Descendant (One-Shot)

The workshop was enveloped in scorching heat. Senji Muramasa, bare-chested and covered in soot, hammered the incandescent steel with almost divine precision. In front of him, two leaves in process, intended for someone important, reflected the reddish light of the forge. Each stroke of the hammer resonated like a heartbeat, marking his commitment to the art that defined him. He had worked for weeks on these katanas and had not yet reached the point of perfection he demanded of himself.

Muramasa raised the red-hot leaf, examining it with a critical eye before submerging it in the water.

The steam hissed and rose into the air as the blade touched the icy water, covering the forge in a momentary cloud. Muramasa watched as the steel began to temper, his golden eyes glistening in the firelight. This was his world: hammer, fire, and metal, an eternal cycle where each blow brought steel closer to perfection and the blacksmith to the immortality of his art. Nothing else mattered.

The land of Japan was divided by the chaos of the Sengoku era, and Muramasa knew that these swords would be tools of war. But the fate of those who wielded them was not their problem. As he always said, his duty ended when the edge was finished.

The air in the workshop changed suddenly, becoming denser, as if time itself had decided to stop. Muramasa did not look up from the leaf; I was used to ignoring distractions. But then, a pale blue light lit up the room, and a voice, firm and ethereal, broke the silence.

"Senji Muramasa."

The blacksmith frowned and put the hammer aside. "If you come to buy a sword, wait your turn," he growled, turning his head slightly toward the figure that had appeared in his workshop.

Before him, a sphere of blue energy with two rings rotating its "body" floated silently, radiating an overwhelming presence.

The voice spoke again, echoing in the forge. "I'm not looking for steel. I seek to save your bloodline."

Muramasa sighed irritably. "My lineage? What nonsense. I am a blacksmith, not a nobleman with surnames to protect. If you come with speeches about destinies and prophecies, you're wasting your time."

The sphere stood still for a moment before answering, its tone unwavering. "Your blood is more important than you imagine. In the future, a descendant of yours will be key to saving humanity."

Muramasa took the sheet he was still holding and placed it on a table. He then turned completely towards the figure. His gaze, though tired, showed no fear, only a mixture of disbelief and disdain.

"Save humanity? How illogical. The only thing I can save is a piece of poorly worked steel. If anyone depends on me for anything else, they're in serious trouble."

"Without your offspring, mankind will face a great problem," the voice insisted. "Your bloodline will forge something more valuable than any sword you can create. It will be the tool that will protect millions."

Muramasa let out a short, dry laugh. "Humanity will fend for itself, as it always has. I don't need children or promises of future greatness to justify my existence."

The sphere appeared to shake slightly before emitting a flash of light that filled the workshop. When the luminosity disappeared, it was no longer a sphere that stood in front of Muramasa, but a woman with long silver-blue hair. His golden eyes seemed to pierce him, and his bearing was so elegant that he hardly looked real. She wore a light blue kimono that reflected the light of the flames, as if every fold of the fabric was alive.

Muramasa blinked, surprised for a moment, but quickly regained his composure. "Wow, it looks like this work comes with visual spectacles. Do you really expect me to be impressed with that?"

The woman spoke, now in a softer but just as firm voice. "If my words are not enough, then I will have to be by your side to prove it to you. I won't leave until you understand how important it is that you have a descendant and your lineage still exists."

Muramasa shook his head as he continued his work. "Do what you want. But if you plan to follow me, don't get in my way. I have an assignment to deliver."

As Muramasa worked to perfect his craft, the entity known as Alaya watched silently from a corner of the workshop, witnessing the blacksmith put every fragment of his soul into the forge of the two katanas. Each blow of the hammer resounded with unwavering dedication, as if fate itself depended on the perfection of those blades.

Finally, the hammer struck its last blow, and Muramasa raised the second katana. He looked at both finished blades, admiring their perfect edge and impeccable balance, and then placed the grips. With reverential care, he placed them in their wooden and leather sheaths, ready to be delivered to the daimyo who had ordered them. This work would undoubtedly strengthen his reputation, although to him, it meant nothing.

"Ready," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Alaya stood silently in the half-light of the workshop, his ethereal presence only an observant shadow.

Muramasa, although he did not show it, was grateful that she had not disturbed him during the process. His very presence was unnerving, but at least she had been silent while he worked. Now that the swords were finished, it took a few moments to evaluate them again, looking for any imperfections. He found none.

'It's time to travel to Sunpu Castle to deliver them,' he thought as he stood up and adjusted the katanas on his back.

Without looking at her, he spoke in a dry tone: "I hope you're not thinking of following me too."

The woman bowed her head slightly, her voice as calm as her bearing. "Wherever you go, I will go too. My purpose with you is not over."

Muramasa frowned, but did not answer. He walked out of the workshop, leaving behind the scorching heat of the forge as a light rain began to fall. The woman followed him without hesitation, holding a light blue wagasa that she unfurled in a gentle motion, shielding herself from the rain as they descended the mountain together.

The road descended to a small bustling town, with streets full of merchants and travelers trying to shelter from the rain. Curious glances were directed towards the couple as they entered; Muramasa with his rough bearing and the weight of the swords on his back, and Alaya, with his almost supernatural elegance under the celestial wagasa.

Muramasa walked straight toward a man offering transportation in a horse-drawn cart. "I need a trip to Sunpu Castle. I will pay what is fair."

The man nodded, but his eyes drifted to Alaya. "And her? Is she your wife?" he asked with a broad smile, pointing to the woman waiting a few steps behind Muramasa.

Muramasa opened his mouth to answer, but Alaya stepped forward and spoke first. "Yes, I'm his wife. We travel together." His tone was calm, almost natural, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.

The driver leaned slightly. "What a beautiful woman you have, master blacksmith. It's an honor to transport them."

Muramasa turned to Alaya with an expression of exasperation. "Why do you say that?" he muttered quietly as they got into the car.

Alaya calmly closed the wagasa before responding. "Because it's easier than explaining why a woman like me would be following a man like you for such a personal matter."

"Personal? This is not personal at all," Muramasa replied, settling in as the cart began to move forward.

"It's more personal than you're willing to admit," Alaya replied, looking down the road with a faint smile.

The car was moving slowly along the rain-soaked roads. Muramasa stood silent, arms crossed, while Alaya watched the landscape with apparent tranquility. However, the tension between them was palpable.

"How long do you plan to follow me?" asked Muramasa finally, breaking the silence.

"As many as necessary," Alaya replied without hesitation. "You can't ignore what's at stake."

"I can ignore many things," he said dryly. "And this is no different."

"We'll see," Alaya replied with a slight laugh.

The journey to Sunpu Castle unfolded in an eerie balance between silence and Alaya's occasional remarks. The rain fell incessantly, hitting the canopy of the car and filling the air with the scent of wet earth. Muramasa stood with his arms folded, his brow furrowed, and his gaze fixed on the horizon, as if with enough concentration he could ignore the woman sitting in front of him. Alaya, on the other hand, observed the landscape with an almost exasperating tranquility, holding her wagasa closed in her lap.

