Chapter 1 – Ordinary Days
Earth – Japan, Present Day
The morning sun crept through the sliding paper doors, painting soft lines across the old wooden floor. Takumi groaned and pulled the thin blanket over his head.
"匠! Up already. The steel won't shape itself."
His grandfather's deep voice carried from the workshop.
Takumi peeked one eye open, hair sticking out in every direction."…Five more minutes…"
A heavy thunk echoed as Tetsuzō banged his hammer on the anvil, loud enough to rattle Takumi's futon.
"Up!"
Takumi bolted upright, clutching his ears. "Gah! Fine, fine! I'm awake!"
In the workshop, the forge was already alive. Flames flickered, filling the room with heat and the sharp scent of burning coal. Tetsuzō stood by the anvil, crimson-streaked hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, muscles taut even at his age.
Takumi shuffled in, still half-asleep, wearing his grandfather's old blacksmith apron.
"You're late," Tetsuzō said flatly.
"It's not even breakfast yet…" Takumi yawned.
Tetsuzō's stern gaze didn't waver. "Steel doesn't care if you've eaten."
"Steel doesn't eat either," Takumi muttered under his breath.
CLANG! The hammer smacked the anvil.
"I heard that."
Takumi flinched. "…Sorry, Grandpa."
Hours passed in rhythm. Hammer rose, hammer fell. Sparks leapt and died in the air. Sweat soaked through Takumi's shirt, his arms aching from the repeated swings.
"匠, straighten your wrist. You're striking at an angle."
"Easier said than done," Takumi grumbled. "This hammer's heavy, y'know."
"Then your arms are weak."
"…You're ruthless, old man."
Despite the complaints, Takumi adjusted, finding his rhythm. Each strike felt steadier, closer to what Tetsuzō demanded.
When at last Tetsuzō called for a break, Takumi collapsed onto a wooden stool, gulping down cold water. His chest heaved.
"Not bad," Tetsuzō said, voice unreadable. "Almost passable."
Takumi blinked. "Wait. Did you just praise me?"
"I said almost passable."
"That's still praise!"
Tetsuzō's lips twitched—just enough to show the faintest hint of amusement.
By midday, the forge cooled, and Takumi set out to run errands. He tied back his slightly messy hair, slung a cloth bag over his shoulder, and headed toward the shopping street.
The town bustled with life. Housewives chatted outside grocery stores, children ran past with ice cream in hand, and old men argued about baseball at the barber shop.
Takumi stopped at the fishmonger.
"Morning, Takumi-kun! Helping out your grandpa again?" the shopkeeper grinned, holding up a fresh mackerel.
"Yeah," Takumi said, rubbing the back of his neck. "He'll scold me if I don't bring home something good."
"Then this one's perfect—just caught today."
Takumi accepted the fish, bowing politely. "Thanks, Mister Aoyama."
Next was the rice shop, then the hardware store. Each errand turned into a short conversation; everyone seemed to know him.
"You're Tetsuzō's grandson, right?""Working the forge again today?""You're becoming just like him!"
Takumi forced a smile at each comment. Deep down, he wondered if he really could live up to that expectation.
By evening, he returned home with groceries in hand. The savory smell of miso already filled the house. Tetsuzō stood at the stove, stirring a pot with surprising grace for such a rugged man.
"You cooked?" Takumi blinked.
"You were slow."
"I wasn't slow—I talked to people on the way back."
"Excuses."
Takumi sighed and set the table.
Dinner was quiet at first, the only sounds the clink of chopsticks and the bubbling pot. But after his second bowl of rice, Takumi finally spoke.
"Grandpa… do you ever regret it?"
Tetsuzō raised an eyebrow. "Regret what?"
"Being a blacksmith. Spending your whole life in the forge."
The old man paused, setting his chopsticks down. His eyes narrowed—not with anger, but thought.
"No. A blade reflects its maker. And I've forged enough to know my life's meaning."
Takumi lowered his gaze. "I wonder if I'll ever find mine…"
Tetsuzō didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached for his tea, sipping slowly. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual.
"You will. As long as you don't run away from the fire."
Takumi blinked. For his grandfather, those words were almost gentle.
Later, while washing dishes, Takumi muttered to himself.
"Don't run away from the fire, huh… Easy for you to say, old man. You are the fire."
From the tatami room, Tetsuzō's deep voice rumbled. "I heard that."
Takumi yelped, nearly dropping a plate. "You've got super-hearing or something!"
"Forged ears," Tetsuzō replied without missing a beat.
Takumi groaned. "That doesn't even make sense!"
But despite his protests, a smile tugged at his lips.
That night, the house settled into silence. Takumi lay on his futon, staring at the wooden ceiling. His arms still ached from forging, his hands blistered despite the bandages.
He turned his head toward the adjoining room, where Tetsuzō's faint snoring could be heard.
"…Grandpa," Takumi whispered. "I'll get stronger. I promise."
His eyes grew heavy, and sleep claimed him.
Outside, the moon shone brightly over their quiet home. Ordinary, peaceful, unchanged.