Hikari burned bright at night. Its canals shimmered with lanterns, and merchants bartered silk in the city's heart. But the slums were another world entirely. The alleys stank of sake and mud, and the only light came from brothel signs, flickering like dying stars.
Ryu stood alone in a filthy alley, amber eyes fixed on a katana. It hung outside a blacksmith's shop, slender and sharp, its blade glowing faintly in the dark. The sword was a marvel—perhaps the only thing in the slums that shone of its own accord. Its light pierced Ryu's chest, igniting a dream he refused to let go.
"Beautiful," he whispered.
His sandals sank into the muck, but he didn't care. At sixteen, Ryu was lean, black-haired, with his topknot tied lazily. His kimono was tattered. The slum kids called him "noble's bastard," mocking his amber eyes and sharp features. He never answered them. His mother, dead before he could walk, remained a mystery—maybe a noble's lover, maybe a ghost. None of that mattered. The katana did.
"You're staring again," a voice teased.
Hana stepped up beside him, warm and sharp as always. Her worn kimono bloomed with faded cherry blossoms, and her dark hair gleamed in the alley gloom. She worked at the House of Fallen Blossoms—the brothel where Ryu ran errands and swept floors.
He glanced at her, his expression flat. "So what? Nothing better to do tonight."
Hana frowned, putting her hands on her hips. "Nothing? Taro's got chores piled up. Look at my hands." She held them out—red and raw from dishwashing. "I'm supposed to charm customers, not flake apart like dried fish.
Ryu pushed her hands away, smirking. "Go complain to Yumi. You're bothering me."
Unfazed, Hana grinned. "You're bothering yourself, standing there drooling over that sword like it's a girl. Still dreaming of samurai nonsense? Taro says it's a fool's road."
Ryu's jaw tensed. "Taro's wrong. I'll be a samurai one day."
Her teasing dimmed. "You're stubborn. Those eyes of yours—they don't belong here. But dreams don't pay the Ox's tribute, Ryu. You know that."
His stomach knotted. The Ox, one of Hikari's five yakuza lords, ruled this district. His men came each month for coins, and Taro's defiance always made things tense.
"Taro can handle them," Ryu muttered, though even he didn't sound convinced.
"You sure? I heard the Ox is angry. Taro shorted them last month. Just… be careful tonight, alright?"
Ryu gave a vague nod, but his gaze drifted back to the katana. Its gleam filled his chest—a silent promise of something greater than this gutter.
"It's just a sword," Hana said softly. "How much is it?"
"Ten gold," he murmured.
Hana's eyes widened. "Ten?! You could eat for a year with that! No wonder no one's touched it."
The slums didn't let you keep money. The yakuza took what you earned. Thieves took the rest. And dreams? They vanished faster than smoke.
"Oi, brats!" The blacksmith burst out of his shop, face red, eyes squinting from years beside the forge. "Get away from my stall! That blade's not for gutter trash like you!"
Hana whirled on him. "Selling in the slums but not to slumfolk? You're the king of trash, old man!"
The blacksmith spat. "You? Back to your brothel! And take this idiot with you!"
"I'm not a girl," Hana snapped, lifting her chin. "I debut next year. My first night will be worth more than all your junk blades!"
Ryu sighed, watching his quiet vanish. "Hana, come on. Let's go."
The blacksmith shook his fist. "Damn rats!"
Ryu grabbed her wrist and tugged her down the alley. She laughed, sticking her tongue out over her shoulder.
"Crazy old goat," she muttered, brushing off her kimono. "Hanging a sword like that here… Might as well hang the moon."
Ryu said nothing. That katana's glow stayed in his chest like a lingering ember.
Back at the House of Fallen Blossoms, noise swelled around them. Rough merchants drank sake, voices booming. Yumi, a timid girl with bruised cheeks, served tables with her gaze fixed on the floor. Her patched kimono shifted as she walked like she expected to be struck.
Taro stood behind the counter, polishing his tanto. His scarred face was impassive. He ran the brothel, once a warrior—now the wall between the girls and the yakuza. To Ryu, he was more than a keeper. He was family.
"You're late," Taro said, not looking up. "Ox's men are coming tonight. Stay alert."
Ryu grabbed a broom and nodded. "Yes, Taro-san."
Yumi passed by, tray trembling. "Ryu, are you… alright? You look distracted."
"Just thinking," he replied, forcing a small smile. She was kind, but too fragile for this place. He hated that.
Hana flopped onto a stool, fanning herself. "He's dreaming of swords again. Thinks he's already a samurai."
Taro grunted. "Samurai don't sweep floors. Stay focused. The Ox's men are in a mood. I've heard whispers."
Ryu stiffened. "What kind of whispers?"
"Someone asking questions. About me. Could be old trouble."
Hana leaned forward, all playfulness gone. "I saw a man earlier—near the alley. Looked like a ronin. Eyes like empty wells."
Taro froze mid-polish. "A ronin?"
"Could've been nothing," Hana said. "Still… something about him felt wrong."
Ryu kept sweeping, but his thoughts raced. A ronin showing up here? That meant danger. He glanced at Yumi, then Taro, who stood like a statue.
As night deepened, the brothel buzzed. Laughter. Coins clinking. Yumi dodged a grabby customer, face pale. Ryu stepped in, scowling until the man backed off.
"You didn't have to do that," Yumi whispered, clutching her tray.
"Someone has to," Ryu said.
Hana approached, arms full of empty cups. "Ryu, you're too soft. Yumi, toughen up or the customers'll chew you up."
"I'm trying," Yumi mumbled.
"Try harder," Hana replied—but gentler this time. "We're all stuck here. We survive or we don't."
"Ryu!" Taro called. "Storeroom. More sake."
Ryu nodded, slipping into the cramped storeroom. It stank of mold and dust. But something caught his eye—a glint behind the crates. A katana.
Taro's.
Its scabbard was chipped, but the blade gleamed clean and sharp. Ryu stepped forward, touched the hilt. It was heavier than he expected—but perfect. Drawing it, he felt a pull, a vision: himself beneath the sun, blade in hand. A real samurai.
He swung once. The air hissed.
"Ryu!"
Hana stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
He froze. "Didn't hear you."
"Of course not. You were busy pretending again." She rolled her eyes. "Come on. Before Taro starts yelling."
He sheathed the blade and followed her, its weight etched into his memory.
The brothel had quieted. Taro stood at the door, tense, watching the alley.
"Anything?" Ryu asked, stepping beside him.
"Not yet," Taro said, low. "But the air's heavy. Stay close."
Cherry blossoms drifted from a nearby tree, soft as breath. But the slums felt still—like a storm was gathering.
Hana and Yumi wiped down tables in silence.
"You think the Ox's men'll start something?" Yumi whispered.
"They always do," Hana muttered. "But Taro's tougher than they are."
Ryu hoped she was right.
This brothel—these people—were his whole world. Fragile, ugly, imperfect. But they were his.
He would protect them. Even if it meant chasing the light of a sword he couldn't own… or a dream no one believed in.