Sentarō, already weakened, his body wrapped in bandages and burning with fever, felt another strike—not from claws or fists, but from a deeper wound: fear. It clutched at his chest more tightly than the bear's slash ever had. Fear, because the voice that reached him was not the one he longed to hear.
He had hoped, desperately, for the gentle warmth of his mother's voice, soft as spring rain. Instead, what filled the air was deep, manly, and sharp—a sound that carried the weight of years and battles.
Slowly, trembling, he raised his head. Fear was etched plainly across his young face.
"Who are you?" he whispered, his voice thin and broken, weakened by fever and blood loss.
Behold—the man before him. Of average stature, black hair streaked faintly with gray, and a face marked by mild wrinkles—the kind that warned of old age's approach. He sat cross-legged on a tatami mat only a few paces away. The distance was close enough for words, yet carefully kept outside the bounds of intimacy.
"Wow, is that the first thing you ask someone who just saved you?" The man's tone dripped with sarcasm as he poured himself a cup of sake. His lips curled in faint annoyance. "You are supposed to be grateful, kid."
He took a long sip, then pointed the sake cup toward the boy, his cheeks already tinged red with intoxication.
"What the fuck were you doing with a bear? That's dangerous!" His words slurred with drink, yet his voice rose sharply. "You should be grateful, you damn kid."
Sentarō blinked, stunned by the man's coarse manner. As his vision steadied, he finally began to take in his surroundings. The house was small, built from wood, bamboo, and thatch. The walls were framed with sliding fusuma, and the floor beneath him was woven tatami. It was modest, almost bare, but warm against the cold he had left behind in the blizzard.
His curiosity got the better of him. "Are you by chance a merchant?"
The words left his lips without thought, but too late, he realized the question might be offensive. Many men of status looked down upon being mistaken for mere traders.
The stranger's face darkened. "Oi, kid, you don't even know who I am, but you ask me such stupid questions?" His voice grew sharp, not from anger alone, but from the drink that made his temper quick to rise.
Still, despite the wobble of his body and the flushed cheeks, he managed to hold his words steady enough.
"What's your name, kid?" he asked bluntly.
"Sentarō. And what about you?" The boy's voice, though weak, held a quiet determination, as though learning this man's name might explain his fate.
The man sighed, rubbing his temple. He seemed reluctant, but finally rose to his feet and faced Sentarō fully.
"Alright, kid. I'm not dangerous, okay?" His tone softened only slightly. "They call me Ogasawara Ujiyuki. And to answer your former question…" He grinned wide, cheeks gleaming red from sake. "…I'm actually a samurai."
He paused, raising the bottle again. "Well—ex-samurai. I'm retired."
The name itself meant little to Sentarō. But the title—the word samurai—lit a fire in his chest that no fever could extinguish. His weary body trembled with sudden energy.
"What? You are an actual samurai, a real samu—aghh!" He hissed through clenched teeth as he doubled over, clutching his head. The excitement clashed with the pain of his still-healing wounds.
Ujiyuki's drunken grin wavered. For a moment, the stern eyes of a warrior surfaced. "You stupid kid, you're supposed to lie down and rest." His tone carried a rare seriousness, because even through sake's haze, the sight of a boy in such pain was unpleasant.
Sentarō gritted his teeth, his face contorted but his voice soft with regret. "To think… I was saved by a samurai but wasn't able to see the epic fight with the bear…"
Ujiyuki gave a short, dry laugh. "I wouldn't even call that a battle." He took another sip, some of the liquid spilling on his blue-and-white kimono, yet he seemed not to care. "I was actually surprised to see a kid fighting with an actual bear."
He straightened his back, his tone deepening as he began his tale. "Just consider yourself lucky, kid. I was on my way back home when I saw the beast slash at your chest."
Sentarō leaned forward, his heart racing as he listened.
"I moved as quickly as I could through the storm. Lucky for you, I managed to cut it down before it finished the job." He lifted the cup to his lips again, as though it were nothing more than a passing story.
The memory hit Sentarō like lightning. Flashes of the snow, the bear's fangs, and a figure standing against it. Images he had seen only in his fading consciousness now fit together into a clear memory.
Without hesitation, he shifted forward into a kneeling position and bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the tatami. "Thank you very much, Mr. Ujiyuki. I'm in your debt."
"Huuh?! What can a kid like you possibly do for me?" Ujiyuki barked, the harsh tone rolling out almost like a laugh.
Sentarō remained earnest, his forehead pressed low.
The samurai exhaled through his nose, realizing the boy was still just a teenager, burdened with more spirit than responsibilities. "Don't worry about it, kid. Just forget it."
He set his cup aside. "Alright, kid. You look fully awake, so—time for you to go—"
"I don't have a home."
The words burst from Sentarō's lips before Ujiyuki could finish. His voice was sharp, desperate, and heavy with truth he dared not fully explain. His father's anger, the broken household, the shame of rebellion—returning was unthinkable.
Ujiyuki studied him with a skeptical glance. There were lies in the boy's voice, and yet behind them… there was a reason. A reason too raw to speak. The old warrior let it be.
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the sound of sake being poured and swallowed. Ujiyuki smiled faintly, cheeks red and eyes distant, while Sentarō sat frozen in thought, mustering what little courage his frail body still possessed.
At last, he knelt once more, bowing deeply. His voice quivered with determination.
"Mr. Ujiyuki, I need you to please train me to become a—"
"No way, kid."
The refusal was swift, cold, and final. Ujiyuki's eyes locked on him, stern with a veteran's disgust. He did not wish to be asked again.
But ignorance and youth are stubborn allies. Sentarō clenched his fists. His eyes, still fever-bright, burned with resolve. "Why not?"
"I just don't want to, kid."
The boy's determination soured into frustration. "What are you talking about, old man, why can't you just tra—"
THUD!
The bottle slammed against the tatami, spilling sake across the mat. The sound struck harder than a sword's draw.
"I SAID I'M NOT GONNA TRAIN YOU, KID!!" Ujiyuki's voice thundered, soaked with sake and rage.
For the first time, Sentarō froze in silence. His earlier bravado drained away, leaving only realization.
This was no mere drunkard. This was a man who had once lived by the sword, a man who carried death in his past and still had the strength to deliver it. The title of samurai was no idle boast—it was a mantle forged in blood and survival.
The boy's heart hammered. His determined face contorted into fear, his eyes wide as he grasped the weight of his offense. In this small hut, in the presence of a retired warrior praised as a hero by society, his fate could be sealed with a single swing.
Sentarō's breath trembled. One thought echoed in his mind, sharp as a blade:
"Is this… where I die?"