The soggy roads slowed the advance, and the mud puddles seemed to multiply with each kilometer traveled. The driver of the car tried to carry on a light conversation, asking about the weather, rumors of wars, and other banalities. But noticing the blacksmith's lack of responses, he soon gave up.

Finally, Muramasa broke the silence. "Tokugawa Ieyasu is not a patient man. This delay does not benefit me."

Alaya turned her golden gaze to him. "Ieyasu values quality more than punctuality. He knows this well, because only fools seek to hasten true art."

Muramasa snorted. "And now you're an art critic? I thought you were some kind of spirit obsessed with my lineage."

Alaya tilted her head slightly, cracking a small smile. "There is no contradiction in that. To understand art is to understand the soul of those who create it. And your art... it is both a blessing and a curse."

Muramasa leaned against the wall of the car and closed his eyes, clearly annoyed. "If you don't have something useful to say, spare yourself the words. The road is long enough."

Alaya was silent, though the slight curvature of her lips indicated that she had enjoyed the small victory in conversation.

Hours later, the chariot stopped in front of the gates of Sunpu Castle, an imposing bastion that stood as a symbol of Tokugawa Ieyasu's power. The guards, dressed in dark armor and drenched by rain, approached the vehicle. One of them stepped forward, bowing respectfully.

"Master Muramasa?" he asked, though his tone needed no confirmation. "Lord Tokugawa is waiting for you. Come in."

Muramasa descended from the chariot in a fluid motion, arranging the two katanas wrapped in fine cloth on his back. Alaya followed, again unfurling her wagasa to protect herself from the rain, though the drops seemed to avoid her as if even nature respected her presence.

The blacksmith wasted no time and began to advance along the path that led to the interior of the castle. The servants and samurai who crossed his path looked at him with respect, but also with a certain curiosity towards the female figure that accompanied him. Muramasa ignored the looks; His only interest was to deliver the order and return to his workshop.

Upon reaching the main hall, the doors opened with a heavy creak, revealing Tokugawa Ieyasu sitting on a tatami, surrounded by his closest advisors. The daimyo looked up, his small, calculating eyes assessing the blacksmith and his companion. Alaya's presence seemed to surprise him, but her face showed no more than a slight raising of the eyebrows.

"Muramasa," Ieyasu said in a firm voice. "You've finally arrived."

The blacksmith bowed briefly, showing the minimum respect required. Then, with careful movements, he untied the katanas from his back and placed them in front of Ieyasu, still wrapped. "Here they are. Two sheets like no other. They deliver what you asked for: perfect balance, wind-cutting edge, and resistance to battle."

One of the councillors stepped forward to take the swords, carefully drawing them. The light from the lamps reflected on the leaves, eliciting a murmur of admiration from those present. Every detail, from the shape of the edge to the engravings on the surface, was a testament to Muramasa's genius.

Tokugawa Ieyasu took one of the katanas, holding it reverently. His expression, usually unperturbed, showed a flash of satisfaction. "It is just as I expected of you, Muramasa. These swords will not only be a symbol of my power, but also an extension of my will on the battlefield."

Muramasa nodded, uninterested in the daimyo's words of grandeur. "My work ends here. I hope they will be used wisely, although I have no hope of it."

Ieyasu laughed softly, a sound that contained both humor and menace. "Your cynicism is almost as sharp as your steel, Muramasa. But I recognize the truth in your words. These swords will be tools of war, as your creations have always been."

Before Muramasa could answer, Ieyasu turned his gaze to Alaya. "And who is this woman who accompanies you? It's not common for a blacksmith to bring company to a place like this."

Muramasa opened his mouth to reply, but Alaya stepped forward with an elegant bow. "I am only an observer, my lord. I am here to ensure that Muramasa's legacy lives on beyond steel."

Ieyasu seemed intrigued by the answer, but he didn't insist. "Very good. Muramasa, you've done your part. Consider our debt settled. You can retire."

Without further ceremony, Muramasa bowed again and walked out of the hall, followed closely by Alaya. As they descended through the halls of the castle, the blacksmith couldn't help but growl.

"Observer? Really? What kind of response was that?"

Alaya smiled slightly, holding her wagasa gracefully as they walked. "The truth, although incomplete. Some mysteries are best left unsolved."

Muramasa shook his head in exasperation, as the sound of rain greeted them as they left the castle. The return journey would be just as long, but something inside him told him that the real battle was yet to begin.

Time passed with the same cadence as the blows of his hammer on the steel. The months passed, and though Muramasa never admitted it aloud, Alaya's presence had become as constant as the heat of the forge. At first, his insistence on the subject of the Muramasa lineage had irritated him deeply. Each day, Alaya found subtle—and not so subtle—ways to bring up the subject, whether it was during meals or while he was working on his assignments.

"Senji, humanity does not wait," she would say, leaning against a pillar of the workshop as she watched him work. "Every blow you strike on that blade is a step into the future, but without an heir, all your art could fade away."

"Alaya," Muramasa replied, his tone as dry as the air in the forge, "if you have such an interest in my lineage, why don't you forge one yourself?"

She, with her infinite patience and an air of unwavering security, only smiled. "Because my purpose is to make sure you make the right choice."

Over time, Alaya began to integrate into her home in a natural way, almost as if she had always been there. Although Muramasa never stopped grumbling about his insistence, something in his attitude had changed. When he finished work, he would find her making tea or arranging the small garden behind the house, a task he had never had time or interest in attending.

He even began to get used to his presence in the small details of the day. When he returned covered in soot after hours of work, he would find a clean cloth and fresh water waiting for him. And even if she never mentioned it, he sometimes caught himself looking for her gaze, only to see her smile at him with that enigmatic expression that irritated and fascinated him at the same time.

"We look like a married couple," Alaya said one day, as she placed a plate of rice and fish on the table.

Muramasa, who had just sat down, glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Married to a blacksmith who has no time for nonsense."

She laughed softly. "A blacksmith who, despite his complaints, has not asked me to leave."

Muramasa did not answer. Instead, he took a sip of tea and muttered something unintelligible.

It was in the middle of this peculiar routine that a messenger arrived, bringing an order from Oda Nobunaga himself. The warlord, known for his ambition and ferocity, desired a katana that reflected his indomitable spirit.

The messenger, a nervous young man who could barely hold Muramasa's gaze, reverently conveyed the message. "The great Oda Nobunaga requires a sword worthy of his name. He has heard of your art and trusts that you, Muramasa, can forge what he needs."

Muramasa nodded slowly. "Tell your lord that he will have his katana. But steel does not hurry, and neither do I."

Alaya, watching from the doorway, chimed in with a calm smile. "Don't worry. When my husband accepts an assignment, he keeps his word."

