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“So you must be my elder sister’s husband?”
The young man — though rather a boy, really, closer to seventeen — was named Soga Akemura. He truly was her younger brother; Kunishige knew that, and even though the age gap between him and his sister wasn’t all that large, he still looked significantly younger. He resembled a fragile flower; there was an elegance about him, the kind typical of any young lord from an influential family — the sort you immediately imagine when someone tells you whose son he is. To be honest, Kunishige hadn’t expected them to meet at all. The affairs of the Soga family concerned him little, and the younger brother least of all, so his appearance on the threshold of the workshop surprised him — not only because he had somehow learned about the place, but because he had come here at all.
Standing in the doorway, in the pale rays of the winter sun, his hair seemed to glow, giving him a white halo.
When Kunishige stood up, Akemura didn’t move. He was shorter and thinner; if Kunishige wanted to, he could snap him in half. He had no intention of doing that, of course. Just a stupid thought. But he was used to the company of Shiba and Azami, other swordsmen, among whom only the apprentice brought by Samura truly stood out. And here — such a stark contrast. He simply stepped closer, gave him a critical look from head to toe — an expensive haori embroidered with gold patterns, a scarf pulled up to his nose — then wiped soot and grime from his hand and extended it, offering an introduction. At first, Akemura looked at the outstretched palm with distaste, as if not understanding what it was, but then, unexpectedly, he clasped Kunishige’s fingers with both hands, thin but calloused, and Kunishige reminded himself that he had heard the (probably) youngest child of the Soga family was an exceptional fencer. An excellent candidate for a swordsman, if the family had allowed it.
But he was, evidently, a very gentle soul. It showed in his face — beautiful and youthful — and in his gaze. Like a porcelain doll.
Akemura looked at him again, now with admiration, barely perceptible beneath his apathetic expression.
“I’ve always wanted to meet you. Such a talented master.”
“Your sister told you that?” Kunishige snorted, and Akemura gasped, as if offended. That reaction made him seem like a child, and Kunishige reminded himself that he was closer to seventeen. Practically still a brat.
“Not at all. I’d heard a great deal about you even before her.”
“And how did you find me?”
“That’s where my sister helped…” Kunishige smirked, and Akemura seemed embarrassed, blushing faintly — on his pale face, it was especially noticeable. “But that’s not important,” he said in a petulant tone, then timidly peered inside. Kunishige had already finished his work, and the furnace was cooling, but Akemura still looked like a child brought to a zoo for the first time. Maybe he was just curious. Or maybe that was how children from wealthy families were — raised in a pot, cut off from the world. “May I watch next time?.. How do you do all this?”
“You came just for that?”
Akemura closed his eyes, then lifted his chin. He answered with such unshakable resolve that it became funny.
“Yes?”
“And won’t your old man scold you?”
“Father…” Suddenly, the youth faltered. “That’s not important. Besides, now you’re my sister’s husband — consider us almost family. We needed to meet anyway; tradition demands it. I just sped things up a little. Or are you against it?”
“No, not really… You just showed up so suddenly. And I’m done working already…” Feeling awkward that his guest had come for nothing, Kunishige scratched the back of his head. “Want something hot to drink?”
He didn’t say: you look like a stiff breeze will knock you over and kill you. When Akemura nodded eagerly, he motioned for him to follow.
It was a temporary workshop. Or rather, one of several — set up in military camps, where he stayed with some of the swordsmen. There weren’t many of them yet, only two: Misaka and Samura. But he didn’t want to leave them alone with weapons whose "behavior" was still uncertain. No matter how you looked at it, they were essentially lab rats, testing new blades. Outsiders weren’t allowed into military camps, but Akemura was from the Soga family… plus, his sister had likely arranged his pass here — and possibly through Shiba. The army rarely wanted to clash with the whims of the wealthy sponsors funding them, so the son of a rich family could easily be allowed in. And Akemura was right — they would have had to meet sooner or later anyway.
Kunishige threw on a jacket and headed out into the frost and snow, and Akemura slipped after him like a shadow.
