Six years slipped quietly into the past. Yamori, now seven, had grown into a boy whose silver hair fell like a silken waterfall down his back. It caught the light in the halls of the manor, gleaming faintly as he moved from place to place, often with a book cradled in his arms. He had spent much of his young life in the library—his sanctuary—pouring over every page he could reach. The towering shelves had become his silent companions, and in their company, he learned much of the strange new world into which he had been reborn.
On one warm afternoon, the tranquil stillness of the manor was broken.
The front doors swung open with a resounding thud, and a deep, booming voice, brimming with cheer, filled the estate.
"Daddy has arrived! Hehehe!"
Yamori stepped into the entrance hall, a leather-bound volume resting in the crook of his arm. Standing there was his father, Sinbad—a man whose presence seemed too large for the doorway he'd just passed through. His hair was a fierce red, his eyes a piercing blue. A scar carved across the left side of his face, and both his arms bore the marks of countless battles—a map of the trials he had endured.
When his eyes found Yamori, a broad grin split his face. In a single stride, he scooped the boy up and swung him onto his shoulder as though he weighed nothing.
"If it isn't my favorite son! How are you? Where's your mother and sister? I didn't see them in the garden—were they with you?"
Yamori, book still open, barely glanced up. "I'm your only son. As for Mother and Kagami… they left earlier. Visiting the Duke's daughter. Something about a 'playmate,' as they called it."
Sinbad's expression softened but held a flicker of irritation. He set Yamori down and rested his large, calloused hands on his hips.
"Ah, I see… women and their gossip. Well, since they're having a ladies' day, why not make our own adventure? I'll even teach you how to fish."
His blue eyes shone with boyish excitement, the kind that was hard to refuse. Yamori's grey eyes narrowed slightly, but after a quiet sigh, he gave a small nod. That was all Sinbad needed.
In one swift motion, he hoisted his son under one arm and carried him out the back of the estate. The gardens gave way to a forest path, and soon they emerged at a broad, sunlit river. The water caught the light in shifting silver ripples. Sinbad strode to a nearby tree and, with a sharp kick, dislodged two fishing rods that had been hidden in its branches.
Yamori sat down on the grassy bank, settling his book beside him. Sinbad lowered himself next to his son and handed him a rod.
"All right! First, bait the hook. Then pull back the rod and cast it into the water. After that, we wait—"
Before he could finish, Yamori's line had already gone taut. With practiced ease, the boy reeled in his first fish, lifting it from the water with barely a splash.
"Like this, Father? I've seen you fish with Mother before—though she catches more than you."
Sinbad's laugh was tinged with defeat. "Ah, so my own son bests me already." He cast his own line and soon felt a strong tug. He reeled in hard, only for the string to snap. Yamori chuckled under his breath. Sinbad burst into loud, unrestrained laughter.
"Hahahaha! I was so close! Not over yet, son."
His gaze drifted to the book lying in the grass. "So… what have you been reading? Catching fish while reading is quite a handful, if you think about it."
Yamori reeled in another catch, set it aside, and picked up the volume. "The Book of Battle, by Thomas Walker the Third. Tales of warriors and the weapons they mastered."
Sinbad leaned back into the grass, eyes following a lone cloud drifting lazily across the blue expanse above. He whistled softly, as if remembering something from long ago.
"Oh, warriors, is it? Then let me ask you—what's a warrior, Yamori?"
The boy paused. In his mind, images from another life flickered—battlefields drenched in blood, missions carried out without hesitation, victories claimed without joy. He looked up at the sky, mirroring his father's posture.
"Completing one's mission," he said at last. "At all costs."
Sinbad chuckled low in his throat. "Not wrong… but not entirely right either. A true warrior isn't defined by skill, nor by the blood on his blade. He's defined by what he stands for—and what he will protect. The warriors of old fought for their homes, their people… because they cared. Your heart, not your orders, decides the worth of your blade. You may be too young to understand, but one day, you'll need to decide what your heart will protect."
The words lingered in the air, heavy and certain.
Yamori's eyes widened slightly. His father's voice had touched a truth he had long ignored in his first life. Back then, his blade had served only his assignments—never his heart. He turned to Sinbad and gave a respectful nod, saying nothing more.
The afternoon carried on, the sound of the river blending with laughter, teasing jabs, and the occasional splash of a fish breaking free. For Yamori, the day left more than the memory of fishing—it left a question, one he knew he would one day have to answer.