My name is Kuroi. I'm no hero, nor am I a villain. I'm just a guy trying to learn how to wield a sword—not like some mindless brute flailing at a fly, but with purpose, precision, and a shred of dignity.
The streets of Binbōgami Village were alive with a chaotic rhythm. Children darted through narrow alleys, their laughter mingling with the chatter of merchants hawking their wares. An old man with a lecherous grin leered at passing girls, while the destitute scrounged in the dirt for anything remotely edible.
Among the bustle, a young man trudged through the dusty streets, a heavy wooden bucket sloshing with water in his hands. "Damn, this thing feels heavier than the whole damn village," Kuroi muttered, his arms straining as he moved.
As he passed, villagers gave him sidelong glances. They knew Kuroi well—Binbōgami's resident troublemaker. Whispers followed in his wake, but Kuroi paid them no mind. "Excuse me," he mumbled to those in his path, weaving through the crowd until he finally reached a modest, weathered house on the village's edge.
Setting the bucket down with a grunt, he called out, "Dad, I got the water!"
From inside, a gruff voice replied, "Took you long enough, boy."
Kuroi stepped in to see his father, Day, a wiry man with a missing arm but a sharp glint in his eye. He smiled faintly as he approached.
"Hey, this thing's heavy, you know," Kuroi complained, stretching his aching back and cracking his knuckles.
Day chuckled, his voice rough but warm. "Thank you, son," he said, reaching for the bucket.
"Uh, you know I can carry it for you," Kuroi offered, frowning.
Day shook his head. "No need, boy. I got it."
Kuroi watched as his father lifted the bucket with surprising ease, a mix of admiration and frustration flickering across his face. "Old man's tougher than he looks," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he followed his father inside. Kuroi walked to a small pond a mile from his home and stared at his reflection in the still water. A lean, wiry teenager with an untamed mop of black hair and a fiery glint in his eyes stared back. He sighed, brushing a hand through his messy hair before turning back toward home.
Inside, his father was scrubbing dishes, the sound of water splashing faintly filling the room. "Hey, Dad," Kuroi said, leaning against the doorframe.
Dad glanced up, his one good arm still busy with the task. "Yes, son?"
Kuroi hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Do you think I could become a swordsman one day? Like those master swordsmen—the legendary warriors you used to tell me about when I was a kid?"
Dad paused, setting the dish down and turning to face his son. "Ah, so you want to be a swordsman, huh? Well, with hard training, sweat, blood, and tears, maybe you'll make it one day."
"Really? You think I could be like them?" Kuroi's face lit up with hope.
Dad chuckled and held up a hand. "Hold on, buddy. I said maybe, not that you will."
Kuroi's smile faltered, his shoulders slumping. "Oh..."
"But," Dad added with a knowing grin, "I didn't say you can't. It's not impossible to become a master swordsman."
Kuroi's face brightened again, determination sparking in his eyes. "Well, when I do become one, I'll make sure everyone knows your name, Dad!"
Dad smiled warmly, reaching out to ruffle his son's hair. "I'm sure you will, son. Now, why don't you go grab your sword? It's about time I started teaching you how to fight."
"Really?!" Kuroi's voice rose with excitement, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Yep," Dad said with a nod. "Now hurry up."
Kuroi didn't need to be told twice. He bolted out the door, his heart racing with anticipation for the first step toward his dream.Kuroi bolted out of the house, clutching his wooden practice sword with excitement. His grin stretched wide as he sprinted through the village, passing familiar faces who either chuckled or muttered about his boundless energy. The sun hung high in the sky, bathing the open fields in a golden glow. The tall grass swayed in the wind, and the sound of chirping birds filled the air.
After running for what felt like an eternity, Kuroi finally stopped in a wide, open field. He leaned against a sturdy tree, catching his breath as the warm breeze brushed against his face. The peace of the moment was soothing, and he closed his eyes for a brief rest.
A sudden crunch of footsteps snapped him awake. Kuroi's eyes shot open, and he grabbed his sword, pointing it toward the sound. He crouched slightly, his heart pounding as he prepared for whatever—or whoever—was approaching.
The tall grass parted, and his father, Taro, emerged. His single arm carried a wooden practice sword, and his weathered face held a faint smirk.
"What took you so long, old man?" Kuroi said, lowering his sword with a smirk.
"You ran off before I could even grab my things," Taro replied, raising an eyebrow.
"Fair point," Kuroi muttered, scratching the back of his head.
Taro stepped into the clearing, his steady gaze fixed on Kuroi. "Alright, let's get started."
Kuroi straightened, gripping his sword tightly, his excitement barely contained.
"First lesson," Taro began, his voice calm but commanding. "Your stance. You can't swing a sword properly if your foundation is weak. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Balance is everything."
Kuroi mimicked his father's posture, though his footing wobbled slightly.
"Good enough for now," Taro said, his sharp eyes scanning Kuroi's form. "Next, grip the sword firmly, but don't choke it. Your hands should guide the blade, not wrestle it."
Kuroi adjusted his grip, nodding as he tried to focus.
"Now, let's see how you swing," Taro said, stepping back. "Aim for my shoulder. Don't hold back."
Kuroi lunged forward, his swing wild and uncoordinated. Taro sidestepped with ease, his movements fluid as he tapped Kuroi's wrist with the flat of his blade.
"Too slow. Too predictable. Again."
Gritting his teeth, Kuroi swung again, this time with more control. Taro blocked the strike effortlessly, his single arm moving with precision.
"You're wasting energy," Taro said calmly. "Every swing should have purpose. Control your breathing."
Kuroi panted, sweat dripping down his brow as he adjusted his stance. He tried a feint, shifting his weight to mislead his father, but Taro saw through it immediately. With a single step forward, he closed the distance and tapped Kuroi's chest with his blade.
"Good idea, but you're too slow. Think faster."
Frustration mounted as Kuroi stumbled back, his grip tightening on his sword. He charged again, this time aiming low, but Taro blocked with his one hand, using his body to counterbalance the movement.
"Your body is telegraphing your moves," Taro said, his voice steady. "Stay unpredictable."
Kuroi gritted his teeth and lunged once more, pouring every ounce of strength into his attack. Taro sidestepped again, his movements precise, and struck Kuroi's shoulder with the flat of his blade. The impact sent Kuroi tumbling into the grass, his sword slipping from his grasp.
Flat on his back, Kuroi stared up at the sky, gasping for air. His arms felt like lead, his body aching from the relentless pace.
Taro walked over, towering above him. His expression softened as he extended his hand. "Not bad for your first time. You've got spirit, but spirit alone won't win battles."
Groaning, Kuroi grabbed his father's hand. Taro pulled him up with ease and patted his son on the back.
"You've got a long way to go," Taro said with a small smile. "But with time, you might just surprise me."
Kuroi wiped the sweat from his brow and grinned despite his exhaustion. "Just wait, old man. One day, I'll beat you."
Taro chuckled, shaking his head. "We'll see, Kuroi. We'll see."