Kunishige’s tent was better than some, but he lived modestly, so he wouldn’t have to haul too much with him when relocating. Akemura peeked inside and immediately began examining everything with incredible interest, reminding him of a puppy, then sighed mournfully. There was no good tea, so Kunishige gave him the brew he and Shiba made together from local herbs. He expected the spoiled rich boy to grimace, but Akemura drank it down to the last drop. Well, damn.
“So… you’re here just to what? Look around?”
“Am I distracting you?”
Concern slipped through his apathy, and Kunishige shrugged. Shiba was busy with work, and Kunishige himself had no particular plans after finishing. When he shook his head, Akemura’s face didn’t seem to change, but it brightened slightly, and after a moment’s thought, he rummaged somewhere inside his robes and pulled out a small envelope.
“This is a message from my sister.”
“Oh, you little sneaky bug. So you’re not here just because you wanted to meet me!”
When Kunishige laughed, even Akemura’s feigned calm couldn’t hide his embarrassment.
“I merely decided to deliver it personally. To combine the useful with the pleasant. My sister thought it would be good as well.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is that… bad?”
“No, it’s just… funny. A joke, come on.” When Akemura tilted his head, clearly not understanding, Kunishige remembered that the family was… peculiar, to say the least. He sighed. “I mean, like scolding someone over a stupid reason that isn’t worth it…”
“So you’re not angry?”
“About you coming just to meet me? To tell me how amazing and talented I am?” He said it deliberately stupid and pompous so the youth would catch the joke, and Akemura narrowed his eyes, as if gradually grasping it. Did he learn that fast? Or did even the son of a family that sent its first boy to swing a sword endlessly still have the makings of a normal person? “Oh, well, I’m flattered. How could I be angry?”
For a moment, Akemura pondered this, slowly processing what he’d been told, then nodded and handed the mug back. Only when he stepped closer did it become clear that beneath his haori he wore several more layers of clothing — he was dressed very warmly. The winter was harsh, but not harsh enough to wrap oneself in all that, even here. His gaze wandered around the tent, as if there were something special about it, though the only difference from the others was its size. His bed, too, consisted of a miserable, creaking folding cot.
But to the son of a wealthy family, it probably seemed exotic. He looked around the tent once more, then returned his gaze to Kunishige and said fervently:
“I wish I could help our army and protect people as well… Father could be proud of me, and I could use my skills for good instead of just cutting bamboo.”
“You can’t?” Kunishige asked sympathetically, and Akemura immediately grimaced, baring his teeth, but the contempt was directed at himself.
“My health won’t allow it.”
Ah. So that joke hadn’t been a joke after all. That was why he looked sickly — it wasn’t deception. And why he wore so many layers. A frail only son, and the youngest child of a wealthy family… It smelled like a situation where the family needed a proper heir. Perhaps there was one somewhere else, but as for Akemura, he had nothing left to do but hone his skill. And hone it he had — so much so that even Samura had mentioned him. But to truly enter the war, Akemura couldn’t. He wouldn’t endure it.
It seemed he heard what Kunishige was thinking, because he added sorrowfully:
“Tell me… my sister must have told you, and Samura-san as well — we met him and his master… if I were healthy, would you give me a sword?”
No, Kunishige wanted to say. You’re still a kid — I don’t want to drag an almost-teenager into war. Stay home and train; it’s safer. But it wasn’t as if Kunishige himself was much older — nor Samura or Ibuki. Just a couple of years. And the country was in dire straits. He was already working on the next sword, because the two he’d made weren’t enough. And the candidates weren’t that old either: Ibuki’s younger brother, whom he was pushing forward, had only recently turned eighteen, and Samura’s apprentice was a year younger — roughly Akemura’s age.
Terrible times demanded unforgivable decisions.
So he thought it over… gave Akemura, standing before him — the younger brother of his beloved — a critical look and decided not to be an asshole. It was impossible anyway; he could at least offer praise.
“Would I really refuse to place a sword in the hands of one of the brightest talents of our time? Hmm. Indeed.”
