Years before anyone called him "Santoryu" or "the Demon of Fort Aegis," Takeshi was just a skinny kid with a sword too big for his hands and a town that wouldn't stay safe.
The place was called Shirokumo Ridge, a mountain village carved into the side of jagged cliffs overlooking a monster-infested ravine. You'd think, "Hey, that sounds like a terrible place to build your house," and you'd be right. But the gods had shoved a rift to the monster realm right through the mountain, and humans, being stubborn idiots, decided to build a settlement there anyway to "keep watch."
So yeah. Smart.
A shrine-dojo stood at the heart of the village, its stone courtyard scarred by decades of practice and blood. Kids trained there not because it was fun, but because if you couldn't swing a sword by age ten, you were likely to get eaten by something with too many teeth and a bad attitude.
On a crisp, cold morning, a younger Takeshi stood in that courtyard, panting hard.
He was maybe ten. Hair shorter, eyes too big for his thin face, knuckles raw and bleeding around the wooden bokken clenched in his hands. His breath puffed out in little spurts as he struggled to keep his arms from trembling.
Across from him stood a girl.
She was a little older—twelve, maybe—dark hair tied in a rough ponytail, eyes sharp and amused. Where Takeshi was all tense lines and clenched jaw, she looked like she'd just rolled out of bed and decided to kick someone's ass for exercise.
"Hah!" she barked, smacking his bokken aside with her own and knocking him flat on his back.
The cracked sky swam overhead.
"Again," Takeshi gasped.
The girl snorted. "You said that twenty times ago."
"I haven't won once yet."
"You won't," she said matter-of-factly. "You're still slow."
Takeshi scowled, pushing himself up. "Hana, one of these days, I'm going to beat you."
Hana swung her bokken up onto her shoulder and grinned. "Tell you what, Takeshi. You beat me? I'll call you sensei for a whole day."
His eyes flared. "Promise?"
"Promise." She thrust out a hand.
And something in Takeshi's brain clicked onto a track it would never leave.
A promise. A wager. A "bet you can't."
He slapped his hand into hers without thinking. "Then I swear I'll do it."
Hana laughed. "Big talk, shrimp."
Their teacher watched from the temple steps, an old man wrapped in a faded red-and-white cloak bearing both Ares's broken spear emblem and Athena's owl—because the shrine-dojo was dedicated to both the god of war and the goddess of strategy. Violence with homework, basically.
"Easy on him, Hana," the old man rasped.
"He's the one asking for it," she shot back.
Takeshi wiped blood from his lip and raised his bokken again. "Come on."
The old man sighed. "You know what your problem is, Takeshi?"
"I'm not strong enough yet," Takeshi answered automatically.
"That too," the old man said. "But also: you don't know when to stop. You hear a challenge and your brain shuts off. One day, that's going to break you."
Takeshi's knuckles tightened. "If I quit, I'll never be strong enough to protect anyone."
Hana's grin faded just a fraction.
She lunged.
He blocked—but barely.
They clashed again and again, wood cracking, feet sliding on dust. Kids ringed the courtyard, whispering.
"Think he'll ever win?"
"Not a chance. Hana's a monster."
"She fought that harpy last year, remember?"
"Yeah. Took its head off with a kitchen knife."
Hana pressed the attack, forcing Takeshi back step by step, until he slipped on his own blood and went down again, air exploding from his lungs.
"Dead," Hana said, resting the tip of her bokken on his throat.
Takeshi hissed through his teeth.
"Again," he croaked.
The old man thumped his staff on the stone. "Enough. You'll train yourself into a grave."
Takeshi wanted to argue, but his arms felt like they'd been replaced with hot lead. Hana offered him a hand up. He took it.
"You did better," she said. "You stood up longer."
"Not good enough."
Hana rolled her eyes. "You say that every day."
He looked at her seriously. "I'm not stopping until I'm the strongest swordsman in this entire cursed world."
Hana barked a laugh. "You? Stronger than all the mercenaries, pirates, and god-touched freaks out there?"
"Yes."
The wind swept through the courtyard, carrying the distant howl of something massive down in the ravine.
Hana tilted her head. "Then make me a promise."
