obeyed, but his breaths came shallow, uneven, too quick with nerves. His shoulders rose and fell with tension.

“Wrong.”

Hayato’s voice cut clean through the air.

He moved behind Akihiko, placing one hand gently yet firmly on his back.

“Not here.” he murmured, pressing lightly against the boy’s chest.

His hand slid lower, pressing against Akihiko’s stomach.

“Here. Fill your core. Let the breath anchor you.”

Akihiko flushed at the closeness, but focused. He drew in another breath, slower this time, deeper, until it filled his belly instead of his lungs. His body eased, his shoulders lowering without him realizing.

“There.” Hayato said, voice softer now.

“That is the breath of a warrior. Inhale courage. Exhale doubt.”

Akihiko opened his eyes, wonder filling his face.

“Hayato-sama… it’s like… everything heavy is gone. My chest feels light. My body feels… steady.”

Hayato allowed the faintest smile.

“Good. Remember this. A blade is useless in trembling hands. Stillness begins with breath.”

Akihiko nodded fiercely, his eyes shining as though Hayato had just revealed the secret of the universe.

Hayato stepped back, folding his arms again. Without warning, he snapped his hand out toward Akihiko’s face.

“Wha—!”

Akihiko flinched, eyes squeezing shut as he stumbled back.

“Wrong.”

Akihiko peeked out with one eye, sheepish.

“Ah… sorry…”

“Never close your eyes.”

Hayato said firmly, his voice carrying a weight that silenced even the birds in the trees.

“Not in fear. Not in pain. The moment you shut them, the world disappears. A warrior must see—always.”

They tried again.

And again.

Each time, Hayato’s sleeve brushed near Akihiko’s cheek, or a sharp clap exploded near his ear, or his hand darted straight toward the boy’s face.

Every time, Akihiko flinched, blinked, faltered.

“Keep them open.”

“Again.”

“Don’t hide.”

By the seventh strike, Akihiko’s eyes were watering, his chest heaving. He wanted to blink so badly, to escape the sting.

But then—just barely—he noticed something. The faint shift of Hayato’s shoulders before a hand moved. The whisper of fabric a moment before it brushed past him.

And then, for the first time, he didn’t flinch. He saw.

“I—I saw it!”

Akihiko gasped, his voice breaking with exhilaration.

“Before you moved—I knew where you’d go, Hayato-sama!!”

Hayato’s lips curved, just slightly.

“Good. You are learning to see.”

By midday, Akihiko collapsed onto his knees in the center of the courtyard. His body was drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, his legs trembling.

His arms were sore despite not having lifted his bokken once. His eyes burned as though on fire from forcing them open, and his lungs felt raw from endless controlled breathing.

And yet—his smile was brighter than ever.

“Hayato-sama…” he panted, his voice hoarse but filled with pride.

“I—I never thought breathing and looking could be so… so hard. But…”

He laughed weakly, chest heaving.

“It’s… amazing. I feel alive!”

Hayato stood tall, gazing down at the boy. For a moment, silence lingered. Then, his voice came low but clear.

“Today, you’ve taken your first step. Remember this, Akihiko. Control is everything. A wild spirit without discipline is just a storm. But discipline without spirit is nothing but an empty shell. You must hold both.”

Akihiko lowered his head, bowing deeply until his forehead touched the damp ground. His voice shook but rang with conviction.

“Yes, Master!”

And for the first time in many years, Hayato felt something stir in his chest—a quiet warmth, subtle but unshakable.

He looked at Akihiko not as a burden, not as a fragile boy clinging to dreams, but as a flame reborn.

And he allowed himself to smile.

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The next morning sun was gentle, washing the courtyard in a soft glow.

Hayato stood opposite him, arms clasped around his back, studying Akihiko with his usual unreadable eyes.

“Alright.” he said, voice calm and steady.

“First lesson of the day—breathing. Without control over your own body, you’ll lose before the fight even begins.”

Akihiko nodded furiously, his grin bright, like a child who had been given the greatest treasure.

“Yes! I’ll do it perfectly!”

Hayato arched an eyebrow at the boy’s enthusiasm.

“Perfect, hm? We’ll see.”

He stepped closer, resting a hand lightly against Akihiko’s chest.

“Inhale slowly. Through the nose. Not your shoulders—your stomach. Like this.”

Hayato demonstrated, his chest barely rising, his abdomen steady like a mountain.

“Feel it anchor you.”

Akihiko imitated, cheeks puffing, shoulders lifting too much.

Flick!

“Ah—!”

Akihiko’s eyes flew open, his hands darting to his forehead.

“Wh-what was that for, Hayato-sama!?”

“You tensed your shoulders.”

Hayato’s lips curved—just slightly.

“Again.”

Akihiko sulked but obeyed, focusing harder. This time, he inhaled slower, trying to push the air deeper.

“…Better.” Hayato’s voice was softer,

but then—flick!

“Wh—Hayato-samaaa!! I did it better this time!”

Akihiko whined, stamping a foot.

“That one, was for pouting. Discipline requires composure.” Hayato said smoothly.

Akihiko’s mouth hung open, then twisted into a half-grin despite himself.

“…You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

A flicker of amusement crossed Hayato’s eyes, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he gestured.

“Again.”

Hours later, their training had moved on. Hayato had tied a thin strip of cloth above Akihiko’s eyes, letting just enough vision to force focus. He thrust a short stick toward him in sudden feints.

“Eyes open.” Hayato warned.

Akihiko tried—he really did—but when the stick darted too close, his lids squeezed shut.

Flick!

“Gahh! Again?!” Akihiko groaned, forehead now carrying the faintest red marks from Hayato’s relentless precision.

“Until you learn.” Hayato replied.

“I’m trying!” Akihiko clutched his head, glaring with teary determination.

“But my eyes burn!”

Hayato’s expression softened for the briefest moment, though he hid it quickly.

“Pain is part of growth. Endure it.”

And so Akihiko endured—again and again, until finally, the stick swiped past his cheek, his eyes wide, watering but open.

He froze.

“I—I did it…!”

A triumphant grin bloomed across his face as he spun toward Hayato.

“I kept them open! Did you see it, Hayato-sama!?”

Hayato nodded slowly, the faintest pride shining in his eyes.

“Good. That’s progress.”

Then—flick!

Akihiko’s jaw dropped.

“WHAT—why now?! I actually succeeded!”

“That one,” Hayato said, his smirk finally breaking through,

“Is for grinning like an idiot. A Samurai doesn’t boast.”

Akihiko rubbed his forehead, cheeks pink, but this time he laughed, a sound bright and unrestrained.

“You’re so unfair, Hayato-samaaaa!”

But even as he complained, his heart felt warm.

Each flick wasn’t rejection, wasn’t mockery—it was proof that Hayato saw him, guided him, stayed close to him.

For the first time, Akihiko wasn’t training to chase someone else’s shadow. He was training under someone who believed he could stand.

The day ended with Akihiko collapsing onto the ground, his hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, but eyes glittering brighter than the sun above. He looked exhausted, but alive—more alive than Hayato had seen him since he arrived half-broken to his estate.

Hayato watched silently, arms folded. The boy had stumbled through his breathing, failed miserably at his balance, closed his eyes at every feint—but he had also risen every single time, refusing to give up.

“Hayato-sama…”

Akihiko wheezed, flopping onto his back dramatically,

“Your training is merciless!”

Hayato stepped over him, blocking the sunlight with his tall frame.

“And yet you survived. That’s something.”

Akihiko grinned up at him, still panting.

“Of course! Because I’m your disciple now, right?”

That spark in his eyes, that raw eagerness—it made Hayato’s lips twitch despite himself.

Without warning, he crouched, leaned down—flick!

“OW—!!” Akihiko clutched his forehead with both hands, rolling over dramatically.

“Not again! What was that one for?!”

Hayato straightened, voice calm as always.

“For bragging.”

“But—but I wasn’t bragging, I was just—”

Flick!

“OWWWW—Hayato-samaaaa!!” Akihiko yelped, rolling on the ground like a child.

This time Hayato didn’t even try to hide his quiet chuckle. He turned and began walking away, hands tucked into his sleeves.

“Get up. You’ll stiffen if you stay down too long.”

Akihiko lay there for a moment, stunned—not by the flick, but by the sound he’d just heard. A chuckle.

Hayato-sama had laughed.

And in that moment, Akihiko realized,  

Those flicks weren’t punishments.

They were Hayato’s way of reaching out.

From then on, it became a ritual.

The next morning, when Akihiko closed his eyes during a simple stance—flick!

“Ah—! I was just blinking!”

“Too long.”

At lunch, when Akihiko devoured his rice bowl with the enthusiasm of a starving wolf—flick!

“Wha—!! Even at the table?!”

“A Samurai eats with composure.”

At night, when Akihiko rambled on about how strong he’d become someday, fists clenched with excitement—flick!

“Hayato-samaaa! You can’t keep doing this forever!”

Hayato glanced down at him, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

“Then stop giving me reasons.”

And though Akihiko would grumble and pout, rubbing his poor forehead until it was pink, he secretly cherished each one. Because every flick meant Hayato was watching him, correcting him, caring in his quiet, unspoken way.

Akihiko had always thought “discipline” was cruel, a blade that cut him down and tossed him aside. But with Hayato, discipline came with warmth. Painful little flicks, yes—but also the subtle message,

I see you. I won’t give up on you.

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*A few weeks later*

The training hall was quiet except for the faint sound of their breathing. Akihiko stood in the middle, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping down his jaw after countless repetitions of the same kata.

His bokken trembled slightly in his grip—not from weakness, but from how much he wanted to get it right. He wanted to show Hayato that he wasn’t useless.

And then it happened.

For the first time, Hayato’s voice rang out—not sharp, not disappointed, but steady, warm, and proud.

“Good. That was good, Akihiko. You’ve improved.”

The words struck deeper than any blade. Akihiko froze, his breath caught halfway, eyes widening. The air seemed to vanish around him, his ears ringing.

Good.

You’ve improved.

It felt unreal, as if the world itself had tilted. His grip on the bokken tightened until his knuckles ached, because suddenly—he was no longer standing in Hayato’s dojo.

In his mind, he was thrown back to that other hall, that other night…

…kneeling outside on the cold wooden floor, tears streaming down his face. His younger self clutching the same weapon to his chest, whispering desperately into the silence,

“I wonder… if someday there’s someone who will be proud of me…? What is it like… to be praised…?”

He remembered the sting of the master’s hand shoving him down, the laughter of his peers echoing like knives. He remembered the crushing loneliness of having no one who believed in him.

And now—

Now here was Hayato, standing right in front of him, giving him what he once thought was impossible.

A proud smile.

Words of acknowledgment.

Akihiko’s throat tightened. He lowered his head quickly, hiding the wetness gathering in his eyes, but his body trembled. His lips parted as if to say something, but the only sound that escaped was a ragged breath.

Hayato frowned slightly, stepping closer.

“Akihiko? What’s wrong?”

Akihiko shook his head, clutching the bokken against his chest the same way he did back then, as though grounding himself in the memory, in the miracle of this moment. And in a voice barely louder than a whisper, breaking with emotion, he said,

“…Thank you, Master…”

Because at last—

After all the years of pain and doubt—

Someone was proud of him.

Hayato’s brow furrowed the moment he caught sight of the way Akihiko’s shoulders trembled. The boy’s head was bowed, bokken clutched tightly against his chest, and though he tried to hide it—Hayato wasn’t blind.

A tear slid down Akihiko’s cheek, catching the faint light of the dojo lamps before dripping to the floor.

“Akihiko…” Hayato said softly.

Akihiko startled, quickly lifting a hand to wipe at his face, but his eyes were already red, his lips pressed together in a desperate attempt not to cry.

“I—I’m fine, Master.” he whispered hoarsely. But the break in his voice betrayed him.

Hayato stepped closer until his shadow fell over Akihiko. For a heartbeat, Akihiko braced himself for harshness—his body still carrying the memory of another master’s fury, another shove to the floor. His breath caught, as if expecting the same rejection.

But instead, a warm hand settled gently on his head.

Akihiko froze. His eyes widened.

Hayato’s palm pressed lightly against his hair, his fingers ruffling it with the kind of tenderness Akihiko had once only dreamed of. The weight of that hand wasn’t heavy—it was grounding, steady, safe.

“You did well.”

Hayato said, his voice low but firm with pride.

“Don’t hide those tears. They’re proof of how hard you’ve been fighting.”

That was it.

The fragile dam inside Akihiko broke.

His grip on the bokken shook as fresh tears spilled freely down his cheeks, but this time they weren’t from loneliness or humiliation. They were from the overwhelming warmth of being seen, of being cherished.

In his heart, the memory of that boy outside the old dojo—kneeling alone, clutching his bokken, whispering,

“I wonder if someday there’s someone who will be proud of me…”—shattered.

