I remember those days as if they never truly passed—when your father and I first met, the quiet moments that became love, and the battles we endured side by side. He was a great man, in every way that mattered.
And now, I write this for you—my beloved second-born son.
My child who has just taken his first steps away from home and toward the Swordsman Academy.
My Shujinko Frederick Ryomen.
Before the world asks more of you, before the years harden your hands and heart, come with me for a moment. Let us walk together through memory, and remember where our families' strength truly began.
This is how your father and I met.
[23 YEARS EARLIER]
The steam from the ramen cup warmed my fingers as I walked, the lid pressed down with my thumb, the smell of broth and soy clinging to the night air. Tokyo never really slept, but this part of the street had softened—store lights dimmed, footsteps fewer, neon signs buzzing low like they were tired too. I should've gone straight home. I knew that. But the long way was quieter, and my head had been too full to want noise.
That was when I noticed him.
He stood near the edge of the sidewalk, half-turned toward the streetlight, tall enough that the glow caught his shoulders first before sliding down the rest of him. Six foot three, maybe more. Broad without being bulky. Calm in a way that didn't belong to boys our age. And on his waist—
A sword.
My steps slowed before I told them to. That wasn't something you mistook. The hilt, the wrapping, the way it sat like it was part of him instead of an accessory. He definitely is an Elemental Swordsman.
My eyes flicked up by accident, and for half a heartbeat, we met each other's gaze.
Red.
His eyes and hair were red—sharp but not cruel, curious but not invasive. And then I panicked.
I looked away immediately, heart stuttering, heat crawling up my neck. Don't stare, Shuza. Gods, don't stare. I adjusted my grip on the ramen and picked up my pace, pretending very hard that I hadn't noticed anything at all.
Two steps.
"Hey—wait."
I froze.
Why did I freeze.
I turned slowly, too slowly, trying to look like this was normal and I wasn't internally screaming. He was closer now, long strides eating the distance easily, his expression apologetic rather than confrontational.
"Sorry," he said quickly. His voice was lower than I expected. Steady. "I didn't mean to startle you. I just—uh—why are you in such a rush?"
My brain short-circuited. All I could think about was how hot this guy is.
"I—what? Oh. I'm not," I said, immediately contradicting my speed-walking from seconds ago. Smooth. Very smooth. "I just… ramen gets cold fast."
He blinked. Then smiled. Not wide. Just a small, amused curve at the corner of his mouth.
"That's true," he said. "Didn't think about that."
Silence fell, awkward and heavy. I shifted my weight. He noticed the ramen cup then, nodded toward it.
"Long day?"
"Always," I replied too fast. I cleared my throat. "I mean—yes. Long day."
Another pause. I could feel his eyes on me—not in a bad way, just attentive—and it made it hard to breathe normally. I glanced at the sword on his waist again before I could stop myself.
He followed my gaze.
"…You noticed," he said.
"I—sorry," I blurted out. "I didn't mean to be nosy. It's just—most people don't carry them out so openly."
"Is it that obvious?" he asked lightly.
"It is to someone who knows what to look for," I said.
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. "You're familiar."
I hesitated. Then, heart pounding, I reached back and shifted the fabric of my dress just enough to reveal the wrapped hilt resting against my spine.
His eyes widened—just a little.
"…Water?" he asked, noticing the faint blue threading.
I nodded. "Earth," I added quietly, because it mattered. "I'm still training."
He straightened, suddenly formal. "Tujin Ryomen," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Student of Sensei Kensei Saho… And of course my Old Man. Fire Boru."
"Shuza," I replied, then panicked again. "Shuza Ryomen—wait, no relation—just—sorry—"
"It's Shuza Uesugi.."
He laughed. Not loudly. Just a short, surprised sound that immediately made my face burn.
"It's okay," he said quickly. "I get nervous too."
That made me look at him again. "You do?"
"Only around other swordsmen," he admitted. "Feels like being seen too clearly."
"…Yeah," I said. "That."