He tensed. Promises were sacred here. Spoken oaths under the gaze of Ares and Athena carried weight. The gods loved to hold humans to their word.
"What promise?" he asked.
"If I die before I become the strongest," Hana said lightly, though her eyes weren't light at all, "you carry our style forward. You surpass everyone, no matter who stands in your way. You win so hard the gods themselves can't ignore it."
A chill rolled down Takeshi's spine.
"That's… messed up," he muttered. "Why are you talking like that?"
"Because this world sucks," Hana said bluntly. "Because monsters crawl out of the ravine, and the Navy only shows up when it's convenient for them, and pirates raid villages just to hear people scream. Someone needs to be so strong that when they say 'no,' the world actually listens."
She shoved her bokken into his chest.
"Swear it, Takeshi. Swear that if I fall, you'll be the edge that cuts through all this bullshit."
He looked down at the bokken. Then at the shrine steps, where the old man watched with hooded eyes.
"You're both idiots," the teacher said. "But the gods like idiots with conviction. Be careful what you bind yourselves to."
Takeshi swallowed.
"Hana," he said quietly. "If you die before we decide who's strongest, I'll take your sword. I'll take your place. I'll cut down anyone—man, monster, or god—who tries to swallow us. I swear it."
The air seemed to go still.
A faint, distant rumble rolled out of the ravine below, like something large shifting in its sleep.
Hana's grin came back, bright as ever. "Good. Now don't wimp out or I'll haunt you."
"Annoying even in death," Takeshi muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
She thumped him on the shoulder, the gesture both comforting and bruising.
From that day, something changed.
Takeshi always had a problem with refusing a challenge. If a kid said "bet you can't climb that tree," he'd climb it. If someone said "bet you can't jump that gap," he'd jump it, usually with tragic results.
But after the oath in the shrine courtyard, it got worse.
Not just dares. Anything framed as a challenge hooked deep.
"You can't train that long."
He trained until his hands bled.
"You'll never be able to lift that."
He lifted until his muscles tore.
"You'll never cut that boulder."
He hacked at it until his sword broke.
The other kids started using it as a game. The adults started worrying. The old man started praying to Athena for "just a little extra wisdom in that boy's skull, please."
The gods, predictably, ignored that part.
Years passed. Takeshi grew taller, stronger, his movements honed like drawn steel. Hana grew more frightening, the kind of prodigy that sword-swingers told stories about.
They developed their own style under the shrine's dual tutelage—one that blended Ares's raw aggression with Athena's precision. Two blades in motion, one for overwhelming offense, one for ruthless defense.
But Takeshi… wanted more.
"Why just two?" he asked one evening, sitting on the dojo roof with Hana. The ravine below yawned like the world's throat, green mist curling up from its depths. Stars glimmered above them, smug and distant.
Hana chewed thoughtfully on a rice ball. "Because we only have two hands, genius."
"Then I'll find a way to use three," he said.
She almost choked. "Three swords? Where, are you going to hold one with your ass?"
"I'll figure it out."
"Bet you can't."
The words left her mouth like a joke.
Takeshi's mind didn't understand "joke."
Something old and heavy tugged on the strings of his spine. His heart kicked.
"I will," he said quietly, voice turning to stone. "I swear I'll create a style that uses three blades. And I'll make it terrifying."
Hana's smile faded as she realized what she'd triggered.
"I was kidding, you idiot…"
"You said 'bet you can't,'" he said. "Now I have to."
She stared at him.
Then sighed, shoulders slumping. "You are absolutely exhausting."
The old man, listening at the doorway below, pinched the bridge of his nose.
"By Olympus," he muttered. "He's a walking pact. Every time someone says he can't do something, it's like he's locked himself into a contract. If he lives past twenty, I'll be impressed."
The day everything went to hell started like any other.
Morning drills. Blistering sun. The smell of dust and sweat in the courtyard.
Takeshi and Hana sparred with real swords now. They moved like forces of nature—Takeshi with relentless forward pressure, Hana with fluid, dancing footwork. Nobody else could keep up with them.
"You're still telegraphing your left swing," Hana said between strikes.
"And you're still smirking too much," Takeshi grunted back.