The messenger blinked, surprised, and looked at Muramasa as if seeking confirmation. Muramasa sighed deeply, putting a hand to his face. "I'm not her husband. But tell your lord that the sword will be ready."

As the young man left, Muramasa turned to Alaya, his gaze filled with exasperation. "Why do you keep saying that? Do you want people to think we're really a couple?"

She looked at him serenely, her golden eyes shining with a tinge of amusement. "And aren't we, in a way? We share a home, we take care of each other. If that's not a marriage, then tell me what is."

Muramasa grunted and returned to the workshop, leaving Alaya laughing softly behind him.

Nobunaga's commission was not something Muramasa took lightly. For weeks, he worked day and night, perfecting every detail of the blade. Alaya, true to her self-proclaimed role as wife, quietly cared for him, making sure he ate and got enough rest.

"This sword will not only be a weapon," Muramasa remarked one day, as he looked at the red-hot steel in the forge. "It will be an extension of his will. A reflection of who he is."

"Then," Alaya replied, coming closer to observe her work, "make sure that it also reflects the greatness of the blacksmith who forged it."

Muramasa didn't answer, but his movements became more precise, as if Alaya's words had ignited something in him.

Finally, the sword was finished. It was a masterpiece, even by Muramasa's standards. Its edge was so perfect that it seemed to cut through the air, and the design of the blade reflected the ferocity and power of its future owner.

When it came time to hand over the katana, Alaya insisted on accompanying him. "If we're going to introduce her to someone as important as Nobunaga, you'll need a dignified presence by your side."

Muramasa didn't argue, but as they traveled towards the warlord's castle, he couldn't help but notice how the villagers' gazes were directed towards them. Sometimes she wondered if Alaya was doing it on purpose, just to enjoy her discomfort.

Upon arriving at the castle, they were greeted with the usual pomp that accompanied a figure like Oda Nobunaga. When Muramasa presented the sword, the warlord examined it carefully before nodding approvingly.

"You have exceeded my expectations, Muramasa. This katana is fit for a demon," Nobunaga declared, holding it with a mixture of reverence and delight.

Muramasa simply tilted his head, accepting the compliment without emotion. "My work ends here. What you do with the sword is no longer my business."

Alaya, for her part, remained in the background, watching with her usual calm. However, when Nobunaga addressed her, his gaze softened. "Your wife is an extraordinary woman, Muramasa. It's rare to see someone so beautiful and serene."

Before Muramasa could correct him, Alaya tilted his head slightly and replied, "It's an honor to serve as a support for someone so dedicated to his art."

Muramasa gritted his teeth, but decided not to argue. When they finally left the castle, he muttered to himself, "I should start charging for every time someone thinks we're married."

Alaya just laughed softly as they walked together towards the horizon.

With the passing of another year, life in Muramasa's house had reached a pace as steady as that of his hammer striking steel. By then, the blacksmith was no longer fazed by Alaya's constant jokes. If she made a sarcastic comment or a veiled suggestion, he simply ignored her, like someone who gets used to the buzzing of an insect in summer.

At 36, Muramasa felt at his best, although he sometimes reflected on the proximity of forty. His physical strength and skill in the forge were still unwavering, but he was beginning to feel the weight of time, not so much in his body, but in the expectations he had once placed on himself. However, what would have frustrated him before was now nothing more than a passing thought.

Alaya, for her part, seemed to have accepted defeat. He no longer insisted so vehemently that Muramasa have a child, at least not explicitly. His sarcastic comments and veiled provocations had diminished, although he still threw the occasional hint when he felt that the atmosphere lent itself to it.

One night, while Muramasa worked in his forge under the dim glow of the stars, Alaya sat nearby, in silence. This in itself was unusual; She rarely stayed silent so long.

"What's going on? Were you finally speechless?" asked Muramasa, still hammering the steel.

Alaya looked at him with a thoughtful expression, her golden eyes reflecting the fire of the forge. "I was just thinking about something. If you don't leave an heir, something important could change in the flow of the world."

Muramasa put the hammer aside and turned to her, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Are you still at it? I thought you had already accepted that I am not going to have children."

She sighed, something she rarely did, and her tone, though calm, had a weight she rarely hinted at. "It's not just the Muramasa lineage that's at stake. It's what your lineage might represent in the future. At this rate, someone who should exist, someone crucial, will never be born."

Muramasa raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Are you talking about one of your complicated cosmic games again? I thought you had already learned that I am not interested in your machinations."

Alaya smiled tiredly. "It's not a game, Muramasa. Is... how to put it, a kind of investment. Without your offspring, a key piece on the board will not exist. And that will change a lot of things."

"A key piece?" Muramasa laughed softly, humorlessly. "You mean another one of your 'dogs,' as you call them? I have no interest in creating someone just to serve your purposes."

Alaya watched him silently for a moment before answering. "Emiya Shirou. That was his name. An idealist, stubborn as a mule, but useful in many ways. In my opinion, he was the perfect Counter Guardian."

Muramasa did not immediately respond. Instead, he took the hammer and went back to work on the sword in front of him, letting the sound of metal fill the silence between them.

"If you need it so badly, find another way to make it appear. But don't use me as a tool for your plans," he finally said, his voice calm but firm.

Alaya stared at him for a long moment, a small smile peeking across her lips. "Maybe you're right. After all, you are Muramasa, and no one forces you to forge something you don't want."

However, even after Alaya retired to rest that night, his words were still hovering in Muramasa's mind. Not because he cared about the fate of a certain Emiya Shirou or the flow of the world, but because they reminded him of something he rarely allowed himself to think about: the possibility of a future beyond himself.

He looked at his hands, calloused and hardened by years of work, and thought of all the swords he had forged. Each one was a masterpiece, but they all had a purpose outside of their hands. Sometimes he wondered if his very existence was like those swords: created to serve a purpose he couldn't control or define.

But then, with a sigh, he pushed those thoughts away. "The future can wait. I live in the present," he muttered to himself as he refocused on the steel in front of him.

Alaya had adopted a more relaxed attitude towards Muramasa. While he still harbored hope of finding a way to meet his goals, he was no longer pressuring him. She seemed to enjoy simply being around him, as if the mere shared routine was enough for the time being.

Deep in his mind, however, he knew that every day that passed without a change in Muramasa's resolve brought the world closer to an uncertain fate. For someone like Alaya, who existed beyond time and space, this was an unsettling thought, though he would never admit it.

"Perhaps Emiya Shirou will never exist," she thought to herself one night, as she stargazed at the stars from the garden. "Maybe I'll lose my best Counter Guardian. But at least... This stubborn blacksmith is still interesting."

And with that, he accepted, at least temporarily, that fate would take its course, with or without his direct intervention.

