As they approached the modest house, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and red. The faint smell of woodsmoke from nearby homes filled the air, mixing with the earthy scent of the fields. Kuroi's body ached with every step, his legs trembling from the strain of the day's relentless training.
Taro glanced at his son as they neared the house. "You've earned a meal tonight," he said, his voice calm but with a faint edge of approval. "I'll cook us something. Go on and clean yourself up."
Kuroi gave a weary nod, his wooden sword slung over his shoulder. "Alright," he said, his voice hoarse from exertion.
The house was simple, with wooden walls darkened by years of weather and a roof patched in places. Kuroi stepped inside and set his sword by the door before heading to the small bathing area at the back of the house.
The bathing area was nothing more than a wooden tub and a small hearth to heat water, and luxury was a distant dream for those like Kuroi and Taro. Kuroi knelt by the tub, pouring buckets of water into it, the liquid sloshing against the sides. He then placed a pot of water over the hearth, feeding the fire with small logs until the flames licked the pot's base.
As the water heated, Kuroi stripped off his tattered clothes, his body covered in bruises and scratches from the training. His muscles ached with every movement, and the cool evening air sent a chill through his skin. He poured the hot water into the tub, mixing it with the cooler water until steam rose gently from the surface.
Lowering himself into the bath, Kuroi winced as the hot water stung his wounds. He let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wooden edge of the tub. The warmth seeped into his aching muscles, easing the tension in his body.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the world fade away. But his thoughts refused to stay silent.
Why do I want to be a swordsman?
The question lingered in his mind, echoing Taro's earlier words. He had answered with the truth—or at least, part of it. The stories in the books had inspired him, filled him with visions of glory and heroism. But was that enough?
He stared at the water's surface, his reflection rippling with each small movement. The boy looking back at him was bruised, battered, and far from the warriors he had read about.
"I don't even know if I have what it takes," he muttered to himself. His voice was low, almost drowned out by the crackling fire.
The stories never spoke of the pain, the exhaustion, the doubt. They were filled with triumphs, with heroes overcoming impossible odds. But here he was, barely standing after two days of training, his body screaming for rest.
Kuroi's mind drifted to his father. Taro, with his calm demeanor and unyielding strength, was like an immovable mountain. Even with one arm, he moved with a precision and grace that Kuroi could only dream of.
"How does he do it?" Kuroi whispered, his fingers tracing the edge of the tub. "How does he stay so calm, so strong?"
The image of Taro's face flashed in his mind—stern, yet not unkind. There was a weight behind his father's eyes, a burden that Kuroi couldn't quite understand.
Strength isn't just about swinging a sword, Taro had said. It's about knowing when to swing it and when to sheath it.
Kuroi frowned, the words replaying in his mind. He had thought strength was simple—muscle, skill, the ability to cut down anyone who stood in your way. But Taro's words hinted at something deeper, something he wasn't sure he was ready to grasp.
He sank lower into the water, letting it cover his shoulders. The warmth wrapped around him like a blanket, but it couldn't soothe the storm brewing in his mind.
"I'll figure it out," he said quietly, clenching his fists beneath the water. "I have to."
The water had grown lukewarm by the time Kuroi climbed out of the tub. He dried himself with a rough cloth, the cool air biting at his damp skin. Dressing in a clean but simple robe, he made his way back to the main room, where the smell of food greeted him.
Taro sat by the small hearth, stirring a pot of stew. The aroma of vegetables and broth filled the room, a comforting scent that made Kuroi's stomach growl.
"Sit," Taro said without looking up.
Kuroi obeyed, lowering himself onto the floor with a groan. His body still ached, but the bath had helped.
Taro ladled the stew into two bowls, handing one to Kuroi before sitting across from him. They ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the clink of wooden spoons against the bowls and the occasional crackle of the fire.
Finally, Taro spoke. "You've improved," he said simply.
Kuroi looked up, surprised. "You think so?"
Taro nodded. "Your strikes are still wild, but there's a spark of discipline. You're starting to think before you swing. That's the first step."
Kuroi smiled faintly, his chest swelling with a small sense of pride. "Thanks," he said, his voice quiet.
Taro set his bowl down, his expression turning serious. "But don't let it go to your head. You're still a long way from where you need to be."
Kuroi nodded, his smile fading. "I know."
Taro leaned back, his gaze fixed on the fire. "Kuroi, the path you've chosen… it's not an easy one. There will be days when you'll question everything. Days when you'll want to give up. And there will be pain—more pain than you can imagine."
Kuroi stared into his bowl, his appetite fading. "I've already felt the pain," he said softly. "But I'm not going to give up."
Taro looked at him, his eyes sharp but not unkind. "Good," he said. "Because if you're serious about this, you'll need that resolve. The sword demands everything, Kuroi. Your strength, your will, your soul. If you hesitate, even for a moment, it will break you."
Kuroi met his father's gaze, his own eyes filled with determination. "I won't hesitate," he said firmly. "I'll give it everything I have."
