Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hakuji stirred slowly, blinking the last traces of sleep from his eyes. The ceiling above him was familiar, the wooden beams darkened with age, carrying the faint scent of smoke and tatami that clung to the house. For a moment, he simply breathed, and then he felt it, the soft, steady weight pressed gently against his side.

Turning his head, he caught sight of Koyuki, her hair unbound and scattered wildly across the pillow, strands sticking out in every direction as if she had been fighting dreams all night. Her face, however, was the opposite of chaotic, her lips parted slightly, her breathing even, and her expression serene in the tender light of dawn.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth before he realized it. Even after all this time, the sight still left his chest aching with a happiness he’d once thought impossible. That he could wake up to this, her warmth against him, her presence so close, was nothing short of a miracle.

He lingered for several minutes, shifting just enough to tuck himself closer to her, savoring the quiet rhythm of her breathing. The weight of her arm, draped lazily across him, made him feel grounded, safe. There was a part of him, the part shaped by years of loneliness and loss, that whispered he should never move again, just stay here forever and guard this fragile peace.

But he knew the day would not wait. Carefully, he slipped from beneath the futon, his movements deliberate so as not to disturb her. Koyuki murmured softly in her sleep, rolling into the warm space he had left, and he paused at the sight before leaving the room, closing the shoji door.

The house was quiet, the wooden floor cool beneath his bare feet as he padded toward the kitchen. Built along the side of the house, the room was half-open to the morning air, its floor a mix of packed earth and stone. A hearth of dark, smooth rocks stood against the wall, the faint scent of ash lingering from last night’s fire. Clay jars and baskets of vegetables rested neatly along the edges, everything in its place from years of habit.

Hakuji put on the sandals and crouched by the hearth, adding fresh kindling before coaxing a flame to life. Soon, the soft crackle of fire filled the silence, and he set a pot of rice to cook, the steam rising in gentle puffs. With practiced motions, he began chopping vegetables, the rhythm of the knife soothing in its simplicity. He set slices of meat onto a flat stone over the fire, the first whispers of sizzling filling the air.

Though Koyuki’s father often insisted on helping with the morning meal, Hakuji preferred these moments. The hush of dawn was his sanctuary, a time to gather his thoughts, to reflect on how far his life had shifted and to plan all the things he had to do along the day.

He reached for the clay barrel set against the wall, drawing clear water into a kettle and setting it to boil for tea. The faint sound of footsteps reached his ears then, wooden sandals against the outer walkway that ran along the house. He didn’t need to turn, he already knew who it was.

“Hakuji.” Came the familiar, gravelly voice of Keizo. He smiled faintly, still focused on the fire.

“You should have woken me.” The older man said, entering the kitchen with his usual air of exasperation. His hair was tied back, though strands had already slipped free, and his kimono hung a little loosely over his frame.

“I meant to, Shishio.” Hakuji replied smoothly, his expression composed though amusement flickered in his eyes. “But by the time I remembered, the rice was already on the fire.”

The elder narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “Mm. That’s the same excuse you gave yesterday.” Hakuji shrugged lightly, turning the meat so it wouldn’t burn.

“You’re far too stubborn for your own good.” Keizo muttered, though the faint curve at his lips betrayed him. “At least leave me the rest of it. Go wake Koyuki, breakfast will be ready soon enough.”

“If you insist.” Hakuji said with a respectful dip of his head. He knew from experience there was no swaying him once he’d made up his mind.

Rising, he poured water into a small cup and set it on a tray, adding a folded paper packet of Koyuki’s medicine beside it. He picked it up carefully, pausing just long enough to glance back at the hearth, satisfied that her father had already taken up the ladle to tend the rice.

The corridor outside was bathed in the pale glow of early morning. Wooden planks creaked softly under his steps as he made his way along the engawa, the open walkway that overlooked the small garden. He paused briefly, his gaze catching on the view, the faint shimmer of dew across the moss, the soft rustle of leaves as a breeze stirred the branches, the first trills of birdsong greeting the rising sun.

Moments like this still felt fragile to him, like glass that might shatter if he blinked. He breathed deeply, grounding himself in the scents of damp earth and morning air, then continued toward her room.

Sliding the shoji door open quietly, he stepped inside. Koyuki was still asleep, though her earlier stillness had vanished; she had sprawled across the futon, arms stretched wide as though determined to claim every inch. The sight made him chuckle under his breath.

He set the tray down carefully beside him and knelt near her, leaning close to study her face in the dim light. A strand of hair had fallen across her brow, and with gentle fingers, he brushed it back, letting his hand linger a moment longer than necessary.

Her breathing was slow, steady, the rise and fall of her chest a rhythm he could have watched forever. It mesmerized him, filled him with a quiet awe that made his heart ache. Sometimes, in moments like this, fear gnawed at him, whispering that he might wake to find it all gone, that this life was nothing more than a cruel dream.

But as he looked at her, radiant even in sleep, he pushed that fear aside. He was here. She was here. And this was real.

“Wake up, Koyuki.” He murmured softly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Or your father will blame me again for letting breakfast get cold.”

Koyuki stirred faintly, her lashes fluttering as though fighting against the pull of sleep. A soft murmur slipped past her lips before her eyes slowly opened, hazy at first until they settled with ease on the figure kneeling close.

“Hakuji…” Her voice was a whisper, tender, still wrapped in drowsiness. She stretched her arms out toward him, inviting him to embrace her.

He did not hesitate, with quiet devotion, he leaned forward and gathered her into his arms, her body warm and slight against his chest. For a moment, the rest of the world ceased to matter, there was only her, the gentle curve of her cheek against his shoulder, the steady beat of her heart.

“Good morning.” She murmured softly into his haori, her words carrying the delicate weight of intimacy.

“Good morning.” He replied, the smile in his voice unmistakable. Pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, he added gently. “You should take your medicine before breakfast.”

At this, her brows drew together, and she let herself fall back against the futon with the faintest pout, lips pursed in mock defiance. The sight made him laugh quietly, unable to help himself.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He teased, setting the tray closer. “If you pout any harder, your face will stay that way.”

She turned her head aside dramatically, but the corner of her mouth twitched with a smile she tried to hide. With a sigh that was more playful than reluctant, she let him help her sit upright.

“Here.” He said, holding the small paper packet and the cup of water. “You know it will be easier if you drink after.”

Obediently, she took the medicine, wrinkling her nose slightly at the taste before drinking the rest of the water to wash it down. When she had finished, he set the cup aside and reached for her kimono, holding it open carefully so she could slip her arms through. His hands were steady as he tied the sash, careful to adjust it so it rested comfortably.

Her hair was next, the dark strands slipping silkily through his fingers as he gathered them into her usual neat style. He lingered as he worked, imagining how it cascaded down her back in waves, how it shone in the sunlight. For a heartbeat he was lost in thought, his heart tightening with quiet affection.

“You’re staring.” Koyuki said softly, tilting her head.

He blinked, caught, then smiled sheepishly. “Just thinking that it would suit you if you grew it longer.”

She laughed quietly, shaking her head. “Then you’d spend twice as long fixing it every morning.”

“Not a problem.” He said easily. “I’d do it gladly.”

When he had finished, he stepped back and asked. “Do you want me to carry you to the sitting room? You might still be a little unsteady.”

She shook her head, determination bright in her eyes. “I want to walk on my own. I’m stronger now, I can manage.”

His lips curved in a faint mock frown. “You know… I hardly get the chance to carry you anymore.”

Koyuki’s eyes softened, and she reached to squeeze his hand. “Then tonight…” She promised, her voice warm with quiet mischief. “I’ll fall asleep while we sit watching the garden together, and you can carry me to bed. Will that do?”

That earned her a low chuckle, the sound warm as he nodded. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He rose, helping her carefully to her feet, his arm steady around her as they moved into the hallway. The wooden floor creaked gently beneath their steps, and the air carried the faint aroma of grilled meat and rice. As it grew stronger, Koyuki’s stomach betrayed her with a sudden, audible growl.

Her cheeks flushed instantly. “Don’t laugh!” She pleaded, covering her face with her free hand.

Hakuji’s laughter spilled out despite himself, light and unrestrained. “I can’t help it if your stomach is very honest.”

“You’re cruel.” She muttered, though her voice carried more affection than embarrassment.

Together they reached the sitting room, where low trays had already been set out upon the tatami, each with neat portions of rice, grilled vegetables, and fish arranged with care. Keizo was already seated, waiting with his usual composed posture. He turned as they entered, his gaze softening when it fell on Koyuki.

“Did you sleep well?” He asked.

“Yes, father.” She replied warmly, settling herself with Hakuji’s help before folding her hands in her lap. “I feel well today, stronger.”

“That’s good.” He said, nodding with satisfaction before glancing briefly at Hakuji as if to say, ‘thank you for making sure of it’.

Hakuji lowered himself across from her, his tray aligned with hers. The three of them began to eat, the quiet clatter of chopsticks and the soft hum of morning conversation filling the room. They spoke of small things, the colder weather lately, the way the plum tree in the garden had begun to bud, the delivery expected from the market in town. It was ordinary, trivial… and that was precisely what made it precious.

At one point, Koyuki lifted her gaze to Hakuji, curiosity shining there. “Will you visit your father’s grave today?” She asked gently.

Hakuji paused briefly, setting down his chopsticks. His expression softened, tinged with reverence. “Yes. I plan to go in the morning. It shouldn’t take long, half a day at most.” He reached across the table, brushing the back of his fingers against hers in a fleeting, tender touch. “But I’ll be home before you realise it.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she lowered her gaze with a small smile, her heart thudding softly. Her father cleared his throat, glancing toward the garden through the open doors. “Perhaps another day.” He suggested, his tone thoughtful. “Look there, those clouds are gathering quickly. It may rain before long, and I’d rather not have you returning soaked in this cold.”

Hakuji followed his gaze, indeed, dark clouds hung on the horizon, shading the morning light. He was about to argue that it wouldn’t be a problem if he left early, but when he turned back, he caught Koyuki’s worried expression.

The protest caught in his throat. Instead, he gave a small nod. “You’re right, it can wait. I’ll stay home today.”

Kaizo smiled faintly, approval in his eyes. “Good. Then we’ll make use of the time. Come to the dojo after breakfast, we’ll train. Better to keep your strength sharp.”

“Of course.” Hakuji replied with quiet respect.

When the meal was finished, they began clearing the trays. Koyuki insisted on helping, her stubbornness shining through even as she reached for the dishes. But Hakuji intercepted her, placing a steaming cup of tea into her hands instead.

“Stay here.” He said firmly, though his tone was gentle. “Enjoy this while it’s hot. If you need a blanket, just call for me.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the warmth of the cup in her palms and the quiet sincerity in his eyes silenced her. With a soft huff, she gave in, letting her father help her to the engawa. There, she settled at the edge of the wooden walkway, gazing out over the small garden as she took delicate sips of tea.

