The year was 1495.
Snow fell as it always did in Ringo—soft, endless, blanketing the land in quiet stillness. The halls of the Shimotsuki estate were silent except for the soft echo of footsteps: one heavy and steady, the other light and skipping.
Ushimaru walked ahead, broad-shouldered and regal even in the simple robes he wore within his home. At his side, his son bounced along with barely contained energy. Mamoru's eyes sparkled like sunlight striking snow, and his hands flailed in excitement as he tried to keep pace with his father.
"Father!" he chirped, hopping with every step. "Is it time? Is it finally time you'll teach me swordsmanship?"
He almost tripped on the polished wooden floor in his eagerness. Catching himself, he straightened and puffed out his chest, mimicking the stiff dignity he had seen his father show countless times. "I've been waiting so long, you know. Since last spring! I'm ready now. I can swing hard, I can keep my balance, and Onimaru even helps me practice—"
His words tumbled over one another, spilling faster than his father could answer.
Ushimaru only glanced down at him with a helpless smile. Mamoru's persistence had been constant these past months—every meal, every morning training he witnessed from the samurai in Ringo, every time he saw the gleam of steel at his father's hip. The boy's yearning was pure, the same hunger that had driven the Shimotsuki line for generations.
"Yes," Ushimaru finally said, his deep voice carrying the weight of promise. "It is time."
Mamoru froze in his tracks. His mouth dropped open, and then his face split into a grin so wide it nearly hurt. "Really? You mean it?! Today?! You'll really teach me?"
"Yes," Ushimaru repeated, amused at the boy's reaction. Then, more softly: "But before I teach you to swing a blade, there is something else you must learn. And something you must see."
Mamoru tilted his head, confused. "Something else?"
His father did not explain further. Instead, he beckoned. "Come."
They walked together through the estate, past sliding doors painted with scenes of cranes and snow-laden pines, past paper lanterns that flickered softly in the draft. Ushimaru's long strides carried him effortlessly down the hall, while Mamoru half-skipped to keep pace. The boy's heart pounded with both excitement and impatience.
When Ushimaru finally stopped before a large cedar door, Mamoru nearly collided with him. His father slid the door open, revealing a quiet chamber lined with scrolls, shelves, and maps. This was not the dojo, nor the armory Mamoru had dreamed of entering—it was his father's study, the heart of his lordship.
The smell of ink and old parchment filled the air. A brazier glowed in the corner, its warmth just enough to fight the cold. Cushions were laid neatly before a low table.
"Sit," Ushimaru instructed.
Mamoru obeyed, kneeling on the nearest pillow. He fidgeted, unsure why they were here of all places. His eyes darted around the shelves of scrolls, the weapons mounted high on the walls, the half-open window where snowflakes drifted in.
Then his attention snapped back as his father crossed the room and opened a lacquered chest. From within, Ushimaru drew a long blade sheathed in black, its edges traced with golden trim. The handle gleamed with gilt wrappings, shining even in the dim light.
Mamoru's breath caught.
His father carried the sword with both hands, not as one presenting a weapon, but as though he bore a relic. Slowly, Ushimaru returned to the low table and sat opposite his son. The blade rested across his lap, its weight filling the space between them like an unspoken truth.
Mamoru's hands twitched against his knees. He wanted to reach for it, to hold it, to know it. But his father's presence held him still.
Ushimaru spoke at last, his voice measured and solemn.
"Mamoru. There is a tradition in Ringo that you must understand before you lift a sword. When a child is born here, they are given a blade. That sword remains with them through life. It grows old as they grow old, scarred as they are scarred. And when death finally claims them, that same sword is thrust into the earth as their grave marker."
Mamoru's eyes widened. He had walked the eternal graveside countless times, a field where thousands of blades stood in rows like a forest of steel. He had never thought of them as people—as lives made eternal in iron.
His father continued. "Those swords are not merely weapons. They are proof that the samurai of Ringo lived, fought, and died with their resolve intact. The blade is one's destiny carved into steel."
He lifted the black-and-gold sheathed sword slightly, letting its weight be seen. "This," Ushimaru said, "is yours. The blade I gave you when you were born. For six years, I have cared for it on your behalf. Polished it. Oiled it. Kept it waiting. But now… now it belongs to you."
Mamoru nearly jumped to his feet, his hands trembling with excitement. "Mine? That's my sword?!"
"Yes," his father said with a faint smile. "From this day, it is yours to carry and to protect. And when you are old enough, it is yours to wield."
Carefully, Ushimaru held the blade out. Mamoru received it with both hands, straining slightly at the unexpected weight. His small arms quivered, but he refused to let go.
The boy slid the blade an inch from its sheath. The steel glimmered pale and cold, like winter sunlight. On the flat of the blade, near the hilt, a single kanji was engraved—just one.
Mamoru traced it with his eyes, lips moving to sound it out.
Ushimaru's voice completed it. "Yoriichi. The name of the blade. Yori for destiny, ichi for one. Fate, made singular."
