[Hi no Miyako — After the Court]
When the doors of the Daimyō's private court closed behind him, Naruto stepped out into the late-day light.
The sun hung low over the Capital, painting the stone walls in crimson and gold.
The scrolls the Daimyō had entrusted to him lay sealed in his pack. Heavy in meaning, light in weight.Books once touched by Hashirama Senju himself. Words meant for a Hokage's successor — now passed to a boy no one had wanted.
And yet the Daimyō had seen fit to give them to him.
Naruto stood a moment beneath the high banners of the inner court, the golden flame above seeming to burn brighter now.
His will burned to match it.
"Shinobi are not those who kill… or those who bow… but those who endure for others."The words echoed in him still.
He had answered the Daimyō truthfully. Not for gain. Not for praise. Simply because it was what he believed.
Now, the path forward seemed clearer. Sharper.
He turned — cloak settling about his shoulders — and strode back into the Capital.
One purpose remained.
He needed a blade. Not a relic. Not a symbol. A weapon that would suit his style — and the path he had chosen.
Not Kiba. Not a blade of storm and blood.Something he could call his own.Something that would grow with him — and not devour him.
He remembered Hayato's quiet words on the road:
"In the Capital, the forgemasters craft blades that outlast wars. Not for flash — for purpose."
Naruto's steps quickened as he reached the bustling lower tiers of the city.
The merchant districts lay ahead — and beyond them, the forge quarter.
It was said that the best swordsmiths of the Land of Fire answered not to daimyo or clan, but to the craft alone.Steel born not of politics — but of discipline and spirit.
That was where he would go.
And this time — he would choose not as the boy who bore the Kyūbi…But as a shinobi whose will had begun to shape his own path.
Steel for the hand.
Fire for the heart.
And no more shadows over either.
[Hi no Miyako — The Forge Quarter]
By the time Naruto reached the forge quarter, the sun had sunk behind the high outer walls.
But here, the light never truly faded.
The glow of forge-fires and oil lamps painted the narrow stone streets in a steady orange pulse.Hammering rang through the air — rhythmic, constant. The scent of hot iron and oil filled his senses.
This was no tourist market. The shops here were not built to attract nobles or idle samurai.
They were plain. Old. Built of blackwood and stone. Most bore no signs — only small clan marks or the faint gleam of steel behind thick curtains.
"Quality is known. It is not sold."That was what the Daimyō's old retainer had said, quietly, when Naruto had asked where to look.
And here he was.
He moved slowly through the quarter — hood still drawn, cloak brushing lightly against packed stone.
He saw blades of every shape: katana meant for samurai officers, curved tanto for shinobi, broad mountain-forged swords meant to cleave through horse and armor alike.
Some forges displayed blades wrapped in silken cord, others let only wordless clients behind their screens.
A few swordsmiths glanced at him as he passed. Measuring. Weighing.
One older man near a deep forge caught Naruto's gaze — then looked away."Not ready."
Naruto understood.
Many blades here would be wasted on a boy, no matter his coin.
They required will — not just gold.
But he was not here to posture.He was here to find a blade that fit his path.
"No sword chooses the man. The man must be ready to shape the sword." Hayato's words again.
And then — amid the deeper lane — he felt it.
A shop with no open front. Just a carved wooden tablet by the door. One kanji only: Tsukikage — Moon's Shadow.
A faint flicker of chakra brushed his senses from within.
Old. Controlled. Subtle. Not a shinobi — but a master of their kind of steel.
Naruto paused. Then knocked, once.
Silence.
Then a voice — dry as old paper.
"Enter, if your will matches your need."
He stepped inside.
[Tsukikage Forge — The Choice]
The air inside the forge remained cool.
Silent save for the faint hum of chakra-rich steel resting in their racks.
Blades hung on sparse racks — none decorated. None flaunted.
Each one balanced in perfect, silent weight.
At a low bench near the back, a lone man sat cross-legged, sharpening a blade with even, deliberate strokes.
Old — but not frail. His hair was long and white, bound loosely. His eyes — sharp as any kunai — flicked to Naruto as he entered.
"You are young. And yet… your will carries steel already."
Naruto met the man's gaze without bow or boast.
"I need a sword. One that fits my path. Not one to wear for show."
A faint smile touched the old smith's mouth.
"Many come here with such words. Few mean them. We shall see."
He rose — setting the unfinished blade aside.
"Speak. How do you fight? What do you seek in steel?"
Naruto answered without pause.
"I use shadow clones. Kenjutsu — Tsuki no Ryū style. Speed, precision. One-hand transitions. Mobility matters more than reach."
A faint nod.
Naruto stood before the old master — cloak drawn back now, gaze sharp and clear.
"You seek a blade that moves as you do," the old smith said softly. "Flowing. Unbroken. Not ruled by tradition or flourish."
The old smith studied him again, then drew back the black cloth covering his personal rack.
"These are not swords for lords or parades. These are for warriors who must move through shadow and strike with certainty."
Three blades lay beneath.
A curved shinobi katana.
A twin-edged tantō .
And — a long, perfectly straight chokutō — steel dark as ink, without glare.
The moment Naruto saw the chokutō, something in his stance shifted.
"This one."
"You are certain?"
"I am."
The old smith lifted the blade reverently, resting it across both palms.
"Forged for precision and flow. Blade length — eighty centimeters. Handle — thirty. Balanced slightly forward for follow-through, but light enough for full single-hand transitions."
He extended it toward Naruto.
"A blade for those who seek clarity — not show. It will not scream when drawn. It will not forgive sloppy form."
Naruto took the blade — tested its weight in both hands, then with one.
Perfect.It moved like a shadow's edge. Straight, clean. No wasted drag.Ideal for Tsuki no Ryū stance — high center guard, oblique cuts, piercing thrusts — and seamless with Shunshin no Jutsu bursts.
"This is the one."
The old smith gave the faintest smile.
"Then name it. A blade unclaimed is a blade unbound."
Naruto's fingers tightened lightly on the hilt.
"Getsumei. 'Moonlit Edge'."
A simple name. No boast.The blade would shine only when needed — like the moon itself.
"Well spoken," the old smith said quietly.
He retrieved a fine leather sheath — plain black, no crest — and handed it over.
"Carry it well. It will demand discipline. But should you walk true — it will serve you beyond any boast."
Naruto bowed once — deep, respectful.
"Thank you, Master Tsukikage."
"You walk a dangerous road, Naruto Uzumaki. Remember — steel is not will. Will is the edge. Keep yours sharp."
Naruto listened to advice and left calmly.