The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the village. Takahiro leaned against a tree, his body slick with sweat, his muscles aching from another day of rigorous training.
His wooden sword lay beside him, well-worn from hours of practice, but despite his physical strength, a sense of frustration gnawed at him. He had grown strong—stronger than most boys his age.
His arms were thick with muscle, his legs powerful from years of running up and down the mountain.
Yet, no matter how hard he trained, he couldn't replicate the movements he had seen in his dreams—the graceful, deadly strikes of Yoriichi or the fiery swordsmanship of Kyojuro Rengoku.
"Swordsmanship required precision, knowledge of technique, and tutoring—none of which he had access to."
He had only his visions and the wooden sword he had fashioned himself. He swung the sword in the forms he remembered, but they lacked the power and precision that came with proper guidance. His strikes felt hollow, incomplete.
What he had developed, however, was an extraordinary sense of awareness. He had learned to read the wind, feeling it as it brushed against his skin, sensing the subtle shifts in the air. It was a skill he had honed without even realizing it.
He could tell when someone or something moved within a meter of him, the air pressure shifting just enough to alert him.
But his abilities had limits—he couldn't sense the small movements of leaves or the soft crunch of pebbles beneath his feet. Expanding his range beyond a meter was an exercise in frustration.
Takahiro sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow. His training had plateaued, and the lack of progress weighed on him.
As he stared out at the mountain ridge, lost in thought, he didn't notice Aiko approaching until she sat down beside him. Her presence immediately comforted him.
Without saying a word, she placed a towel over her shoulder and leaned her head against him, closing her eyes as she relaxed beside him. Her quiet companionship soothed the restlessness in his heart.
"How's the training going?" she asked softly, her voice gentle.
Takahiro smiled, a genuine smile that brightened his face. "Same as always. I'm getting stronger, but there's still something missing."
Aiko opened her eyes and looked up at him. "Do you need anything? Maybe something to help?"
Takahiro chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "No, nothing like that. Just... something's not right. It's like I can see it in my mind, but I can't make my body follow. Like there's a wall between what I know and what I can do."
Aiko nodded thoughtfully, her head still resting on his shoulder. She was silent for a while, then quietly asked, "What are you thinking about right now?"
Takahiro hesitated, then spoke softly. "I keep seeing these scenes in my head. A man coming home from work, lifting his child in his arms, laughing with his wife. Just... a peaceful life. A happy one. I don't know why, but it feels so familiar, like it's something I should remember."
Aiko listened, her eyes soft with understanding. She had heard Takahiro speak of these visions before—dreams of a life that didn't seem to belong to him, but were as vivid as his own memories.
"You'll figure it out," she said gently. "Whatever these dreams are, they'll make sense eventually. Maybe you're meant for something more than just training in the woods."
Takahiro smiled again, but the weight of his thoughts lingered. "Yeah, maybe."
As they sat together in the quiet, Takahiro's thoughts drifted back to his mother. "Ume had once told him about the bloodstains she had found near the door of the house the morning after he was left on her doorstep."
She had pieced together the story—a widow, struggling with sickness, leaving her child behind in a final act of love.
He knew now that his mother had suffered from a disease, likely the same one that had taken her life. News had reached the village a few weeks after she left him behind—she had been found frozen to death in a nearby village, alone and cold.
The thought of her walking through the cold night, coughing up blood, haunted him.
A few months ago, Takahiro had broken down in Ume's arms, finally allowing himself to grieve for the mother he barely remembered.
He had cried into her lap, the tears flowing freely as the weight of her sacrifice settled into his heart. Aiko had been there too, hugging him as he cried himself to sleep, comforting him in her quiet way.
Ume had whispered words of comfort, holding him close as if he were still the baby she had taken in so many years ago.
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