Over the years, Muramasa had managed to maintain a comfortable and stable routine in his mountaintop home. Sporadic visits from big-name clients, such as daimyos and generals, kept his forge busy, but his life was largely predictable. Now, at 39, he felt that a part of himself longed for change, even if it was temporary. That's when she heard rumors about Shinano's hot springs, famous for their relaxing properties and stunning scenery around them.

As he watched the sunrise from the entrance of his workshop, Muramasa made a decision that surprised even Alaya.

"How about a trip?" he said, his tone as casual as if he were suggesting lunch.

Alaya, who was sitting with a cup of tea in hand, raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

"A trip? You? I thought you were married to this mountain and your hammer. What made you change your mind?"

Muramasa sighed, setting the hammer aside.

"I'm close to forty. If I stay here locked up, forging steel day and night, I'll end up becoming part of the forge. I heard about some hot springs in Shinano. Fresh air, hot water... It seems like a good place to stretch your legs and clear your mind."

Alaya let out a soft laugh, her look amused.

"And are you inviting me? How unexpected of you, Muramasa. Does this count as a date?"

"If that makes you feel better, consider it so," he replied, unperturbed, as he began to prepare his things for the trip.

Alaya couldn't help but smile at his answer, though she knew he wasn't saying it with any special intentions. However, the idea of getting out of the routine and accompanying him seemed more interesting than being alone in the house.

The journey to Shinano was longer than Muramasa expected, but no less interesting. Alaya, as expected, filled the silences with witty comments or stories of the world that only she seemed to know. Muramasa, for his part, responded from time to time, though he spent much of his time observing the changing landscapes as they descended the mountain and into the paths that led to the hot spring region.

When they finally arrived, the place exceeded their expectations. Surrounded by green mountains and a clear sky, the thermal baths seemed like a hidden paradise. The waters emitted a light vapor that mixed with the fresh air, creating an atmosphere of calm that even managed to relax Muramasa's always tense posture.

"Not bad, huh?" Alaya commented, taking in the scenery as she folded her arms.

"Not bad," Muramasa admitted, though his tone didn't betray the impact the place really had on him.

The two settled in a nearby inn, a simple but cozy place with rooms that offered direct views of the hot springs and surrounding mountains. Muramasa spent much of the afternoon exploring the area, while Alaya, true to nature, seemed more interested in observing the other guests and commenting on them.

That night, they decided to enjoy the hot springs. As Muramasa plunged into one of the outdoor pools, the warmth of the water relaxed his tense muscles and allowed him, for the first time in a long time, to stop thinking about his work and the swords he had pending.

"I admit this was a good idea," Alaya said from a nearby pool, up to her neck and eyes closed, clearly enjoying the moment. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. Then maybe you'll stop complaining so much."

"Me complain? Please, I'm the best company you could ask for." He opened one eye to look at him with a wicked smile.

"Sure, if you consider sarcasm and constant jokes a virtue," he replied, unbothered.

They both were silent for a moment, enjoying the sound of the water and the distant chirping of crickets.

"Muramasa, do you ever think about the future?" asked Alaya suddenly, his tone more serious than usual.

"Enough to know that I have no interest in worrying about things I can't control. I live in the present, as I have told you before."

"Hmm..." Alaya leaned back against the edge of the pool, watching him. "Maybe that's why I like you."

Muramasa raised an eyebrow, but did not answer. It was rare for Alaya to say something so direct, and she decided not to ruin the moment by questioning her.

The days they spent in Shinano were a breath of fresh air for both of them. Muramasa found some peace in the different grind, away from his forge and his mountain, while Alaya seemed to enjoy the interaction with the villagers and other travelers, though he never missed an opportunity to make a witty comment.

However, even in that small paradise, Muramasa couldn't help but sense that something was coming. Perhaps it was the habit of always living alert, or perhaps it was simply that, after so many years, he had learned not to rely entirely on calm.

Alaya seemed to notice that slight change in him, but he didn't mention it. Instead, he decided to take advantage of the time they had, knowing that, sooner or later, the blacksmith would return to his forge and the steel he loved so much.

"Don't get too used to relaxation," he told her one night, as they looked at the stars from the terrace of the inn.

"Don't worry, Alaya. The break is only temporary. There's always something more to forge."

And with that, they both shared a look of understanding before enjoying the moment again, knowing that the world out there would continue to turn, waiting for their return.

The day had begun like any other for Muramasa and Alaya. They were descending the mountain to deliver a custom-made katana for a customer. The sword, impeccable as always, rested in its wooden box, ready to change hands. Muramasa, accustomed to uneven roads, advanced confidently, while Alaya followed him with the same lightness as always, commenting on random things to fill the silence.

"Don't you think I should get a commission for being your constant companion? After all, not everyone has the privilege of being bothered by me."

Muramasa didn't bother to look at her, his attention on the path in front of him." You get enough, Alaya. You have food, shelter and a place for your endless jokes."

"That doesn't count, it's the least you owe me for putting up with you."

"If you're not satisfied, you can always leave."

"And leave you bored and alone? Never."

The exchange was so common between them that neither thought anything could interrupt it. However, fate had other plans.

As they descended a particularly rocky stretch of road, the ground beneath Alaya's feet began to crumble. It was so sudden that he barely had time to react. The fall would have been dangerous even for someone with his ability, but before he could do anything, he felt Muramasa's hand holding her tightly.

"Muramasa!" she exclaimed, surprised by the speed of his reaction.

"Grab my arm!" he growled, using all his strength to hold it in place.

Alaya's combined weight and groundslide caused Muramasa to lose his balance. In a desperate attempt to save her, he used his entire body as an anchor, but in the end, it was he who ended up falling off the edge of the road.

The impact resonated as his body hit the rocks below. Alaya, who had managed to stabilize herself just in time, watched in horror as Muramasa disappeared into the dust and debris.

"Muramasa!" he shouted as he ran to where he had fallen.

When Alaya found him, Muramasa was sitting among the rocks, covered in dust and frowning. He seemed more upset than hurt.

"Are you okay?" she asked, clearly worried.

"It depends on your definition of 'good,'" he replied in a dry tone, holding his left arm.

Alaya knelt beside him, quickly inspecting him. Although he had no visible serious injuries, his left arm was clearly in an unnatural position.

"Your arm..."

"Yes, I know. It's broken," he said calmly, as if it were a minor inconvenience.

"How can you be so calm? You could have died!"

"But I didn't," he replied as he tried to stand up. "And I still have an assignment to deliver."

"You're kidding! You can't carry anything with that arm."

"I don't need to carry anything. The sword is intact. That's the only thing that matters now."

Alaya wanted to argue, but she knew it would be useless. Muramasa was stubborn as a mule, and nothing would stop him from keeping his word.

After delivering the order—and enduring the customer's incredulous looks when they saw its condition—Muramasa and Alaya returned to the mountain. Night had fallen by the time they arrived, and Muramasa, visibly exhausted, dropped into his usual place by the low wooden table.