Because here and now, that wish had been answered.

Akihiko choked back a sob, leaning into the warmth of Hayato’s hand like a lost child finally finding home.

“…Hayato-sama…” he whispered, voice trembling.

“Thank you… Thank you…”

And Hayato only smiled, ruffling his disciple’s hair once more—proudly, gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Hayato’s hand lingered in Akihiko’s hair, ruffling it softly, and when he felt how the boy trembled under his touch, his chest tightened.

He could see it—the old wounds in Akihiko’s eyes, the echoes of all those nights spent alone with nothing but his bokken and his self-doubt.

Hayato crouched down so their eyes were level. His voice was firm, steady, unshakable.

“Listen to me, Akihiko.”

Akihiko blinked through tears, his lips parting as if to answer, but no words came out. He only clutched his bokken tighter, afraid this warmth might vanish like every other kindness he had once longed for.

Hayato leaned closer.

“From today on, you will never wonder again if someone is proud of you.”

Akihiko’s breath caught. His tears slowed, his wide eyes locked on his master’s face as though afraid to even blink.

Hayato’s hand tightened gently in his hair, his thumb brushing across the boy’s temple.

“I am proud of you. Do you hear me? Every mistake, every fall, every time you get back up—I’ll be proud of you. Always.”

A sob tore out of Akihiko’s throat, raw and unrestrained, as though Hayato’s words had reached deep inside and ripped away the chains of every cruel laugh, every shove, every ignored plea from his old dojo.

“Even if you stumble,” Hayato continued, voice unwavering,

“Even if the world calls you weak—I’ll still be proud of you. Because you’re mine. My disciple. And that’s enough.”

Akihiko can’t hold it in. The sound that tears out of him is not a quiet sob but a ragged, overwhelming unraveling — grief and gratitude and years of silence all pouring out at once. He collapses forward, not to hide, but to release. Forehead to Hayato’s chest, arms opening as if to hold back the past itself.

Hayato wraps his arms around him. The touch is the same small ritual the boy had always wanted — a ruffle of hair, the press of a palm, the steadying of a hand. This time, instead of pain, each motion is a benediction.

In the thunder of his tears, the older memory blinks out. The laughter of the dojo kids, the shove of a sandal, the cold, the nights clutching a bokken — they all shrink to a single thin thread Akihiko can now hold and set down. He doesn’t erase them; scars remain. But they no longer define him.

He pulls back enough to see Hayato’s face, streaked with his own tears, eyes shining with the same fierce gentleness that had saved him once before. Akihiko’s breath is shaky. He laughs — a small, broken sound that could be a laugh or another sob — and whispers,

“I remember. I remember asking that in the dark.”

Hayato brushes a thumb across his cheek and smiles, the kind of smile that stitches up old wounds by naming them.

“Then stop wondering. You’re seen. You’re known. You’re my pride.”

Akihiko presses his face back into the cloth of Hayato’s sleeve, let the promise sink into his bones. For the first time since the boy outside the old dojo whispered into the night, the fear that had lived under his ribs loosens. He is allowed to believe it — to carry it forward like armor instead of weight.

Tears pricked Akihiko’s eyes, but this time he did not hide them. He let them fall freely, as if they were washing away the scars of those lonely nights. His chest ached, but it was no longer from emptiness—it was from fullness.

Inside, he whispered to the boy he once was,

You have your answer now. Someone is proud of you. Someone sees you.

And for the first time, he felt that his younger self—the boy clutching his bokken in the dark—could finally rest.

Hayato’s hand lingered a little longer in Akihiko’s hair, gentle but steady, then withdrew as if giving him space. He caught the faint shimmer of tears trailing down his disciple’s cheek, yet he didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask, didn’t press.

Because he knew.

He knew some tears weren’t meant to be answered with words, but with silence—silence that allowed them to fall safely, without shame.

So Hayato only offered a small, knowing smile, shifting his gaze back toward the training ground as though nothing had happened. He let Akihiko have this moment, unbroken and private, a place where he could hold both pain and healing in the same breath.

And Akihiko… Akihiko lowered his head, hiding his trembling smile behind the curtain of his hair. The warmth in his chest spread wide, overflowing, yet he clutched it tightly as if it were a fragile treasure.

This was his answer.

His vow.

His quiet, secret proof that he was no longer the boy sitting outside the dojo wall in the dark.

Because now—now he was seen.

Now he was loved.

And he tucked that truth deep inside his heart, to guard it for the rest of his life.

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The sun was already sinking, casting long shadows across the village streets when Akihiko hurried back from his errands. His arms were still carrying a small bundle of vegetables he had promised to bring back for the kitchen, his mind already on Hayato’s voice that morning.

“Don’t be late. Discipline is part of the training too.”

He smiled faintly, chest tightening with pride.

He was slower, weaker than the other students of the dōjō, but with Hayato’s teachings… he finally felt as if he was moving forward.

But then—

A loud laugh stopped him in his tracks.

“Oi… isn’t that…?”

Akihiko froze.

His eyes flicked up, and there they were.

A group of the dōjō’s students.

The very same faces that used to sneer at him, shove him, spit those words of failure into his ears.

“It really is him! Hah! Look at you—still alive after all this time?”

Their laughter turned sharp.

Akihiko’s heart squeezed painfully, his memories flashing back to the cold winter when he was thrown out, starving and humiliated.

His fingers clenched tighter on the vegetables—but he steadied his breath, hearing Hayato’s calm voice echo inside him,

Keep your composure. Do not let anger dictate your blade… or your heart.

So Akihiko bowed his head slightly, and walked forward.

“Oi, oi, oi—don’t ignore us!”

A rough hand grabbed his shoulder and slammed him back against the wooden wall of a shop. The vegetables tumbled to the ground.

Akihiko bit back the sound of pain, lifting his eyes to meet theirs.

One sneered, circling him like a predator.

“So tell us, Akihiko… what are you doing in Hayato-sama’s house, huh? Carrying bags? Sweeping floors?”

The group erupted into laughter.

Akihiko said nothing.

Another voice—mocking, sharper—cut in,

“No… wait. Don’t tell me… he took you as his disciple?”

The roar of laughter nearly shook the street.

Some villagers glanced over but quickly looked away, not wanting trouble.

Akihiko’s throat tightened, but he remained still, silent—remembering Hayato’s words again.

The silence only fueled their cruelty.

“Ohhh, that’s rich Hayato-sama, training you?”

“That prodigy training this trash?? What a waste of time!”

“A trash like you can’t even keep his eyes open during training!”

Akihiko inhaled sharply, fists curling inside his sleeves.

He could endure it.

He had endured worse.

But then—

One boy’s grin spread wide, wicked.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea. What if… we take him back to the dōjō? Hah! Master would love to see his former ‘beloved’ student again.”

The suggestion sparked cruel delight in their eyes.

Before Akihiko could react, hands seized his arms, dragging him through the streets.

His bundle of vegetables lay forgotten in the dirt.

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The dōjō smelled the same—wood, sweat, dust.

Akihiko’s chest tightened as the sliding doors opened, revealing the place he once dreamed of belonging.

And there, standing at the far end, was the dōjō master.

The man who had looked him in the eye and called him a disgrace before throwing him out like unwanted trash.

The man’s eyes widened when he saw Akihiko.

For a moment, shock flickered across his face.

Akihiko was no longer a ragged, starving child. His frame was stronger, his posture straighter, his clothes clean.

“What is the meaning of this?” the master demanded.

One of the boys shoved Akihiko forward.

“Master! Look who we found in the village. He’s under Hayato-sama’s protection now!”

The name made the master’s eyes narrow. A shadow crossed his expression—part surprise, part contempt.

“Hayato-sama… took him in?” he muttered, almost in disbelief.

Then, his lips twisted into a bitter smirk.

“Hah. I see. Even that young Lord makes mistakes.”

The students laughed loudly, encouraged by his words.

Akihiko stood still, head lowered, forcing himself to breathe. Hayato’s voice echoed again,

Control yourself. Anger clouds the path of a warrior.

He could endure this.

He had to.

The master stepped closer, circling him with disdain dripping from every word.

“So, the little failure has found himself a new home. And he dares to wear that look of pride? What foolishness. What has gotten into that boy’s head? He must have truly lost his mind…”

Those words— “lost his mind”—

Not about him.

About Hayato.

The room tilted.

Akihiko’s breath caught.

His chest burned.

He could endure mockery aimed at himself.

He had endured it countless times.

But this… this was different.

To let someone insult the man who saved him, the man who pulled him out of darkness and gave him hope—

No.

His fists trembled. His voice cracked the silence.

“Take it back.”

The laughter faltered. The students blinked, stunned.

“What… did you just say?”

Akihiko lifted his head, and for the first time, his eyes blazed—not with shame, but with defiance.

“I said… take it back.”

The air in the dōjō stilled. Even the master’s smirk faltered.

Akihiko’s voice shook, but grew stronger with every word.

“You can insult me all you want. Call me trash. A failure. I don’t care anymore.”

His chest heaved. His fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.

“But don’t you dare speak of my Master that way.”

He stepped forward, his voice rising, raw and unrestrained,

“Don’t ever bad-mouth Hayato-sama!!”

…!!!

The dōjō erupted into stunned silence.

The weak, trembling boy they had once known was gone.

In his place stood someone whose spirit burned like fire—untrained, unrefined, but unshakably loyal.

And for the first time… even his enemies were forced to see it.

The moment Akihiko stood his ground, the Dōjō Master’s eyes darkened with a mix of disbelief and rage.

His bokken was gripped so tightly that his knuckles whitened, the polished wood trembling under his furious strength.

The room seemed to shrink around them, the other students frozen in fear, unsure whether to intervene or flee.

Akihiko’s bare hands were trembling slightly, not just from the adrenaline coursing through him but from the cold sting of the tatami beneath his feet and the weight of his own exhaustion. His fists clenched, his knuckles scraping against his palms, as if sheer determination could shield him from the inevitable.

“You dare…?!” the Dōjō Master shouted, his voice echoing off the wooden walls.

“You think your words are enough to defend that Master of yours?!”

Before Akihiko could respond, the Master lunged forward, his bokken slicing through the air with terrifying speed.

Akihiko raised his arms instinctively, trying to block—but wood against bare skin was a cruel mismatch.

The first strike crashed into his shoulder, sending searing pain through his body, forcing him to stumble.

He fell to one knee, grit his teeth, and tried to push back with his trembling hands, but each block only invited another strike, sharper, heavier, fueled by the Master’s growing anger.

The students gasped, some covering their mouths, others looking away in horror.

Each blow that Akihiko endured seemed almost unbearable, the sharp sting of the bokken leaving red marks, the reverberations echoing like punishment for daring to speak his truth.

Yet Akihiko did not cry out.

Not fully.

His breath hitched, small whimpers escaping him, but his eyes never wavered from the Master’s face.

Every strike that landed on him only strengthened the fire burning in his chest—an unyielding determination that refused to bow.

“Is that all you have, peasant boy?!”

The Master roared, each word punctuated by the swing of the bokken.

“Do you think you can defend your little noble Master with bare hands? Pathetic!”

Akihiko’s mind raced.

Pain shot through his ribs, his arms, his legs, but he remembered Hayato.

He remembered his Master..

The countless nights spent in snow, the careful guidance, the warmth of someone who believed in him when no one else did.

“I can’t—no, I won’t—let him insult Hayato-sama!!” he thought, tears welling in his eyes, mixing with the sweat and blood on his face.

Another strike crashed into him, this time across his back, forcing him onto all fours.

His palms scraped the floor, fingernails digging into the tatami, leaving thin trails of blood.

Yet even on the ground, Akihiko lifted his head, chest heaving, eyes blazing with an inner fire that even the Master couldn’t extinguish.

Akihiko’s vision blurred, pain radiating through his entire body, but he gritted his teeth, muttering under his breath,

“I… I will… not let him insult Hayato-sama… I… can endure…”

And so the flurry continued.

Blow after blow, strike after strike, the Master’s anger pounding down on him like relentless thunder.

Akihiko’s body ached, bruised and bleeding, his energy draining faster than he could comprehend—but still, he held his ground.

Every hit was a reminder of his past weaknesses, every strike a challenge to rise above them.

The students, watching in stunned silence, finally realized this was no ordinary boy.

This was someone who had endured humiliation, abuse, and rejection—and yet refused to break.

Akihiko’s trembling hands, bruised and bloodied, clenched tighter. Even as his knees buckled under the weight of his wounds, his gaze stayed fixed on the Master’s furious eyes.

For the first time, the dōjō wasn’t just a place of teaching—it was a crucible, forging Akihiko’s body and spirit, testing the limits of what one could endure for honor, for pride, for the Master he believed in.