"Part of my charm."
Then the mountain shook.
It was subtle at first, a faint tremor that rippled under their feet. Sword tips dipped. The chatter around the courtyard died. Chickens squawked and flapped against their coops.
The old man's staff hit the ground once, twice, three times. A warning pattern.
Down in the ravine, something screamed.
It wasn't human. It wasn't animal. It was the sound teeth would make if they could howl.
"Inside! Now!" the old man barked.
Villagers scrambled. Temple bells rang, the low, urgent toll echoing through the cliffs. Hunters grabbed spears. Swordsmen rushed to the edge of the village wall.
Takeshi and Hana bolted to the parapet.
Mist churned in the ravine below, swirling like a boiling cauldron. Shapes moved in it. Too many eyes, too many limbs. Wings and claws and horns and hunger.
A shadow detached itself from the depths and climbed.
"What is that?" Takeshi whispered.
Hana's face went pale. "Chimera. At least one. Maybe two."
The chimera hauled itself up onto the rocky ledge in a spray of stones and shattered trees—a lion's body with a goat's head jutting from its shoulder and a snake for a tail, every part of it wrong.
"Everyone to positions!" the old man shouted, voice cracking. "Hold it at the wall! We can't let it into the houses!"
The first chimera roared. Flame rolled out of its lion mouth, searing a section of the stone barrier. The goat head bleated a horrible sound that made people clutch their ears. The snake-tail hissed, spitting venom that sizzled where it landed.
Villagers screamed. Some fled. Others froze.
The Navy's little outpost on the far ridge lit a signal flare.
"No way they'll make it in time," Hana said.
A second chimera crawled up beside the first.
Takeshi's breath shuddered. Fear clawed at his gut.
A hand landed on his shoulder.
"You can go inside," the old man said quietly. "You're not ready for that."
Some part of Takeshi agreed. The part that liked being alive.
The other part—the bigger, dumber, louder part—heard something else.
You can't.
You can't fight that. You can't win. You can't protect anyone from monsters like that.
Those words weren't spoken aloud, but they may as well have been carved in the air.
The vow in the courtyard burned again. You fall, I carry the style. I cut down anything that threatens us.
Takeshi's hands clenched on his sword.
"I'm going," he said.
The old man's eyes flashed. "If you step out there, you will die."
"Bet I don't," Takeshi said before he could stop himself.
The old man flinched like he'd been stabbed. "Idiot boy. You've just made that a promise. The gods don't take wagers lightly."
Hana grabbed Takeshi's wrist. "Don't do this."
He looked at her. At the fear in her eyes. At the panic rising below as people ran.
"I swore," he said. "I swore I'd protect this place. What good is that oath if I run now?"
She wanted to argue.
Instead, she raised her own sword.
"Fine," she hissed. "Then we go together."
The battle at the wall of Shirokumo Ridge was not heroic.
It was awful.
It was teeth and fire and the stink of burning hair.
The first chimera slammed into the wall, claws carving grooves in stone. Warriors jabbed spears at it from above, some getting too close and falling when the beast snapped at them. The snake tail grabbed a man by the leg, yanking him screaming into the ravine.
The second chimera leaped onto the battlements, scattering people like toys. Its lion jaws snapped, biting a villager clean in half. Blood splattered the stone.
Takeshi gagged.
Then he forced himself forward, sword lifting.
"HEY!" he roared, voice breaking. "Over here, shithead!"
The chimera turned, flame drooling from its maw.
It lunged.
Takeshi moved on instinct. He ducked under its bite, slashed at the goat neck as it swung. His blade scored deep, hot blood spraying his face. The goat head shrieked. The snake tail whipped toward his throat.
Hana was there, parrying the strike, sparks flying.
"Watch your flank, dumbass!" she yelled.
"I'm a little busy not dying!"
They fought like they'd trained their whole lives—because they had. Takeshi hammered at the lion head, blade chipping tooth and horn. Hana danced around the snake, severing part of its jaw. Villagers tried to hold the second chimera at the broken gate, but it kept pushing through.
The goat head chanted a grinding, horrible sound. Dark energy built around its horns.
Takeshi didn't know magic well, but he knew "bad idea" when he saw it.