A makeshift cloth served as a support for his left arm, limiting his movement as he began his recovery. In front of him, a cup of green tea was steaming gently, but Muramasa barely looked at it. His attention was lost, as if the liquid reflected something more than just his physical state.

Alaya, who was sitting across from him, watched him with a mixture of frustration and concern.

"Why did you take so many risks? I could have saved myself, you know?"

Muramasa looked up slowly, his eyes tired but firm.

"I know. But I'm not going to stand by while someone who is with me is in danger. It's not my style."

"That was reckless. If you had been disliked, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."

"Maybe. But no matter what you say, I would do it again."

Alaya stared at him silently for a moment before sighing and drinking her own cup of tea.

"You're an idiot, Muramasa."

"And you won't let me forget it."

The room fell into a comfortable silence. Muramasa continued to stare at his tea, while Alaya, despite her words, couldn't help but feel a slight warmth in her chest.

Through it all, he knew that Muramasa would always be like this: a man who faced anything head-on, even when it cost him more than he was willing to admit.

Two years had passed since the accident, and Muramasa was now forty-two years old. His left arm still did not fully recover. The fracture had been more serious than he thought at first, and his age didn't help at all. He was no longer the young man he had been before, whose recovery from a broken bone would have been over in less than a year. Now, time and her body were beginning to take their toll.

Muramasa spent his days in the house, something he would have considered unthinkable before. He used to be busy, whether in the forge or delivering orders, but now his routine had changed drastically. His left arm, still wrapped in a support cloth, limited him too much to work in the forge. For the first time in a long time, he had to rely on the savings he had built up over the years.

"It's ironic," he said one day as he looked out the window, watching leaves fall from nearby trees. "I've worked all my life to not depend on anyone, and now all I do is stay here."

From the table behind him, Alaya looked up from the book he was reading. "Don't overdo it. All of this is temporary. Your arm will recover, even if it takes longer than you expected."

Muramasa snorted, though not maliciously. "Temporary? Alaya, it's been two years and I can barely move this arm. If this is temporary, then winter lasts forever."

"It's just that you don't know how to be patient," she replied with a slight smile. "Besides, you should be grateful. Thanks to me, you're not living in misery. I managed your money impeccably."

Muramasa looked over his shoulder at her. "Did you manage my money? You call it 'manage,' but you basically hid it from me."

"And that's why you still have a roof over your head," Alaya replied, closing the book with a theatrical movement. "If you had had full access to your savings, you probably would have spent them on more tools for your forge or on sake."

Muramasa couldn't help but smile. "Maybe. But it doesn't mean I like to depend on you."

"Depend on me? Don't look at it that way," Alaya said as she stood up and walked toward him. "Think I'm investing in my entertainment. After all, seeing Muramasa, the legendary blacksmith, learn what it means to rest, is priceless."

Muramasa let out a slight laugh. "You're unbearable, did you know that?"

"I know," she replied, settling down next to him as he looked out the window. "But someone has to be here to remind you that not everything in life is about working and fulfilling orders."

Silence settled between them, but it was not uncomfortable. Alaya's presence had become second nature to Muramasa. Although she was still as annoying as the first day, she was also the only consistent company she had had in years.

That night, Muramasa went out into the backyard of his house, accompanied by a cup of tea. The air was fresh, and the clear sky allowed the stars to be seen clearly. He sat on the porch, setting the cup aside as he slowly flexed the fingers of his left arm. Although the pain had subsided, the lack of strength was still reminding him of his limitations.

Alaya came out shortly after, wearing a light kimono. She sat down next to him, crossing her legs gracefully. "You should be sleeping. It's not like standing here staring at them is going to heal your arm."

"I couldn't sleep," Muramasa admitted. "I was thinking."

"In what?"

"How long has it been?" Muramasa looked at his hands, one strong and accustomed to work, the other weakened and wrapped in bandages. "A few years ago, I wouldn't have worried about something as trivial as a fracture. But now, I feel like every day that passes, my body betrays me a little more."

Alaya watched him silently for a moment before answering. "Time catches up with us all, Muramasa. Even someone like you. But that doesn't mean you should give up."

"I am not surrendered," he said firmly. "But it's frustrating. Knowing that there are things I want to do and that I can't because my body doesn't respond like it used to."

"And what do you plan to do about it?"

Muramasa took a sip of tea before answering. "Keep going. My arm will recover when it's ready, I guess. In the meantime, I have no choice but to wait."

"That sounds surprisingly reasonable coming from you."

Muramasa smiled slightly. "I guess even I can learn some patience."

Alaya let out a small laugh before leaning back on the porch, staring at the stars. "Well, as long as you keep learning, I guess my work here isn't finished."

"Work? I thought you were here just to annoy me."

"That's part of the job, too."

Muramasa shook his head, but said nothing more. For the first time in a long time, he allowed the calm of the night to envelop him, putting aside his worries, if only for a moment.

At forty-three, Muramasa had finally regained full mobility in his left arm. The fracture that had kept him out of the forge for three long years was a thing of the past, but now he faced another challenge: loss of strength.

"There's no point in taking any chances," he muttered as he stared at his arm intently, slowly flexing his fingers. The movement was fluid, but he felt the lack of power compared to his other arm. "I've waited three years. I can wait a little longer."

From the table, Alaya sipped a green tea calmly, while a slight smile formed on her face. "How mature you have become, Muramasa. I never thought I'd hear you say something so prudent."

Muramasa ignored her as he grabbed a small weight he had carved out of stone years ago, before the accident. He began to lift her carefully, measuring each movement so as not to overload his arm. After a few repetitions, he put the dumbbell aside and exhaled deeply.

"It's frustrating," he finally commented. "To have spent my whole life relying on my strength and dexterity, and now to have to start almost from scratch."

"I'll tell you what I always say," Alaya said as she rose gracefully, walking toward him. "Patience, Muramasa. It's a process. Although, I must admit that seeing you at this stage is... interesting."

"Interesting? Why do you say it like it's fun for you?"

Alaya shrugged. "Well, because it is. You are a man who has always trusted in his physique and abilities, and now you are learning what it means to be truly human. You can't depend on your body alone; You also need ingenuity and strategy."

Muramasa looked at her with a mixture of resignation and amusement. "You know? Sometimes I wonder if you're really here to help me or just to make fun of me."

"Both, obviously," Alaya replied with a cheeky smile.

Muramasa shook his head and picked up the weight again, this time using both arms. He couldn't help but admit that, although Alaya's constant jokes sometimes irritated him, her presence had been an anchor for the past few years.

The days passed, and Muramasa established a new routine to strengthen his arm. He started each morning with light exercises, avoiding straining the weakened muscles. At first, progress was slow, but little by little I felt the strength return.