And though every part of him screamed to give up, Akihiko’s resolve burned brighter than ever, a small, defiant flame against the raging storm of the Master’s wrath.

Akihiko’s body finally gave way.

The relentless barrage of the Master’s strikes, the raw force of the bokken against his bare skin, and the unyielding anger that had driven him to stand his ground for so long all came crashing down at once. His knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed onto the tatami, chest heaving, blood trickling from cuts across his cheek and arms.

Every breath was a painful rasp, as if the very air around him weighed him down.

His arms lay limply at his sides, bruised and raw, and his hands shook uncontrollably.

Even in this broken state, his eyes—fierce, defiant, and yet exhausted—remained fixed on the Master’s enraged figure.

The dōjō was silent now, save for Akihiko’s ragged breathing and the faint creak of the wooden floor beneath the Master’s feet.

The other students stared in wide-eyed horror, realizing for the first time that this boy, battered and bleeding, had endured far more than any of them could imagine.

Akihiko’s mind swirled with pain, memories, and humiliation—but beneath it all was a tiny spark of resolve that refused to die.

He remembered Hayato’s lessons: to remain calm, to endure, to never let anger consume him. And though every fiber of his being screamed in agony, he held that thought like a fragile lifeline.

His vision blurred as he struggled to lift his head, the room spinning around him.

He could barely move, barely think—but deep inside, a quiet voice whispered,

“I must endure… for Hayato-sama… for myself…”

The Master of the dōjō, chest heaving with his own rage, took a step back and regarded the boy sprawled before him.

For a fleeting moment, there was shock in his eyes.

This wasn’t a boy to mock or dismiss anymore—this was someone who had faced his fury, his contempt, and had not broken entirely.

Akihiko’s knees scraped against the tatami as he tried to push himself up one last time, but his energy was gone. His arms faltered, and finally, he crumpled completely, forehead pressed against the floor, a low, exhausted groan escaping him.

He was utterly, completely broken—body battered, spirit pushed to the edge—but there was a strange dignity in his collapse.

He had faced the storm, and though he had fallen, he had not surrendered.

The dōjō was suffused with a heavy, tense silence.

The students exchanged uneasy glances, the Master’s breathing loud in the room, while Akihiko lay there, bruised, bleeding, and utterly exhausted.

And though he could barely move, the faint flicker of resolve remained in his eyes—a silent promise that he would rise again, stronger than ever, for the Master he revered and the life he refused to let defeat him.

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The afternoon sun had already dipped lower, stretching long shadows across the polished wood floors of the noble estate. normally, by this hour, Akihiko would’ve already been back—changed out of his simple errands clothes, kneeling neatly in the courtyard, waiting for their daily training with that quiet, earnest look in his eyes.

But today… the  courtyard  was empty.

Hayato stood there for a long moment, staring at the vacant spot where Akihiko should be. his hand tightened around the wooden practice sword he carried.

“…strange.” he muttered under his breath.

Minutes stretched into an uneasy silence.

Hayato’s chest tightened with a subtle, growing panic.

He’s never late.

He wouldn’t skip training.

He strode into the house, the echo of his footsteps bouncing against the high ceilings.

Room by room, he searched—the guest room, the kitchen, the servants’ quarters—but Akihiko was nowhere to be found.

Every corner he checked deepened the knot in Hayato’s chest.

Finally, he stopped at the servants’ gathering hall.

“Have any of you seen Akihiko today?” His voice was steady, but his sharp gaze made the room fall silent.

One of the older servants, frowning,

“We asked him to buy some vegetable in the village earlier, Young Master. But he still hasn't returned. This is the first time this has happened. And that is strange… he’s always punctual. Never disobeys an orders before.”

Hayato’s jaw tightened.

His mind raced through every possible scenario—injury, mischief, wandering… no, not him.

The very thought of Akihiko being hurt or lost made his chest constrict painfully.

Another servant, hesitant, offered,

“We could send the guards to search the village, Young Master.”

Hayato’s expression hardened, a mixture of worry and quiet fury flickering in his eyes.

“No. I will find him myself.” His voice left no room for argument.

My disciple isn’t going to wander off without reason. I’ll not leave this to chance.

He moved quickly, each step purposeful, as he navigated the sprawling halls, checking corridors and courtyards, even the stables.

His usual calm, collected demeanor was gone, replaced by a rare tension, a palpable anxiety that seemed to radiate from him.

Finally, Hayato paused in the main hall, hands clenched, jaw tight.

Where are you, Akihiko?

He thought, a rare, vulnerable worry knotting his chest.

The image of the boy—small, determined, stubborn, and now possibly in danger—flashed vividly in his mind.

He knew, without a doubt, that he wouldn’t rest until he found him!

The village should’ve felt familiar, Hayato had walked these streets countless times before with Akihiko by his side, carrying baskets or exchanging greetings with the townsfolk. but today, everything felt wrong.

He strode down the main road first, the clack of his sandals sharp and hurried.

“Have you seen Akihiko?” he asked the fishmonger, who blinked at the suddenness.

“ah—no, young master. he hasn’t come by today.”

Hayato’s jaw tightened. he turned, eyes scanning every face in the crowd.

To the grocer.

“Akihiko supposed to pick up some vegetables today, did he come?”

“Ah yes, young master. he came today, but after that he just got home like usual.”

“Akihiko still didn’t came back yet, do you know where he goes after that?”

“No, we don’t know, young master, we’re sorry..”

To the cloth merchant. to the tea house. even the children playing by the well—Hayato crouched low, his usually steady voice laced with urgency.

“Did you see my servant pass this way? about this tall, a wavy short yellow hair—always smiling politely?”

But every answer was the same: no, we haven’t seen him.

With each denial, the weight inside his chest grew heavier.

Hayato’s stride grew less composed, more frantic. he ducked into narrow alleys, peered behind stacked crates, pushed open sliding doors of shops with little more than a rushed apology.

The townsfolk, unused to seeing their dignified young master so restless, watched in hushed surprise. Hayato didn’t care. his hair clung to his forehead from sweat, his breath uneven.

He should’ve been back already… it’s not like him to be late…

His hands trembled at his sides. for a brief second, fear—raw and cold—threatened to break through his composure.

Then he clenched his jaw, forcing himself upright, his eyes burning with determination.

1. I’ll find him. wherever he is.

Hayato had already walked nearly every street, his sandals scuffing dust from the road. the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in streaks of red and gold, but instead of calming him, it made the world feel urgent—like time itself was slipping away.

He paused at the end of the village road, chest rising and falling heavily.

where are you, Akihiko…?

then—

faint. muffled at first. the sound of shouting.

Hayato’s head snapped toward it instantly, his body reacting before his mind caught up. the direction—toward the outskirts. toward the old dōjō.

His pulse hammered in his ears.

His feet broke into a run.

As he closed the distance, the sounds sharpened: the ugly laughter of young men, the harsh bark of an older voice, and—worse—a thud that made Hayato’s blood run cold, as if flesh had met wood, or bone.

He pushed harder, every muscle taut, sandals slamming the ground. Villagers turned to look at their young master sprinting with fire in his eyes, but he didn’t care.

Don’t let it be him… please, don’t let it be him…

Another shout rang out.

And this time—Hayato swore he heard it.

Akihiko’s voice.

…!!

Cracked. Desperate. Cut off by another blow.

Hayato’s chest clenched like iron bands. His vision tunneled, the path to the dōjō all that remained before him.

His mind roared with fury and terror, a single vow sparking like lightning through him,

Whoever laid a hand on him… whoever dared… will regret it!

The air inside the dōjō went still.

The rowdy laughter, the jeering voices—all of it died the second the door slammed open!

Every student froze, their bodies stiffening like prey caught in a predator’s gaze.

Their eyes widened, shock etched across their faces as they registered who had just walked in!

“y-young master Hayato…?!” One of them stammered, voice breaking.

The others exchanged frantic glances, their bravado crumbling instantly. Some took a nervous step back, as though his very presence scorched the tatami beneath their feet.

But at the center, the dōjō master did not move.

His hand still clutched the cane midair, but it no longer carried the same weight of authority—it trembled faintly, betraying the brief flicker of unease that crossed his features.

He bit down on it quickly, masking it behind silence. His eyes narrowed, studying Hayato carefully, the way one sizes up a storm rolling in.

Yet even in that silence, he was shaken—because hayato’s aura, standing there in the doorway, wasn’t that of a boy anymore. It was a young man forged from three years of relentless discipline, his presence so commanding that even seasoned fighters felt their throats tighten.

And through it all, Hayato didn’t spare the master a glance at first.

His eyes—sharp, burning—were locked only on one thing.

Akihiko.

His disciple, crumpled on the floor, body trembling with pain, face flushed with humiliation.

Hayato’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. The sight carved into his chest like a blade, his protective fury rising higher with every shallow breath his disciple took.

The students shifted uneasily, the silence unbearable—waiting, dreading, wondering what the young heir would do next.

Hayato’s sandals clicked softly against the tatami as he stepped forward, each pace deliberate, unhurried—yet carrying a weight that pressed down on everyone in the room. The students instinctively drew back, parting like water before a prowling beast. None dared to move, none dared to speak.

But Hayato’s gaze never wavered. He didn’t even acknowledge their existence. Not one glance spared, not one word wasted.

His eyes—burning with fury and pain—were fixed only on the small figure slumped against the floorboards.

“...Akihiko.” His voice was low, steady, almost trembling at the edges.

Akihiko flinched, his swollen eyes struggling to focus as he lifted his head. When he saw his master standing there, his lips parted in shock, a whisper escaping,

“H-Hayato… sama…”

Hayato dropped to one knee before him, not caring about the dirt, not caring about the sweat or blood that stained the floor. With trembling hands—trembling not from fear, but from the storm raging inside—he brushed Akihiko’s hair gently from his bruised face.

“...you’re hurt.”

His words were soft, tender, but laced with a fury that simmered beneath.

“They dared lay their hands on you…”

The dōjō master, still standing stiffly at the center, felt something twist deep in his chest.

That boy—no, that young man—was ignoring him completely!

Not a bow, not a greeting, not even the smallest acknowledgement of his authority.

Instead, all that focus, all that devotion, was directed at a mere servant. a peasant. a low-born.

His jaw tightened. A flush of shame burned beneath his skin, followed quickly by a surge of fury.

How dare the prodigy of the noble house treat him—the master, the elder, the man who once commanded the entire dōjō—with such indifference?

How dare he kneel before a servant, as if that boy was worth more than the dōjō’s honor?

The cane in his hand creaked under the force of his grip, his knuckles paling. His eyes darkened as he finally spoke, his voice cutting through the silence,

“...so this is what you’ve become, Hayato. A prodigy—brought to his knees by a servant boy.”

The students shifted nervously, their gazes darting between their master and the young heir, hearts pounding with the weight of the storm about to break.

But Hayato didn’t look up.

Not yet.

His arms slipped around Akihiko, pulling him close, shielding him completely as if the whole world could burn and it would mean nothing—so long as his disciple was safe in his hold.

The dōjō fell into silence, so thick that even the air felt heavy. Students stood rooted, their faces pale with disbelief. Akihiko, bruised and gasping, was gathered carefully in Hayato’s arms—but Hayato’s eyes weren’t on him anymore. They had shifted, sharp as a drawn blade, to the man at the far end of the room.

The master of the dōjō.

For a long moment, his hands, knotted behind his back, tightened until the veins stood out. His lips pressed thin, his breath shallow. Because in front of him, in his hall, stood the ghost of his greatest humiliation.

His mind betrayed him.

A black flash tore through his thoughts—

Five years ago. The sound of his students’ bodies hitting the floor one by one. His own mocking smirk frozen, crumbling into something uglier, as the ten-year-old boy moved like flowing water. Too fast, too sharp, too flawless. His students, the pride of the dōjō, scattered like leaves in a storm. And that man, his rival, standing there watching with quiet satisfaction while he himself drowned in shame.

The memory struck like a brand. He blinked hard, but the image lingered—the boy, Hayato, lowering his wooden sword with perfect composure, not a trace of arrogance in his face. That was what had cut the deepest. The boy hadn’t even needed to boast. His existence alone was a rebuke.

And now… that boy had returned. Taller. Stronger. Eyes calm yet unyielding, as though nothing in this hall could intimidate him.

The master’s teeth ground together. The silence shattered as he barked, voice raw with the weight of years.

“You dare walk into my dōjō… after disgracing me before my own students?!”

His words cracked like thunder. The students flinched, but Hayato didn’t move. He only adjusted Akihiko gently in his arms, eyes never leaving the man who raged before him.

“Disgrace?”

Hayato’s voice was low, steady, and all the more cutting for its calmness.

“I never sought to disgrace anyone. You invited me here. You set your students against me. I simply answered the challenge.”