At the compliment, Akemura’s face suddenly flushed, far brighter than before, and he mumbled something incoherent in response, making Kunishige laugh even louder. Akemura hurriedly hid his face behind his collar and bolted out of the tent.
Akemura was a good boy.
Hard-working… a little stubborn, in the sense that he’s unlikely to spare an enemy, but in their times that was more the norm than the exception, and young people, as is well known, sometimes tend to rush into extremes. He was genuinely sorry that he could not help the nation, and so he offered Kunishige his assistance as a sword tester, so as not to ask swordsmen already deployed in the field — Samura and Ibuki in particular — to leave their duties. His father let him go easily… and Kunishige couldn't help but think that the son didn’t interest him much: weak from birth, incapable of inheriting the clan, able only to swing a katana. But that skill he had honed to brilliance; even though he tired quickly, his strikes were well set and precise. His wife was pleased as well, whispering that it would be good for Akemura to get some air, otherwise he’d drown in his bushido. That was probably a joke. But she was always serious… and it seemed to be a family trait, which made Kunishige feel like the main clown in this strange household.
That was how they began working together. As smith and sword tester.
Kunishige saw the illness with his own eyes only a couple of times — when Akemura would come in coughing, then wipe blood from his hand. Not much, a few drops, and then he would say:
“I was very sick as a child, nearly suffocated. This is what remained. The doctors told me to move more and drink herbal decoctions.”
“Oh,” Kunishige looked at him with sympathy. “Is that why you drank that herbal sludge that Shiba and I make so easily?”
“Yes!”
“Listen, Akemura. If you start feeling unwell… don’t hide it. I don’t want my wife’s brother to suddenly drop dead. I’m responsible for your life, too.”
“Don’t worry, elder brother. I know my limits.”
He didn’t take part in battles, but he was constantly near Kunishige, helping however he could — not only with sword testing. They even started living in the same tent (Shiba was outraged, because now, if he wanted, they had to sleep there all three of them). The command wasn’t pleased, but the Soga family sponsored his stay here, clearly planning to squeeze everything they could out of a useless, sickly son, and perhaps hoping he’d bring the family glory at least this way — so no one protested too loudly. And Kunishige… Kunishige, perhaps, was glad that there was someone nearby besides Shiba, because Shiba wasn’t always around — he was often sent into battle, and sometimes he was so exhausted he simply couldn’t visit him. Besides, Akemura’s fresh perspective helped at times… though, of course, youthful maximalism burst out of him like a fountain.
But watching how he gradually picked up new habits, stopped walking around with that eternally serious face, even tried to joke… eventually even such a stubborn ram as Shiba stopped wearing a sour expression about why do you need this dependent, and so on. Looking after someone was new for Kunishige; honestly, apart from forging, he was a rather irresponsible person, and if before his tent had been in complete chaos, unlike the workshop, now Akemura kept it clean, and Kunishige felt so sorry for him! Damn it, he came here to test swords, not wash socks! But Akemura seemed to genuinely enjoy it.
At some point, Kunishige was fine-tuning the third blade, and for that, he needed to bind it by contract to the very first sword he had forged. That one was stronger, but more unstable, like any prototype, so Kunishige had no real intention of handing it to anyone — using it more as a linking instrument than as a weapon. When he showed Akemura what he was doing, Akemura’s eyes went wide.
“So cool.”
“Yeah, cool,” Kunishige snorted with satisfaction, then closed the case. They were in the tent, and he slid the storage box of the still-unnamed sword — the one the command referred to in conversation as a “masterpiece”, the Shinuchi — farther away. He poured tea for himself and Akemura. “But it’s a dangerous toy. And far too unstable.”
“You don’t want to give it to anyone?”
“To hand someone a sword like that, hanging the responsibility for every swordsman on them — it’s very… inhumane?” He hesitated, thinking, while Akemura watched him with curiosity. How to explain it? “Imagine that if you die, all the best swordsmen in the country die too. I don’t want to entrust this weapon to anyone, because it will cause both risk and stress…”
“Well, we are at war.”
“Yes, but it has to be someone we can all be certain of. Someone the others trust.”