Mamoru's chest swelled with pride. "So it means… I'm the one with a destiny!"
His father chuckled, though his gaze lingered on the blade with deeper thought. Outwardly, he spoke for Mamoru's sake, describing what he knew:
"This sword was forged by a blacksmith of Wano. They say he worked without rest for ten days and nights. When he finished, he left no mark of his own name. Only this single character."
Inwardly, however, Ushimaru marveled. What kind of soul could forge such a blade? To shape steel without flaw, to endure until one's body breaks, and to leave behind no name… only this symbol.
He could feel it—the weight, not of the sword, but of its purpose.
Extraordinary steel , an extraordinary sword
Such brilliant craftsmanship. This blade is stunning . Who created this masterpiece. What kind of person was this sword forged for , why did he carve this single character rather than his own name
Aloud, Ushimaru said, "I searched for the blacksmith. All I discovered was this: he wore a hyottoko mask, and he disappeared as mysteriously as he came. Beyond that, nothing. But know this, Mamoru—this blade is one of the twelve supreme grade swords of this world. It is a treasure beyond compare."
Mamoru's eyes went wide. "Supreme… grade?" He had no concept of what that meant, but he knew it was important.
"Yes," Ushimaru said softly. "Few blades in all the seas are of its equal."
He looked at his son again, clutching the sword too large for him, face alight with wonder. And something within Ushimaru stirred.
This boy of mine. He sees only the joy of it now. I understand now , I understand why! I know why he didnt do it , why he didnt carve his name into this perfect sword! This single character tells me that this blade was forged for one sole purpose and nothing else!
The kanji on the sword read
"滅 (DESTROY)"
Mamoru was still staring at the steel, tilting it so that the kanji caught the light. "It's heavy," he admitted, arms straining. "But I'll grow strong enough to be wprthy of wielding such a great blade like this!"
Ushimaru's expression softened. "A sword is not just for swinging, Mamoru. It is your life, your soul , an extension of you. You are one with it, and it is one with you. It will accompany you through your toughest battles . And when you die, it will stand with you in eternal rest."
Mamoru nodded eagerly, not yet comprehending the gravity of the words.
At last, Ushimaru reached beside him and set down a small kit. From it, he drew cloths, oil, a whetstone. With practiced hands, he opened his own sword's sheath, laying the blade bare.
"Now," he said, voice firm but gentle, "Let me show you how to prevent it from rusting."
Mamoru leaned forward, eyes wide, clutching his new sword close. Snow fell against the window, silent witness to a moment that would shape the boy forever.
And thus, on that day, the heir of Ringo began not by cutting—but by learning to preserve.
That evening, the estate lay quiet beneath a heavy snowfall. The brazier fires had dimmed, and most of the household had retired for the night.
In Mamoru's chamber, a single lantern flickered. The boy lay curled beneath thick quilts, his breath fogging faintly in the chill. Yet even in slumber, his arms clutched tightly to the sheathed sword, Yoriichi.
The black scabbard gleamed faintly in the lamplight. Mamoru's small hands gripped it as though it might vanish if he let go. His face was peaceful, lips curled in the faintest smile, the innocence of a child dreaming of battles he did not yet understand.
Outside the sliding door, Ushimaru stood silently. He had come to check on his son, to make sure the sword had not been left carelessly on the floor. But when he slid the door open a fraction, what he saw made him pause.
The sight of Mamoru sleeping with the blade nestled against his chest struck something deep within him. For a long moment, Ushimaru did not move. His stern face softened, eyes tracing the fragile figure of Mamoru, the glow of the lantern, the sword that seemed almost too heavy for such small arms.
A faint smile touched his lips, though his heart was heavy.
Not even a full day together yet you cling to that blade as if it were your dearest friend…
He thought of the Eternal Graveside, of the countless swords buried in snow. He thought of the destiny bound to that blade, and to the boy who now held it. Maybe somethings are directed by fate
Quietly, Ushimaru slid the door open wider and stepped inside. His footsteps were near-silent as he approached the bed. He reached down, gently adjusting the quilt so that Mamoru's shoulders were covered against the cold. His hand lingered for a heartbeat over the boy's hair, brushing it lightly aside.
Mamoru stirred, murmuring softly in his sleep, hugging the sword tighter. Ushimaru chuckled under his breath.
"Even in dreams, you refuse to let go thay which is dear to you" he whispered.
He stood there a long while, simply watching. The snow tapped against the window. The lantern swayed. Ushimaru's gaze moved between his son and the blade, and his thoughts sank into a quiet prayer.
May this sword guard you, Mamoru. May it walk with you until the end. And may you grow strong enough to bear the weight —not only of steel, but of the destiny that comes with it , i believe you will be able to unlock its full potential.
Cursed blade "Yoriichi"
At last, he turned away, sliding the door closed with care. The light within dimmed, leaving Mamoru alone with his sword, dreaming in the heart of a land where snow and steel never died.