The master’s face flushed dark, his breath quickening. The black memory bled into the present until his composure broke entirely. His voice rose, shaking the beams of the dōjō.

“Don’t twist it, boy! You stood here—in my dōjō—and made a fool of us all! You and that so-called master of yours! I will not bow my head to you!”

The students gasped, eyes darting between them. It was no longer just anger—it was years of festering shame spilling out, clawing for release.

Hayato, however, stood like an unmoved mountain. His calm gaze was sharper than any shout.

“You bowed your head the moment you raised your hand against someone weaker to soothe your pride.”

That sentence dropped like a blade cutting clean through the tension.

The dōjō master’s chest heaved as Hayato’s calm words cut into him like a sword. He could feel the eyes of his students on him—wide, uncertain, almost afraid. That gaze burned more than any blade. He clenched his fists, desperate to reclaim authority.

“Enough!” he roared, voice cracking with fury.

“Do not stand there as though you are above us all! You think yourself untouchable, Hayato?! Let us see if you can stand against all of us!!”

His arm slashed through the air in command.

“Students! Strike him down!”

For a breath, the hall froze. The students hesitated—because even they remembered the whispers of five years ago, the story of the prodigy who swept their seniors aside. But fear of their master’s wrath drove them forward. With a chorus of shouts, wooden swords rose, footsteps thundered against the floor.

Akihiko, still weak in Hayato’s arms, gasped, trying to protest—

“Master—!”

But Hayato only shifted him gently, setting him aside against the wall with the care of cradling something precious. He whispered low enough for only Akihiko to hear, voice warm despite the storm brewing around them,

“Rest. Watch closely. I will show you what it means to protect.”

Then he stood, turning to face the oncoming wave.

The first student lunged.

A single sidestep, a flick of Hayato’s wrist—thud.

The boy crumpled to the floor, disarmed before he realized what happened. Another rushed from behind—Hayato pivoted smoothly, his palm striking the student’s chest with precise force, sending him stumbling back, breathless.

It began.

One by one, they came.

And one by one, they fell.

Hayato moved like flowing water, like the wind itself—his strikes sharp, efficient, never cruel. He did not need to hurt them. His skill alone was enough to dismantle their strength. In moments, the floor was littered with groaning students, their swords rolling away across the tatami.

The master of the dōjō stood frozen, his eyes wide, watching the scene unfold.

again..?

Déjà vu crashed into him like a hammer. He saw not the man before him, but the boy from five years ago, cutting down pride after pride until nothing was left standing. His throat tightened, the old shame rising to choke him.

And worst of all, Hayato’s face was the same—calm, unwavering, almost gentle. He fought not to humiliate, but because he had no other choice.

“Is this what you call strength?”

Hayato’s voice rang clear across the dōjō as he deflected another strike, sending its wielder tumbling to the floor. His eyes locked on the master’s.

“To pit numbers against one, to raise your hand against a boy who cannot fight back?”

The final student charged, desperation written across his face. Hayato caught the wooden sword in one hand, twisted, and with a push sent the boy sprawling at his master’s feet.

The hall fell silent once more. Every student lay defeated. The only sound was the ragged breath of the dōjō master.

And Hayato stood tall in the center, unshaken, his eyes burning with quiet fire.

The dōjō master’s body trembled, not from fear—but from the unbearable humiliation of seeing his students strewn across the floor, their groans echoing against the wooden walls. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his bokken.

“You…” His voice was low, jagged, like a blade dragged across stone.

 “You dare step into my dōjō and make a mockery of me again? Do you think yourself above me, boy?”

Hayato’s gaze never wavered. He stood in the center of the room, the faint lamplight tracing the sharp calm of his expression.

The master’s teeth ground together.

With a roar, the master raised his wooden blade, muscles bulging with fury.

“Then face me, Hayato! Let this be settled by our blades!”

The air grew heavy. Even the wounded students held their breath, dragging themselves up just enough to watch.

Akihiko clutched at the tatami, his heart pounding so hard it hurt, his lips trembling as he whispered,

“Hayato-sama…”

Hayato’s hand rose slowly, almost lazily, as though time itself bent around him. He picked up a discarded bokken from the floor.

The wooden sword looked ordinary—until it rested in his grip. Then it was as though the weapon itself became weightless, an extension of his will.

“Very well,” Hayato murmured, his tone neither boastful nor cruel—simply inevitable.

“But know this. I do not fight to prove myself. I fight only because you laid hands on what is mine to protect.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. The master roared again, his pride twisting into fury, and lunged forward.

Their swords met—crack!—the sound of wood clashing thundered through the dōjō.

Sparks of pressure shot across the tatami. The master pressed forward with brute strength, veins bulging, every strike wild with desperation.

But Hayato—

He moved like water, like air itself. Each parry was effortless, each step impossibly precise. The master’s blade met resistance, but it was like striking against mist: every blow slid off, redirected, leaving him stumbling closer to collapse.

A downward slash screamed through the air toward Hayato’s head. He tilted his neck an inch—

whhhsh!—

The strike cut nothing but air.

Before the master could recover, Hayato’s wooden blade tapped his wrist, light but exact—enough to numb his grip.

The master snarled, swung again in fury—clang!

Hayato’s bokken slid along his like lightning, knocking it high, then with a turn of his wrist—

thud!—

The master’s weapon spun across the room, clattering uselessly against the far wall.

The dōjō master froze, chest heaving, empty hands trembling.

His eyes widened as Hayato’s wooden blade stopped just short of his throat.

The dōjō master stood frozen, chest heaving, face pale, his weapon lying far from reach.

Around him, his students sat slumped or unconscious, the scent of sweat and fear thick in the air.

Not a single one dared move.

Hayato lowered his bokken, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room. His voice cut like steel, low and cold.

“Remember this. Should any of you dare to lay a hand on Akihiko again, you will answer to me and the consequences…”

His tone deepened, eyes flashing with unshakable authority,

“…will be far harsher than what you’ve tasted tonight.”

The silence was suffocating.

The words, heavy as iron, buried themselves into the hearts of every student present. Some swallowed hard, others bowed their heads in shame. The master of the dōjō clenched his fists, but dared not speak.

Hayato turned at last, his heart thundering as his gaze sought the one reason he had come here.

“…Akihiko—

But—

His breath caught.

The corner of the room where he had seen his disciple, battered and curled against the wall, was empty.

Hayato blinked once, twice, his chest tightening.

His eyes darted quickly across the tatami, behind the trembling students, to the shadows at the edge of the dōjō.

Nothing.

He strode forward, scanning each corner, his voice sharp with sudden urgency.

“Akihiko!? Where are you???”

No answer.

The students exchanged uneasy glances. Some looked to their master, who remained silent, his lips pressed thin in frustration.

Hayato’s pulse quickened, his breath shallow.

A heat—different from fury—rose in his chest.

When?!

How?!

He had only turned away for moments, his focus consumed by the fight.

And in that heartbeat, Akihiko had vanished???

His fists clenched around the bokken until his knuckles whitened. His voice, once steady and commanding, now cracked with a rare desperation as he barked,

“Where is he?! Did any of you see where he went?!”

No one answered.

Some shook their heads quickly, others lowered their eyes, too terrified to even breathe.

The truth was clear—none of them knew.

The mighty Hayato, untouchable and unshaken, now felt a cold panic gnaw at his chest.

The world seemed to narrow, the victory against the dōjō meaningless in the face of this single fact that,

Akihiko was gone.

Hayato’s breath hitched.

His eyes burned with a fire fiercer than before—this time not of battle, but of fear.

Without another word, he stormed toward the exit, every step radiating urgency.

“Akihiko…” he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenched tight.

“Hold on. I’ll find you.”

And the night swallowed him in his desperate search.

The night air was cold, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth as Hayato raced through the village streets.

His lungs burned, yet he did not stop, his sandals striking hard against the ground as he scoured every corner.

The marketplace—empty.

The shrine steps—silent.

Every alleyway, every shadow, every path he searched—no sign of him.

“Akihiko… where are you…”

Hayato’s voice trembled, more to himself than anyone else.

His chest ached with a fear he had never known in battle.

Then—

The faint glimmer of moonlight rippling on water caught his eye. The lake, quiet at the edge of the village, a place of solitude.

His heart skipped, pounding violently.

Something inside told him—there.

He sprinted, breath ragged, until the trees parted.

And there he saw him!

Akihiko stood at the edge of the lake, his small figure trembling in the pale light.

His clothes were torn, his body bruised, his shoulders shaking.

Tears streaked his dirt-stained cheeks as he stared down into the cold, black water.

Hayato’s eyes widened, his entire being freezing in shock as realization stabbed into him like a blade.

“...No.”

Akihiko’s knees bent, his body swaying forward as though surrendering himself to the lake’s dark embrace.

In that instant, Hayato’s voice tore from his throat, raw and thunderous,

“AKIHIKOOO!!!”

The boy flinched, but his weight was already tipping toward the water.

Hayato didn’t think—he moved.

His legs, fueled by sheer desperation, carried him faster than they ever had in training or battle.

The ground blurred beneath him, his heart hammering louder than the crash of waves.

Just as Akihiko’s foot slipped off the bank, Hayato lunged.

His hand shot out—grasping, refusing to let go.

And in the final heartbeat before the boy would have plunged into the freezing depths, Hayato’s arm wrapped tight around him, pulling him back, crushing him into his chest.

Both of them collapsed onto the grass, Hayato’s body shielding Akihiko from the ground, his arms refusing to release him even for a second. His breath came in ragged gasps, his voice cracking as he buried his face against the boy’s shoulder.

“You fool… you foolish boy…”

Hayato’s voice was hoarse, trembling.

“Do you have any idea what you were about to do?!”

Akihiko flinched, but said nothing. His small frame shook under Hayato’s embrace, his head lowering until his bangs shadowed his eyes.

Hayato pulled back just enough to grab his shoulders, forcing the boy to face him. His own eyes, usually calm like tempered steel, now blazed with raw fire.

“You think throwing yourself into that lake would solve anything?! Have you thought—”

his voice cracked, he clenched his jaw,

“—have you thought even once how others would feel?!”

The question hung heavy in the night air. The lake rippled quietly behind them, as if mocking the chaos inside Hayato’s chest.

Akihiko’s lips parted but no words came. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, refusing to meet Hayato’s furious, trembling stare.

Hayato’s breath came ragged, his fingers tightening on Akihiko’s shoulders.

“Did you ever think of me??? Or even your parents??!” His voice was lower now, strained, pained.

“Did you think of what it would do to me if I found you at the bottom of that water? Or the servants who care for you? Or the house that has welcomed you????”

Still, Akihiko remained silent. His head lowered further, tears dripping silently into the grass.

That silence was heavier than any words. It carved straight through Hayato’s chest, a silence that screamed of despair, of shame, of a boy who believed he was worth so little.

Hayato’s body trembled. For the first time in years, his composure shattered completely. He shook Akihiko gently, almost desperately, his voice breaking into a shout that wavered with grief.

“Answer me, Akihiko! Did you not think at all about what losing you would do to the people who love you?!”

Hayato’s shout still echoed faintly across the lake, but in its wake came only silence—so thick it felt suffocating. His chest heaved, his breath ragged, his hands still gripping Akihiko’s shoulders as though the boy might slip away again.

And then… it struck him.

The realization of what he had just done. The harshness in his tone. The fury in his words.

This—this was not what his master had taught him.

His master’s voice had always been firm yet steady, strength guided by compassion, not blinded by anger.

But here he was… letting fear twist into rage.

Hayato closed his eyes for a moment, jaw tight, a wave of guilt flooding through him. He loosened his grip on Akihiko’s shoulders, his hands trembling as they fell slightly, sliding down to hold his arms more gently.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer, breaking, stripped of all pride.

“…Akihiko.”

He lowered himself to one knee in front of the boy, desperate to meet his downcast eyes. His hands cupped Akihiko’s arms tenderly now, no longer gripping in anger but holding as if to anchor him.

“Forgive me… for shouting.” His voice cracked, deep and raw.

“I let my fear… my worry… turn into something it should never have been.”

Hayato swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

“I was terrified.” His gaze wavered, his lips trembling.

“Terrified of losing you. Terrified of never hearing your voice again. That fear… it almost broke me, Akihiko.”

His head bowed, his forehead nearly touching the boy’s knees.

“Please,” he whispered, his pride shattering with every syllable,

“don’t ever do something so reckless again. Not like this. Not when there are people—when I—can’t bear to lose you.”

But Akihiko… remained unmoved.

His head stayed bowed, his hair falling like a curtain that hid his face. His shoulders quivered slightly, but his lips stayed sealed. Not a word escaped him. Not even a glance.

The silence stretched on and on.

And to Hayato… that silence cut deeper than any blade ever could.