Akemura looked at him doubtfully.
“Then why not Samura-san?”
“Well, Samura is a good candidate. But I spoke with Shirakai…” When Akemura’s face twisted as if he’d swallowed several lemons at once, Kunishige grew concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, he disgusts me. I meant to say — I would kill him, if I could.”
“Wow…”
Embarrassed, Akemura pressed his lips together and hurriedly added:
“You simply haven’t heard him. Such a vile man! I’m amazed that Samura-san and Uruha turned out normal, considering he taught them. Father wanted to send me to that dojo, and, well, we had a fight. Father was angry, but I… I think that time I was glad I got scolded.”
“Is he really that bad? Samura only mentioned he’s a grumpy old man.”
“Cruel,” Akemura began counting on his fingers. “Rude. And he doesn’t respect women. Says this art is for men. But women, by the way, have an advantage in flexibility. All of that can be developed, of course, but you still can’t say no woman can become a good swordsman. She might not cut your head off right away, but she’ll twist around and strike you in the back or the chest so fast you won’t even blink.”
Damn, Akemura really couldn’t stand Shirakai!.. And Kunishige had only laughed at Samura’s words, thinking he’d exaggerated. After all, Shirakai had raised him for several years, since his youth. A sort of parental relationship, you know? And here… Maybe, Kunishige thought, he had insulted Akemura’s sister. His wife, that is. Akemura clearly loved her. He reacted to the news of a potential nephew with restrained delight, but his eyes sparkled so brightly that no blank expression could hide it.
What a funny guy, really.
Still, those were subtleties of relationships between famous swordsmen that Kunishige didn’t know. If it were up to him, he’d have entrusted the sword to Shirakai, but the old man had no interest in the war, and it was immediately obvious that convincing him was impossible. Samura later confirmed this suspicion. So Kunishige simply sighed and patted Akemura on the shoulder.
“Well… who would’ve thought?”
He wanted to add something else, as a joke, but couldn’t come up with anything when he noticed the look Akemura cast at the sword locked in its case. For just a moment, resentment flickered across his usually serious face, and the beautiful young man turned back into that same boy who’d been told: you have no future. Train with a sword, and maybe you’ll be lucky. But don’t expect more. When Akemura pressed his lips together, his gaze clouded over.
“I wish I could help too. Take a blade in my hands… not be dead weight left behind,” he grabbed the fabric at his chest, clenched it, and gritted his teeth. “Why was I given this talent if I can’t use it for good?”
“You’re not dead weight, Akemura.”
Kunishige didn’t say it lightly or jokingly — just as a fact. Akemura looked at him with despair in his eyes. Yes, he would have made… an excellent swordsman. One Kunishige would have trusted with that sword. Such an incredible young talent deserved exactly that kind of blade. But fate was against him. Wasn’t that cruel? When small pearl-like tears rolled from the young man’s eyes, and he quickly wiped the blood that had appeared on his lips, Kunishige called him closer, wrapped an arm around him, then ruffled his soft hair.
Unfair, right? How terribly unfair…
“Don’t be upset. Maybe we’ll find you a miracle cure someday. Some nasty, bitter medicine. And for now… you’re helping me and the army. How could you possibly be dead weight?”
“Ready… Start,” Samura said quietly, in the strict tone of a teacher.
He and Akemura stood facing each other, swords at the ready. Not long ago, Kunishige had made a few adjustments to Tobimune, and it was necessary to see whether the blade had become too brittle — finding that out on the battlefield would spell disaster. Kunishige himself sat nearby with Shiba, who had come “just to watch” and promptly fallen asleep on Kunishige’s shoulder, waiting for the test to end.
He wasn’t a swordsman, but he still caught the moment when the two moved toward each other. So fast that blink, and you’d miss everything. Steel rang out; then Samura and Akemura were suddenly behind one another, and immediately afterward they bowed. For a second, Kunishige saw the young man lick blood from his lips, which made him frown; then his gaze dropped to the ground, where a fragment of the blade that had belonged to Akemura lay. Even suffused with spiritual energy, it couldn’t withstand Tobimune. The test was a success. Kunishige picked up the shard, jolting Shiba, who had been dozing on his shoulder; Shiba woke with a start, hastily wiping drool from his face.