By the time Hakuji finished in the kitchen, the sound of laughter drifted down the hall.
Stepping into the doorway, he saw them, Koyuki, her face lit with a smile as she chatted animatedly, her father’s deep laugh answering hers.

Hakuji froze in place, his hand resting lightly against the frame of the door. The sight filled him with a warmth so deep it was almost painful. After years of emptiness, after a life spent in shadows, this simple image, of family, of peace, of laughter, was more than he had ever dared to dream.

The man’s sharp eyes caught Hakuji lingering at the door, and with a voice both firm and familiar, he called out, “Hakuji! Come here, time to prepare for today’s training.”

Hakuji rose immediately, bowing respectfully. “Yes, Shishio.” He said, his voice calm, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.

He turned toward Koyuki, offering her a hand as he helped her to her feet. “Do you want to stay here and rest a while? Perhaps read?” He asked gently.

Koyuki shook her head, eyes brightening. “Can I come with you this time? I want to see the training today!”

Hakuji and Keizo exchanged a brief look, a mixture of hesitation and amusement passing between them. Hakuji knew that allowing her would require constant vigilance, yet the sparkle in her eyes was irresistible, so he sighed softly.

“Alright.” He relented. “You can come… but you must stay right next to the stove at all times, and I mean it. No wandering. Keep yourself wrapped in a blanket and stay warm.”

Her father, nodding approvingly, moved to one of the wooden cabinets. “Here, this should help.” He said, pulling out a soft, thick blanket and wrapping it snugly around Koyuki’s shoulders. The warmth enveloped her, a cocoon of comfort that made her smile.

Hakuji and Keizo then withdrew to change into their training uniforms, and when they were ready, they stepped toward the garden, the gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. Koyuki walked between them, flanked carefully on each side to ensure she didn’t stumble.

Reaching the dojo’s main building, they seated her near the stove, an old, iron brazier designed to warm the air inside a little. Hakuji adjusted the fire until the near zone held a gentle, steady warmth. Koyuki nestled into the blanket, the soft heat seeping into her bones. He knelt before her briefly, lowering his gaze to meet hers.

“Tell me if you need anything.” He said quietly, brushing a strand of hair back from her forehead. Then, almost instinctively, he pressed a chaste kiss to her temple, letting his hand linger for a moment longer, caressing the curve of her cheek. She flushed faintly beneath his touch, her eyes glimmering in the firelight.

He rose and straightened, casting a glance at his Shishio, who now wore an expression tinged with amusement at the small display of tenderness. Without further ado, they began warming up.

Hakuji moved through stretches and rotations, muscles loosening and joints awakening to the rhythm ingrained over years of disciplined training. There was no hesitation in his movements, years of frustration, anger, and loss had been tempered by the routine, directed into purpose. His mind was clearer now, focused not on vengeance or bitterness, but on skill, precision, and control.

When they assumed combat positions, facing each other, the air between them seemed to hum with tension and history. Hakuji lunged forward first, his movements swift, calculated, an elegant blend of power and discipline.

They traded fists and parries, a fluid dance of motion, Hakuji’s body moving with a controlled intensity he had honed over countless mornings. Amid the flurry of movement, his eyes flicked toward the corner of the room.

Koyuki sat nestled in her blanket, watching with wide, bright eyes, entirely absorbed in their display. For a fleeting instant, he was caught by her gaze. A warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with exertion, and before he could pull back, a firm hand gripped the collar of his uniform, yanking him down onto the floor with a thud.

Keizo laughed, a deep, booming sound. “Focus, Hakuji! You can’t afford to be distracted during a fight!”

Hakuji’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “I… I wasn’t distracted!” He protested, turning his head to avoid the teasing gaze.

The older man chuckled again, helping him to his feet. “Let’s take a break. Catch your breath.”

Hakuji nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. He strode to the water barrel, only to find it empty. “Shishio.” He said. “I’ll go fetch water from the well.”

Stepping outside, the chill of the morning air brushed against his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. He walked across the gravel path to the side of the garden where the old stone well stood. The scent of damp earth and morning herbs clung to the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the wooden dojo behind him.

He lowered the bucket carefully into the well, letting the rope unwind until the bucket submerged with a soft splash. Pulling it back up, he set it on the edge of the well, hands gripping the rope to steady it.

He paused for a moment, gazing skyward. The clouds hung low, stubborn, unyielding, blocking the sun. A soft sigh escaped him, visiting his father’s grave would have to wait, the weather offered no favor today. Still, he found a quiet satisfaction in the thought that there was no rush, he could take his time, live fully, and face the future without regrets.

Breathing in deeply, he let the air fill his lungs, seeing his breath form a brief, misty cloud before vanishing. The scent of wet earth and grass was grounding, comforting. But then… something else caught his attention.

A faint, artificial odor drifted through the crisp air, subtle and almost imperceptible, but familiar enough to make him pause. He inhaled slowly, letting the scent register. It emanated from the water bucket he had just drawn, soft, elusive, yet unmistakable.

Hakuji knelt slightly, bringing his nose closer to the water. The subtle aroma grew stronger, concentrated in the clear liquid. The water looked unchanged, colorless and pure as far as the eye could tell, but his senses, honed by years of survival and experience, recognized something amiss.

“Hmm…” He murmured, voice low, almost to himself. His eyes narrowed as he studied the bucket. “This… this isn’t right.”

The wind rustled through the garden, carrying the familiar mix of soil and greenery, yet the strange, synthetic trace remained, anchored to the water. His fingers gripped the rope tightly, knuckles whitening as he considered the possibilities.

For the first time in years, he felt that old twinge of unease, the instinctual warning that had kept him alive on the streets. Whatever this was, he would handle it. Not for himself, but for Koyuki, for her father, for the fragile life they had managed to build together.

Hakuji’s body tensed immediately, muscles coiling as though anticipating an unseen threat. His mind raced, a torrent of thoughts colliding with one another at breakneck speed. The faint, almost imperceptible scent he had detected now weighed heavily in his consciousness. Without thinking, he let go of the bucket, the water spilling in a dark arc across the gravel and dampening the stones with a hiss.

He scanned the surroundings frantically. The garden was empty, save for the whisper of wind through the trees and the faint rustle of leaves. His eyes darted across every shadow, every nook, but saw nothing. His hands were shaking slightly as he drew the bucket from the well once more, lifting it with precise caution and inspecting the water meticulously. The verdict was the same, the faint chemical aroma persisted, subtle but unmistakable, a silent alarm he couldn’t ignore.

His shock was so overwhelming that he didn’t notice the approach of a familiar presence until a voice called sharply behind him.

“Hakuji! What’s taking you so long?”

He barely had time to turn before a firm hand rested on his shoulder. The touch jolted him, momentarily grounding him in reality. Slowly, he pivoted, eyes wide and pale, still reeling from the realization of what he had just discovered. His expression was unreadable, a mix of disbelief, fear and anger.

“What is it?” Keizo asked, reaching for the bucket. But Hakuji reacted instinctively, swatting the hand away with a swift motion, making the bucket clatter to the ground once more. His chest heaved slightly, breath shallow, as he struggled to articulate the alarm gnawing at him.

“The water… something’s wrong…” He finally managed, voice tight. “We… we can’t…!”

The words seemed to ripple through the air, setting the older man on edge. He straightened immediately, eyes sharp. “Hakuji… calm yourself. We’ll handle this.” He said, grasping the bucket firmly. He turned, his voice lowering slightly but still commanding. “Take Koyuki home, quietly. Don’t tell her anything yet.”

As he moved, he stole a glance back. The man had returned to the well, crouching low as he drew fresh water, inspecting it carefully before placing it securely aside. Hakuji’s gut twisted at the realization of how close they had come to disaster.

As soon as he reached the dojo doors, he opened them and quickly scanned the room, finding Koyuki in the same spot next to the stove. As soon as their gazes met, he could see that she instantly realized his altered state. “Hakuji… what’s wrong?” she asked softly, her voice filled with genuine worry.

He squeezed her hand gently, offering a reassuring, if forced, smile. “It’s nothing, Koyuki. Just the cold has gotten to me a little… that’s all. Your father decided to leave training for today, so I’ll take you inside now.”

Her gaze lingered on him, skeptical yet trusting, before she nodded and allowed him to support her as they moved outside and towards the house. The walk back to the house was tense yet measured. Koyuki’s small hand remained in his, her eyes following him with quiet concern. The warmth of the interior welcomed them, a stark contrast to the sharp chill outside.

Once inside, Hakuji guided her to the futon. Koyuki settled with a book in her hands, curling slightly into the softness of the fabric. He sat beside her, the quiet weight of companionship settling between them. She began reading aloud, her voice gentle, drawing him in, and he leaned close, his eyes following the words but more captivated by the sound of her voice, the soft rhythm of her breath, the simple intimacy of the moment.

Minutes passed in calm quiet, each word she spoke a balm to his frayed nerves, until a subtle sound at the door made him glance up. The wood creaked slightly as it opened, and there stood Keizo. His expression was serious, but he tried to soften it with a small, practiced smile.

“Hakuji.” He said, stepping inside with measured caution. “Could you help me move some things to the shed? I could use an extra pair of hands.”

Hakuji’s posture straightened immediately. “Of course.” He replied, standing and giving Koyuki’s shoulder a light, protective brush as he did so. “Stay here, alright? I’ll be right back.”

Koyuki nodded, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and concern, clutching her book to her chest. “Yes, come back soon.” She murmured softly.

“I always do.” Hakuji said, offering a small, reassuring smile before following her father toward the back of the house. His senses remained alert, every step measured as he prepared to handle whatever the day might bring, aware now of the delicate balance between peace and danger in the life he had fought so hard to protect.

Together, the two men stepped into the yard once more, the morning sun still struggling behind the clouds, their movements careful but efficient as they began shifting the supplies. Hakuji’s mind, however, remained partly at the well, the lingering scent of danger still sharp in his memory.

Hakuji and his Shishio moved silently down the corridor, their footsteps muffled against the polished wooden floors. He kept his senses sharp, ears tuned for any sound that might betray Koyuki’s presence. He didn’t want to alarm her, not with the strange discovery from the well still pressing heavily in his mind.

As they entered the kitchen, his eyes immediately fell on the bucket from the well, resting innocuously at the side of the room. The faint, almost imperceptible scent lingered, teasing at the edges of his awareness. He narrowed his eyes, leaning slightly closer to sniff the air around it.

“Shishio…” He murmured quietly, his voice low enough that it would carry no further than their immediate vicinity. “There’s something… I can’t tell exactly what it is, but I recognize the smell… it’s faint, artificial… like something I smelled in the back alleys when I was a kid.”