Alaya, though she didn't admit it outright, seemed genuinely interested in her recovery. She helped him with the most complicated exercises and, from time to time, brought him books on rehabilitation techniques that he had obtained in the nearby town.

"Since when have you been so interested in physical recovery?" asked Muramasa one afternoon as he reviewed one of the books Alaya had given him.

"I'm not interested in physical recovery," she replied without hesitation. "But I am interested in you going back to work. I'm bored of seeing you doing weights all day."

"Always so direct," Muramasa murmured, though he couldn't help but smile.

"Besides," Alaya continued as she poured a cup of tea, "there are still many orders waiting for you. You can't let your legacy end here."

Muramasa paused for a moment, looking at his arm again. I knew she was right. There were many swords that he still wanted to forge, masterpieces that only existed in his mind and that he wished to bring into the world. But he also knew that if he rushed, he could end up making his situation worse.

"First, I will regain my strength," he said with determination. "Afterwards, I will return to the forge. Not before."

Alaya watched him silently for a moment before nodding. "Wise decision. Perhaps there is still hope for you, Muramasa."

A couple of months later, Muramasa decided to test his arm in a controlled environment. He lit the forge for the first time in years, the heat and smell of the metal melting strangely comforting. However, he had no intention of forging something complicated.

"Just something simple," he said to himself as he took a small piece of steel and placed it on the fire.

Alaya appeared at the door, leaning against the frame as she watched it. "Are you sure you should be doing this so soon?"

"I'm careful," he replied without looking at her, focused on the work. "I'm not trying to forge a sword. I just want to see how my arm responds to the job."

With precise movements, he raised the hammer and struck the red-hot steel. The sound of hammer against metal echoed through the forge, an echo I hadn't heard in a long time. After a few blows, he put the hammer aside and flexed his left arm.

"Well?" Alaya asked, tilting her head slightly.

"It's going better than I expected," Muramasa admitted. "But we're still a long way from being 100 percent."

"At least you don't look like an old invalid anymore," she remarked with a sneer.

Muramasa let out a laugh. "That's the kindest thing you've said to me in years."

Muramasa knew that the road to full recovery would still be long, but he was willing to walk it. He had lost three years, but he hadn't lost his passion or his determination. With each passing day, I felt like I was back to the man I used to be, albeit with a renewed perspective on time, patience, and the importance of adapting to change.

Alaya, as always, stayed by his side, making sure he never took things too seriously. In her own way, she was an invaluable companion, even if she was on the verge of getting on his nerves at times.

"I suppose the legendary blacksmith is back," Alaya remarked one day as she watched him work on a simple project.

"Not quite yet," Muramasa replied as he raised the hammer. "But soon I will be."

Muramasa looked at himself in the reflection of the water of a small bowl that Alaya had left on the table. Her hair, once an intense reddish color, now sported strands of dull gray that seemed to multiply every week. Despite the years, his eyes still had that spark of determination, but the rest of his body showed the signs of time.

"You're becoming an old man, Muramasa," Alaya commented from across the room, smiling derisively as she arranged a small vase of flowers she'd picked up on the mountain. "Look at those gray hairs. They are not even few, they already dominate your entire head."

Muramasa let out a sigh as he ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't need you to remind me. I realized it three months ago, when I couldn't ignore them anymore in the reflection."

"And it doesn't bother you?"

"No," he replied firmly. "Time passes for everyone, even for a blacksmith like me. If gray hair is the price for staying alive, I accept it. I have worked all my life and I will continue to do so as long as my body allows me to. I will die doing what I love."

Alaya put the vase down and watched it, crossing her arms. There was something about Muramasa's calmness that he found intriguing, even admirable. "Always so stubborn. Although, I guess that's what makes you unique."

"It's not stubbornness, it's reality," Muramasa replied over a cup of tea. "I've forged swords all my life. It's what I am, what I know how to do. If that means my end will come in the forge, then so be it."

"You speak as if you are waiting for your death," she remarked with a hint of concern that she tried to hide behind a mocking tone.

"I'm not expecting anything," he said as he sipped his tea. "I just accept what's to come. I'm not so naïve as to think I'll live forever, Alaya."

That afternoon, Muramasa went to the forge. Although he had regained much of the strength in his left arm, he still worked cautiously. He knew he couldn't forge swords with the same intensity of his youth, but he wasn't about to stop either.

As he lit the fire, the familiar warmth enveloped him, and the sound of metal echoed in the air. He took a piece of steel and began to mold it with constant blows. As he worked, the strands of his hair fell over his face, and for a moment he paused to push them away with his hand.

From the doorway, Alaya watched him in silence. There was something hypnotic about the way Muramasa worked, as if every blow to the metal was a heartbeat. However, she couldn't ignore the gray hair and lines on her face, which were now more pronounced than ever.

"You should take a break," he finally remarked.

Muramasa, without turning around, replied: "If I stop now, I will lose the rhythm."

"I don't mean just today," Alaya insisted as she folded her arms. "I mean, you should consider working less. Your body is no longer the same, Muramasa."

He put the hammer aside and turned to look at her. "I know I'm not the same, but that doesn't mean I should stop. The day I stop forging swords will be the day I stop being me."

Alaya looked at him silently for a few seconds before cracking a slight smile. "Always so dramatic."

That night, while Muramasa and Alaya were having dinner at the small wooden table in their home, the topic of conversation again revolved around the passage of time.

"You've never wondered what will happen to your swords when you're no longer here?" asked Alaya, breaking the silence.

Muramasa, who was sipping sake, raised an eyebrow. "It won't be my problem. My swords will have to speak for me when I am gone."

"Always so simple with your answers," Alaya said, resting her chin on her hand as she watched him. "But aren't you worried that your lineage, your legacy, will end with you?"

Muramasa put the glass down on the table and looked directly at her. "Alaya, I've done my part. My swords are in the hands of those who value them, and my name lives on in every hammer blow I gave in this forge. I don't need a son to leave a legacy."

Alaya raised an eyebrow, surprised by the firmness of her answer. "It seems that you've been thinking about this more than I thought."

"I've always known," he said calmly. "The gray hair, the wrinkles, the years... They are just reminders that time does not stand still. But I won't change who I am for fear of the inevitable."

For a moment, Alaya was silent, as if considering his words. Finally, he let out a small laugh. "You are a simple man, Muramasa. But I guess that's part of your charm."

"Was that a compliment?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Perhaps," she replied with an enigmatic smile.

Despite the years, Muramasa knew that he still had a lot to do. Gray hair could be a sign of the passage of time, but it was not an obstacle to his passion. Each day in the forge was a reminder that as long as he could hold a hammer and mold metal, he would remain the legendary blacksmith he had always been.

And though Alaya kept reminding him that time was not on his side, Muramasa knew he still had enough strength to forge more than swords: he could continue to forge his own destiny, one blow of a hammer at a time.