Enchanted swords were still an unshakable force in their army. But even the ones already made weren’t enough. Even those… more had to be forged… or else the Shinuchi would have to be brought into battle. Kunishige had already discussed this with Shiba and Samura (the most level-headed of them), and both said it would be better not to touch the prototype except as a last resort. They needed to hurry. The war was dragging on. It dried up the land, robbed children of parents, and mothers of their sons. People were waiting for a miracle from him. Theoretically, the Shinuchi could work… but it was a dangerous sword, and he didn’t yet trust the swordsmen enough to hand it over. He was afraid they would be killed, dragging the rest of the chosen with them. If only the sorcery could be preserved, he would give it to Shiba. Shiba certainly wouldn’t let himself be killed.
When Kunishige stood up, Samura was beside Akemura, and the two of them were examining Tobimune together.
“A good strike. If my sword hadn’t been sturdier, I might not have caught up to you.”
“You flatter me, Samura-san.”
“Perhaps I should set you as an example for Uruha?”
Samura was clearly joking, but Shiba nearby rasped sleepily:
“That's your green little frog? He’ll start crying later about how you don’t respect him and such shit.”
“It’s useful for Uruha to observe others and learn,” Samura said sternly.
“Samura, why are you such an asshole? Did your shitty grandpa teach you to be like that?”
Samura rolled his eyes, and Akemura let out a weak laugh. Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and added:
“If he wants, we can train together. Just not for long. Uruha is far too energetic.”
“Thank you, Akemura. Well done.”
“Kiss already, you girlies,” Shiba fluttered his lashes charmingly, for which he was promptly smacked on the head with an empty scabbard.
Living side by side with younger students had left its mark on Samura; for him, it was probably akin to having many younger brothers, so he treated Akemura, the youngest, accordingly. Akemura accepted the praise with a pleased expression, then whispered something and briskly headed toward Kunishige. His gait was firm and quick. He looked fine, but Kunishige immediately noticed the sweat on his brow, the pallor of his skin. Samura noticed too. Samura had learned to pick up on such details and watched him go with a tense gaze.
When Akemura came closer, Kunishige let him lean against him. A barely audible whisper reached his ear:
“I overdid it.”
“Let’s go rest,” Kunishige said, then frowned and shouted at Shiba and Samura. “Hey! Smoke somewhere farther away, damn it! You’re polluting the air with your crap!”
The two inveterate smokers immediately pulled guilty faces.
“Sorry, sorry!”
Idiots, Kunishige concluded gloomily, then led Akemura back to the tent and helped him lie down on the folding cot. He got cold easily, so his bed was always piled with blankets; but Kunishige couldn’t attend to him just yet. He filled out the observation log, then called Shiba and asked him to take it to the command, dismissed Samura, who vanished, scattering into a flurry of black feathers. And finally, he was free.
Akemura hadn’t gone anywhere — he remained dozing, pale and damp with sweat. When Kunishige sat down beside him, Akemura cracked one eye open and smiled faintly — wider when a hand rested on his forehead. He touched Kunishige’s hand with his fingers, and Kunishige thought: cold. Like a corpse’s.
“You usually last longer than this.”
“Samura-san has a special sword,” Akemura replied gently. “I had to put in more strength.”
“Well, at least he was impressed… It’s difficult — you’ve seen how he scolds Uruha.”
Of course, that didn’t really cheer him up. They both knew they couldn’t ignore the core problem. Akemura was good at fencing — fast, precise, his style ideal for duels — but he was sick. Probably something with his nervous system, not his lungs. But it responded. Maybe his own sorcery was killing him. That sometimes happened. Uncontrolled power… Of course, his father was displeased, which was why he’d let his useless son come here — another man wouldn’t have sent his child into the army. This way, in his view, Akemura would at least be good for something.
