"Your training plan," he said. "You will follow it with discipline every day."
Mamoru stepped closer. The columns were precise, the strokes neat—he could recognize some of the characters, others were still a blur of lines.
Ushimaru read aloud, tapping each section with a finger.
"Dawn: breath and stance. 10 minutes of meditation —silent sitting. Feel your spine. Then suri-ashi for eight laps around the yard. Each lap with eyes forward, then eyes half-lidded, then eyes closed for the last—Onimaru will watch you."
The fox made a soft sound that might have been approval or boredom.
"After that: suburi. One hundred cuts in morning light. The first fifty are slow as winter. The last fifty are as quick as falling snow. Every ten cuts, stop and check your feet."
Mamoru's eyes darted up. "One hundred?!"
Ushimaru's mouth twitched. "After breakfast: letters."
"Letters?"
"You will learn to read and write. Not only for orders and maps—but to understand people. To record what you learn. To keep a clear mind when steel alone is not enough."
Mamoru blinked. "Is Onimaru learning letters?"
Onimaru sneezed disdainfully.
"Midday," Ushimaru continued, "body work. Squats, pushes, holds. You will carry water from the well to the kitchen, two buckets balanced on a pole. Not fast—balanced. If you slosh, you repeat. Your legs will learn to be pillars."
Mamoru imagined himself as a pillar and decided pillars must complain when no one could hear.
"Afternoon," Ushimaru said, "is footwork patterns. We will lay a grid in the yard with twine. You will step through it until your feet know the boxes better than your eyes do. Then you will go challenge samurai around the land of Ringo"
He rolled the board's edge to the final column. "Evening: cleaning and care. You will oil your sword. Record your day in a journal—the number of cuts, where you failed, where you improved. Wash. Sleep. Grow."
Mamoru stared at the board. It looked impossibly large, like a mountain you could only climb one footstep at a time.
"Can I still play?" he asked, hesitant.
Ushimaru's eyes warmed. "Work hard, study well and eat and sleep plenty , if you do all that you will be strong —play is also practice when you pay attention. Balance on the fence post. Race Onimaru without stomping. Carry snow in a bowl without spilling , test yourself against others. Make your games serve your training."
Mamoru brightened. "I can do that!"
"I know," Ushimaru said. He paused, then added, "Since I have duties each day, I have hired someone to help educate you. Reading. Numbers. History. Poise. We will meet your teacher later this afternoon."
"A teacher?" Mamoru said, trying to sound unimpressed and failing. "From where?"
"Hakumai," Ushimaru said. "A scribe well-versed in Wano's texts. Recommended by someone whose judgment I trust." He didn't add the name—Lord Yasuie's shadow stretched long and generous over the provinces in those days.
Mamoru looked briefly toward the estate's gate, as if he might see the teacher already approaching through the snow. He tugged his bokken back to center and faced his father again. "Can we practice more until they come?"
Ushimaru nodded once. "We can. Once i see that the training is no longer enough for you , i will draft you another plan that will be suitable for that time ." Mamoru nodded
They returned to footwork. Now, each glide had a little more quiet in it, as if the ground had agreed to carry Mamoru forward. They practiced exchanges: Ushimaru's bokken tip touching, Mamoru's wrist flicking, stance absorbing, hips turning—no drama, no wastage. The yard filled with small sounds: the hush of sliding feet, the tick of wood against wood, the steady rhythm of breath synchronized to movement.
When Mamoru faltered, Ushimaru's corrections were precise and few. "Chin," he'd say, and the boy would level it. "Heel," and the foot would root. "Breathe," and the shoulders would settle.
In one break, Ushimaru picked up a shallow bowl from the veranda and filled it with fresh snow. He set it on Mamoru's head. "Walk the grid."
Mamoru's eyes widened. He took a step. The snow wobbled but did not spill. Onimaru sat taller, fascinated.
"Good," Ushimaru said. "Now turn. Slowly."
Mamoru turned. A small flake tumbled over the bowl's rim and slid down his ear. He squeaked and resisted the urge to twitch.
"Fairness," Ushimaru said, watching him, "Only the strong get to decide whats gair and whats not , they are the ones who decide whats justice and whats not ."
Mamoru couldn't nod without losing the bowl. But something in his face firmed—understanding sprouting where simple wish had been.
They trained until the light turned the color of tea. The cold nipped sharper as the sun dipped, and the snow's surface crusted over, each step brittle. Ushimaru finally raised a hand.
"Enough."
Mamoru stopped, legs ringing with new language. He was sweaty and freezing at once, hair damp, grin huge.
"You did well," Ushimaru said. He meant it. "Tomorrow, you will be sore. That is the body's way of listening."
Footsteps crunched beyond the wall. A servant slid the court gate aside and bowed. Behind him stood a figure wrapped in a travel cloak, straw hat dusted white, a leather case tucked under one arm.
"Lord Ushimaru," the servant announced, "your guest has arrived."
The newcomer removed their hat with careful hands. A calm and youthful face , he had a beauty mark below each of his eye
"Forgive the hour. The roads were slow." The voice was low and measured. "I am called Kotetsu Kanroji . I was told there is a boy who will need letters strong enough to hold up a sword."
Mamoru straightened automatically, snow-bowl exercise echoing in his spine. He snuck a look at Onimaru, who seemed to be weighing this Kōsetsu as he would a new scent.
Ushimaru inclined his head. "Welcome, Kōsetsu. You will have your work. He's eager." He glanced at Mamoru. "And stubborn"
Kōsetsu's mouth made a shape that might have been a smile. "The best letters are those written by stubborn hands, my lord. They press true."
Ushimaru gestured toward the engawa. "Come in. Warm yourself. We will begin with tea, then introductions." He turned to Mamoru. "Wipe your feet. Bow properly."
"Yes, Father," Mamoru said, and meant it.
He padded to the veranda, pausing to ruffle Onimaru's head. The fox blinked slowly and head-butted his wrist, a silent benediction. Mamoru set his bokken carefully on the rack, then faced the new teacher and bowed as he had been taught—spine tall, eyes soft, breath steady.
"Kanroji-sensei," he said, giving the honorific the weight it deserved, "please teach me well."
Kanroji returned the bow. "If you promise to listen to your feet as carefully as you listen to your eyes, young lord, I will."
(A/N:what does this even mean... )
Ushimaru watched the exchange with satisfaction. The day had been long in its work and simple in its revelations:
This was the story of the boy who would surely Beyond the walls, Ringo kept snowing. Within them, the foundations of a swordsman—and of a protector—were being poured.
As they moved inside, Ushimaru lingered a heartbeat at the threshold, glancing back at the yard. The figure-eight traced by sliding feet. The shallow cup-rings where the bowl had wobbled and held. The thin, clean line where a pine needle had been cut by air more than blade.
He closed the shōji gently and followed his son into the light.