The silence dragged on.

Hayato’s hands were still on Akihiko’s arms, his knees sinking into the damp soil by the lake’s edge. He tried to smile through the storm in his chest, his voice trembling as he softened it into a plea,

“…hey,” he whispered.

“Let’s go home?”

No response.

Hayato forced a little more warmth, even though his throat ached.

“Come with me. Let me treat your wounds. They must hurt, don’t they? Please… just let me take care of you.”

Still, Akihiko didn’t move. Didn’t look at him.

Hayato’s heart clenched painfully. He swallowed, desperation seeping into his tone as he tried again.

“…let’s go home, Akihiko. Please…”

But before he could beg once more—

“WHY?!”

Akihiko’s sudden shout tore through the night like lightning. His body shook violently, his fists clenched, his head finally jerking up. His face was wet—whether from sweat, tears, or both, Hayato couldn’t tell. His voice cracked, raw and furious, but beneath that fury was something far more devastating.

“WHY AM I STILL ALIVE?!”

The words were a blade, cutting straight into Hayato’s chest. His breath caught, his eyes widening in shock.

Akihiko’s whole body trembled as he screamed again, louder, his voice hoarse with anguish.

“Why didn’t you just let me fall into the lake?!”

His fists struck at his own chest, as if he could tear the pain out himself.

“Why did you stop me?!”

Hayato was frozen, every word piercing deeper than the last. He had faced countless battles, countless enemies, but nothing—nothing—had ever left him this defenseless.

The boy’s voice broke completely as he wailed,

“I have no worth… I have nothing left… so WHY?!”

The raw desperation in Akihiko’s scream echoed across the lake, shattering the fragile night.

And Hayato—his heart nearly collapsing inside him—could only stare at his disciple, stunned, horrified, and utterly broken by the truth of what he had just heard.

Hayato’s chest heaved as the words struck him. But before he could recover, Akihiko’s voice rose again—shaking, cracking, but louder and louder, like a dam bursting.

“WHY AM I STILL ALIVE AFTER ALL THIS TIME?!”

His body shook as he staggered back a step, clutching at his chest with trembling fingers. His eyes, wide and burning, stared not at Hayato but at the empty darkness of the night sky.

“WHY CAN’T GOD LET ME DIE?!”

He screamed, his voice echoing over the still lake water.

“WHY… WHY DOES THE GOD KEEP ME HERE?!”

Hayato’s lips parted, but no sound came.

Akihiko’s words came like knives, every syllable cutting into the silence. His voice was broken, raw, pouring out everything he had bottled up.

“I’m nothing! I’m a burden to everyone—” his breath hitched violently,

“—to my parents, to everyone in the village…!”

He turned suddenly, his tear-streaked face meeting Hayato’s for the first time that night, and the words hit like a sword to the heart.

“—AND TO YOU TOO!!”

Hayato’s body went rigid, his hands frozen mid-reach.

Akihiko’s voice cracked as he staggered forward, fists clenched, eyes wild with desperation.

“I’ve only been dragging you down! I’ve only made things harder for you! And yet—” his chest heaved, “—yet you still stop me! You still—!”

His knees buckled, and his voice fell into a broken, trembling sob.

“S-So why…?”

His head shook violently, his words dissolving into tears.

“Why does God still give me the chance to live… when I… when I don’t deserve it…?”

His body crumpled, shaking, his cries spilling out raw and unrestrained for the first time.

The pain of years—of loneliness, of rejection, of feeling unwanted—finally ripped itself free.

And Hayato, stunned, could only watch as his disciple broke down in front of him, screaming at the heavens as if demanding an answer from a God who would never reply.

Hayato froze. His entire body locked in place as Akihiko’s cries tore through him.

Those words—“Why can’t God let me die?”—they weren’t unfamiliar.

They were too familiar.

It was like looking into a mirror of his own past.

His chest tightened, his breath shallow.

For a moment, the world blurred—the lake, the cold air, Akihiko’s trembling figure—and he saw himself, younger, standing in that same suffocating darkness years ago.

Lost.

Broken.

Wanting it all to end.

“…Akihiko…”

Hayato whispered, but his voice was hoarse, fragile.

Akihiko, still crying, didn’t look at him. His face was buried behind the veil of tears, his fists trembling at his sides.

Slowly—carefully, almost fearfully— his hands hovering just short of Akihiko’s shoulders. Then, softly, he tilted his disciple’s chin upward.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

Reluctantly, Akihiko lifted his head, eyes swollen and red, tears streaking down his face. His body still trembled, but when his gaze met Hayato’s—he froze.

Because the eyes looking back at him weren’t the cold, untouchable eyes of the prodigy, nor the scolding glare of a master lecturing his disciple.

They were filled with something else entirely. Something heavy, something he couldn’t quite name—an aching sadness, as though Hayato himself carried invisible wounds carved deep into his soul.

Akihiko’s trembled. He didn’t understand. Why did Hayato’s stare feel like this?

And then Hayato smiled.

Not his usual confident, composed smile—but a fragile, sorrowful one, like a blade dulled by countless battles.

“Akihiko… do—

His voice was low, gentle, yet heavy with grief.

“Do you know the reason why God still gives you a chance to live until now?”

The words hung in the air, quiet yet powerful.

Akihiko’s breath hitched. His tears still fell, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

He didn’t know the answer.

But for the first time, he truly wanted to hear Hayato’s.

Akihiko’s voice cracked, his throat raw from screaming. His body shook as if every cry had drained him, yet the tears still wouldn’t stop. His chest heaved, his fists trembled at his sides, and still he spat out his despair, unable to see anything beyond the suffocating darkness inside.

But then—Hayato’s words cut through, low and steady, like a lifeline in the storm.

“…Akihiko. The reason why God still give you a chance to live until now it’s because—

Akihiko froze.

His breath caught.

The young lord’s gaze was unwavering, firm yet unbearably gentle, holding sadness deeper than Akihiko could understand.

And then Hayato opened his mouth again, His voice, soft but carrying the weight of truth:

“Because the world still needs you, Akihiko.”

….!!

Akihiko’s heart skipped.

He blinked, confused, his mouth opening but no words forming.

“…W-what…?”

Hayato didn’t let him look away. His hand stayed firm on Akihiko’s trembling shoulder, his words flowing like quiet rivers of light piercing through the night.

“Whether it’s the trader whose goods you buy almost every day… the street cat you often feed and pet… or the stranger who loses their way, and you show them the right direction…”

Akihiko’s eyes widened. The small, ordinary moments—moments he never thought had meaning—were suddenly being named, acknowledged, honored.

“There are many people in this world who truly need you.”

Hayato’s voice trembled faintly, but his conviction was unshakable.

“So please… no matter how much it hurts, no matter how long you must walk this path… stay alive.”

His hand tightened, warm and grounding.

“You must understand this, Akihiko: those who are born, who live, and who survive… are not burdens. They are the chosen ones.”

The words pierced through Akihiko’s heart like a blade, yet wrapped him in a warmth he’d never felt before.

His tears fell harder—silent now, no longer from despair but from the ache of hearing something he never believed was meant for him.

For the first time, Akihiko couldn’t find his voice. He just stood there, trembling, staring at Hayato as if the meaning of those words was too vast, too heavy for him to hold.

Akihiko’s lips parted, trembling. He wanted to speak—wanted to deny it, to argue, to scream that Hayato was wrong.

But no sound came.

Instead, a sob broke free.

Then another.

And another.

His body shook as tears poured down, spilling like a flood he could no longer hold back. His voice failed him, choked away by grief that twisted into something deeper—something unfamiliar.

Shame burned in his chest. Because deep down, a small part of him believed Hayato’s words… and that hurt even more. He lowered his head, unable to bear the weight of meeting that gentle gaze again.

Hayato remained still, his hand never leaving Akihiko’s trembling shoulder, his presence steady as a wall against the storm. He didn’t speak this time. He didn’t need to.

Akihiko wept, shoulders hunched, fists clenched tight against his knees, the sound of his crying echoing by the lake.

Hayato simply stayed.

Silent.

Waiting.

Not as a master.

Not as a lord.

But as someone who refused to let him break alone.

Hayato didn’t wait anymore.

The moment Akihiko’s sobs broke him apart, he pulled the boy into his chest—tight, desperate, trembling.

His arms wrapped around Akihiko as though the slightest looseness would let him slip away forever.

No words.

None would be enough.

Just the sound of their uneven breaths, the trembling in their shoulders, the warmth of tears soaking through clothes.

Akihiko stiffened in shock, his eyes widening.

He’d never been held like this—never felt a warmth so heavy yet so gentle.

Slowly… hesitantly… his hands lifted.

His fingers shook violently, but still, they gripped onto Hayato’s back, clutching as if afraid this embrace might vanish like a dream.

Two bodies, two hearts, both shaking. Both broken.

Yet in that moment, pressed so close, they shared their pain, their despair, their fragile hope.

The lake stayed silent, the night air biting cold, but inside that embrace—it was the warmest place Akihiko had ever known.

They didn’t speak again.

Not a single word.

All night, they simply held onto each other, as though if they let go, the world would crumble apart.

Hayato’s breath trembled against Akihiko’s hair.

His arms, though still shaking, tightened as if to shield him from the entire world.

 For a long time, there was only silence—the sound of two broken hearts finding a rhythm together.

And then, softly, Hayato’s voice spilled out,

“Tomorrow… let’s do our best again, okay?”

It wasn’t a command.

It wasn’t even a request.

It was a plea—gentle, fragile, yet filled with warmth.

Akihiko’s eyes widened, tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes. His lips trembled, but no sound escaped.

He couldn’t answer.

He didn’t know how to.

Instead, he pressed his face deeper into Hayato’s chest, sobbing harder, as if that single sentence cracked open the dam he’d been holding for years.

Hayato didn’t say anything more.

He didn’t need to.

He only held Akihiko closer, as if to seal the promise between them—not with words, but with the unshakable grip of his arms.

The night swallowed their voices, but in the quiet, those seven words lingered—burning into Akihiko’s heart, echoing softly,

Tomorrow… let’s do our best again.

Chapter Text

PART VI

 Sunflower 🌸 — Bright Transformation

*two years later..*

“HEEELPPPP!!!!!”

The scene could start with chaos in the village —

Villagers screaming, a woman cornered by bandits, everyone panicking because no one dares to step in.

Then suddenly—

 SHING!

A blade cuts through the air, fast and sharp.

The bandits stagger back, shocked, and in front of the villager stands…

Akihiko.

His stance is calm but firm, his eyes sharp, no longer the timid boy of the past.

The villagers murmur in disbelief,

"Is that… him? That weak boy…?!"

"Impossible… look at him…!!”

“He’s moving like a true Samurai!"

The woman, still trembling from being saved, opens her mouth,

“Y-you… thank you so muc—”

But before she can finish, that familiar, steady voice cuts through the air.

"Akihiko…"

Both Akihiko and the woman turn toward the sound—

And there stands Hayato, tall and calm, with a proud yet gentle expression. He extends a hand, his voice carrying warmth and authority,

"Let’s go, we’ll be late for our competition.”

At that, Akihiko’s serious expression softens instantly. His face lights up with a smile so wide and bright it stuns the woman.

"Yes, Master!"

Like a child rushing to his parent, Akihiko runs to Hayato’s side.

The villagers can’t believe the sight,

The once-broken boy, now standing strong and smiling, following the man who reshaped his life.

Before walking away, Akihiko turns his head back for a moment, smiling and waving at the woman he saved.

She stands frozen in place, speechless—

Her lips parting but no words coming out—

As Akihiko turns forward again, his eyes only on Hayato.

And together, master and disciple walk side by side, returning home to continue their practice, stronger than ever, with a bond unshakable.

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The hall wasn’t grand enough to be called an arena, yet the air inside carried the same tension as one. Tatami stretched wall to wall, bordered by simple banners of the attending dojos.

This wasn’t a tournament, not officially—just a joint training session, a gathering of students from several dojos across the region.

But everyone knew it was more than that.

Each master came with the same unspoken agenda, to measure, to compare, to prove. They lined up their disciples, polished and ready, to spar in front of peers and rivals alike.

Victories meant pride for the dojo. Defeats meant shame carried home.

The crowd wasn’t large—only fellow students, instructors, and a few wandering samurai curious enough to watch. But in such an enclosed space, every strike, every stumble, every cheer carried like thunder.

And among them sat the old master of Akihiko’s first dojo, his arms crossed, his jaw high. His eyes swept the tatami, glowing with smug expectation. He had trained his students hard for this day, and he relished the thought of other masters bowing their heads in acknowledgment.

Before the sparring began, the masters gathered at the side of the hall, seated in a neat row. Politeness filled their words, but underneath, every smile was sharpened like a blade.