We started walking without really deciding to. Side by side, steps falling into an easy rhythm. We seemed to click instantly. He asked where I lived. I told him. He nodded.
"That's on my way," he said. "If you don't mind company."
"I—no. I mean—yes. I mean—company's fine."
He smiled again, gentler this time.
We talked about training. About mentors. About how Tokyo felt too small some nights and too dangerous on others. I stumbled over my words more than once, looking away when he caught me staring, pretending very hard that my heart wasn't racing every time our shoulders nearly brushed.
When we reached my building, I stopped. It wasn't a very big house. Only big enough for me, my two brothers, sister, mom, and dad to live.
"This is me," I said, lifting the ramen cup slightly. "Thank you. For walking with me."
"Of course," he replied. "I'm glad I did."
We stood there for a moment, neither of us moving.
"…Maybe," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I'll see you around?"
I smiled before I could overthink it. "I'd like that."
He nodded once, then turned and walked away, sword catching the streetlight as he went.
I watched until he disappeared—then finally went inside, ramen forgotten, heart still very much not calm.
[3 MONTHS LATER]
The morning air bit at my lungs as I exhaled, the yard still damp with dew and scorched in places from earlier drills. My arms trembled—not from weakness, but from the way power lingered in my muscles, refusing to settle. Kyoto stood a short distance away, sleeves rolled, katana resting casually against his shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all.
He was fifty-four then. Young. Strong. Dangerous in the quiet way that didn't announce itself. I would visit Tujin's family's home often, and it just so happened that his father let me also train with Tujin.
"Again," Kyoto said calmly. "From the stance. Do not rush the element. Let it answer you."
I nodded, planting my feet into the soil. The ground felt alive beneath me—subtle vibrations humming up through my soles, familiar and comforting. I closed my eyes for half a breath, centering myself the way Kyoto had taught us.
Elements do not come from force.
It comes from alignment.
I drew in, slow and steady, imagining my breath sinking down past muscle and bone, into the earth itself. When I opened my eyes, I reached for my blade.
The stone answered.
My skin tightened first—not painfully, but firmly, like layers settling into place. A faint gray sheen traced along my arms as my stance widened instinctively. I felt heavier. Anchored. Unmovable.
"Titan Frame," Kyoto said, approval clear in his voice. "Good. Do not fight the weight. Become it."
I stepped forward.
The ground shuddered.
Not violently—just enough that loose pebbles jumped and the dirt rippled beneath my footfall. When I swung, my katana sang low and deep, the blade reinforced with earthen density. The strike landed against the training post with a thunderous crack, wood splintering under pressure rather than sharpness.
My heart pounded. I could feel everything—my pulse, the soil, the blade, my own breath syncing into one heavy, unstoppable rhythm.
"That's it," Kyoto said. "Earth reinforces. Titan Frame declares. You are not fast—but you are inevitable."
I smiled despite the strain, sweat dripping down my temple.
Then heat flared beside me.
Tujin stepped forward, fire already licking along the edge of his blade—not red, not orange, but pale. Almost colorless. White-gray flame that distorted the air around it.
White Fire.
Kyoto's expression sharpened. "Control, Tujin. Your intent is bleeding through."
Tujin clenched his jaw, shoulders tight. I could see it—the way emotion fed his Boru too easily, how his thoughts ignited before discipline could temper them. The flame surged, brightening as his frustration spiked.
I moved without thinking, planting myself between him and the post, grounding my stance.
"Tujin," I said softly. "Breathe. Don't push it."
His eyes flicked to me—red, intense, but listening. He inhaled slowly, then again, shoulders lowering inch by inch. The fire dulled, condensing instead of expanding, wrapping closer to the blade.
Kyoto nodded. "Good. White Fire does not burn flesh—it burns resistance. If your heart wavers, it will turn inward."
Tujin exhaled sharply. "That's the problem," he muttered.
Kyoto stepped closer, tapping Tujin's chest with two fingers. "Then master that first."