Keizo’s brow furrowed. “You mean… like a chemical? Something added deliberately?”

Hakuji shook his head slightly, tension tightening his shoulders. “I don’t know… I can’t recall where it was that I smelled something similar.” His hand hovered over the bucket, hesitating, before he stepped back. “We shouldn’t let anyone drink it. Until we can be sure what it is.”

His Shishio nodded slowly, his face hardening with concern. “I understand. I’ll take a sample to the doctor. He’ll know what it is or at least narrow it down. You stay here. Take care of Koyuki, do not let her near the well.”

Hakuji’s mouth tightened into a firm line. “Understood, I’ll keep watch.”

“Good.” The older man said, placing a reassuring hand on Hakuji’s shoulder. “I trust you, Hakuji, but be careful.”

With a brief nod, he watched his Shishio leave through the doorway, the sound of the wooden latch clicking shut echoing lightly behind him. Alone now, he exhaled slowly, steadying his racing thoughts before turning back toward the corridor. Every step he took back toward Koyuki’s room was measured, cautious, his body alert to even the faintest sound of movement.

When he finally reached the door, he paused, hand on the shoji frame. He peeked inside and found Koyuki exactly how he had left her. She sat on the futon, snug beneath the blanket, the book she had begun only days ago held delicately in her hands. Her eyes lifted at the sound of his approach, bright and curious.

“Hakuji.” She greeted, her voice warm and gentle. “Where's father? Has he gone out?”

“He’s gone to the village to buy a few things.” Hakuji replied smoothly, though he noted the faint flicker of skepticism in her gaze.

She tilted her head slightly, lips pursed, clearly doubtful. “Really? At this hour?”

Before she could press the question further, Hakuji stepped quietly into the room, lowering himself onto the futon beside her. He rested his head gently against hers, careful not to disturb the blanket cocooning her. The subtle warmth of her presence, the faint scent of the fabric and her hair, grounded him amidst the unsettling events of the morning.

“Don’t worry about your father.” He murmured softly, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the blanket. “He’ll be back soon. For now… just read to me, we can pick up right where we left off.”

Koyuki’s lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. “Alright.” She said, her voice steady and calm despite the shadows of doubt. “I was just about to finish this chapter anyway.”

Her fingers traced the lines of the text as she began reading aloud, her voice soft but clear, weaving each sentence with care. Hakuji closed his eyes briefly, letting the sound fill the quiet room. It was ordinary, peaceful, yet within it lay the extraordinary comfort he had fought so long to attain.

He could feel her small, steady breathing against his cheek, the rhythm calming him in a way that years on the streets had never allowed. The book’s words continued, but his mind was anchored here, in the simple warmth of shared space, in the steady presence of someone who trusted him completely.

A breeze drifted faintly through the shoji, carrying with it the muted scent of the garden beyond. Hakuji’s hand moved to rest lightly atop hers, his fingers brushing against the small knuckles holding the book. “Keep going.” He murmured softly, more to himself than to her. “Don’t let anything disturb this moment.”

Koyuki glanced up, meeting his gaze with that quiet, unwavering trust. “I won’t.” She replied, the gentle firmness in her tone carrying more reassurance than words ever could.

Minutes stretched comfortably between them, the room filled with nothing but the sound of her voice and the subtle shifting of the blanket as they adjusted. Hakuji felt a deep, almost aching sense of gratitude, grateful that despite the shadow that had brushed the morning, they were safe, together, and that for this brief, shining span of time, the world outside could wait.

Chapter Text

They had slept there together, the book fallen open between them and the last light of dusk slipping away until the room held only the soft glow of the brazier and the thin silver of moonlight leaking through the shoji. Koyuki lay curled against Hakuji, both of them half-turned toward one another, breathing slow and even.

For a while Hakuji let himself surrender to the kind of tired that was full and good, the tired that comes after a day filled with small, honest work and a breakfast shared, after a laugh and a soft kiss to the forehead, until a faint sound in the corridor pricked the quiet and drew him upright.

He froze, listening. Footsteps, careful, measured, crossed the wooden planks outside. The shoji slid back, and the outline of Keizo stood in the doorway, thin in the moonlight. He put a finger to his lips and stepped in without a sound, voice low. “Hakuji, come with me. A moment.”

He stood carefully, giving Koyuki one last look, hair rumpled, cheeks relaxed, the book open where her small finger marked the page, and after that he followed the older man into the corridor. Outside, the night air nipped at his face and the moon shone pale through the drift of clouds. He didn’t ask what the urgency was, his whole body was tight with the knowledge that something, something wrong, had settled over the day and would not be undone by sleep.

Keizo kept his voice low but steady. “The doctor will come at first light to inspect the well properly.” He said. “From the sample I brought him… it’s very likely someone tried to poison the water.” The words landed heavier than Hakuji expected, the moonlight seemed to sharpen the edges of the world.

Heat flared behind Hakuji’s ribs. Scenes tumbled through him, terrifyingly easy to imagine, Koyuki and Shishio drinking from that same bucket, falling silent and still while he was away. His chest cramped with the memory of the old, raw anger he had spent years trying to bury, the kind that had once fueled his fists in the alleys, the rage that had been his only language when everything else had been stolen from him. For a breath he felt that old animal part of himself rising, promising violence with a clarity that made his hands tremble.

“You should rest.” Shishio said, darker than the moonlight. He touched Hakuji’s shoulder, briefly, controlling. “Breathe, we’ll speak more in the morning, right now, you look like you could run and burn the whole town down.” There was an attempt at a lighter tone, but his eyes were hard. “We know who would do this, and we’ll handle it accordingly, for now get some sleep.”

Hakuji’s laugh was small and humorless. “And if they try again tonight?” His voice sounded clipped in the cold.

“If they used poison…” Keizo replied quietly. “They don’t have the courage to come in person. Those who throw daggers from the dark seldom step into the light.” It wasn’t the reassurance Hakuji wanted to hear, but it was all Shishio offered. He clasped his shoulder again, firmer. “Go rest. Watch over her.”

They parted there in the hall, two men bound to the same fear, and Hakuji moved back into the soft glow of the room where Koyuki slept, like a kept thing ignorant of the claws that had almost closed around her. He slid beneath the futon and folded his body against hers as he always did. Her head found his chest without waking, she breathed in deep, and a slow, contented sigh escaped her.

In the hollow of those few moments, Hakuji let his thoughts run where they would, three long, hot paragraphs that burned and pulsed in the dark.

He imagined the endless ‘what ifs’, if he had been gone even a little longer, what would the house have looked like? Would he have returned to silence, to the terrible finality of not being able to do anything? The picture slammed into him with a violence that had nothing to do with blades: an ordinary morning turned to a funeral.

Anger snapped after the fear, not the aimless, self-consuming fury of his youth so much as a clean, purposeful heat. Whoever had thought to touch their water had crossed a line. He would make them understand, in a way they would remember, what it meant to threaten his quiet. He wouldn’t allow their home to become a story of what-ifs and regrets.

There was also the sting of failure, sharp and immediate. He had almost been the kind of man who came home too late, again. That thought hurt deeper than the anger. It filled him with a cold promise, he would never again let time or negligence carve a hollow where Koyuki’s laugh lived.

Those internal fires were still alive when Koyuki, half-asleep, shifted and buried her face into the soft place at his chest. The sound she made was a small, sleepy sigh that dissolved the tension like steam. Her hair smelled faintly of soap and plum blossom, the gentle, homely scent of days with little things to worry about.

Instinctively Hakuji wrapped his arms around her tighter, pressing his face into the crown of her head. The rhythm of her heartbeat, regular and trusting, steadied him. The scent calmed the clamor of his own blood, moment by moment the world narrowed to the warmth at his arms and the steady breath he could count against his skin.

Slowly, as if some measured tether had been pulled taut and then eased, his racing heart slowed, his muscles unclenched, and finally he slept, every vow held tight within the soft shelter of the night.

The morning came reluctantly. Pale light filtered through the shoji screens, thin lines of brightness that struck Hakuji’s closed eyes and coaxed him into waking. He felt it immediately, that heavy exhaustion pressing against his skull, the soreness behind his eyes from a night spent in fragments.

Again and again he had stirred awake, hand drifting to Koyuki’s shoulder, her wrist, her breath against his chest, just to reassure himself she was there, warm, alive. Each time relief had come, but only enough to hold him until the next hour.

He shifted slightly, trying not to wake her, but his tired body betrayed him. The futon rustled louder than he meant, and the girl beside him stirred. Koyuki’s lashes fluttered and she blinked at him, still half in dreams.

“Hakuji…?” Her voice was low, heavy with sleep. “Did something happen?”

He froze, then forced a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing. I just… had a nightmare.”

Her gaze softened. She reached up, her delicate hand pressing against his cheek, thumb brushing slow circles along his skin. The warmth of her touch dissolved some of the tightness in his chest. Hakuji leaned into her palm, eyes slipping closed for a moment as if her touch alone could anchor him.

Koyuki whispered. “Then stay close, you’ll be fine.”

He breathed in, deep, and kissed her wrist before rising. “Let’s get you ready.”

Together, they moved through the morning rituals. Hakuji brushed her hair, his movements calm and practiced, and finally folded the futon neatly into one of the corners of the room. He helped her with her robes, tying the sash with careful precision, hands steady despite the turmoil inside him. When they slid open the door and stepped into the corridor, they found Keizo emerging from the kitchen.

“Ah, there you are.” He said, carrying himself with his usual calm. The smell of rice and grilled fish drifted out behind him. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he looked at Hakuji. “For once, I’ve beaten you to it. Breakfast is ready.”

Koyuki let out a soft laugh, and even Hakuji couldn’t help but give a small huff. The old man’s teasing, light as it was, took some of the weight out of the air. They sat together at the low table, the morning quiet wrapping around them.

The meal began in the usual way, simple chatter about the weather, about small tasks for the day. Yet beneath the surface there was something else. Every so often, Hakuji would catch Shishio’s eye, and in that brief, wordless exchange both men acknowledged the truth, they were holding something back, and they needed to tell her.

Koyuki, however, was sharper than either gave her credit for. Midway through the meal she set her chopsticks down carefully, the sound of wood against lacquer louder than it should have been. She looked at them both, her gaze steady.

“You’re hiding something from me.” She said quietly. “Aren’t you?”

The words froze them both. Hakuji’s hand tightened unconsciously around his chopsticks. Shishio coughed, straightened his back, and after a long pause spoke in his measured, deliberate way.

“Koyuki… yesterday, when Hakuji went to the well, he noticed something odd about the water. I brought a sample to the doctor and he believes… it may have been tampered with. Poison.”

