The courtyard of Ringo's daimyo estate was quiet except for the steady tap… tap… tap of bokken strikes against the wooden dummy. Mamoru's hands were blistered, his arms trembling, but he kept swinging.
Ushimaru stood on the engawa, watching his son. He had heard whispers from villagers earlier that day—how young Mamoru had taken on older boys in the snow and, despite his age, had stood his ground until the end. At first, Ushimaru dismissed it as exaggerated talk. But now, seeing his son's eyes—harder than before, yet weighed with something he hadn't seen before—he knew it was true.
"Enough for now," Ushimaru called.
Mamoru paused mid-swing, panting. Sweat and melted snow clung to his face. He lowered the bokken, shoulders sagging, and trudged toward the engawa where his father sat with a steaming pot of tea.
Onimaru padded behind him, still brimming with pride, tail wagging like a banner of victory.
Mamoru dropped to his knees in front of his father, resting the bokken across his lap. For a while, the two sat in silence, only the steam rising from the teacups between them. Ushimaru poured one for Mamoru, sliding it across. The boy's hands shook as he lifted it, sipping quietly.
Finally, Ushimaru broke the silence.
"I heard you had your first fight today."
Mamoru's gaze fell. He clenched the cup tighter. "…It wasn't fair, Father. First it was one against one… but then the others joined. They all came at me together."
His small fists trembled, the frustration still raw in his voice. "How is that fair? I tried so hard. I almost lost because of it."
Ushimaru studied him for a long moment before setting his own cup down. His deep voice was calm, but it carried the weight of truth.
"But against all the odds you won ,Mamoru. The world does not care about fairness."
Mamoru blinked, lifting his head.
"In battle," Ushimaru continued, "there is no rule that says your enemy will face you one by one. They will strike when you are weak, when you are distracted, when you are outnumbered. They will cheat, they will deceive, they will use every tool they can."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp. "The world does not ask if it is fair. It only asks one thing: who is left standing at the end."
Mamoru's lips parted, but no words came. His small hands gripped his bokken tighter.
Ushimaru leaned back, pouring himself more tea. "You stood against boys older and stronger than you. You did not give in. You remembered what I taught you. And in the end… you won."
"But…" Mamoru whispered, brows furrowed. "It still doesn't feel right."
Ushimaru gave a faint smile. "No. It never does. That is the burden of a warrior—you fight in a world that will never be fair. The only choice you have is whether you grow strong enough to survive it ."
Mamoru's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. His young mind turned over his father's words again and again.
At last, he set his teacup down, eyes blazing with a fire beyond his years. "Then I'll grow strong, Father. Strong enough that it won't matter how unfair it is. Even if it's ten against one, or a hundred against one… I'll win."
Ushimaru's brows rose slightly, then softened. The boy's voice had no hesitation, no doubt—only a burning determination.
He chuckled, low and warm, and reached out to ruffle Mamoru's hair. "Hmph. Spoken like a true Shimotsuki."
Mamoru leaned into the touch, a small smile tugging at his lips despite his exhaustion. Onimaru barked happily, as if sealing the vow.
Ushimaru raised his teacup in a quiet toast. "Very well, Mamoru. If you have declared it… then I will see to it. I will forge you into the kind of swordsman who never bows to odds, fair or unfair."
The boy straightened, clutching his bokken with both hands. "I promise, Father. I'll never lose."
Snow drifted softly into the courtyard, blanketing the world in silence. In that stillness, a vow was born—a boy's stubborn declaration against the cruelty of the world, and a father's unspoken promise to guide him toward it.