They trained together—fire and earth, weight and heat. I learned how to let my Boru flow into my sword without overcommitting, how to harden the blade without freezing my joints. Tujin learned restraint, shaping flame like a thought instead of a scream.
By the time Kyoto finally sheathed his katana and turned toward the house, the sun had dipped low and my legs felt like stone for an entirely different reason.
"You did well," he said, pausing at the door. "Both of you. Rest. Power grows in stillness too. And don't do anything mischievous"
Then he left.
The silence that followed felt strange—too quiet after hours of impact and instruction. Tujin and I wandered to the back porch without speaking, sinking down side by side on the wooden steps. The boards were warm from the sun. My hands shook as I rested them on my knees.
"Your Titan Frame is terrifying," Tujin said finally, a tired smile pulling at his mouth. "I thought the ground was going to split."
I laughed weakly. "Your fire almost burned through the post. Again."
He glanced at me then, really looked at me, and my chest tightened.
Sweat-darkened hair clung to his forehead. His posture had softened now, tension drained from his shoulders, but the intensity was still there—just quieter. Safer.
"Shuza," he said, hesitating.
I turned fully toward him. "Yeah?"
For a moment, neither of us moved. The air felt heavy—not with Boru, but with something else entirely. Anticipation. Fear. Want.
"I don't usually feel calm after training," he admitted. "But with you… I do."
My heart skipped.
"I feel heavier," I said honestly. "But not tired. Like I belong where I'm standing."
He smiled at that. Not the teasing one. The real one.
Before I could second-guess myself, I leaned in.
The kiss was brief—barely more than a brush of lips, tentative and unsure. My breath caught immediately, warmth flooding my face as I pulled back, eyes wide.
"I—sorry," I started.
He didn't let me finish.
Tujin leaned in again, one hand lifting to rest gently at my waist, grounding without pinning. This kiss was slower. Deeper. His lips were warm, careful, like he was afraid of burning me even without flame.
I melted into it.
Every worry—the secrecy, the danger, the future—fell away. All I felt was him. The steady heat of his presence. The way my Boru hummed softly, content, like stone settling after an earthquake.
When we finally pulled apart, my forehead rested against his, breath uneven, heart racing in a way no training ever caused.
"Guess… we're terrible at being subtle," he murmured.
I laughed softly, still dizzy. "Yeah. But I don't regret it."
Neither did he.
The sun dipped fully below the horizon, and for the first time, the future didn't feel heavy.
It felt possible.
[LATER THAT DAY]
The woods were never this quiet.
That was the first thing I noticed—the wrongness of it. No insects. No wind through leaves. Just our footsteps crunching softly against dirt and pine needles as Tujin and I made our way along the narrow forest path skirting the edge of Tokyo's outskirts. Lantern-light from the city barely reached this far, leaving the trees clawing at the dark like silhouettes frozen mid-scream.
"Next time," I muttered, one hand resting near the hilt at my back, "we do not take shortcuts."
Tujin huffed a quiet laugh. "You're the one who said it'd be faster."
I was about to retort when the air shifted.
Not wind. Not sound.
Fear.
A pressure—thick, suffocating—pushed against my chest, sinking into my lungs and tightening my throat. Malice. Raw, unfiltered, soaking into the earth like poison.
"Tujin—" I started.
Something dropped from above.
The demon.
The impact knocked the breath from my lungs as a massive shape crashed between us, rotten weight and heat colliding in a blur of claws and teeth. Tujin didn't even have time to draw—he was slammed into the dirt. It struck him like a meteor, claws tearing through bark. The thing was a grotesque mass of twisted flesh and jagged bone, its body laced with pulsing black-red veins—the Vein of Malice, alive and drinking. Crystals jutted from its torso and shoulders, embedded deep into rotting muscle: Soul Shards, glowing faintly as they fed on pain and fear.
We were taught this at school.
My boyfriend cried out—not from the blow, but from the terror of being pinned beneath it.
The demon felt that fear.
