Shinnobu's relentless attacks left Yoriichi with no room to breathe.
The bamboo sword struck again and again, the dull thuds landing on his small body. His arms trembled as he raised them to block, bruises already spreading across the exposed skin beneath his torn clothes.
It hurts…
The thought barely formed before another strike came crashing down.
Shinnobu's face twisted into a smug grin. He was the heir of the Hirota clan, the only son of Hirota Mitsuhiro. From childhood, he had been taught proper swordsmanship, the pride of a samurai passed down through generations.
Wind Style Swordsmanship: Great Sweeping Slash!
He stepped forward, twisted his body, and brought the bamboo sword down with all his strength. The movement mimicked what his father had once shown him—fast, forceful, overwhelming.
The wooden training post in the yard creaked under the imagined weight of the strike, as if echoing the might of a true blade.
But it was only imitation.
To an experienced eye, his form was sloppy—clumsy, even. It looked like a child copying strokes he barely understood.
Watching from the shadows, Taitō frowned.
So this is the famed "Wind Style"? More like nonsense.
To him, it was nothing but a badly butchered technique. He had trained under Mifune himself—someone who could grasp sword techniques after seeing them once. Compared to that, Shinnobu's movements were laughable.
He wouldn't even use something like this to chop firewood.
But to a three-year-old child…
Even a crude imitation was deadly.
He can't block that.
Taitō's hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt. He was ready to intervene.
Even if he didn't care about commoners, he couldn't stand by and watch a child die.
Then—
He paused.
His brows furrowed.
A strange heat drifted through the air.
"…What is that smell?"
Shinnobu sneered, still posturing.
"Get down to your knees, I will consider stopping."
"No."
Yoriichi's voice was faint, but firm.
His small hands tightened around the bamboo sword. The weapon was cracked now, the center splintered, pale wood exposed beneath the surface.
It wouldn't last another strike.
Everyone watching knew it.
He can't block this.
Shinnobu's face twisted in rage.
Why won't you beg?
Why won't you just kneel?!
If you just swallowed your pride, you wouldn't have to suffer!
Jealousy burned in his chest.
He raised the bamboo sword high.
"You should die with that old beggar!"
"He… wasn't a beggar."
Yoriichi whispered.
His head hung low, red hair clinging to his face. The mark on his forehead pulsed faintly, glowing like embers beneath the skin.
The air grew hot.
For a split second, the world seemed to waver.
Yoriichi moved.
His feet barely touched the ground, light as drifting leaves. In an instant, he slipped past Shinnobu's strike and appeared behind him.
The watching children froze.
They couldn't even see how he moved.
Wasn't he just being beaten a second ago?
Had he… run away?
No.
He hadn't run.
He had stepped through the attack.
"..."
A memory surfaced in Yoriichi's mind—
[To become strong, you must endure pain.
No one becomes a great swordsman without hardship.]
Grandfather's voice echoed faintly.
Then—
Heat exploded.
The cracked bamboo sword ignited.
Flames surged along the blade like a living thing.
"Sun Breathing – First Form: Dance."
The world burned.
A wave of heat crashed forward as Yoriichi swung.
The bamboo blade, wrapped in fire, descended toward the back of Shinnobu's head.
Too fast. Too close. Too deadly.
Shinnobu couldn't turn.
Couldn't move.
Couldn't even scream.
Death pressed against his back.
'Shit I'm going to die…'
His vision blurred.
And then—
Clang!
The strike was stopped.
A figure appeared between them, sword sheath raised, blocking the flaming blow.
The heat vanished in an instant.
The flames dispersed.
Shinnobu collapsed to the ground, gasping.
Before him stood a boy only a few years older than himself—calm, steady, eyes sharp as steel.
Taitō.
He exhaled slowly, eyes locked onto Yoriichi.
That attack just now…
That wasn't something a child should be able to perform.
Even among samurai—
That was real swordsmanship.
Taitō stared at the trembling bamboo blade, still faintly warm, and then at Yoriichi's glowing red eyes.
For the first time, he felt something unfamiliar.
Fear.
This boy…
He wasn't playing at being a samurai.
He was walking the path... For real.