The old master of Akihiko’s first dojo leaned forward, his voice carrying louder than courtesy allowed.

“Ah, you’ll see. My disciples are unmatched. Their footwork, their strikes—polished to perfection. Today, they’ll show you what true training looks like.” he said, stroking his beard with self-satisfaction.

One of the visiting masters chuckled lightly.

“So confident? This is not a tournament, remember. A joint session is meant for growth, not victory.”

The old master waved a dismissive hand.

“Growth comes from dominance. From proving oneself above the rest. My boys—ah, you’ll see them—sharp as swords. Not a single wasted movement. Frankly, I feel pity for whichever dojo faces them. My students will carve them apart.” He smirked, his chest swelling with pride.

Another master raised an eyebrow.

“Oh? And what of the rumors I’ve heard? That one of your… weaker pupils left your hall two years ago. A boy who couldn’t keep pace with the rest?”

The old master’s lips curled into a sneer.

“Hah. That one? A hopeless case. Untalented, unworthy. Some are born for the sword, and some are not. He was the latter. Mark my words—he’ll never amount to anything. “

He leaned back, smug, the confidence of a man certain his words were final, unshakable truth.

As the old master finished his smug speech, one of the other dojo heads leaned over the roster that had been laid neatly on the low table before them. His finger traced down the list of names, lips moving silently—until they paused.

“Mm? Interesting.” he murmured, tilting the paper closer to the light.

“It seems one of the entrants is Akihiko.”

The old master’s brows furrowed.

“Akihiko?” He straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Let me see that.”

The paper was passed into his waiting hand, and he scanned the names quickly.

There it was—Akihiko.

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, a flicker of unease twisted in his chest.

“…Tch.” He scoffed, setting the paper back down with a thud.

“Coincidence. Nothing more. Akihiko is hardly a rare name. Whoever that is, it’s certainly not him.”

The other masters exchanged glances, some raising brows at the sharpness in his tone. One of them chuckled.

“You speak with such certainty, old friend. But what if it is the same boy? The one you said was hopeless?”

The old master’s lips curled into a cold smile.

“If by some absurd chance it is him… well, the poor wretch will only prove my point. He’ll embarrass himself here just as he always did. You’ll see. My judgment has never failed.”

With that, he leaned back smugly again, but his fingers drummed a restless rhythm against his knee. Deep down, something unsettled tugged at him—but his pride buried it quick, dismissing it as impossible.

The sound of geta clacking softly against the wooden floor made heads turn.

A tall, lean figure stepped into the hall with calm, measured steps, the sunlight from the open shoji spilling across his shoulders. His hakama swayed with each stride, his posture straight, his expression unreadable yet commanding.

“...H-Hayato?” someone whispered, voice trembling with recognition.

The murmur spread like ripples in water.

Hayato.

Every student present knew the name.

The prodigy.

The boy who, at ten years old, had cut down opponent after opponent—grown men, older warriors, all felled by his blade until his name was etched into memory like a legend.

The students’ faces paled.

If he was here—if he was competing—then the outcome was already decided.

Whispers erupted among them.

“Is he on the roster?”

“No… no, his name isn’t here…”

“Then… why is he—?”

The other dojo masters leaned toward one another in hushed confusion, brows furrowed.

“What is Hayato doing here? He isn’t listed.”

“Perhaps he’s come as a guest? Or… or maybe to observe?”

Every glance followed him, yet Hayato ignored them all, his sharp gaze fixed straight ahead. His presence alone was enough to twist the atmosphere—tension stretched thin, nerves frayed.

Some students lowered their eyes, already shaken at the thought of being anywhere near him on the tatami.

And then, finally, the old master stiffened. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the prodigy walking toward them, his heart thudding against his ribs in a way he refused to show. A bitter thought slithered through his mind,

Why here? Why now?

Hayato stopped just before the gathered masters, bowing politely yet firmly. His voice was calm, smooth, yet it cut like a blade through the room’s murmurs.

“I have business here today.” he said simply.

The other masters exchanged startled looks. The old master’s jaw tightened, but he forced a scoff to his lips.

“Business?” he sneered.

“Then tell me, prodigy… what business does one such as you have at a gathering like this?”

Hayato’s eyes flickered, sharp and unyielding.

“…I came for my disciple.”

The hall was still buzzing from Hayato’s words when the shoji slid open again.

A figure stepped inside.

The room fell into a hush.

Clad in a clean gray gi and hakama, his bokken resting steady in his hand, Akihiko walked with a calm, even rhythm toward the tatami. His head was high, his back straight—nothing like the boy who used to slump in the shadows. His eyes burned with quiet fire, and every step seemed to echo louder than it should.

“...Akihiko?” one voice gasped.

The name rippled through the ranks of the old dojo’s students like a shockwave.

They knew that face.

They knew that name.

But the Akihiko they remembered was clumsy, stammering, shoved to the dirt and left there.

The Akihiko they remembered could never stand like this.

“This can’t be…”

“He—he looks completely different…”

“That’s… him?”

The old master’s breath caught, his frown deepening as though staring long enough could shatter the illusion.

No… impossible… That boy was worthless. Hopeless. How—

But there was no denying it.

It was him.

The boy he had spat on, shoved aside, humiliated in front of everyone—now standing proud on the tatami, his very presence radiating a strength that silenced the room.

Hayato’s gaze flicked toward Akihiko, and in that instant, the disciple’s composure softened. He bowed deeply, voice clear, carrying across the hall,

“Master, I’m ready.”

Hayato’s lips curved, just slightly—proud, certain. He nodded.

“Good. Show them.”

The air tightened.

Akihiko stepped onto the tatami, gripping his bokken with steady hands. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t trembling. He wasn’t shrinking. He wasn’t waiting for praise that never came.

He was ready.

And the old dojo students who once mocked him, shoved him, laughed at his tears—could only gape in disbelief as the boy they had crushed was now the one about to prove himself before all.

The old master’s jaw locked, his knuckles whitening around his sleeve. Fury and dread twisted in his chest as the irony cut deeper than any blade:

The disciple he threw away had returned—not broken, but reborn.

The floorboards creaked as the last of the participants settled into place. The large hall—polished wood, paper lanterns swaying faintly overhead—was filled with the hum of voices. Rows of students knelt in perfect lines, gi pressed and hakama neat, the scent of pine oil still lingering from the morning cleaning.

At the front, the officials of the joint session sat in a row, backs straight as iron, their presence commanding silence.

Clack.

The gavel struck.

The murmurs ceased immediately.

“Today, we gather not for rivalry alone, but for growth. May each strike be true, and each heart unyielding. The tatami will not lie—it will show us who has trained with sincerity.” The eldest master’s voice rang out, deep and solemn.

Every student bowed deeply in unison, palms pressed to the floor.

“Osu!” the hall echoed.

The gavel struck once more.

“Participants—step forward for the drawing of lots.”

Each student walked up, one by one, palms damp with anticipation as they reached into the small lacquered box and drew their slip of parchment. A number written in bold ink determined their place in the order.

Hayato stood at the back, arms folded, calm but razor-sharp in aura. His presence was enough to make the students in line tense, though his name wasn’t on the roster. Whispers buzzed like hornets.

Then—Akihiko stepped forward.

He drew his slip.

Number Three.

The referee called out.

“First match—Student No. 1 against Student No. 3!”

A ripple of surprise rolled through the hall. Akihiko had been called to the very first round.

The opponent stepped forward—a broad-shouldered boy from the old master’s dojo. One of his prized pupils, the kind he boasted about endlessly. He shot Akihiko a sharp smirk, as though already certain of his victory.

They both bowed to each other, then to the officials.

“Begin!”

The hall held its breath.

The opponent lunged first, confident, his strike fast and heavy. In the past, the old Akihiko would’ve faltered, stumbled back, eyes clouded with panic. But this Akihiko—this one stepped into the strike.

CRACK!

Their bokken clashed. Akihiko’s wrist didn’t tremble. His stance was rooted like stone.

Gasps spread immediately.

The opponent growled, pushing harder, raining down blow after blow. But Akihiko’s defense was flawless—measured, precise, his eyes calm. Then—so sudden it was almost invisible—Akihiko shifted.

A sidestep.

A twist of his hips.

WHACK!

His bokken struck clean across his opponent’s ribs. The boy stumbled, nearly knocked off the tatami.

Point.

The hall erupted in murmurs.

The old master’s jaw clenched, eyes widening.

That speed… that posture… impossible. He was nothing like this before.

From the sideline, Hayato smirked faintly, arms still folded, as though this was exactly what he expected.

The match resumed. This time, Akihiko didn’t just defend. He pressed forward. Each strike was fluid, carrying sharpness yet restraint, the mark of someone who had not only trained but grown. The boy who once lacked confidence now moved like someone who believed every strike had worth.

His opponent faltered under the pressure, his rhythm broken.

Then—

THWACK!

Final strike, clean to the shoulder.

“Point! Match—Akihiko!”

The referee’s voice rang through the hall.

Silence.

And at the back, the old master’s hands trembled on his knees, fingernails digging into his palms. Because he finally knew—this was the same boy. The same one he had scolded, dismissed, cast aside. And now, under someone else’s hand, that boy had become untouchable.

The other dojo masters leaned toward each other, voices lowered but urgent.

“Look at his technique. That’s not something you gain in such a short time unless—”

Their gazes slid toward the back of the room, where Hayato still stood, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“Don’t tell me… he’s training under him.”

“The prodigy himself took him in?!”

All at once, the pieces clicked. The way Akihiko’s every strike carried calm, the discipline etched into his posture, the confidence unshaken even under pressure. It was unmistakable—the mark of Hayato’s hand.

Students huddled together in hushed shock.

“Wait, wait, are you serious? That’s Hayato’s disciple?!”

“No wonder… no wonder he’s so different.”

“I heard he used to train under different master in other dojo.”

“But he… he was awful back then.”

The words cut like blades.

The murmurs in the crowd hadn’t settled when one of the senior dojo masters, a stern man with streaks of gray in his hair, rose from his seat and stepped forward. His presence commanded silence.

He looked from Akihiko—still catching his breath after his victory—to Hayato, standing at the edge of the tatami with calm authority.

With a deep nod, the old master’s rival spoke loud enough for the hall to hear.

“Hayato-dono… it’s truly remarkable. To take a boy others dismissed as hopeless and shape him into this—this disciplined warrior. It proves not only your skill, but your eye for talent.”

The words landed like a hammer.

The hall buzzed again, whispers sharper, more pointed. All of them glanced at Akihiko’s former master, whose face was beginning to pale beneath his forced composure.

The old master clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. Each word was a blade.

He wanted to bark that Akihiko had been worthless, a waste of time.

But what good would that do now?

The truth was right in front of them.

Akihiko wasn’t worthless. He never had been.

And the boy himself?

Akihiko stood there, bowing respectfully after his match, but his eyes sought only Hayato. Not once did they flicker toward the old master.

Hayato, unbothered by the weight of the room’s attention, inclined his head in acknowledgment of the praise. His smirk lingered as he replied smoothly, voice steady enough for all to hear.

“Akihiko was never hopeless. He only needed someone to believe in him.”

The crowd reacted with low hums of agreement. The shame on the old master’s face deepened, his pride crushed beneath every approving nod aimed at Hayato.

The old master’s eyes couldn’t leave Akihiko. Each movement of the boy’s spar—a clean strike, a perfect stance, the calm bow at the end—echoed like a slap to his pride.

He remembered the scrawny child he’d scorned, shoved aside, called hopeless. Yet now… that boy had become something else. Something unshakable.

Before he could fully gather his thoughts, a quiet voice broke through the heavy silence.

“Quite the sight, isn’t it?”

The old master turned his head slightly—Hayato stood there, arms folded, eyes fixed on Akihiko with a warmth that burned brighter than any sunlight.

“That’s the boy.” Hayato continued, his tone soft yet razor-sharp,

“Who back then you said was weak. Hopeless. Unworthy.”

The old master stiffened.

Hayato’s gaze finally shifted toward him, calm but unyielding.

“And yet here he stands. Stronger than any of your disciples. Not because of your cruelty… but in spite of it.”

The words cut deeper than a blade.

The old master’s throat tightened, but no rebuttal came.

How could there be, when the proof stood right before him?

Akihiko, bowing politely to his sparring partner, then turning toward his current master with quiet pride in his eyes.

Hayato’s voice lowered, almost a whisper, but heavy with conviction.

“You tried to break him. But instead, you forged him. And now, he’s mine.”

Akihiko approached them then, wiping sweat from his brow, his expression calm and steady. His gaze barely flickered to the man who had once been his nightmare before returning to Hayato’s side, as natural as breathing.

That simple choice—that simple closeness—spoke louder than any insult ever could.

And for the first time in years, the old master found himself wordless, his pride crumbling in silence.