Muramasa, at 45, was in a state of introspection as alcohol began to cloud his thoughts. He had been through so much in recent years, both in his work and in his personal life. His shoulders sagged heavy as he drank, and with each gulp, he felt as if an emptiness was taking hold of him. "What's the point of all this?" he murmured, his voice deep and tired.

Alaya, always attentive, watched silently before speaking. "You're not as old as you think," he said softly, setting his drink aside. Her warm gaze met his, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. Muramasa looked at her with a certain melancholy, his thoughts caught up in the possibility of what might have been. "If only it had been different?" he thought. The idea of having a son, someone who would continue his legacy, had been around him a lot, but now he felt that time had passed.

Alaya smiled enigmatically, her eyes shining with a mysterious light. "I can do something about it," she said, slowly approaching him. With a gentle movement, he used his powers to restore a more youthful appearance, partially restoring his life energy from cooler times. Muramasa, surprised by the smoothness of the change, felt something he had forgotten: a renewed spark of vitality.

Muramasa, stunned, watched his reflection for a moment, but before he could process it, he felt Alaya's lips pressing against his. It was an unexpected kiss, stolen, but full of an intensity that neither of them had anticipated. At first, Muramasa stood still, surprised by the gesture. But something inside him, something that had been off, began to ignite. He responded to the kiss, and as he did, his heart pounded. It was as if, for the first time in years, he felt the spark of renewed life.

The same happened with Alaya. His heart, now human, was beating with an accelerated speed, something he had never experienced in his entire long existence. The emotion of feeling her own heart beat with such intensity, of perceiving a feeling as human as love, was something completely foreign to her. In her long life, Alaya had never known this kind of connection, and like Muramasa, her capacity for love had remained dormant until that moment. Despite her immortality and all that she had seen and felt, this moment was completely new, unique, and unnerving to her.

The connection between the two seemed to transcend anything they had experienced before. As their mouths parted, a thread of saliva formed, showing the intensity of what they experienced. The air around him seemed to become denser, and the room became warm.

Muramasa, breathing heavily, looked at her with a mixture of wonder and desire. The atmosphere, previously charged with uncertainty, was filled with palpable energy. She felt that something in her life was changing, and it was more than just a physical need. There was something deeper, something that only manifested itself in moments like that. A feeling that made him forget, for an instant, the years and worries.

Alaya, with a mischievous smile, slid her hands toward him, slowly shedding her kimono. Muramasa, still staring at her, touched her skin with a softness that showed how much his perspective had changed at that moment. The passion they shared was not only physical, but also emotional, a bond they both felt more strongly than ever.

The warm light of the candles illuminated their naked bodies, casting soft shadows that enveloped them in an embrace of darkness and light. Alaya's soft moans filled the air, her breathing erratic like that of someone who finally allows herself to feel what she had been holding back for so long. The movements, slow and full of emotion, were a dance that neither of them had planned, but now it seemed natural, as if it had always been so.

Every caress, every kiss, every gesture seemed to be a silent statement of what they had both been holding for so long. It wasn't just wish; There was something deeper, something awakening in their hearts, something neither of them had ever known before. It was a new feeling, a mixture of warmth and closeness that intensified with every second.

The room, now immersed in shadows and light, became the scene of a deep connection. Their bodies, united in a silent dance, the growing connection between them, and the beating of their hearts, which now, for the first time, seemed to share a common rhythm. The whispers of their names, the soft moans that escaped their lips, were the only words needed at that moment, a language neither of them had learned, but now they understood perfectly. As if that moment were the most important of their lives.

The days passed slowly, marked by the constant change that was woven in their lives. Muramasa, while caring for Alaya, found himself increasingly surprised by a detail he had not anticipated: his own body. Although the passage of time seemed inevitable, something had changed in him. Since that night, when Alaya used her powers to rejuvenate him at the age of 35, his body had undergone an unexpected transformation. I no longer felt the years I had accumulated, nor the fatigue of the past years. He felt young again, as if he could start over.

Looking at himself in the mirror of the room, he looked at himself with a mixture of amazement and some disbelief. The wrinkles that had begun to form on her face had faded, and the hair that had begun to turn gray was now showing its bright red again. Sometimes he caught himself touching her face, the softness of the skin, as if his body had returned to that point where he met Alaya, when he was 35 years old. It wasn't just her physical appearance that had changed; He felt the vibrating energy within him, as if the passage of time had stopped, or at least, had gotten rid of its effects.

"How...?" he muttered to himself, touching her skin and hair. He was not a man given to deep thoughts about magic or the inexplicable, but it was something he could not ignore. Alaya, with a warm smile on her lips, had made the impossible possible. She, who had seen and even lived centuries, had decided to use her powers to restore his youth, so that he could share this new stage with her.

Despite the gratitude he felt, there was some bewilderment in his mind. Why had he done it? Deep down, Muramasa knew that he had never been a man concerned about his appearance, but what surprised him most was what this transformation represented. His body, now rejuvenated, was a reminder of what could have been, of what he had left behind. Not only the forge, not only time, but also the future.

As Alaya settled into bed, caressing her growing belly, Muramasa couldn't help but think about what had changed inside him. The bond between them, which had begun for a different purpose, was now a promise of something deeper. Alaya, who had chosen to share this moment with him, had not only rejuvenated him physically, but had given him the opportunity to experience something he had never considered: family, love, and the meaning of life beyond work.

She looked at Alaya, who rested peacefully as he continued to process his own transformation, and thought about the future. Now, more than ever, she felt a responsibility to be a part of something bigger, something that wasn't just her work in the forge, but the legacy she would soon share with her.

Time went on, but for Muramasa, it was no longer just about the forge and the iron. The future now felt full of possibilities, and although she was still amazed by her rejuvenated appearance, there was something in her heart that told her that she had finally reached a point in her life where she could see beyond what she once considered impossible.

Months passed, and with each of them, life in Muramasa's house and Alaya seemed to follow a quiet course but full of small moments that spoke of the change they could no longer avoid.

Alaya, although in her state of pregnancy, was still the same as always: mocking, sarcastic, full of energy and, as always, playing with Muramasa in a way that only she could do. The blacksmith, though now rejuvenated, couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed by his calm, but also funny, nature. Alaya's presence gave her life, made her feel more human, despite how strange it all was.

"Do you still feel so young?" asked Alaya in a mocking tone, rubbing her rounded belly as they walked through the halls of the house. "Hopefully, you don't wrinkle me so quickly, huh?"

Muramasa, who did not let himself be carried away by her jokes, simply responded with a friendly smile, although not without a certain tiredness due to his constant sarcasm. "I already told you that it doesn't bother me. Don't you have something more important to worry about, like that baby in you?"

Alaya laughed at his answer, because, although he seemed serious, there was always something in his tone that indicated that he had become accustomed to his jokes. He didn't take those words the wrong way. "Yes, of course. I'm busy with my misshapen belly. But at least when I have it, I promise you won't make it as difficult as forging a sword." He responded with a wink, enjoying Muramasa's reaction.

