Snowflakes drifted lazily from the gray sky, spiraling down onto the courtyard of Ringo Castle. Their quiet descent muffled the world, yet in that silence there was rhythm. A steady sound repeated again and again:
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Each strike was sharp, deliberate, and echoed faintly against the stone walls.
Mamoru stood in the middle of the yard, legs rooted in a wide stance, body rising and falling with the rhythm of his bokken. His breath clouded in the icy air, but his arms did not falter. Every cut fell with intent, his shoulders rolling smoothly, his wrists snapping at the right moment to carry the strike clean through.
The narrator's voice drifted over the scene:
It had been months since Mamoru first picked up the wooden sword. Day after day, he had followed the plan laid out for him, his father's training shaping both his body and his spirit. At first his arms trembled, his palms blistered, his will wavered. But discipline had taken root in him. He rose with the dawn, he trained until the snow melted on his back, he endured the endless repetition. And now—though still a boy—his body had begun to remember the rhythm of a swordsman.
From the engawa, Ushimaru Shimotsuki watched in silence, tea steaming at his side. The boy's swings were steady now, his stance no longer wavering with each cut. He could reach a hundred strikes without collapsing, each one carried with intent.
"Good," Ushimaru finally said, his deep voice cutting through the snowy stillness. "You've proven you can endure a hundred. From today onward, you will strike five hundred times."
Mamoru froze mid-swing, eyes widening. "F–five hundred?!"
Ushimaru set his tea cup down, gaze steady. "After every hundred, stop. Check your stance. Check your grip. Make sure the hundred after that is as sharp as the first. Do this until your body learns perfection through repetition."
Mamoru pouted, lowering his bokken. "But Father, why can't I learn other movements? Named Slashes, parries, thrusts! I've seen the older swordsmen sparring—why can't I do that yet?"
Ushimaru's lips curved faintly, neither smile nor smirk. He stood and descended the steps of the engawa, boots crunching on snow. He stopped before his son, resting a hand on the bokken and pushing it gently back down.
"What is the point of learning a thousand moves," he asked, voice low but firm, "if you cannot use even one with true mastery?"
Mamoru blinked up at him, silent.
Ushimaru let the words hang for a moment before continuing. "There is a saying—fear not the man who has practiced ten thousand kicks once, but the man who has practiced one kick ten thousand times."
The boy's eyes lit with awe, mouth slightly agape. He whispered, "One kick… ten thousand times…"
Ushimaru's tone softened. "Swordsmanship is the same. A single cut, practiced until it is flawless, will surpass a thousand shallow techniques. "
Mamoru gripped his bokken tighter, inspired. His chest swelled with determination, his voice ringing out in the snowy courtyard.
"Then I'll practice until my swing is so perfect that I can cut my enemies front and back before they even notice! My blade will be unstoppable, not even atoms would be safe from it !"
Ushimaru chuckled, shaking his head at his son's childish bravado. Unstoppable, huh? Perhaps… one day.
Onimaru barked once from the veranda as if to cheer Mamoru on.
---
Over Tea
Later that afternoon, the two sat together on the veranda, the day's training behind them. The boy's arms hung limp, his bokken resting across his lap as he nursed a warm cup of tea. His cheeks were flushed, his hair damp with sweat, but his eyes glimmered with life.
Ushimaru sat beside him, posture relaxed for once, his own cup steaming in his hands. For a while, they drank in silence, the snow continuing to fall.
Finally, Mamoru broke the quiet. "Father… tell me more about the great swordsmen of Wano. You promised you would."
Ushimaru's gaze drifted toward the distant horizon, as though he were seeing not snow but ghosts of the past. "There have been many great warriors. But among them, none shine brighter than Ryuma—the Sword God. He was our ancestor, Mamoru. From his blood, we descend."
Mamoru's eyes widened. "Ryuma? The one who cut down a dragon?"
Ushimaru nodded. "Yes. His blade cleaved through even the heavens and he once slayed a dragon to protect wano , or so the stories say. He alone forged his sword into a black blade—a feat no other has achieved since. The records of how he did it are lost, but many believe it was tied to his mastery of Ryuo, the flow of one's spirit into steel."
Mamoru's lips parted in awe. "So I carry his blood too…" He clenched his small fists.
Ushimaru smiled faintly at his son's declaration, but his eyes grew distant. If only it were that simple, boy. If only the path to greatness could be willed so easily.
Mamoru sipped his tea, thinking, before asking, "Father… who is the strongest samurai in Wano right now?"
Ushimaru leaned back, considering. The question weighed heavier than it seemed. Finally, he answered, "Kozuki Oden. Daimyo of Kuri. Heir to the shogunate. No man in Wano rivals his strength."
Mamoru tilted his head. "Even you, Father?"
There was a long pause. Ushimaru's eyes narrowed, then his lips slowly curled into a playful grin. He leaned down toward his son and whispered with mock-seriousness:
"Nah. I'd win."
Mamoru burst out laughing, nearly spilling his tea. "You're lying! Oden would crush you!"
"Doubting your old man, are you?" Ushimaru flexed his arm, rolling up his sleeve to show his bicep. "Look at this. Stronger than steel!"
Mamoru laughed so hard he snorted, clutching his stomach. "You're just showing off!"
Before he could react, Ushimaru lunged and hooked an arm around his son, dragging him into a playful headlock. "Still doubting me, brat?!" he said, rubbing his knuckles against Mamoru's head.
"Ahhh! Stop, stop! I yield!" Mamoru shrieked, laughing uncontrollably.
Onimaru barked excitedly, circling around them before leaping onto the boy's lap and licking his face, adding to the chaos. Mamoru laughed until tears ran down his cheeks, his small frame wriggling helplessly against his father's strong grip.
Finally, Ushimaru released him, both of them breathless. The boy collapsed against his father's side, still giggling, while Ushimaru ruffled his hair gently.
The snow continued to fall, silent and endless, but in that moment the courtyard was filled with warmth, laughter, and the bond between father and son.
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