The streets of Ringo were quiet under a blanket of snow, the crisp air filled with the faint crunch of boots and the distant caw of crows. Mamoru walked down the path with Onimaru trotting loyally at his side, the fox's bushy tail swaying behind him.
The boy carried his bokken across his back with the pride of a samurai twice his age. He hummed to himself, puffing little clouds of breath into the air. His training was beginning to show—his steps had a rhythm now, firmer, more grounded. He held his shoulders straighter, chin a little higher.
Father says I need five hundred swings every day. But maybe… today I'll practice in the fields instead of the courtyard. Onimaru will keep me company!
Onimaru yipped in agreement, as if reading his thoughts.
But just as they rounded a corner near a cluster of shrines, Mamoru froze. Ahead stood a group of boys—older, bigger, maybe eight or ten years old. Their laughter was loud, the kind that made Mamoru's stomach twist.
One of them, tall and broad for his age, noticed Mamoru. He smirked. "Oi, look at this. Lord Ushimaru's little brat, walking around with a stick like he's a samurai."
The others chuckled, gathering closer. Onimaru's ears perked, his fur bristling as he stepped in front of Mamoru protectively.
Mamoru gripped his bokken nervously. "It's not a stick. It's a sword."
The tall boy barked a laugh. "A sword? That's a toy. You think you can fight with that?"
Mamoru's chest puffed out, trying to look braver than he felt. "I've been training with my father. One day I'll be strong enough to protect Ringo… just like him."
That drew louder laughter from the group. "Protect Ringo? You can barely protect yourself!"
Before Mamoru could reply, the tall boy stepped forward, raising his fists. "Alright then, let's see what Lord Ushimaru's little heir can do. Fight me."
Mamoru hesitated. He remembered his father's words—what is the point of learning a thousand moves if you cannot master one? He had practiced his swings, his stance, his grip. But he had never tested them against another person.
Onimaru growled low, but Mamoru shook his head, whispering, "It's okay. I'll do this."
He raised his bokken. His heart thudded like a drum in his chest.
---
The First Duel
The older boy lunged first, swinging a wide, clumsy fist. Mamoru stumbled back, almost tripping, then remembered his footing. He planted his feet firmly in the snow.
Balance. Always balance. Focus
With both hands, he swung his bokken in a clean arc. The wooden blade smacked the boy's shoulder with a satisfying crack.
"Argh!" The boy staggered, glaring. "You little—!"
But Mamoru didn't retreat. He adjusted his grip, remembering: light for speed, tight for strength. His palms burned from the impact, but his eyes were focused.
The other boy charged again. Mamoru ducked, swung upward, and landed another blow. The older boy yelped, dropping to one knee in the snow.
The crowd of children gasped. Mamoru had won his first
But victory was short-lived.
"You brat!" another boy shouted, stepping forward with a shove. "You think you're better than us just because your Daimyo's son"
Soon, the group closed in. Three, then four boys, circling him like wolves.
Mamoru's stomach knotted. His hands shook. His bokken suddenly felt too heavy. For a moment, he froze, panic rushing through him.
The first strike came from his side—a push that sent him stumbling. Another boy darted in, landing a punch against his shoulder. He cried out, nearly dropping his sword.
No… no! Stay standing. Balance. Always balance.
He spread his feet in the snow, gripping his bokken tightly.
Another boy lunged. Mamoru swung clumsily, the bokken bouncing off the boy's arm. The strike was messy—he hadn't checked his form. The boy shoved him again, sending him tumbling onto the cold ground.
Mamoru gasped, snow filling his mouth. Tears stung his eyes. It's not fair. There are too many of them. Why don't they fight me one at a time? How is this fair .
Onimaru barked furiously, ready to leap, but Mamoru pushed himself up, shaking his head. His small body trembled, but deep inside, he remembered his father's voice:
"Even if you face ten thousand enemies, one perfect strike can carve a path forward. Against all odds i will still prevail"
Mamoru's tears froze on his cheeks. He steadied his breath, wiped his face, and rose again.
This time, he stopped rushing. After every swing, he paused—just like Father had taught him. Check stance. Check grip. Check form.
The next boy charged. Mamoru pivoted, his bokken slicing cleanly across the boy's side. The boy yelped, stumbling back.
Another came. Mamoru planted his feet, swung again. This time his strike was sharp, the sound of wood meeting flesh loud in the cold air. The boy crumpled.
The others hesitated now. Mamoru's small chest heaved, his arms aching, but his eyes burned with determination.
"You can all come at once," he said, voice trembling but steady. "I won't fall."
The remaining boys exchanged nervous glances. They rushed him together, yelling.
Mamoru gritted his teeth and swung. One strike. Reset. Another strike. Reset. Again and again. His bokken blurred through the snowy air, each cut sharper than the last.
One by one, the boys fell back, clutching their arms and shoulders, defeated.
"How is any of this fair , not only are you the daimyo's son but you're also strong as well" One of the boy's said
At last, silence. The group groaned in the snow, staring at him with wide eyes.
Mamoru's legs trembled, nearly giving way. But he planted his bokken in the ground, using it to steady himself. He was still standing.
Onimaru trotted over, tail wagging proudly, licking Mamoru's hand.
Mamoru looked at the boys and, through ragged breaths, said: "It's only fair if we fight with all our strength. I don't care if I lose… but I won't give up."
The boys stared at him, then slowly, one by one, lowered their heads in acknowledgment.
For the first time, they looked at him not as a spoiled daimyo's son, but as a swordsman.
Later, as the snow settled over the quiet path, Mamoru sat on the steps of the shrine with Onimaru curled against his side. His body ached, his palms blistered, but his eyes glimmered with pride.
He whispered to the fox, "Father was right. One strike done well… is better than a thousand done poorly."
Onimaru licked his hand again, as if in agreement.
Mamoru leaned back, gazing at the cloudy sky. "One day… I'll make my swing so perfect, it can protect everyone."
The snow continued to fall, soft and endless, but inside the boy's heart a flame had begun to burn brighter than ever.