Typical influential clans and their politics. And they could lay hands on his child…
When Akemura near him exhaled raggedly and softly, Kunishige wiped away the tear that had appeared at the corner of his eye with his finger. Don’t be upset, buddy. It’s not your fault. But you really are helping me as much as you can. If you were healthy, I’d give you that damned Shinuchi. Only with your skills would there be enough strength to tame such a sword.
“I will make the decoction.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Kunishige said with a nervous smile, patting his hand before standing up. “You know, I once met a seasoned fighter who, toward the end of his life, went blind and deaf. He used to drink medicines to keep seeing, but they slowly killed him, and then suddenly it stopped working. And he still went on being an obnoxious bastard who terrorized the battlefield. I met him as a very old man, though. Still, see? He lived long enough to become the second unpleasant old sword-wielding geezer right after Shirakai Itsuo.”
The herbs Akemura drank were killing him slowly, too. They kept him from coughing up blood, but Kunishige could feel it — they activated his nervous system. Salvation and curse at once. He should stop it, but if he tried to send Akemura back, the young man would take it badly. And so he had to… voluntarily prepare this poison for him. When he turned back, Akemura was staring at him intently, his hair splayed across the pillow. When Kunishige handed him the mug of decoction, he drank it and immediately grimaced like a child. But he was a kid. Not even old enough to go to the war. A kid on the battlefield, like Samura’s apprentice — except he couldn’t even fight. When he lowered his hands to his knees, Kunishige pressed his lips together. Samura’s treatment technique worked only on him for now — and even then, not very well. But the sword was growing stronger, developing. Maybe someday…
“It’s so frustrating, you know. Why was I given this talent at all if I can’t do anything with it?” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and when Kunishige sat closer, he pressed his nose into Kunishige’s shoulder. “I want to help, like everyone else. I could do so much. I could save so many lives. If only I could leave this body. Be reborn. Like a caterpillar into a butterfly.”
“Don’t worry, Akemura. The war… We’ll deal with it.”
Because that was the business of adults, and you are still young — but Kunishige didn’t say that aloud. Akemura already knew. When Kunishige stroked his face with a finger, the youth nuzzled into it like a cat. In his home, that must have been something unthinkable. Children were raised strictly… like tools. Kunishige saw it in his wife. In her and Akemura’s emotions, their reactions. Such was the legacy of great families. And the sense of duty came from there as well. I must do that… I must…
“Why did you forge the blades, elder brother?”
Kunishige was taken aback. An unexpected question. But Akemura looked at him like a wolf cub, waiting for an answer.
“To defeat evil… and protect the weak.”
“Do you trust those you’ve chosen?”
“What do you mean?”
“I…” Akemura hesitated. “I don’t know. I realized I don’t know your ideal. People are all different, as are their perspectives. What’s acceptable to one will seem wrong to another. For example, Ibuki-san would easily sacrifice his comrades’ health for victory, though not out of malice. Samura-san would be cautious. And so on…”
“My ideal…”
What was it, really? Akemura was right — everyone’s views were different. Lost in thought, Kunishige scratched his chin, then said a bit absently:
“I imagine a set of scales.”
“Scales?”
“Yes. And I think about what my next action will do. My choice. And the more people I save, the better. Sacrifices… unfortunately, they can’t always be avoided. Though you see it yourself — Samura tries. But I’d prefer to do without them. Human lives — innocent lives — are our primary goal. Because if not us, then who? People like Samura and Ibuki fight on the front lines, and you and I are here, creating weapons for them. We sacrifice ourselves for the sake of others. Or do you think I’m wrong?”
What could a child raised in a tradition-bound family say? Such families often speak as if life itself isn’t worth much. They think not in terms of morality, but in terms of benefit. Let millions die, as long as the goal is achieved.
When Akemura squeezed his hand, Kunishige lowered his gaze. The young man muttered with effort:
“No, elder brother. I think… you’re saying everything right. Like a true hero.”
Then he fell asleep, exhausted by life in the locked cage of his own body, and Kunishige sat beside him for a long time, rocking him gently.