Months passed, and time seemed to fly by for them. Muramasa had already learned not to take Alaya's every comment seriously. As her belly grew, the love between them was strengthened, but in a calm and silent way, without great gestures of romanticism, like most of those who passed through their lives. Though the forge had been quiet, Muramasa felt an unusual warmth as he stood beside him.

Months later, Alaya was closer to her due date. Muramasa, although still the serious man and focused on his work, couldn't help but worry a little about the future. He watched as she stroked his belly and thought about all that this meant: a child. A son. Something he had never considered before, but now seemed inevitable, as a part of his destiny.

"It's strange, isn't it?" murmured Muramasa on a quiet night as he watched Alaya from the table. "I never thought we'd get this far."

Alaya looked up from her book and smiled softly, as if it wasn't something so surprising. "So what? Didn't you think I could be your partner for life?" he sneered, but in a tone that showed how much he cared. "Don't worry. You've gotten used to me, and now you'll have to get used to having someone else."

The baby, whom they decided to name Ryuuji, had already begun to move more frequently in Alaya's womb. They both knew that the boy's arrival was near, and the house was filled with an air of anticipation. The forge was quiet, and Muramasa was beginning to think that he was no longer just living to work, but that there was something else worth living for.

Finally, on a quiet spring afternoon, Alaya began to feel the first pains. Muramasa, who had shown no great concern before, felt unable to hide her anxiety as she watched her mate prepare to give birth. Although he himself had no experience in such matters, the warmth he had cultivated in his heart over the years made him stand by her side, more concerned about her than anything else.

When the contractions increased, Muramasa was quick to help her, making sure everything was ready. Alaya, despite the pain, smiled warmly at him, something that was rare for her, as if she was also sharing the moment with him differently than anything before.

"Almost," Muramasa murmured, a soft smile as he held her. "We did it."

With one last effort, Alaya gave birth to Ryuuji, a small but strong boy, who immediately filled the room with his crying. Muramasa, looking at his son for the first time, couldn't help but be overcome with emotion. Although he had been a dedicated man, he had never imagined that a moment like this would make him feel so complete.

Alaya, looking at her son fondly, put her hand on Muramasa's, implying without words that this moment was, in some way, the culmination of everything they had lived together.

"Welcome to the world, Ryuuji," Muramasa whispered, gently touching his son's forehead. "This is your home."

It was a quiet afternoon in the house, the forge was off for the moment, and Muramasa was enjoying a cup of tea in the armchair. However, the bustle coming from the room soon caught his attention.

Ryuuji, his six-year-old son, with reddish hair (and a lock of silvery blue hair) and golden eyes, was in the middle of an argument with Alaya, who watched him with a frown as the little boy tried to explain his mischief. The boy, who had been running around near the forge, seemed not to understand the seriousness of the situation.

"Ryuuji," Alaya said in a soft but firm voice. "I have told you that you must not go near the forge. What would you do if you fell or got burned? It's not a playground."

Ryuuji, with her golden eyes full of innocence, looked up at her mother and began to take a step back, as if wanting to escape her scolding. "I was just watching, Mom! I didn't touch it, really."

Alaya didn't flinch. "It doesn't matter if you just looked at her, it's dangerous. You have no idea what it's like to be around those hot metals."

The little boy looked at his father in despair, hoping that he, as always, would intervene to save him from the reprimand. With large eyes full of supplication, he nodded a small gesture, silently calling for help.

Muramasa, who had been watching from the door with a slight smile, sighed and rose from his seat. But before he could say anything, he looked at Alaya and remembered how futile it was to try to contradict her when she got serious.

"I'm sorry, son..." Muramasa murmured, shaking his head in defeat, as if he already knew the outcome of the battle. "You know I can't help you with this."

Ryuuji looked at him in amazement. "Dad! Please!" he shouted, seeking a little mercy in his father's eyes.

Muramasa simply raised his hands in surrender. "I can't... She is right. And you know what happens if you don't listen to your mother."

Alaya, seeing that her husband did not oppose her authority, couldn't help but smile slightly, although her gaze was still serious. "It's not fun, is it, Ryuuji? Next time, remember that the forge is not a place to play. Although... I know you'll be a good blacksmith one day, but you still have a lot to learn."

Ryuuji, defeated, lowered his head and sighed. "Okay..." he murmured, not very reluctantly, but accepting the scolding.

Alaya, seeing that her son had finally given up, bent down and stroked his head gently. "It's for your good, little one. I just want you to be safe."

Muramasa, watching the scene with an amused smile, walked over and patted his son on the back. "It's best for you to learn now, Ryuuji. My forge... It's not a place for kids. At least until you have the strength to endure it."

Ryuuji looked at him with an expression between frustrated and resigned. "I know, Dad... I know."

Finally, Muramasa gave a knowing look to his wife, who seemed to enjoy the little scolding. "It's clear that I don't have a voice in this house," he murmured, jokingly as he walked away into the kitchen.

Alaya smiled with a mixture of satisfaction and tenderness, knowing that deep down, Muramasa always supported her decisions, albeit indirectly. And as Ryuuji retreated to his room, muttering something about "never approaching the forge again," Muramasa couldn't help but laugh under his breath.

"You should be thankful that you have a strict mother, Ryuuji," Muramasa said quietly, as he watched his son leave. "If it were up to me, I would have let you play for a while longer."

«»«»«»«»«»«»

Centuries later…

The fire consumed everything around him, a hell on earth. Shirou, his body broken and his mind empty, could barely stand. He remembered only his name, but he had no idea who he was, or his family. Darkness surrounded him, and his being faded into the flames. I felt nothing but emptiness and pain. As he walked like a puppet, seeking to escape from that hell, his small, weakened body couldn't take it anymore. Finally, he fell, his body in the rubble. His gaze was lost in the sky, covered by a black cloak, as smoke rose and ashes filled his lungs. He raised an arm, as if waiting for someone to come and save him.

And then, it happened. His empty eyes saw a man with dark hair and eyes, dressed entirely in black. The lifeless man's eyes flashed with a strange gleam of happiness, accompanied by a smile that radiated peace. At that moment, Shirou felt a twinge of envy, wishing he could ever smile like him.

In the distance, a sphere of energy, with two rings shining around it, watched the tragic scene. The adult figure saved the child from hell. After witnessing the rescue, the energy sphere disappeared.

Alaya had gotten what she wanted.

«»«»«»«»«»«»

I hope this One-Shot was to your liking and that this unusual pairing, Muramasa x Alaya, didn't bother any readers who decided to give it a try for the odd pairing. That they are right, it is a rare pairing; a human and an entity like Alaya, united in a relationship that resulted in an only child. If you have ideas for pairings that are just as unexpected or weird, feel free to share them. I'll be happy to bring them to life in a new story! 😊