Koyuki’s eyes widened, her lips parting as the words settled in. She turned immediately to Hakuji, searching his face for reassurance. He didn’t hesitate, rising from his cushion, he moved to sit beside her, taking both of her hands firmly in his. His grip was strong, but careful, as if he feared she might slip away if he let go.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Hakuji murmured. “Not while I’m here.”

She squeezed his hands back, drawing strength from his certainty, though her expression betrayed a tremor of fear. “So… what do we do now?”

Keizo folded his arms, watching the two of them, but he could feel the anger simmering in Hakuji’s aura, sharp, dangerous, the same fury he had glimpsed in the boy’s eyes the night before. He knew where that road led if it wasn’t restrained.

“First of all.” He said firmly, “We wait for the doctor’s confirmation. Once we know exactly what we’re facing, I’ll head into the village to fetch fresh water. The barrel is nearly empty, and we’ll need to be cautious until this is resolved. Later this afternoon… we’ll talk together about how to proceed.”

Hakuji’s jaw worked as though he wanted to argue, to demand action now. The thought of nameless faces daring to harm Koyuki set his blood boiling. But with her small hands still in his, and her frightened eyes on him, he forced himself to swallow his rage. Slowly, stiffly, he nodded. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence. They finished, stacked the dishes, and Koyuki insisted on helping to tidy though her father tried to dissuade her. When everything was set aside, Hakuji stood.

“I’ll go.” He said suddenly. “To the village, for water.”

The older man raised a brow. “You?”

“You should be here to meet the doctor. I’ll be faster.” Hakuji pressed.

The older man considered, then gave a slow nod. “Very well, but remember to be careful, don’t do anything reckless.”

Hakuji fetched the small wooden cart, the kind meant for one man to pull, and checked the pouch of coins at his waist, tucking it securely under his belt. Before leaving, he glanced back at the two of them, Koyuki standing in the doorway, her hands clasped together, her father steady at her side.

“I’ll be back soon.” He promised.

And then he set off down the dirt path, the wheels of the cart creaking softly behind him. The morning sun was bright, but his thoughts were darker: images of shadowy figures pouring poison into their well, visions of what could have been. Rage stirred again, eager for release. He clenched the cart’s handles until his knuckles went white, forcing himself to breathe, to focus on the simple task ahead.

The village square was alive with noise and motion when Hakuji arrived. Merchants called out their wares in singsong voices, bright banners fluttered in the late morning breeze, and the crowd surged in waves between the stalls. The cobblestones beneath his feet caught the sunlight, shining faintly, as if even the ground wanted to join the market’s bustle.

Hakuji maneuvered the cart carefully through the press of bodies, eyes scanning until he found the stall he was looking for. The water-seller had several barrels lined up, each sealed tightly with wax. After some brief haggling, Hakuji purchased enough to last them four days, better to be safe, and loaded the jars into the cart.

He lingered, though, glancing at the neighboring stalls. A butcher displayed strips of dried meat, strung like banners across his stand. The sharp, salty smell clung to the air. “Some of this…” Hakuji muttered to himself. He bought several portions, along with bundles of leafy greens from another vendor. ‘They’ll like it in the evenings.’ He thought, imagining Koyuki’s pleased expression.

He was just about to leave when his gaze snagged on something unexpected. Off to the side of the main street, a peddler had spread out a velvet cloth, its surface glimmering with trinkets, pendants of polished stone, rings of simple silver, hairpins tipped with tiny carved flowers. Delicate ornaments swayed from strings above the stall, catching the light.

Hakuji’s chest softened. Something for her… after all this. Something to remind her of joy instead of the near death they had almost experienced. He stepped closer, ignoring the quiet protest in his mind that echoed her words. ‘Don’t waste money on me.’ She always said that, but he knew the way her eyes shone when she wore the gifts he brought her.

But before he could crouch to examine the trinkets, a hard shove struck his shoulder. Hakuji stumbled, barely catching the cart’s handle to keep from toppling. His head whipped around, fury rising fast, only to recognize the faces.

Two young men, apprentices from the neighboring dojo. He had seen them often enough, smirking outside Soryuu’s gates, mocking their style, making crude jokes about Shishio’s teachings. They didn’t even glance at him, laughing under their breath as they slipped into a side alley. One of them glanced furtively over his shoulder before turning the corner, scanning for witnesses.

That alone made Hakuji’s eyes narrow. He pushed his cart quietly into the shadow of a nearby house, tucking it behind stacks of unused wood and crates. Then he crept toward the alley’s edge, senses sharpened, breath steady.

The voices reached him first. “…I still can’t believe they’re alive.” One muttered, voice sharp with frustration.

“It’s a miracle.” The other scoffed. “Or maybe not a miracle. That brat Hakuji… he’s not human. You saw how he fights, like a damned demon.”

Hakuji’s blood turned to fire in his veins. His fists clenched until his knuckles popped.

The first continued, lower now, conspiratorial. “But the master was sure the plan would work. Said poison in the well would solve the problem neatly, if even that failed…” A pause, followed by a cruel snicker. “Then we’ll just make it look like an accident. A loose beam in the dojo’s roof. Sooner or later, they’ll break. That old man, his daughter and the tramp won’t last forever.”

The second man chuckled. “And when they’re gone, what’s left of their style will crumble. No one will even remember the name Soryuu.”

“Though I must say…” The first one replied, rubbing his chin as a disgusting smile escaped him. “It’s a shame for Koyuki, even if sick I'm sure we could’ve gotten some use out of her. No use now that she’s been touched by that filthy criminal.”

The words sank like knives into Hakuji’s chest. For a moment, the world narrowed to the two silhouettes before him, their smirks, their voices dripping with malice, the filth that dared to touch her name.

When he stepped into the mouth of the alley, the air itself seemed to thicken. The two men froze, eyes wide. “What the hell?!” One stammered.

“What are you doing here, stray?!” Sneered the other, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Hakuji didn’t answer. His silence was heavier than any threat. He walked toward them slowly, steadily, each step deliberate. His fists were already clenched, veins standing out along his arms. His eyes, unblinking, pinned them like prey.

“Stay back!” One of them barked, snatching up a length of wood from the ground, its edges splintered.

The other bent down and scooped two stones, clutching them so tightly his hands shook. “Don’t come any closer!”

Hakuji kept walking.

The one with the stick swung first, a wild arc aimed at Hakuji’s temple. With the smallest shift of his body, Hakuji sidestepped, the wood slicing through empty air. He caught the shaft mid-swing and shoved it back into its wielder’s chest, sending the man stumbling into the wall.

The second hurled one of the stones. Hakuji ducked, the rock cracking harmlessly against the stones behind him. By the time the second stone left the man’s hand, Hakuji was already in front of him. His fist connected with the boy’s jaw in a single, brutal strike. The crack of bone echoed down the alley. The apprentice collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The first man scrambled upright, roaring in panic, and rushed with the splintered stick. Hakuji drove his fist into the man’s stomach, forcing the air from his lungs in a violent wheeze, then clipped his chin with an upward blow. His body crumpled beside the other.

Silence.

Hakuji stood over them, chest heaving. His fists trembled. And then, his body moved without him. He crouched and struck again, once, twice, three times... The sound of his blows against their already-unconscious forms reverberated through his skull.

Trash, human trash. How dare they. How dare they even think of her name. They would have killed her, they would have killed Shishio. They would have destroyed everything.

His vision blurred. Red filled the edges. The pounding of his heart drowned the world. His fists rose again.

Koyuki’s laugh, soft and bright, the way she said his name.

His master’s voice. ‘The Soryuu exists not to destroy, but to protect. Never forget, Hakuji. A fist that only seeks blood is empty.’

He froze, fist trembling in the air. His breath shuddered out, ragged. The haze began to lift. Colors returned. The hard stone beneath his knees, the faint smell of dust and sweat, the dull groans of the two broken men on the ground.

And then, voices.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Is someone fighting?”

“There’re the people in the alley!”

A handful of villagers had gathered at the alley’s mouth, peering in with concern and curiosity. Hakuji’s pulse spiked. He couldn’t afford their questions, their stares.

Slowly, he rose, his fists still tingling, and backed away. He retrieved his cart from where it was hidden, hands gripping the handles as though it were the only thing tethering him to earth. Without a word, without a backward glance at the unconscious men he had nearly killed, Hakuji pulled the cart into the street and began the long walk home.

Every step echoed with the reminder, how close he had come to losing himself, and how much he still had to protect.

Hakuji walked the steps toward the house with a weight on his shoulders he could not shrug off. His clothes still carried dust from the alley; a streak of grime tracked down his forearm where he’d wiped his hands. As he rounded the side of the house into the rear garden, he saw them, Shishio and the doctor bent over the well.

Keizo’s posture was rigid with concentration while the doctor peered into the bucket with a leather satchel at his side. Koyuki sat on the engawa wrapped in her blanket, watching the two men with an expression that folded concern and hope together.

She was the first to notice him. Her eyes widened for a heartbeat and she called out in a quick, anxious voice. “Hakuji!”

Both men turned as well. The doctor straightened, dust motes floating in the shaft of light that fell between them, and Shishio’s face softened a fraction of a degree that betrayed relief rather than scolding. He stepped forward and asked, quietly. “What happened? You look as if you fought the earth itself.”

Hakuji kept his gaze low. He did not want to explain the alley or the men lying there unconscious, the feel of his own fists, the heat that had nearly consumed him. He replied instead with clipped words. “I’ll go clean up.” He let the sentence fall and moved past them into the house without meeting any more eyes.

Shishio read him with the same patience he always did. “I understand, we’ll speak after the doctor leaves.” His hand came to Hakuji’s shoulder for a brief second, firm, grounding and Hakuji nodded, the little motion of acceptance and deferral.

Inside, Koyuki followed him to the door of the bathing alcove. The tub’s water still held warmth, a faint swirl of steam slipping off its surface. He stripped off the worst of the grime and grabbed a rimmed cloth, dunking it and wringing it out. There was no time for a proper bath, he scrubbed his arms and face in efficient strokes, the cloth scraping away the dust until only his scars and the dark lines of his tattoos marked the skin beneath. The water felt like an apology, hot enough to loosen the tension in his shoulders, not hot enough to make him linger.

A light knock came at the door. When he opened it a sliver, Koyuki stood there holding a clean haori, a small smile on her face despite the worry in her eyes. “I thought you might need this.” She said softly. The fabric smelled like soap and something floral, plum blossom, or the scented cloth they used in the kitchen. Hakuji accepted it with a rare, short nod. “Thank you.” He muttered, voice low.

Dressed and a touch cleaner, the haori’s faint scent lingering on him, Hakuji stepped into the sitting room. Koyuki and her father were still near the low table. The two fell quiet the instant he entered, their discussion closing like a hand. Hakuji moved to sit next to her; without words she laid one of her hands on his, steadying his rough fingers in her small ones.