Akihiko’s steps were steady as he crossed the floor, bokken still in hand, the sheen of sweat catching the light. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of hard training, but his posture was unshakably strong—every inch the samurai he had fought to become.

And then he saw him.

The old master.

For the briefest moment, Akihiko’s eyes froze—memories colliding all at once. The sneers. The shoves. The voice that had told him again and again that he was worthless. The laughter of the other students ringing in his ears.

Their gazes locked.

The old master’s expression wavered, caught between disbelief and something else—shame, perhaps, though he’d never admit it aloud.

But Akihiko… he didn’t flinch.

He didn’t bow.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked at him, steady and silent, the weight of two years of scars burning in his dark eyes.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned his head away. His gaze shifted to Hayato, who stood waiting with that calm, proud smile.

Without hesitation, Akihiko walked the last steps and stopped at Hayato’s side. His shoulders eased only then, as if he had stepped into the only place in the world that felt like home.

He bowed deeply, not to the man who once crushed him, but to the master who had lifted him up.

“Master!” His voice broke through the murmurs in the hall, clear and bright.

“Did you see that?? I… I did it right, didn’t I?!”

For the smallest breath, silence fell. All eyes flicked between Akihiko and the man who stood at his side.

Hayato’s lips curled into a smirk. Calm. Confident. Proud. He crossed his arms loosely over his chest, the sunlight catching on the tassel earrings that swayed gently with his movement.

“Un,” he said, voice steady but laced with warmth.

“You did it, Akihiko. As expected from my disciple.”

The words landed heavy—heavy enough that the old master stiffened where he stood, his face betraying the faintest flicker of disbelief.

But Akihiko didn’t even glance his way. His whole world was that smirk, that approval. His breath hitched, a grin breaking across his face as his eyes shone wet.

The old master had told him for years he was weak. Hopeless. Unworthy.

But here—here was Hayato, saying the opposite, not in secret but in front of everyone. Claiming him. Praising him.

Akihiko bowed his head once,

“Thank you, Master!”

The hall erupted with whispers, but to Akihiko, they didn’t exist. There was only him and Hayato—one pair of eyes that had always seen him, always lifted him, always believed.

And the old master, standing just a step away, was nothing more than a ghost.

The old master’s fists curled tight at his sides as he watched.

That boy—

That boy he had once shoved into the dirt, kicked out of the hall, left sobbing against the cold wall—

—was now standing tall in the center of the dojo, his eyes bright, his voice strong, calling out to another master.

And worse—

Hayato’s smirk, that calm voice of approval, cut sharper than any sword.

“As expected from my disciple.”

The old master’s chest burned. His jaw tightened until it ached.

Disciple?

The word rang in his skull like a hammer.

That boy was supposed to be worthless. That boy was supposed to break and disappear.

And yet—here he was. Glowing. Seen. Claimed.

The whispers around the hall only fed the storm inside him. He could hear them, admiration for Akihiko’s strike, murmurs about Hayato’s teaching. Whispers that once would have been his. Now stolen away.

A sour bile of fury and shame climbed his throat. His face flushed hot, but beneath the heat was something colder—something like fear.

Did I truly fail to see him? Did I cast away the gem that could have shone under me?

Before the thought could root too deep, Hayato’s voice broke the moment with that effortless authority only he carried.

“C’mon, Akihiko.”

He clapped his hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder, grounding him.

“Let’s go home.”

Akihiko’s head snapped up, face lit with a joy so raw it nearly split him open.

“Yes, Master!”

He ran to Hayato’s side, his bokken tucked close to his chest, like a child holding his most precious treasure.

And together—they walked out.

Just like that.

Not a glance.

Not a bow.

Not even the smallest acknowledgement of the old master’s presence.

Ignored.

Erased.

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The walk home was quiet, but not heavy—it was the kind of quiet where every lantern glow seemed warmer, every step a little lighter. Akihiko carried his bokken slung over his shoulder, still grinning to himself like he was afraid he’d wake up and find it all a dream.

Hayato, walking just a pace ahead, glanced sideways at him.

“If you keep smiling like that, Akihiko, people will think you’ve gone mad.”

Akihiko puffed his cheeks in mock protest.

“Let them! I don’t care! Master, I really won!”

His voice cracked with boyish excitement, and Hayato couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out.

When they reached the house, the servants were already waiting at the gate, word of Akihiko’s victory clearly having outrun them. Their faces lit up as they bowed, offering warm congratulations.

Akihiko fumbled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, unused to the attention—but Hayato answered smoothly, pride woven through every word,

“You should praise him well. He earned it.”

Inside, the lamps were lit, and the familiar smell of tea and warm rice filled the air. One of the older servants brought out a tray—simple dishes of miso soup, grilled fish, and steaming tea.

Akihiko devoured it with the hunger of someone who had given every ounce of strength in battle, while Hayato sipped his tea slowly, watching his disciple with quiet amusement.

“Slow down, you’ll choke.” he murmured.

With his mouth still full, Akihiko protested,

“But it’s sooo good!” He swallowed hard, then added,

“Besides, Master, I need energy for training again later, right?”

Hayato raised a brow.

“Training? Tonight?”

Akihiko straightened his back, determination flickering even through his exhaustion.

“Of course! Winning once isn’t enough. I want to be stronger, Master. I want you to be even prouder of me.”

For a long moment, Hayato just looked at him—this boy who once wept in silence, clutching his bokken as his only friend, now shining so brightly it almost hurt to look at. Then Hayato set his cup down and stood.

“Very well. But only light drills. You’ll collapse if I push you harder tonight.”

Akihiko leapt to his feet, eyes alight.

“Yes, Master!”

And so, after their meal, they stepped back into the yard under the night sky. The stars above were sharp and clear, the air crisp.

Inside, the house was hushed, most of the servants retiring for the night. Only two figures moved down the corridor—the flicker of lantern light casting their shadows across the shoji doors.

Akihiko practically bounced at Hayato’s side, eyes gleaming despite the exhaustion of the long day. His bokken rested against his shoulder, and though his body ached, his heart thrummed with anticipation.

Training at night with Hayato always felt… different. As though the world had quieted just for them.

“You’re walking too fast.” Hayato muttered without looking at him.

Akihiko grinned, slowing only a fraction.

“I can’t help it, Master. It’s… it feels like a secret every time we do this.”

Hayato’s lips twitched—so subtle Akihiko might have imagined it.

When they slid open the door to the training hall, cool air brushed their faces. The lanterns within were already lit, soft golden circles of light falling over polished wooden floors. Akihiko stepped inside first, his bare feet padding against the boards, and inhaled deeply. This hall smelled of cedar and sweat, of effort and memory.

They faced each other, bokken raised.

The silence was filled with the quiet hum of the night, then—

Crack!

The first strike rang sharp, echoing.

Akihiko’s laughter burst out when Hayato’s counter forced him back a step.

“You didn’t even wait for me to breathe, Master!”

Hayato’s answer came with another strike, calm and precise.

“You said you wanted to train, not talk.”

Akihiko blocked, their wooden blades crossing.

“Then I’ll do both!”

Their rhythm grew, quickening with each exchange—Akihiko darting forward with eager energy, Hayato flowing like water, every parry elegant, every strike a lesson. Yet there was no harshness tonight. Each correction Hayato made was softened by patience, adjusting Akihiko’s grip with a tap of his own hand, nudging his stance wider with the edge of his bokken.

At one point, Akihiko tripped over his own haste, tumbling forward. Before he could hit the floor, Hayato caught him by the wrist and righted him effortlessly.

Akihiko laughed breathlessly, cheeks flushed.

“See? You won’t let me fall.”

Hayato released him, expression unreadable but eyes faintly warmer in the lantern light.

“Then stop giving me reasons to catch you.”

The boy grinned wider, heart leaping, before attacking again with renewed fire.

Minutes stretched, sweat trickling down temples, the sharp sound of wood filling the hall. But beneath the training was something gentler—a rhythm that belonged only to them. A shared pulse. A bond forged not just in strikes and counters, but in the silence between them, the trust in every step.

When at last Hayato lowered his bokken, Akihiko’s chest rose and fell like a drum. He stood, panting, hair sticking to his forehead, but his smile never faded.

“Master…” he whispered, voice trembling with exhaustion and pride,

“I could train with you like this forever.”

Hayato looked at him for a long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand lifted—settling on Akihiko’s head, ruffling his damp hair.

“Then get stronger,” Hayato said softly.

“So you can keep up with me.”

Akihiko shut his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat, and nodded fiercely.

“I will, Master.”

The hall had gone quiet again, save for the faint creak of wood as Akihiko lowered his bokken. Sweat clung to his brow, chest heaving with every breath. His arms trembled, his grip loose from exhaustion, but his eyes—oh, his eyes still burned with light.

Not once had he managed to land a single strike. Every attempt had been deflected, every opening closed before he could seize it. And yet, instead of frustration, a smile spread slowly across his face.

“Unbelievable…” he murmured, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t touch you, Master. Not even once.”

Hayato leaned lightly on his own bokken, the faintest sheen of sweat on his skin but his breathing calm, steady—like he could’ve kept going for hours. His gaze lingered on Akihiko, sharp edges softened by something rare, something quiet.

Akihiko laughed, breathless but proud.

“But that just proves it, doesn’t it? You really are amazing. I’m glad… that I can keep chasing after someone like you.”

Hayato’s chest stirred with warmth at those words, something deep, almost unnameable. He didn’t answer immediately, only studied the boy before him—the disciple who had once been discarded, who now glowed with relentless spirit under his watch.

Finally, he spoke, voice low, carrying just a hint of fondness.

“You’re a strange one, Akihiko. Most would sulk at failing.”

Akihiko straightened, still smiling through his weariness.

“Why sulk? If I could hit you, then you wouldn’t be the Master I admire.”

For a fleeting second, Hayato’s lips curved—an actual smile, soft and proud. He stepped closer, placing a steady hand on Akihiko’s damp hair, ruffling it with unusual gentleness.

“Keep that spirit, It’s worth more than any strike.”

Akihiko’s throat tightened, his heart pounding with a different rhythm now. He nodded, fiercely, eyes shining.

“Yes, Master. I will.”

The lanterns flickered, shadows swaying around them, but the air in that hall felt warm, as though lit from within by something far stronger than firelight.

For Hayato, it was enough—that his disciple carried a spirit so unbreakable.

For Akihiko, it was everything—that his Master saw him, praised him, believed in him.

And so the night ended not in victory or defeat, but in something far greater—trust, pride, and the quiet promise of all the nights still to come.

The training hall doors slid shut behind them with a wooden thud, and the cool night air washed over their heated skin. The garden was still, lantern light swaying gently in the breeze, cicadas singing their endless chorus.

Akihiko stretched his arms above his head, a yawn slipping out despite his effort to hold it back. But the moment his arms dropped, his mouth was already running again, words tumbling over themselves in excitement.

“That counter you did earlier—when I thought I’d finally cornered you—I didn’t even see it coming! And then when I tried to press in, you already knew where I was going. How do you do that, Master? It’s like you can read my mind!”

Hayato walked a step ahead, his hands tucked loosely behind his back. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer an explanation—just let the boy’s voice fill the night, steady footfalls accompanying every burst of enthusiasm.

“Ah, and when I tried to go low—” another yawn broke through, muffled by his hand this time, though he still pressed on, stubbornly.

“—even though I thought I was faster tonight, you still got me! I swear, next time I’ll be the one to surprise you. Just you wait!”

Hayato glanced sidelong at him, catching the faint flush of fatigue painting his cheeks, the way his steps wavered ever so slightly. Despite the exhaustion, Akihiko’s eyes glittered brighter than any lantern in the courtyard.

A warmth stirred in Hayato’s chest. He said nothing still, only allowed the corners of his lips to tilt upward—the kind of smile so rare it would have stunned anyone else in the household to see it.

By the time they reached the inner veranda, Akihiko’s words slowed, another yawn stealing his momentum. He blinked, sheepish, rubbing at his eyes but grinning nonetheless.

Hayato let him ramble to the very end, silent but listening, carrying each word like it mattered. And when Akihiko finally fell quiet, swaying just slightly on his feet, Hayato’s voice broke the silence at last.

“You’ve done enough for tonight.” he murmured, tone soft, but steady.

“Rest, Akihiko. Tomorrow, we’ll see if you can keep that promise of surprising me.”

Akihiko laughed quietly, drowsy but full of fire still.

“Yes, Master… I’ll definitely do it.”

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The paper doors of his chamber slid shut with a soft click, and silence settled around him. Only the faint glow of the lantern kept the shadows at bay, casting gentle light across the neatly folded futon waiting for him.

Akihiko let out a long breath, his bokken still in hand as if reluctant to part with it. He set it carefully beside the wall before kneeling on the tatami. His body ached from head to toe, his muscles screaming from hours of training, but his spirit… his spirit was glowing.

