The snow-laden landscape of Ringo had slowly given way to a different kind of beauty as Ushimaru, Mamoru, and Onimaru traveled the winding path toward Hakumai. Here, the mountainside was gentler, the air tinged not with the sharp bite of Ringo's endless winter, but with the earthy sweetness of maple leaves.
The crimson and amber canopy above them whispered in the breeze, scattering delicate leaves onto the path where father and son walked hand in hand. Onimaru padded beside them, his paws crunching softly against the fallen leaves, his nose twitching at the unfamiliar scents of this land.
Mamoru looked up, eyes wide at the fiery sea of color. "It's so different here, Father… Ringo always feels cold, but Hakumai feels warm. Like the trees are on fire."
Ushimaru allowed himself a rare smile. "That is the nature of Wano, Mamoru. Each region has its own heart. Ringo is snow and swords, Hakumai is fields and flame-colored leaves, Kuri is wild and untamed… All together, they form our land."
Mamoru's small fingers tightened around his father's hand. He liked when Ushimaru spoke like this—patient, almost poetic. It made him feel as if he were glimpsing secrets meant only for samurai and daimyo.
As they walked beneath the fluttering maple leaves, Mamoru tilted his head in curiosity. "Father… are there other families like ours? Ringo has swordsmen. But are there families who… who train in other things?"
Ushimaru's gaze shifted toward the horizon. "There are,many infact " he said, his voice steady. "Some families do not devote themselves to the sword, but to other paths. The most prominent among them is the Uzui clan."
"The Uzui…?" Mamoru repeated softly, the name unfamiliar on his tongue.
"Yes," Ushimaru continued, his tone carrying weight, as though passing on knowledge that mattered. "For generations, the Uzui family has been the pillar of shinobi arts in Wano. It is said they have never failed to produce a shinobi of extraordinary skill. Their reputation stretches back centuries."
Mamoru's eyes lit up, his imagination racing. "So… they're like us, but instead of swords, they use stealth? Tricks?"
Ushimaru chuckled under his breath. "Stealth, speed, and many tools of deception. A shinobi's way is not the same as a samurai's Mamoru. A samurai stands before his enemy, blade bared. A shinobi strikes from the shadows, unseen. Both paths require discipline… but the Uzui methods are unlike anything you can imagine."
Mamoru blinked up at him. "What do you mean?"
Ushimaru's voice grew quiet, almost grim. "The Uzui are known for their extreme training. Their children are subjected to tests that most would not survive. Harsh trials of endurance, deadly exercises… Many die before they ever reach adulthood."
Mamoru froze mid-step, staring at his father in shock. "Die…? From training?"
Ushimaru looked down at him, meeting his son's wide eyes. "Yes. That is the price of their path. But those who survive… they are exceptional. Shinobi beyond compare."
(A/N: they are also known for taking multiple wives often at the same time )
Mamoru fell silent, his thoughts heavy. The idea of training being so harsh that children died unsettled him. Yet… it also filled him with awe.
"So even though it's unfair… they still keep training," he murmured, almost to himself.
Ushimaru squeezed his hand gently. "Yes. Because in their hearts, they believe the strength gained is worth the cost."
Mamoru's gaze lingered on the maple leaves drifting around them, glowing like sparks in the autumn air. He whispered to himself, "I wonder if I'll meet one of them one day… someone who survived."
Onimaru gave a soft bark, as if agreeing, and leapt to snatch a falling leaf from the air. Mamoru laughed and ran a few steps ahead, stretching his arms out as if trying to catch the drifting leaves too. His boyish laughter rang clear through the maple grove, but behind it was the unspoken wonder of a child glimpsing the wider world—shinobi, clans, destinies he could not yet imagine.
Ushimaru watched him fondly, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Their path to Hakumai was not merely for leisure. He had come to speak with Shimotsuki Yasui, a trusted daimyo, about troubling whispers. About a man named Orochi, whose origins were cloaked in lies and shadows.
As the maple leaves swirled around him, Ushimaru's gaze sharpened. He would uncover the truth. For his land. For his son's future.
The three figures—samurai, child, and fox—walked on, their silhouettes framed by the blazing colors of Hakumai's maple trees, as though stepping into another world entirely.