Hakuji swallowed and broke the silence. “What did the doctor say?” His voice sounded too hoarse to be calm.

Keizo folded his hands and looked up with a very even expression. “The sample confirms it, someone poisoned the well.” He used measured tones as if he were speaking of a broken wheel. “It was a water-soluble agent, a single sip could be fatal. The quantity was small, but it would have been concentrated enough to kill.”

Hakuji’s fists tightened quietly, he could feel the muscles under his palm bunching and unclenching like a spring pleading to be let loose. His jaw worked. “They tried to kill you.” He said to Koyuki and her father both, the words a flat, hot blade.

Koyuki’s face went pale. Her father, steady, always steady, placed his palm over both of theirs as if to hold them together. “We must be careful.” He said, voice steady but threaded with fire. “We mustn’t act hastily. I’ll make arrangements for fresh water.”

Hakuji saw the way the man watched him then, half parent, half commander. He couldn’t keep back what had happened in the alley. The memory seemed ready to spill from him so he let it. “I heard them.” He said. The syllables were a rush now, spilling quickly.

“Two students from the nearby dojo, those apprentices who always mock Shishio’s style. They were in the square talking. They said they’d poisoned the well, that the master knew. They said it didn’t work so they’d make an accident happen.” He watched the words take shape on Koyuki’s father’s face like flint striking.

Keizo’s visage darkened slowly, the lines around his mouth deepening with a mix of disbelief and the kind of anger only a protector knows. “The master was involved?” He asked.

Hakuji swallowed. “They said so. I heard them say he approved. I…” He paused, because the next part was harder than the rest. The alley returned in flashes: the shove, the two men whispering, the way his breath had tightened, the dull animal clarity that had taken over. “They…” He rasped out the last part of the sentence. “I… I hit them. I left them there.”

There was a beat of silence. Koyuki’s hand tightened, knuckles whitening. The room waited. Koyuki’s father’s voice was low and not unkind. “You fought them?”

Hakuji’s eyes met his at last, blunt and honest. “Yes.” No apology in it. No triumph. “They deserved what they got.” His voice had the dry, brittle edge of a man who had been closer to killing than he wanted to admit. “They were going to murder you. They were planning more. I couldn’t…” He closed his mouth on the rest.

Shishio’s expression was hard but not surprised. He had probably seen the look in Hakuji’s face before. He leaned forward, palms on his knees. “Violence begets violence.” He said quietly, there was disappointment there, but also an understanding that did not excuse what had happened. “We cannot be the ones who bring the fight to the streets in a way that brings more danger to Koyuki or this household. If the neighboring master is complicit, we must do this smartly.”

Hakuji felt the sting of the words, and for a short, stunned instant there was regret, less for the act itself and more for the edge where he’d let himself teeter. Images of his youth flickered behind his eyes, the cold alleys, the quick survival, the taste of fist and fear. He had been that man once, and had promised himself he would not be him again. Yet the taste of rage had been sweet and awful.

Keizo’s hand tightened on theirs, then let go and rose in a small but resolute motion. “I’ll fetch water for the day and arrange deliveries until we are certain the well is safe. Hakuji, I know you act from the heart. But we should move carefully.”

For a moment Hakuji felt the old animal hunger for retaliation flare and then falter against the reason in the older man’s voice. He remembered, too, the small pressure of Koyuki’s palm and the steady beat of her heart beneath it, more important than the satisfaction of hurting those who had plotted against them, he breathed out slowly.

“I understand.” He said at last, the words bone-deep. They felt like a promise and a leash. “I’ll do what you say. I’ll…” He swallowed, “I’ll be more careful.”

Koyuki’s father inclined his head. “Good. For now, rest. Keep Koyuki safe.” He hesitated, then added, softer, to Hakuji, “I don’t condone bloodshed, and I’m grateful you came back when you did.”

Hakuji answered with the smallest of nods, the muscles in his face softening for the first time that morning. Koyuki smiled at him, small and brave, and laid her head briefly against his shoulder.

But a sharp, surprised cry cut through the low murmur of voices in the room. All three froze. For a breathless instant no one moved, then they rose and pushed open the front door.

The sight outside punched through the doorway, the rival master standing tall beneath the wooden torii of the yard, the two apprentices lagging behind him with swollen faces and torn sleeves. They held themselves like injured victims and, worse, smiled with that vile mixture of triumph and insolence. Already a small crowd had begun to gather in the lane, neighbors and market-goers drawn by the sudden commotion, leaning from doorways and stoops to see what would happen.

Koyuki’s father stepped forward immediately, his gait a measured, predatory calm. Hakuji bowed instinctively to follow, but a heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him. His master’s arm came across, an unspoken order, stay. Hakuji’s shoulders dropped an inch, without breaking rank he stepped back a pace.

Koyuki, startled, clutched the edge of Hakuji’s haori and pressed her fingers to the cloth as though anchoring herself to him. His own fingers closed over hers in a quiet squeeze, grounding her with contact.

Keizo moved to the front, voice steady and formal. “What business do you bring to our gate?” He asked the rival master, the politeness in his tone thin as wire.

The other man’s smile was oily at first. He spread his hands, as if presenting them. “We’ve come about an assault.” He announced loud enough for the crowd to hear. He jabbed a thumb toward the two apprentices, who stepped forward stiffly. “Two of my students were set upon, apparently by your savage pupil.” He pointed to Hakuji with theatrical disdain. “We demand compensation, shame must be paid for wounds done.”

Keizo’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment the only sound was the wind sighing through the eaves. Then the father’s voice cut through, calm but cold. “Compensation?” He echoed and stepped forward until the distance between them was no more than a breath. “Do you also seek compensation for attempting to poison my well?” He asked, loud enough now that heads turned and the murmur at the gate rose into an actual ripple of questions.

For a heartbeat the rival master’s face betrayed him, his eyes flicked, startled. The crowd stiffened, the two beaten apprentices exchanged quick looks, their smiles faltering for a fraction of a second. Apparently taken off-guard, the rival master covered his sudden shock with bluster. “What are you saying?” He asked, faux innocence dripping from the words. “Accusations without proof. That is slander, why would we even…?”

But Keizo wouldn’t allow the dodge, the man had come to their gate to make a scene, so he would answer in the only way the public would understand.

Raising his voice, the father announced, carefully and deliberately theatrical so those gathered could hear every syllable. “Someone has tried to poison my family’s well. We found the poison yesterday, and I accuse your dojo, your students and, by association you, of treachery. If you deny it and insist on your honor, then come and defend it.”

A hush snapped across the crowd, even the children stopped fidgeting. The rival master’s face went white for the barest second, clearly not expecting such a brazen public escalation. He had prepared a small parade of injured pupils and a demand for coins, not an open call to combat before witnesses.

Then the rival master’s mouth tightened into a mask. The grin reasserted itself, thinner and a touch strained. “Preposterous.” He said, and his voice tried to carry disbelief that most of his audience would buy. But beneath the act there was calculation, he was aware, fiercely aware, of what losing face in front of the village would mean for his school.

The murmurs around him were shifting toward the father’s accusation, curiosity sharpening into suspicion. He couldn’t let the story stand unanswered.

He went on, faster now. “I will not be bullied by accusations without proof. If you insist upon this spectacle, then I will defend my name.” He pointed at the father. “We shall settle it properly, my school’s honor will not be questioned.”

Keizo’s eyes flicked to Hakuji as he listened, and Hakuji felt a hot swell of both relief and dread. The rival master’s acceptance was a trap of its own, public, potentially scandalous, but also a way to seize the moral high ground by insisting on rules.

The man’s voice, initially so flippant, took on a tone designed for spectacle. “We will meet tomorrow at noon on the training field behind the shrine. Single combat: your student against mine, for honor’s sake.” He added, almost as an afterthought. “And should I win, you will publicly retract these slanderous claims.”

Keizo’s answer came like a steel bell. “Accepted.” His voice was solemn, his posture unshaken. “And if we win, you will answer for the attempt upon my family in front of the magistrate.”

A low murmur swelled at the gate, some of the neighbors whispered in eager curiosity, others shifted uneasily, thinking of the magistrate and of law. The rival master straightened his back, trying to look unafraid. He adjusted his sleeve, the gesture practiced and theatrical. “Very well.” He said, voice edged with forced bravado. “I shall see you on the field.”

The expression on Koyuki’s father didn’t soften, he hadn’t wanted to be dragged into a village spectacle, and he had serious objections to settling accusations of attempted murder with a show of strength. But he also knew how fragile honor and reputation could be in a small community, and how easily a failure to respond would be twisted into weakness.

His voice was patterned and calm. “We will abide by a measured contest.” He said. “No murder, no fatal blows. This will be a contest of skill, not bloodlust.”

The rival master gave a curt nod, though the angle of his eyes told a different story. He had wanted monetary compensation and a quiet apology, instead he was dragged into a duel that could expose his students’ plot or ruin him publicly.

Hakuji watched as the rival master turned, gathered his two bruised apprentices in a tight command, and led them down the lane with his chin high as though nothing uncomfortable had happened. The crowd parted in a ripple, gossip already sparking into argument and speculation.

Koyuki’s father stood firm at the threshold, the lines of his face set. He looked over once at Hakuji, his look was not tender, but fierce and trusting in a steady, practical way. “Stay calm.” He said quietly, eyes locked on Hakuji’s. “And be ready.” The words carried an order and a plea both.

Hakuji inclined his head once, voice low when he answered. “I will.” Inside, the old heat burned, no longer toward immediate blood, but stoked into cold resolve. He would protect them, and if the day required him to step forward on the field, he would do it with the discipline of Soryuu rather than the blind fury of his past.

As the rival master and his apprentices faded into the street, the crowd began to drift, some to gossip, others to fetch ropes or call the magistrate’s clerk. The lane hummed with a nervous energy, a village whose ordinary day had been upset in the most public way imaginable.

Inside the house, Koyuki leaned into Hakuji for a moment, whispering, “Are you all right?” He squeezed her hand in reply and, for the first time all morning, allowed himself a small, brittle smile. “I am, really.”

The three retreated into the house, the smell of cooking drifted back from the kitchen, incongruously domestic against the charged air. The duel was set, the village would be watching. And somewhere in the space between a father’s honor and a rival master’s fear, Hakuji felt the quiet hardening of a promise, whatever it took, whatever waited tomorrow, he would not let his family be broken.

Chapter Text

Hakuji sat cross-legged in his room, carefully pulling the sleeves of his dojo uniform into place. His fingers lingered a little longer than usual on the knots of his belt, tightening and loosening them once, twice, as though the repeated motion could drain away the storm of nerves hidden deep in his chest.

Footsteps echoed faintly in the hall. He paused, glancing over his shoulder just as the paper door slid open a few inches.

“Koyuki.” He pronounced softly, a flicker of warmth immediately softening his eyes.