He pressed his hands together, bowing his head deeply, the words forming in a hushed whisper.

“Gods above… Father, Mother… I’m trying, every night. I hope you can see me. I’m not that useless boy anymore. I’m giving everything I have—because now, I have someone worth giving it to.”

His throat tightened, but the smile stayed, trembling on his lips.

“Please… let me keep standing by his side. Let me keep being worthy of calling him ‘Master.’ And if you can…be proud of me too.”

For a long moment, only silence answered him.

Yet somehow, his heart felt lighter, steadier, as if someone somewhere had heard.

Akihiko crawled onto his futon, pulling the blanket over his exhausted body. His eyes closed almost instantly, lashes damp with the quiet tears he hadn’t realized he shed. And just before sleep claimed him, a thought flickered through his drowsy mind—

“I did my best again tonight… Master saw it. That’s enough.”

And with a faint, contented smile still on his lips, Akihiko drifted into sleep, dreams carrying him gently away.

Hayato lingered in the corridor, the faint lamplight brushing across the wooden floor as he walked past Akihiko’s chamber. He meant to keep going—to head back to his own room and rest—but something made him stop.

From behind the paper door, he caught the muffled cadence of Akihiko’s voice. Quiet, earnest, almost trembling. He couldn’t make out the words clearly, but he didn’t need to. The tone alone was enough.

Hayato’s hand hovered just short of the doorframe. He closed his eyes, listening, his chest tightening with a strange ache.

He knew what kind of boy Akihiko had been when they met—hungry for approval, carrying scars too heavy for his young shoulders. To hear him now, still praying in the dark for strength…

Hayato drew in a slow breath, steadying the flare of protectiveness that welled inside.

“You don’t need to beg the heavens anymore, Akihiko.” he thought, a faint smile curving his lips.

“You already have me watching you. And I—” his gaze softened toward the shut door,

“—I am proud.”

He let the silence linger a moment longer, as if his thoughts might reach through the wood and paper. Then, with a quiet step, he turned and walked down the hall, his back straight, his expression calm again.

But in his chest, the warmth stayed.

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The morning sun stretched its golden fingers across the tatami floor as Akihiko quietly slid open the shoji door. He carried a small tray with their simple breakfast—miso soup, grilled fish, and rice—his steps careful, almost ceremonial.

“Good morning, Hayato-sama.” he greeted softly, bowing just a little lower than necessary.

Hayato, who had been tightening the cloth around his waist in preparation for training, turned his head and gave a faint smile.

“You woke up earlier than me again.”

Akihiko’s lips curved in that familiar, boyish grin, the one that still carried traces of the timid child he had been.

“I wanted to surprise you!”

After their meal, they stepped outside. The training ground behind their house was drenched in morning dew, the wooden floor of the dōjō slightly slippery. Hayato drew his sword with a calm, fluid motion. Akihiko followed—his movements sharper, cleaner than ever before, though still rough at the edges.

Their blades met with a metallic ring, the sound echoing through the trees.

Clack!

Clack!

Clack!

Each strike rang louder than the last, echoing through the early morning mist.

Hayato stood firmly, calm and composed as always, while Akihiko’s movements flowed with strength and precision.

His once hesitant strikes now carried confidence, his footwork steady and sharp. The boy who used to tremble holding a bokken now moved like a true warrior.

"Good… very good."

Hayato muttered, deflecting Akihiko’s swift attack with a single, fluid motion.

But Akihiko didn’t stop there—

He spun, switching stances mid-strike, the blade cutting the air with a sharp whoosh. His eyes locked on Hayato’s, determined, glowing with passion.

Hayato parried another strike, and this time, he pushed back harder, testing him.

Akihiko slid backward on the dirt, his arms trembling slightly from the force—

But instead of faltering, he planted his foot firmly and charged again, shouting with a strong voice.

"I won’t lose this time, Master!!"

A faint smile curved Hayato’s lips as he blocked once more.

His disciple’s growth was undeniable.

Every movement Akihiko made was proof of two years of relentless training, two years of carrying the will to survive and to live.

"Akihiko… you’ve grown into a true Samurai."

Akihiko, panting heavily, sweat dripping down his face, looked up at Hayato with wide eyes.

For a second, his chest tightened, not from exhaustion, but from the overwhelming weight of his master’s words.

Then, slowly, he smiled, a trembling but radiant smile.

"I… I’ll keep getting stronger, Master. I promise!"

Again and again, Akihiko attacked, his blade carrying the desperation of two years of effort, his heart screaming to prove himself worthy.

"HAAAAAH!!"

Each strike was sharper, each movement more refined. But Hayato, calm as ever, read every move like an open book. His defense was flawless, his counters precise.

Finally, Akihiko lunged forward, putting all his strength into a decisive strike, only for Hayato’s blade to flick, faster than lightning. With a single move, Hayato disarmed him. Akihiko’s katana spun through the air and stabbed into the dirt several steps away.

The courtyard fell silent.

Akihiko stood frozen, chest heaving, his hands shaking from the clash.

He had given everything… yet once again, he couldn’t touch his master.

His shoulders slumped, his breath hitching in frustration.

But then Hayato lowered his blade, sliding it back into its sheath. His voice carried both firmness and pride.

"You still cannot defeat me… but, Akihiko—

Hayato’s eyes softened as they met his disciple’s trembling form,

 —your spirit, your growth, is undeniable. That is what makes you a Samurai."

It hit him like a wave.

Two years ago, the same mistake would’ve earned him ridicule, humiliation. Now… the same mistake became a stepping stone. Hayato’s correction wasn’t a blade to cut him down—it was a hand lifting him higher.

His grip on the bokken tightened, his chest trembling.

In his mind’s ear, he heard his younger self whispering outside that dojo, tears soaking his sleeve.

"I wonder… if someday someone will be proud of me…"

And here he was. Hayato’s gaze steady on him, filled with unspoken pride. The answer. The proof.

Akihiko’s throat tightened. He bowed deeply toward his master, not out of formality, but reverence, gratitude.

Hayato tilted his head slightly. This wasn’t just routine courtesy. Something was tucked into that bow, something heavy.

“...Akihiko,” he said quietly.

“What’s with that deep bow? Did I miss something?”

“...Nothing, Master. I just… felt grateful. For your guidance.” Akihiko managed at last, forcing a small smile.

Hayato’s eyes softened immediately. He stepped closer, ruffling Akihiko’s hair with that easy, familiar warmth.

“Grateful? You don’t need to bow like that for gratitude, Akihiko. Just show me with your blade—that’s more than enough.”

Akihiko’s chest swelled, eyes burning as he bit down on his trembling lip. To Hayato, it was simple. To him, it was everything.

"Hayato-sama…! I will not stop. No matter how many times I lose… one day, I will stand equal to you!"

Hayato, for the first time in that day, allowed himself a faint, proud smile.

"Good. That’s the disciple I chose."

Hayato stood tall, his gaze lingering on his disciple who still trembled with tears in his eyes. That determination, that burning refusal to give up despite loss after loss, it struck something deep inside Hayato.

For a brief moment, the courtyard blurred before his eyes. Instead of Akihiko, he saw his younger self, bloodied, worn out, knees shaking in the dirt of a different training ground.

And before him, a towering figure, his own master. The man who had once disarmed him in the exact same way, with the same calmness in his eyes.

"Hayato… strength is not about winning. Strength is about standing again, no matter how many times you fall. Remember that."

The memory echoed like a whisper from the past.

Hayato’s fingers, still resting lightly on his sword hilt, tightened as he inhaled deeply. The sad smile from earlier returned, but this time there was a glint of nostalgia in his eyes.

He thought,

Master… I finally understand what you meant. And now… I will pass it on to him.

His gaze softened even more as he looked at Akihiko, who had just bowed deeply before him.

"You’ve grown well, Akihiko." Hayato said quietly, but there was weight in his voice—a warmth that carried not only his pride as a teacher, but also his gratitude as a man who once walked that same painful path.

Akihiko bowed low, sweat dripping from his jaw, chest still rising and falling fast after their duel. He expected a harsh critique, another correction of his stance, or maybe even silence.

But instead—Hayato’s words came soft, heavy with meaning.

“You’ve grown well, Akihiko.”

Akihiko froze. His breath caught, and slowly, he lifted his head.

For the first time… he saw something different in Hayato’s eyes.

Not just pride.

Not just discipline.

There was something deeper—a faraway glimmer, a faint sadness mixed with warmth, as if his master was seeing someone else overlapping with him.

Akihiko’s lips parted, wanting to ask—

Why are you looking at me like that, Hayato-sama?

But no words left his mouth. His throat tightened, and instead, he just stood there, staring.

Hayato, noticing the unspoken question in his disciple’s eyes, gave the faintest, sad smile.

But he said nothing. He only turned away, sliding his sword back into its sheath, leaving Akihiko with a heart full of wonder and confusion.

What was that look just now…?

Akihiko thought, pressing his trembling hands together.

Was he… remembering something? Or someone?

He couldn’t ask.

Not yet.

“That’s enough. Take a break.”

So instead, Akihiko just followed silently, his heart carrying that fleeting glimpse of his master’s hidden sorrow, burning with the need to understand it one day.

The grass was still damp from the morning dew, and the faint smell of cut bamboo lingered in the air after their sparring.

Hayato sat cross-legged, catching his breath, while his gaze followed the boy who had grown so much in just two years.

Stronger. Faster. More skilled.

Yet in the end, still the same Akihiko.

The young disciple plopped down beside him, cheeks flushed from the training, chest still rising and falling. For a moment he sat upright, but then—without even asking—he shifted, lowered himself slowly, and rested his head on Hayato’s lap. His hair tickled against the fabric of his hakama as he nuzzled into the warmth like a little child seeking comfort.

Hayato couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped his chest.

This boy… even after all this time..

“Again?” Hayato murmured, raising a brow but making no move to stop him.

Akihiko only nuzzled against the fabric of his master’s hakama, eyes fluttering shut.

“It’s comfortable here.”

With a soft sigh, he raised his hand and ran his fingers through Akihiko’s hair, combing it gently. The strands were damp with sweat, but to Hayato, they were softer than silk. He let his fingertips linger at the crown, then slid them down to the nape in a soothing rhythm.

“You’ve grown a lot, Akihiko.”

Hayato said quietly, his voice rich with pride and tenderness.

“Every strike today was sharper than yesterday. You’re strong now. Truly strong.”

Akihiko didn’t answer. His lips curved into a small, wide smile, and his eyes closed as if the world around him no longer existed. All he wanted was to drown in the gentleness of his master’s voice and the warmth of that steady hand stroking his hair. The boy pressed his face deeper into Hayato’s lap, nuzzling with the same innocent habit he had never outgrown.

Hayato watched him in silence for a moment, his chest tightening with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel. Relief. Gratitude. Something close to love.

Even after becoming this strong, he hasn’t changed here…  He’s still that boy who sought shelter by my side. Still innocent. Still Akihiko.

Unable to stop himself, Hayato’s smile softened even further. His hand kept pampering, brushing away stray strands, sometimes even pausing to pat Akihiko’s head like he was the most precious thing in the world.

“Rest now. I’ll always be here.”

Hayato whispered again, his thumb tracing gently along Akihiko’s temple.

And Akihiko, though he didn’t say a single word, melted completely into his Master’s lap. His smile widening, his trembling breath easing, as if Hayato’s lap and voice were the safest place in the world.

After a long moment of quiet, Akihiko’s small voice broke through the gentle hush.

“Hayato-sama… why are you… so kind to me?” he whispered, almost afraid to believe it.

His voice trembled slightly, unsure if this was real or just a dream.

Hayato paused, his hand resting lightly on Akihiko’s back. He leaned down just a fraction, brushing a lock of hair away from the boy’s damp forehead from the faint sweat of training, and replied softly, his voice a quiet warmth.

“Because… you deserve it, Akihiko. You’ve worked so hard, and you’ve never stopped… not even when the world seemed against you. That’s why I’m kind to you. And because… I want to protect you, always.”

Akihiko’s chest tightened at those words. He hugged Hayato a little tighter, nuzzling into his lap more, as if trying to memorize the sensation of being loved, truly and completely.

“I… I never thought anyone would care for me like this…” he admitted softly, voice muffled against the folds of Hayato’s haori.

Hayato’s fingers pressed slightly against Akihiko’s hair, his thumb brushing gently against the nape of his neck.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered, and there was a gentle firmness in his voice that carried promise, reassurance, and an unspoken vow.

Akihiko shifted slightly in Hayato’s lap, tilting his head up just enough to peek at his Master’s face. His small hands still held lightly onto Hayato’s waist, and his eyes—wide, curious, and filled with that bright little spark—gazed up.