Kunishige knew that he trained at night. In secret, so that no one would see. He was trying to make himself stronger, but only destroying himself further, and Kunishige didn’t know what to do — he couldn’t simply tell him to stop, because he understood that the moment he grabbed Akemura by the hand, the young man would shut himself off instantly, like a child caught doing something wrong. He was like that: sometimes speaking with wisdom, sometimes acting on impulse, and he trusted him so deeply, so very deeply… Kunishige kept waiting for Akemura to realize it himself, to understand that he was harming himself — but he didn’t stop.
He should have stopped him.
He wasn’t a prophet. But surely he should have guessed that he shouldn’t have delayed. Shiba kept telling him it wasn’t his fault, that Akemura was simply ill and nothing could be done, that Samura’s treatment only rewinded his condition back to a certain point — it didn’t heal him completely, at least not yet, not until Samura mastered such an ability, considering he had wielded the blade for barely half a year… Yes, they could drag this out forever. They could roll him back to a previous state. But Kunishige knew he had made a mistake. He had stumbled. He should have told him to stop, acted like a reasonable adult, and instead he had…
In the end, Akemura refused Samura’s help. Said there was no need to waste time. That his time had simply come.
He withered, like a butterfly in autumn.
Lying in the hospital tent, Akemura looked white, like freshly melted snow. Spring had arrived, but death was drawing close in his life. He was fading slowly. The nervous system can’t work with the sorcery, they explained to Kunishige. It damages the body, the lungs in particular. It’s not from that childhood illness, no — this is all because of inflamed nerves, incapable of restraining his spiritual power.
“I understand why your sister likes you… You’re such a kind person… You come to visit me.”
That was how Akemura spoke to him — there’s no point wasting time on me. My end has simply come. He always treated such things plainly, without much reaction to the hardships of fate, silently accepting what it handed him. In vain. He should have fought. To the very end. But instead, he did everything mechanically… fulfilled his duties. If he could no longer test swords, then he saw himself as useless and therefore unworthy of Kunishige’s attention.
When Kunishige brushed the sweat-damp hair from Akemura’s face, he blissfully shut his eyes at the cool touch. He should have said something encouraging… Something…
But he never found the right words, and so he left the tent in irritation, with a strong urge to smoke. He took cigarettes from Shiba; all that remained was to find a lighter… While he rummaged through his pockets, something clicked nearby, and Kunishige nodded gratefully, leaning forward. Only then did he realize that Samura was standing in front of him, having conjured flame from Tobimune.
Well, damn… That was not what he forged blades for.
“And where’s your fancy lighter?” Kunishige asked.
“Drowned it in a bog,” Samura snorted and stepped beside him. He lit up as well. “So? Did you manage to talk him out of it?”
“If only…”
Still, Samura was here, which meant they were both prepared to rewind Akemura’s condition to a stable point. But Samura himself had said it — he wasn’t strong enough yet, couldn’t heal him completely. They could only repeat the process again and again… or wait until Samura grew closer to his sword. But who knew whether that would happen before the war ended? The future looked far too uncertain. Kunishige didn’t want to burden him; Samura himself was a cause for concern now, with his not so great mental state.
They stared ahead, at the indifferent soldiers roaming the camp. People here didn’t care that someone dear to Kunishige was dying nearby.
“We just need to accept it,” Kunishige muttered, and Samura shot him a quick glance.
“Do we?”
“He’s proud. He won’t accept our handout. His sorcery… It’s unstable and might not resonate properly with your treatment. Who knows how that would end? And I wouldn’t want him to be angry when he is dying. He’s a good kid. A bit weird, but… truly a good person. It’s such a shame he was dealt such a cruel fate. And all because he spent time around me. If he hadn’t looked up to you, hadn’t trained so hard… he might have lived longer.”
Samura didn’t answer. Kunishige crushed his cigarette and threw it to the ground. He said the next thing in a bitter voice:
“Though there is one more way.”
“Cut off his sorcery energy? A barrier is unlikely to change anything.”
“Rewrite his nerves.”