She stepped inside with that quiet grace that always seemed to follow her. “Hakuji.” She said gently, the syllables almost a whisper.

“Have you taken your medicine today?” His tone carried more concern than anything else, even now, even hours before the duel.

A tiny frown pulled at her lips. “Yes, father gave it to me just a little while ago.” She stuck out her tongue in mock disgust, her nose wrinkling at the memory. “The taste is still awful, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it…”

Hakuji couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. “You always make that face.” He murmured, shaking his head with a hint of laughter in his voice. “It almost makes me forget I’m supposed to be serious right now.”

He opened his arms slightly, a silent invitation. Koyuki’s hesitation lasted only a breath before she stepped closer, placing her delicate hands in his. He closed his own larger hands around them, his thumbs brushing gently across the back of hers in slow, steady motions. The contact grounded him.

“You look tense.” She observed, her eyes scanning his face with quiet worry. “How do you feel?”

Hakuji let out a slow exhale, his smile turning a little more subdued. “Strangely calm.” He admitted. “Calmer than I thought I would be. I know what I have to do, I know I’ll fight with everything I have… because I won’t forgive what they tried to do to us.” His jaw tightened, but he quickly softened his gaze again, not wanting her to see only his anger.

Her hand rose slowly, almost timidly, to rest against his cheek. He leaned into her touch at once, eyes closing, his breath steadying as though her palm alone could quiet the fire burning inside him.

“Hakuji…” She whispered, her voice carrying a quiet certainty that he found stronger than any vow he could make. “Everything will be fine. You’re strong, stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

When he opened his eyes again, she was smiling faintly. From the sleeve of her haori she pulled something hidden, a small braid of thread, the colors interwoven to mimic the shade of her eyes.

His breath caught at the sight of it. He remembered the day he had bought it for her, laughing at the stall keeper’s sales pitch, yet watching her hold it as though it were a precious treasure.

Koyuki held it out to him with both hands. “I read in a book… that in the old days, warriors would carry something given to them by the people they loved. A charm to protect them, so I…” She faltered, her cheeks warming, but she continued with quiet resolve. “If it’s all right, I would like you to wear this. So that no matter what happens out there, you carry me with you.”

For a moment, Hakuji simply looked at her, overwhelmed by the quiet courage in her eyes. Then he smiled, soft, genuine, touched in a way words could not fully capture.

“Of course.” He said, his voice low. “Thank you, I’ll wear it proudly.”

He pulled up the sleeve of his uniform, baring his wrist. With hands that trembled just a little, Koyuki tied the braid around him, her fingers careful, precise, as though each knot was a prayer.

“It suits you.” She said softly once it was fastened.

“Because it’s from you.” Hakuji replied. He caught her gaze and held it. For a long moment, neither moved. Then he lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, his lips lingering as if drawing strength.

Her face flushed, but her smile widened, her eyes shimmering with unshed emotion. “You don’t need to be afraid.” She told him. “No matter what happens, I believe in you.”

Before he could answer, a polite cough sounded from the doorway.

Both Hakuji and Koyuki turned sharply, their hands still entwined. Standing at the door was Keizo, his expression one of amused warmth rather than reproach.

“Well…” He said with a gentle chuckle, stroking his beard. “It seems my daughter is not the only one with someone to look after her.”

Color rushed to Koyuki’s cheeks, and Hakuji’s ears burned red as he hastily released her hand, though only halfway, their fingers still reluctant to part.

But the older man only smiled, his eyes soft. “I’m glad to see you supporting each other. That’s the way it should be.”

Koyuki ducked her head shyly, murmuring something under her breath, while Hakuji straightened, swallowing the nervous knot in his throat.

The father gave one last knowing glance at the ribbon tied neatly on Hakuji’s wrist before turning away. “I’ll be waiting outside when you’re ready.” He said, his tone calm, reassuring.

When he left, silence lingered for a heartbeat before Hakuji and Koyuki looked at each other again, both embarrassed, both smiling faintly, and both a little more certain that whatever awaited them, they wouldn’t face it alone.

They followed him down the dim corridor, the paper doors humming faintly at their touch. The house seemed to gather itself around them, quiet, careful, as if even the tatami held its breath. In the small sitting room Shishio gestured for them to kneel.

They came to rest side by side, knees folding the same way they always did. Koyuki mirrored Hakuji exactly, hands flat on her thighs, fingers splayed just so, Hakuji let both palms settle on his knees, feeling the familiar grain of the straw beneath his skin.

The man took the place opposite them, the plain cut of his robes making him look smaller and somehow more solemn than usual. For a long second he simply studied Hakuji’s face, the jaw set too hard, the eyes too bright at the edges. He nodded once, then began in that low, deliberate voice Hakuji had learned to obey without hearing the words all the way.

“Hakuji.” Shishio said, “You go out there today in the name of Soryuu. That’s not merely the name of a school, it’s a promise. You stand for what we teach, steadiness, restraint, and the protection of those who cannot defend themselves.” His fingers folded together as he spoke, voice steady. “You will be watched, more than your opponent’s technique, they will watch how you carry yourself.”

Hakuji kept his head bowed, but his eyes were on Shishio, the ribbon at his wrist had warmed beneath his sleeve and he drew his focus to it like a touchstone.

“Do not let the anger that brought you to my door carry the match for you.” Keizo continued. “Anger is sharp and quick, but it burns out. Use it if you must, but do not be its servant. Keep a clear head, count your breath, control your distance. If you run on heat, you will be worn thin before the fight decides.”

Koyuki’s hand tightened, unconsciously, at his side. She kept her posture composed, but her eyes were bright with worry.

His tone softened just a fraction. “ Keep your guard high, do not commit to one strike without purpose. If you find the man smaller than your anger, temper the blow, if you find his sword…” He cast a glance toward the doorway, then back at Hakuji. “Do not close blindly.”

Hakuji straightened a little. “I understand.” He said, low. The words were taut but honest. “I will remember your teachings.”

Shishio gave him a look that could have been a scolding and a benediction at once. “Protect Koyuki, never let a threat find purchase while you are able.” He tapped the tatami once, a small puncture of emphasis. “And after everything’s settled, no matter how the day goes, you will come home with your honor intact. That is more than pride, it’s the thing that gives our ways meaning.”

Hakuji felt the raw animal urge that had been tightening his limbs loosened under the steady, measured pressure of Shishio’s words. He bowed then, a precise and practiced motion, knees touching, forehead bending, deep enough to mean more than mere courtesy.

When he rose again his face was calmer, eyes clear. He inclined his head toward Shishio in respect, the man returned the nod, and for a sliver of a second something unspoken passed between them.

Outside, the road was alive in the way small towns gather around any event, a low buzz of voices, the scraping of carts, the distant clatter of a hammer. Shishio helped them to the yard, Hakuji steadied the cart while Koyuki climbed in, tucked under a light blanket. Shishio took the handles and pushed.

“You’ll not pull it.” He said to his student with a small, private sternness that betrayed his care. “You will rest, we will not allow you to weaken even by an iota of strength..” He glanced at Hakuji as he spoke, there was the faintest softness under the direction.

Koyuki laughed quietly, a sound like a bell muffled by cloth. “Father.” She teased, “I can walk, you know.”

“And I know you can,” Shishio answered, smiling in spite of himself. “But I will choose to spare you the work.” He adjusted the blanket and pushed on. The cart creaked a polite complaint with each bump of the lane; Hakuji walked at Shishio’s side, hands tucked behind his back, chin slightly angled toward Koyuki. He watched her as if memorizing her face in case the world tried to change it.

They turned toward the training field behind the shrine, the place already thrumming with expectation. Torii gates stood sentinel at the shrine’s edge, ropes and paper streamers fluttering in the breeze. The field itself was a flattened patch, earth well-baked, ringed by low posts where villagers had tied long, faded banners for the occasion.

Stalls nearby had been shuttered; some townsfolk had left their work to watch. Children climbed on each other’s shoulders, women folded fans to their lips, old men leaned on canes and rocked their heads. The air tasted of dust, sun-warmed wood, and the faint sweetness of rice cakes being handed out by a baker’s wife who’d set up a small table for the crowd.

At the far side of the field a raised platform had been hastily erected, simple planks, a short canopy of indigo cloth hung with the magistrate’s crest. On it sat a low lacquered table stacked with scrolls, behind it, the magistrate’s attendants whispered. Beside the platform were two men in plain but functional armor, town constables, not full samurai, spears stood at the ready, their faces serious at the interruption of their daily routine.

The magistrate himself was already in place, his robes stiff and tidy, a faint crease of displeasure between his brows as if he’d rather be anywhere but presiding over a duel. Ink stained one finger of his scribe, who hovered, ready with brush and paper.

As Keizo eased the cart to a stop, Hakuji could feel the eyes of the village settle on them like a weight. The magistrate gave a curt nod, though his mouth suggested impatience.

The rival master came into view then, his gait smooth, his smile an announcement. He was flanked by a tall, solid youth wearing a training uniform much like Hakuji’s, the boy’s chest broad, neck thick with muscle, and at his left hip an oiled metal sword hung in a scabbard. It caught the sunlight and threw a narrow, bright line across the packed earth.

At the sight of the blade Shishio’s face tightened; he made a small, reflexive grin, a pull at the lips, eyes narrowing in instant disapproval. Hakuji felt the tension like a chord drawn taut.

The rival master noticed and gave a flippant laugh. “Surely you didn’t think this would be only fists?” He called, voice pitched so the crowd could hear. “Each house has its specialty. We favor the blade. If your man wishes to test his hands, it is more than welcome that I place my boy’s sword at his feet.”

Shishio’s reply was measured. “You speak boldly, the magistrate must determine the conditions. We do not want a death in the village.”

“Oh, of course.” The rival master said, the honey of his words masking something harder. “But do not ask me to disguise the truth. If we will judge honor, let us judge skill in the way it’s practiced.” He tapped his own hip with a finger, the gesture theatrical. “I will not bind my style to some pantomime.”

The magistrate rose from his seat then, his robe whispering. He walked to the edge of the platform and planted both hands on his knees as he positioned himself, looking at each man in turn. When he spoke his voice carried the authority of law.

“We will have order.” He said, curt. “This is the law of the village, and I will speak plainly. No killing, no intent to kill. Wooden practice swords, bokken, are permitted, live blades are not.” He glanced meaningfully at the rival master’s sword and the crowd shifted with a murmur. “If a live blade is drawn, the attacker will be considered to have forfeited honor and will answer to the magistrate. Is that clear?”

The rival master’s smile stiffened but he bowed his head briefly. “Very well, magistrate. My student will meet your choice of rules.”