Its body swelled, bones cracking as Malice surged through its veins. It grew—wings tearing free from its back, neck elongating, jaws splitting wider. Heat built in its throat, embers glowing between rows of uneven teeth.
"No—don't—!" I shouted.
The demon inhaled.
Flame exploded outward, a roaring torrent that scorched trees and earth alike. I moved without thinking.
"Borokku!"
I planted my feet and raised my blade flat, not edge-first. Earth Boru surged through me—not outward, but inward—stabilizing, reinforcing. Stone crawled along my arms and spine as the flame struck, the impact rattling my bones but holding firm. Heat screamed against my senses, but the Borokku absorbed it, preventing my element from spiraling out of control.
I slid back a step—but I stood.
"Tujin!" I yelled. "Get up! Look at me—breathe!"
The demon reared back, laughing wetly as Malice thickened the air. Its wings stretched wide, blotting out the moon, fire dripping from its maw.
Tujin scrambled free at last, chest heaving, eyes wide with fear.
The demon grew again.
I felt the ground tremble beneath my feet.
I slammed my sword into the soil.
"Cortar!"
Earth erupted outward in a wide arc, stone and dirt tearing free from the ground in a sweeping release. The attack wasn't precise—it wasn't meant to be. It tore through the demon's legs and slammed into its torso, forcing it back and disrupting the flow of Malice along its veins.
The clearing exploded into chaos.
"Tujin, now!" I shouted.
He inhaled.
Once. Twice.
I felt the shift as his Fire Boru answered—not wild, not red, but pale. Controlled. Intent sharpened.
White Fire ignited along his blade.
The demon sensed the danger and lunged, claws crashing down toward him.
I met it head-on.
"Sorasu!"
I angled my blade and reinforced it with earth, bracing with my lead hand as the demon's strike collided. The impact thundered through the clearing. Instead of stopping the blow, I redirected it—letting its own momentum slide off the reinforced flat of my sword.
The force tore a trench through the dirt beside me.
But Tujin was untouched.
He moved then, stepping forward with perfect alignment.
"Sasu!"
His thrust was clean. Condensed. The White Fire focused into a narrow line as he drove the tip straight toward the demon's chest—not flesh, not bone—but the largest Soul Shard embedded there.
The shard cracked.
Light fractured violently, shrieking as Malice recoiled. The demon howled, thrashing as its Vein spasmed, power feeding back into itself uncontrollably.
It staggered.
I felt the opening.
Every lesson Kyoto had drilled into us snapped into place.
Feet grounded. Breath steady. Intent clear.
I raised my blade overhead.
"Chap."
The strike came down like judgment itself.
Earth Boru surged through me as I brought the blade down in a vertical execution cut, Titan Frame answering fully now. Stone hardened my skin, my muscles, my bones—each step sent tremors through the ground as the blade cleaved straight through the demon's fractured core.
The earth split.
The demon's scream cut off abruptly as its body collapsed inward, Malice veins unraveling like burned sinew. Fire sputtered and died. Wings disintegrated. Flesh crumbled into ash and broken crystal, dissolving back into the soil it had corrupted.
Silence rushed in to fill the void.
I dropped to one knee, gasping, the stone receding from my body as the Boru settled. My arms shook. My lungs burned.
Tujin stumbled toward me, grabbing my shoulders.
"You hurt?" he asked, voice unsteady.
I shook my head. "You did it," I said softly. "You controlled it."
He looked down at his blade, the White Fire fading, then back at me. "I was terrified."
"So was I," I admitted. "But you didn't let your fear feed it."
We stood there in the ruined clearing, smoke drifting upward, the earth still warm beneath our feet.
Our first demon.
Slain not by strength alone—but by trust, discipline, and the techniques we had learned together.
And as Tujin squeezed my hand, relief washing over his face, I knew—without a doubt—
We would survive this world.
Or… Atleast I thought so.
[In The Present]
"So, I hope you'll receive this message, and learn about our history. Hopefully you'll read something interesting while you're on the edge of your seat trying not to fall off that boat!
And remember son, We Love You. Always."
The letter read.