"Hana!" he shouted. "Eyes!"
She didn't hesitate.
She launched herself off the wall, landed on the chimera's goat shoulder with a scream, and drove her sword straight into one of its eyes.
The chimera howled. The dark energy misfired, exploding point-blank.
The blast threw them both.
Takeshi crashed into the stones, ribs cracking. The world spun. He heard roaring, screaming, the chimera thrashing half-blind.
Hana hit the wall hard.
He heard it.
The sound bones made when they hit stone at the wrong angle and didn't get back up.
"HANA!" Takeshi's voice ripped out of him.
He staggered to his feet, vision tunneling. The chimera shook its head, one eye ruined, goat skull cracked, but still very much alive. The snake-tail hissed, dripping venom.
Behind it, Hana lay crumpled against the parapet.
He ran.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. Every lesson about composure, strategy, footwork—all of it burned away.
He slammed into the chimera's side, sword burrowing deep into its chest. It roared, claws tearing into his back. Pain like white fire flooded his nerves. He screamed in its face, shoving the blade deeper, feeling ribs crack, hot blood soaking his hands.
"DIE!" he bellowed.
The chimera's lion head snapped at him one last time—and suddenly went still.
The beast shuddered and collapsed, almost crushing him.
He dragged himself free, skin flayed, blood everywhere. Someone else had managed to bring down the second chimera at the gate, though he barely registered how.
He stumbled to Hana's side.
She lay twisted where she'd hit, hair spread like ink. Her sword had fallen from her hand, the blade cracked.
"Hana," he croaked, dropping to his knees. "Hana, get up."
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused. Blood trickled from the side of her mouth.
"Takeshi…" she rasped.
"We did it," he said. "We killed it. You—You stabbed it in the eye. That was badass. Get up, we still have to finish our duel, remember?"
Her hand twitched.
"You… idiot…" she whispered, trying to smile and failing. "I told you… you'd get yourself killed one day."
Rage, panic, helplessness—all of it knotted inside him.
"No," he said, voice cracking. "No. You don't get to die. You haven't called me 'sensei' yet. You promised."
Her gaze flicked to him, clearer for a heartbeat.
"I promised… you'd carry it," she breathed. "If I fell first."
He shook his head so hard it hurt. "No. No, I—Take it back. I'll take it back. Gods, take it back!"
The sky said nothing.
The ravine rumbled faintly, like distant laughter.
Hana coughed, blood staining her lips. "There's your problem," she murmured. "You… never learned how to break a promise."
Her fingers fumbled for something at her waist. A second blade—lighter, with a curved guard—clattered against his arm.
"Take it," she whispered. "Take… my sword. Get stronger… than all of them. Even me. Even the gods."
Takeshi stared at the blade through a blur of tears.
"Hana—"
Her hand slipped from his.
The world went hushed.
For a moment, all he could hear was his own pulse, pounding like a war drum in his ears.
Then the village came crashing back—people crying, moaning, calling names of the dead. The old man knelt nearby, face ashen.
"I told you," the teacher said hoarsely. "This would break you."
Takeshi's voice sounded distant in his own ears.
"I made a promise," he said. "I'll carry it. I'll fight until no one else has to die like this. Until monsters, pirates, Navy—whoever—stop treating us like fodder."
He picked up Hana's sword with shaking hands.
And something in the air, in the world, noticed.
An invisible line twisted around his chest—another knot in the rope of oaths strangling him.
The old man saw it in his eyes. The way they hardened. The way they cracked at the edges.
"You're going to keep accepting every challenge you hear, aren't you," the elder whispered.
"If someone says I can't," Takeshi said, "I'll prove them wrong."
"It'll kill you."
"Bet it won't," he said.
And the gods, listening as always, smiled cruelly.
Years later—after leaving Shirokumo Ridge, after taking another master's blade as his third, after carving his way through pirates and monsters and corrupt officers, after earning the name "Santoryu" because yes, he had figured out how to fight with three swords—Takeshi ended up chained to a post in Fort Aegis, waiting for execution.
Because when the Navy captain said, "You can't stand against the law," Takeshi had smiled, lifted his swords, and said…
"Bet I can."