Shishio gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction at that ruling. “We accept these terms.” He said. He turned to Hakuji in a voice meant only for him. “If the man uses a bokken, watch for feints to the hands. If he feints your lower, strike true to the centerline. Remember your breathing, remember the Soryuu base, strong, anchored, minimal waste.”

Hakuji’s jaw flexed. “I won’t let fury rule me.” He leveled his eyes at Shishio. “I will be the Soryuu.”

Koyuki reached up, palpably nervous, and smoothed the sleeve of Hakuji’s uniform. “Come back to us safely.” She said, almost a prayer.

Hakuji bent and kissed the back of her hand quick and reverent. “I will.”

The magistrate resumed his seat and read aloud the formal conditions, one round only,the bout will continue until one man yields or is rendered unable to continue, yielding means the losing party will accept any reasonable demands of the winner, no killing, no weapons that endanger life, interference from spectators will be punished.

The scribe wrote briskly, his ink scratching in the silence between sentences. When the rules were declared, the crowd's murmur turned into a low, expectant hush. Both pairs of masters stepped forward, the rival master a shade too eager, Keizo rock-still and composed.

Hakuji and the other youth faced each other in the dirt, measuring each other like a pair of coiled springs. Hakuji’s fingers flexed once, felt the braid warm at his wrist, and found in that small, woven thing the steadying weight of someone else’s faith.

Near the edge of the gathered press, Koyuki’s father stood with an attention that was part pride, part calculation. He nodded almost imperceptibly to Hakuji. There was no long speech now, only the old exchange of looks between a teacher who had trained a man and a man who had accepted the training.

The magistrate lifted his hand; a constable behind him clapped a wooden board twice—a clean, resonant sound that cut through the air. “Begin.”

Hakuji breathed in, counted the beat of Koyuki’s ribbon against his skin, and stepped forward. The village watched as a boy who had once kept his fists to survive now moved with the quiet, disciplined purpose of someone who fought for more than himself.

The clap of the wooden board still echoed when both young men lunged forward, closing the space with startling speed. The rival student drew his bokken up in a tight arc, his form crisp, polished. Hakuji raised his guard, arms absorbing the first impact with a dull crack of wood against forearm.

The force rattled down to his bones, and he blinked, this was no ordinary fighter. Each strike that followed carried not only strength but precision, the kind drilled into him by countless hours under strict instruction. For the first few exchanges, Hakuji found himself pressed back, his sandals sliding in the dust.

“So this is Soryuu’s defender?” The rival youth taunted between blows, his face twisted in concentration. “Your fists won’t hold forever against a sword, even a wooden one!”

Hakuji gritted his teeth, blocking again, then ducking a quick slash meant to rattle his temple. He answered with a hook to the ribs, but the boy twisted, taking it on the elbow instead of his side. The crowd gasped at the rhythm of the clash, the bokken singing through the air, Hakuji’s fists cutting quick, sharp lines in response.

For a fleeting moment, doubt flickered across his mind. The rival’s technique was sharp, honed, far from the sloppy aggression he had grown used to fighting on the streets. A strike grazed his shoulder, the sting biting through cloth. Another swiped his forearm, leaving the skin throbbing. He hissed, stumbling back a step. He’s fast… sharper than he thought. The youth pressed forward, confidence flashing in his eyes. “Yield now.” He jeered. “Or I’ll beat you down until you cannot rise.”

The words burned in Hakuji’s chest, and for a moment he saw not just his opponent but the shadow of those who had tried to poison Koyuki, the smirk of men who believed they could take her from him, the frailty of her smile as she tried to be brave for him this very morning.

His gaze dropped to the cord on his wrist, woven threads the color of her eyes, and the pounding in his heart steadied. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, and exhaled long through his nose.

“You’re strong.” Hakuji admitted, voice calm now, measured. He raised his fists again, stance lowering, the coiled spring of Soryuu’s discipline. “But I’ve fought for scraps, for breath, for my own life. And today, I fight for more than myself.”

His eyes hardened, and with the next clash he shifted. Instead of yielding ground, he stepped into the bokken’s arc, letting the wood skim his arm as he drove a fist hard into the rival’s chest. The boy staggered back, eyes wide, breath punched out of him.

The crowd erupted in cheers and shouts. The rival recovered quickly, fury flashing, and swung low for Hakuji’s knees. Hakuji leapt over it, twisting mid-air to hammer his heel across the boy’s temple. The rival reeled, but answered with a desperate slash upward that caught Hakuji’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. Blood welled faintly at his lip, metallic on his tongue, but he only grinned through it.

“That’s all?” Hakuji spat to the dirt, then surged forward with renewed vigor. His fists were blurs now, one, two, three strikes landing at the ribs, the shoulder, the side of the neck. Each blow precise, not wild, every ounce of Shishio’s words channeled into discipline rather than rage.

The rival swung his bokken wildly to fend him off, but Hakuji slipped past the guard, ducked low, and rose with an uppercut that snapped the boy’s head back. The bokken slipped from his grip, clattering uselessly onto the earth.

A hush fell for a heartbeat before Hakuji pressed in the final motion, a swift hook across the jaw that sent the rival sprawling, his body rolling once before lying still in the dust. Silence hung in the air until the magistrate’s voice rang clear.

“The victor, Soryuu’s disciple!”

The crowd broke into cheers, voices lifting in waves. Hakuji stood there, chest heaving, sweat trickling down his temple, the cord on his wrist darkened with dust but still bright, still whole.

He looked at Koyuki at the edge of the field, her hands clasped to her chest, her smile trembling with relief, and though his body ached from every strike he’d endured, his heart felt impossibly light.

The magistrate’s gavel struck the wooden block once more, commanding silence from the buzzing crowd. His expression was sharp, unimpressed, and his voice carried with the weight of finality.

“By the terms agreed.” He declared. “The challenged school has been defeated. As such, they will issue a formal apology to the Soryuu dojo and its disciple. Furthermore, compensation shall be paid for the dishonorable methods employed in this rivalry, methods that endangered innocent lives.”

His eyes narrowed, sweeping over the rival master, who stood rigid, face pale and lips pressed tight. “Though no physical proof of the poison remains, your loss here confirms the truth of the accusation. You will make reparations for it, do you understand?”

The man’s jaw worked, pride battling with shame. Slowly, stiffly, he bowed until his forehead nearly touched the dirt. His student, still dazed from the beating, followed suit, voice barely audible as he whispered. “We… understand.”

The crowd murmured, some in shock, others with righteous satisfaction. The magistrate gave a curt nod. “Then it is settled, may this be a lesson to all, dishonor has no place among warriors.”

Hakuji, still panting, lowered himself into a deep bow before the magistrate, sweat dripping from his chin onto the earth. “Thank you… for your judgment.” He said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his body. When the magistrate dismissed them, Hakuji turned, scanning the sea of faces until his gaze found Koyuki and her father at the edge of the crowd.

“Koyuki…” He breathed, and then he ran. Dust kicked up beneath his sandals, the ribbon on his wrist fluttering. She moved before her father could stop her, her frail frame moving faster than it had in weeks, tears glimmering in her eyes. When he skidded to a stop just in front of her, she couldn’t hold back, she threw her arms around him, burying her face against his chest.

“You did it, Hakuji!” She sobbed, her voice muffled but radiant. “You protected us… you protected everything!”

For a moment, Hakuji froze, his arms hovering uncertainly. Then, with a shaky exhale, he wrapped her tightly against him, careful not to squeeze too hard. “I promised, didn’t I?” His voice cracked faintly.

Her father approached, resting one hand on Hakuji’s shoulder with surprising force for an old man. “Magnificent, boy!” he said with a booming laugh, pride swelling in his tone. “I knew you had it in you, but to see you fight with such heart… you carry the spirit of Soryuu in your fists. I couldn’t be prouder.”

Hakuji bowed his head, still holding Koyuki gently. “Thank you, Shishio… it was your teachings that carried me through.”

More voices began to rise from around them. Villagers approached, some clapping him on the back, others bowing in respect. “Incredible strength, young man!” one exclaimed. “I’ve never seen fists move like that.” Another one complimented.

Hakuji’s ears burned red, unused to such attention. “I didn’t do it for praise.” He muttered, but the smiles and praises only grew louder.

Keizo laughed beside him, eyes shining with pride. “See? Everyone saw what I’ve always known. Tonight…” He clapped his hands together with dramatic flair. “We feast! A victory like this demands a banquet!”

“A banquet?” Koyuki’s eyes widened, sparkling with delight. “Father, really?”

“Of course!” He grinned, eyes twinkling. “What use is pride if not to share it over sake and fine food? We’ll buy the best cuts, the freshest rice, even sweets. Let the whole house smell of celebration!”

Hakuji blinked, still flushed, but then allowed a small smile to curl at his lips. “I… I’d like that.”

The trio began their walk back through the village, the crowd parting for them with respectful bows. On the way, they stopped at market stalls, the father selecting a generous cut of fish, Koyuki pointing shyly at candied plums, and Hakuji, awkward but smiling, carrying baskets that seemed to multiply in his arms with every purchase.

As they made their final stop, a merchant leaned over his stand, presing a bag of small fruits gently against Hakuji’s chest, and whispered. “The way you fought today, lad… you’ll be remembered, as someone who protects what matters.”

Hakuji paused, taking the gift and glancing at Koyuki, who squeezed his sleeve with a tender smile. He nodded at the merchant. “That’s all I want.”

By the time the sun began to set, their cart brimmed with food, their laughter carrying down the street. The dark shadow of dishonor that had loomed over them was gone, replaced with the warmth of victory and the promise of a shared future.

They walked the last stretch home with the cart between them, Hakuji taking the handles this time while Keizo kept an easy hand on his shoulder. The sun leaned toward the horizon, painting the lane in long, honeyed strokes, dust motes drifted like small, golden planets around the cart axle. The older man’s voice came low and steady down the line, half instruction, half praise.

“You kept the center.” He said, glancing at Hakuji. “That’s what won you the exchange after his first feint. You didn’t chase the blade, good.” He paused as Hakuji shifted, the ribbon at his wrist flicking in the last light.

“But your right hand was high and too eager, your guard should rebound faster. A beat earlier and you could have avoided that scrape to the jaw.” But his mouth twitched into something almost like a smile. “All in all, a clean fight. You held yourself like Soryuu.”

Hakuji listened, fingers burying in the cart wood, the fatigue of the day rubbing against the satisfaction in his ribs. “I felt him in my ribs.” He admitted quietly. “When he went wide with the bokken I thought…” He cut off, chuckled, and shook his head. “But then I remembered your centerline drills.”

“Keep the drills in your muscle, not only your head.” He gave Hakuji a brief, engulfing look, pride and worry braided together, and then shifted direction.

When they reached the gate, Keizo stopped and met Hakuji’s eyes with that steady, slightly exasperated expression. “A hot bath, Hakuji. Now, clean yourself.” He shouldered the cart so Koyuki could climb down and motioned toward the kitchen. “Tonight I’ll cook. Koyuki, you can help, but only with the rice and tea. Let the boy rest.”