Taro studied him for a moment before nodding. "Then we'll continue tomorrow. But for now, rest. You'll need it."
Kuroi finished his stew, the warmth spreading through his body. As he lay down on his mat that night, his mind was filled with thoughts of the day's training, his father's words, and the path that lay ahead.
He didn't have all the answers, but he knew one thing for certain—he wouldn't give up. No matter how hard it got, no matter how much it hurt, he would keep moving forward.
And maybe, just maybe, he would one day become the swordsman he dreamed of being.
The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the walls of their modest home. Kuroi sat cross-legged on the floor, his empty bowl resting beside him. The warmth of the stew still lingered in his stomach, but his mind was restless. Taro, seated across from him, leaned back against the wall, his single arm resting casually on his knee.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—it was the kind of silence that came after a long day, a shared understanding that words weren't always necessary.
But tonight, Taro broke the silence.
"You've been pushing yourself hard these past few days," he said, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made Kuroi look up. "I can see it in the way you fight. There's something driving you, something more than just the books you mentioned."
Kuroi hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I told you before. I want to be like the swordsmen in the stories."
Taro shook his head. "That's not enough, Kuroi. Stories don't make a man swing a sword until his hands bleed. They don't make him keep standing when his legs are about to give out. There's more to it than that. So tell me—why do you really want to be a swordsman?"
Kuroi frowned, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. "I don't know," he admitted after a moment. "I just… I feel like I have to. Like it's the only thing I can do."
Taro studied him, his expression unreadable. "The only thing you can do? Or the only thing you want to do?"
Kuroi opened his mouth to respond but found himself at a loss for words. He hadn't thought about it like that before.
Taro leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Being a swordsman isn't just about swinging a blade. It's about purpose. A sword is a tool—it can protect, it can destroy, but it's the hand that wields it that decides its purpose. Without that purpose, a swordsman is nothing more than a killer."
Kuroi's throat tightened. "I don't want to be a killer," he said quietly.
"Then what do you want to be?" Taro pressed.
Kuroi struggled to find the words. He thought of the stories he had read, the heroes who stood against impossible odds, the warriors who carved their names into history. He thought of the way his heart raced when he imagined himself in their place, the thrill of holding a sword, the dream of being someone who mattered.
"I want to be strong," he said finally, his voice trembling. "I want to be someone people respect. Someone people remember."
Taro's gaze softened, but there was still a hint of steel in his eyes. "And why do you think a sword will give you that?"
Kuroi hesitated again, his mind racing. "Because… because it's all I have," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not smart, I'm not strong, I don't have anything else. But with a sword, I feel like I can be something. Like I can make a difference."
Taro sighed, leaning back against the wall. "It's not wrong to want strength, Kuroi. It's not wrong to want respect. But you have to understand—strength without purpose is dangerous. And respect earned through fear is hollow."
Kuroi nodded slowly, his chest tightening. "I know. I just… I don't know what my purpose is yet."
Taro gave a small smile, one that was both kind and sad. "That's something you'll have to figure out for yourself. But I'll tell you this—the sword won't give you the answers. It can only reflect what's already in your heart. If you don't know who you are, the sword will only show you emptiness."
Kuroi stared at the fire, his thoughts swirling like the flames. "Then why did you become a swordsman?" he asked quietly.
Taro's smile faded, and for a moment, his gaze grew distant. "I became a swordsman because I thought it was the only way to protect what I cared about. I thought if I was strong enough, I could keep the people I loved safe."
He paused, his jaw tightening. "But strength isn't always enough. Sometimes, no matter how strong you are, you can't protect everything."
Kuroi looked at his father, his chest aching at the pain in Taro's voice. "Is that why you stopped?"
Taro nodded slowly. "Losing my arm was part of it. But the real reason was because I realized I had lost sight of why I picked up the sword in the first place. I was fighting for the sake of fighting, and it cost me more than just my arm."
Kuroi swallowed hard, the weight of his father's words pressing down on him. "Do you regret it?"
Taro shook his head. "No. Regret doesn't change the past. All I can do is learn from it and move forward."
The two sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling softly between them. Kuroi's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, but amidst the chaos, there was a sense of clarity beginning to form.
"I don't know if I'll ever be as strong as you," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Taro smiled faintly. "You don't have to be me, Kuroi. You just have to be you. And when you find your purpose, you'll be stronger than you ever thought possible."
Kuroi nodded, his chest tightening with a mix of determination and uncertainty. "I'll figure it out," he said quietly.
"I know you will," Taro said, his voice filled with quiet confidence.
As the fire began to die down, Taro stood and stretched. "Come on," he said, his tone lighter now. "It's been a long day. Let's get some rest."
Kuroi nodded, following his father to the sleeping area. The two lay down on their mats, the room dark except for the faint glow of the embers.
As Kuroi closed his eyes, his father's words echoed in his mind. He didn't have all the answers yet, but he knew one thing for certain—he wouldn't give up. No matter how hard the journey became, he would keep moving forward.
And maybe, just maybe, he would find the purpose that would make him truly strong.