Kunishige immediately felt Samura’s sharp gaze and swallowed. He knew this was a bad conversation. But it could work. If the nerves were rebuilt… if his native sorcery were removed, if spiritual power were forced to flow differently… it might work. A one-in-a-million chance. But still… They had only one blade at their disposal. Uruha had taken the last “safe” one.
Only the Shinuchi remained. The prototype. The core of all the other swords.
That would be so egotistical.
“If I bind it to Akemura, I’ll be able to strengthen your blades as well,” Kunishige whispered, barely moving his lips.
But the risk was too great. What if Akemura died? Then he would drag five other swordsmen with him, and their country couldn’t afford that. Probably… that was why he was talking to Samura about it. He was calmer and more rational than the others. Yes, he, too, was reckless, but he wouldn’t risk Uruha’s life. Only his own. So he would answer honestly. Kunishige asked him because he wanted to hear: don’t do it. It’s too dangerous. Think again. But Samura chewed on his cigarette and suddenly said:
“Well, why won't we try it. It’s your only chance.”
He looked at the swordsmith without blinking.
“If he dies, you’ll be next. And everyone else.”
“In a few days,” Kunishige narrowed his eyes. “You’ll come up with something by then. And if not, I’ll kill them and bring them back. I think I can manage to do it with my sword.”
“And what about you?”
“Well, I…” Samura hesitated, then looked Kunishige straight in the eye. “You’ll give my sword to Ibuki’s younger brother. He’ll whine and certainly will bitch about it, but he’ll be okay. We both operate on speed anyway, and we similarly use lightning and fire.”
They fell silent again. Somewhere far away, the wind was whispering. Spring had brought the long-awaited warmth after a harsh winter, but cold still ruled Kunishige’s heart.
Every blade was created with a purpose. Attack, support… The swordsmen developed their abilities themselves. Samura, Ibuki, Uruha, and the others — all of them were chosen because he understood what was needed from them, which three abilities to create and embody. But the Shinuchi was not like that. It had no name yet; it was a prototype without a fixed number of abilities, forged with only one goal in mind — eliminate the enemy.
To hand such a sword to Akemura… So bright and pure…
“I’d put my bet on your blade,” Samura remarked nearby, and Kunishige clenched his teeth so hard his gums ached.
He woke up because the bed creaked.
Kunishige jolted and nearly fell off the chair. He hadn’t slept all night and only drifted off just now (or so it seemed to him), and he felt more broken than ever before. At first, blinking the haze away, he didn’t understand where he was or why his back ached so badly, but when the memories of the night returned, he sprang to his feet because the bed beside him was empty. But it was still warm. Which meant he hadn’t gone far. Which meant…
Could it be…?
He didn’t have to look for Akemura for long. He was standing outside, near the medical tent. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and for the first time, Kunishige saw his thin, lean body with milky-white skin and not a single scar — the body of a young heir, the son of an influential family, one who was never meant to step onto a battlefield. Like a crystallized ideal. When Kunishige stopped beside him, Akemura turned sharply, his hair scattering in the wind. At first glance, nothing seemed to have changed, but Kunishige had spent too much time beside him not to notice it immediately.
His eyes shone brighter. Before, they had resembled fading lanterns in the dark, fireflies fluttering weakly inside them; now they gleamed like two precious gems.
Akemura turned fully toward him, then glanced at the blade clenched in Kunishige’s hands — the sheathed sword with a gilded scarab-shaped tsuba. For a moment, doubt flickered across his face, as if he didn’t know what to do or what to say, and so Kunishige spoke first. He simply held out the blade to him, saying without words that they had decided to take the risk. Surprise flashed across Akemura’s face — for me? But the gamble had paid off. His innate abilities had stopped destroying his body. They were gone, the sorcery had vanished, but what remained was a magnificent swordsman with abilities worthy of being called a young god of war. And so, when he bowed, taking the blade in both hands, Kunishige finally let it go — the prototype, the most potentially dangerous and powerful sword, at last granted to someone worthy, someone now capable of wielding it as it was meant to be wielded.
For…
“I won’t disappoint you,” Akemura said firmly, tightening his grip on the blade.