Koyuki bobbed in a quick, obedient bow, cheeks still flushed from the day. “Of course, father.” Her fingers brushed Hakuji’s sleeve as she passed, a soft anchor of contact.

Hakuji offered the smallest of smiles, a thing like a cracked moon, and let them steer him. In the bathing alcove the water crackled in the iron kettle as Keizo fed the flame, steam rising slow and steady. Hakuji set his bundle down, peeled off the dusty outer layers, and the first sweet ache of muscle loosened as he unwound his belt. The ofuro was cedar-warmed, the tub’s wood still carrying the faint smell of last night’s smoke and the lemony tang of soap.

He drew a handful of warm water and poured it over his shoulders, watching the grit bead and run, dark ribbons of dust spiraling away down the drain. When he lathered the soap and rubbed it over his scalp, the motion became nearly meditative, the scrub scraping at the day until the sting in his jaw felt like memory rather than current pain.

Steam feathered across his shoulders; the room hummed with the gentle crackle of the hearth. From the other room Koyuki’s laugh drifted in, light and small, followed by her father’s slow, pleased hum as he called out. “Be careful with the claws, girl… Don't burn the rice!”

Hakuji closed his eyes and let the heat press into his bones. For a long moment he floated there, the busy world reduced to water on his skin, the ribbon at his wrist a cool point of contact. He let his shoulders slack, and with them fell the iron knot of obligation and fear.

All of it washed over him like a blessing. He thought of the field, of the crack of wood and the thud of a body on dust, and he felt, properly, the small, fierce relief that came from keeping a promise.

When he had cooled and the water slid from his shoulders in steady sheets, Hakuji clapped his palms, the sound muffled in steam, and called in a quiet voice, “I’m done.” The alcove paper sighed and opened a sliver. Koyuki’s face peered through, hair tidied, cheeks flushed with kitchen heat. She held out a clean haori, its fibers smelling of plum blossom soap, the same scent that had lived on the ribbon she had tied to him earlier.

“It’s almost ready.” She said softly, her smile was small and full at once; she lingered a heartbeat, then brushed a wet strand of hair from his temple with a fingertip. The contact made his chest thump in a steady, grateful rhythm.

Hakuji slipped into the haori, the fabric settling across his shoulders like a hand finding its place. He followed Koyuki to the main room, and the sight made something in his ribs unclench completely, a low, round, table in the center of the tatami, lacquer glinting under the lantern light, plates arrayed like small islands.

There was grilled sea bream laid on a long wooden board, its skin crackled and lacquered; a tray of sliced sashimi, fat cuts of salmon and glistening slices of tai, arranged with a carved radish blossom, tempura piled in a delicate cascade, thick cuts of beef, tender and glimmering with fat, seared and resting on a wooden platter, simmered daikon and lotus root arranged in a lacquer bowl, miso soup steaming in a clay pot, pickled plums and crunchy tsukemono in small dishes, and for finish, skewers of dango and a small plate of candied chestnuts.

Hakuji’s eyes widened despite himself, incredulous, and then he laughed, short and hoarse. “This is… extravagant. You didn’t have to…” He stopped as Keizo pushed a bowl of hot rice into his hands and folded a cup of tea before him. The older man’s face was calm, a touch pleased around the eyes. “Tonight we celebrate properly.” He said simply. “You earned this.”

Koyuki slipped into the cushion beside him and lifted a cup in a small toast. “To Hakuji.” She said, voice bright, she reached across and squeezed his hand under the table, the touch was small but steady, and Hakuji felt his shoulders drop further, the fight entirely extricated from his muscles now.

They ate slowly, savoring each bite as if tasting not only flavors but the day itself. Hakuji took a careful piece of sashimi, cool, clean, salty, and closed his eyes. “This is good.” He murmured, surprised. “You can taste the sea in it.” He dipped his chopsticks into a little dish of soy and let the tang of wasabi kiss the corner of his mouth. Koyuki giggled as he fanned the heat away with his hand, she offered him a bit of the beef, and he accepted it like a truce.

Keizo ate with deliberate, slow movements, his critiques softened into conversation. “Next time, when the opponent feints low with the haft, you step outside and bind. It takes away his rhythm and opens a pocket to the ribs.” He rapped the table with a chopstick in emphasis and then added with a rare lightness, “And Hakuji, learn to enjoy a good meal. We’ll never have enough time to train on an empty stomach.”

Hakuji glanced at Koyuki and their eyes met. “You can start by eating slowly.” She teased, nudging his elbow playfully. “If you keep inhaling like that, you’ll scare the magistrate’s clerk into fainting.” He chuckled and slowed, humbled by the warmth at the table.

Outside, dusk stitched itself through the paper screens, the day’s last blue folding into the night. The lull that settled around them was soft and absolute, no more jeers, only the house, the three of them, and a table heavy with the small, cultivated pleasures of a safe household. When dessert came, swirls of sweet bean paste and a small cup of warm sake for Shishio, Koyuki leaned her head against Hakuji’s shoulder for a second, a tired, radiant thing. He rested his cheek against her hair and let himself be still, not because the world demanded it, but because he could finally choose it.

They talked then of small things, the baker’s daughter and whether she’d finally agree to sell him some of those candied plums, the magistrate’s frown that had loosened into a reluctant respect, the way the village children had cheered. Keizo hummed agreement, and every so often his eyes flicked to Hakuji with that steady approval that had the weight of both teacher and father.

When the last bowl was cleared and the lanterns were stoked low, Hakuji felt the day fold into him like a well-made stitch. He had stepped into the field to prove a point and had returned with more than honor, he had a voice at the table, a cord on his wrist, and the warm weight of two people who trusted him.

He bowed his head for a moment, not in formality but in gratitude, and Koyuki squeezed his hand in answer. Outside in the distance, the village slept under a thin, watchful moon. Inside, the house held its small, fierce light, the sound of low conversation and the scent of food lingered like a promise.

Hakuji moved quietly around the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up as he helped her father stack the last of the lacquered plates, rinse the chopsticks, and wipe down the low table. The fire in the hearth had died down to a faint glow, casting warm amber shadows across the tatami mats. Koyuki, perched on the edge of a cushion nearby, let out a small yawn, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

“You should go to bed.” Hakuji said softly, glancing at her with concern. “It’s late, and you’ve had a long day. I’ll be right behind you after I help Shishio close up the dojo.”

Koyuki nodded, her exhaustion written clearly on her features. “Yes… thank you, Hakuji.” She murmured, giving him a small, tired smile. She stood, brushing the last loose strand of hair from her face, and made her way toward the corridor. Before leaving, she turned to her father and gave him a small bow. “Good night, father.” She said softly, her voice carrying both respect and affection.

“Good night, Koyuki,” Her father replied, his voice warm. Hakuji watched her disappear into her room, the faint creak of the sliding door marking her retreat. He felt a gentle tug of protectiveness but allowed her the rest she clearly needed.

Once the kitchen was spotless, the dishes stacked and put away, Hakuji followed Shishio to the main room to finish securing the house for the night. He wiped down the last surfaces and took a moment to look around, the scent of the evening meal still lingering warmly in the air. Hakuji then approached her father, who rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, his eyes serious yet kind.

“Thank you, Hakuji.” He said, his tone quiet but firm. “For everything today, for protecting her… and for handling yourself with honor. I’m proud of you”

Hakuji blinked, a little taken aback by the sudden acknowledgment. “It… it was my duty.” He replied, his voice steady. “I would do it a thousand times over if it meant keeping you both safe.”

Keizo’s hand tightened ever so slightly on Hakuji’s shoulder. “I believe you.” He said simply, then released the contact. “Sleep well tonight, Hakuji. You’ve earned it.”

“I will.” He said, bowing slightly, a flicker of relief passing through him. He took a moment to glance around the room one last time, catching the soft shadows cast by the lanterns. Shishio gave him a nod, and Hakuji responded in kind, the unspoken respect between them lingering in the quiet of the house.

The hallways were still and hushed as Hakuji walked back toward his shared room with Koyuki. The moonlight filtered in through the paper panels, soft silver streaming across the tatami. He paused at the doorway, observing Koyuki lying on their futon. She had fallen asleep on her side, her back facing him, a book splayed loosely in her hand, proof that she had tried to stay awake, to wait for him, before exhaustion had finally claimed her.

Hakuji smiled softly, a mixture of affection and relief warming his chest. He knelt beside her futon and gently undid the binding in her hair, letting it fall freely over her shoulders. Koyuki exhaled a small sigh at the sensation, a quiet release in the stillness of the room. Hakuji’s fingers lingered for a moment before he rose and extinguished the oil lamp with a soft puff, plunging the room into a calm darkness, save for the silver moonlight that still painted the floor.

He slid under the covers, curling close to Koyuki. Her breathing was slow and even, steady and rhythmic, a small anchor in the darkness. Hakuji felt the familiar weight of the day’s events press gently on him, the adrenaline slowly unspooling from his muscles. He thought of the past days, the near loss of everything he cared for, the tension of the duel, the momentary fear that Koyuki’s safety could have been stolen away.

Yet now, here, he felt a fragile peace. He knew the threat was only temporarily abated, vigilance would always be necessary. But he allowed himself this night, this reprieve, the quiet company of the people he would defend at all costs.

His fingers brushed lightly against Koyuki’s arm as he adjusted himself in the futon, a silent promise to remain steadfast, ready for whatever danger might attempt to encroach upon their lives again.

A few days later, breakfast was a calm, sunlit affair. The table was smaller now, simpler fare than the lavish celebration, but it carried the warmth of routine, steaming rice, miso soup with floating wakame, pickled vegetables, and grilled fish. Hakuji sat beside Koyuki, who had neatly arranged her tray, while her father poured hot tea into small cups.

“Have you heard the rumors?” Her father began, voice low as he sipped his tea. “The rival dojo… they’ve begun losing students. Word spreads quickly when a dojo is disgraced, and with the attempted assassination, no one wants to train under them anymore. Their reputation is nearly nonexistent now.” He paused, letting the information settle. “The master is even looking to sell his land and leave town as quietly as possible.”

Hakuji exhaled, a breath that felt heavier than air at first, and then gradually lighter, like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. “That’s a relief.” He said, finally allowing himself a smile.

Koyuki reached over and linked her hand with his, giving a small, reassuring squeeze. “It feels like things are finally safe.” She said softly, her eyes shining with a mix of relief and lingering caution.

Hakuji nodded, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. He knew the world wouldn’t stay quiet for long, but for this morning, with the sun warming the tatami and the scent of fresh rice in the air, the world could wait. Peace, however brief, was theirs. And that, for now, was more than enough.