1885.
Morning came quietly to Hiroshima.
A pale gold light filtered through the mist, brushing against the tiled rooftops and narrow dirt paths that wound between the terraced fields. Cicadas sang their relentless hymn to the rising sun. The smell of wet earth mixed with the gentle aroma of miso simmering in a pot.
Inside a modest wooden house at the edge of the city, Hamamura Hanzo was packing.
He folded his dark blue haori neatly, as it was made by his mother. Next went the white uwagi, then his black hakama, neatly layered inside the worn furoshiki cloth. The faint scratches on the oak bo-staff beside him gleamed faintly in the morning light — reminders of countless battles fought against cursed spirits.
A kettle whistled from the adjoining room.
"Hanzo," came his mother's voice. "If you don't eat, you'll faint halfway to Fukuyama and I'll have to send a cart to drag you home."
Hanzo grinned faintly. "You make it sound like I'm riding into the battlefield, mother."
"You're not?" she replied dryly.
He chuckled, slinging his pack over his shoulder and stepping into the kitchen. His mother, Hamamura Aoi, stood by the stove — her hair streaked with gray that the years had brushed in too early. Her husband had been taken by the Boshin War, and she had since taken care of raising Hanzo by herself.
The wooden floor creaked beneath Hanzo's weight as he sat cross-legged before the low table. Steam rose from a bowl of rice, miso soup, and a side of grilled sardines.
"You've made my favourite," he said, smiling.
"Of course I did. It's not every day my fool of a son decides to walk halfway across Japan."
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, someone has to do it. With a country so beautiful like a muscle mommy doing a leg workout. It'll be a shame not to."
Aoi gave him a flat look, one eyebrow twitching. "Muscle mommy?"
"Never mind."
She sighed, pouring him tea. "You talk in riddles sometimes, Hanzo."
"At least I'm not wearing a green suit and a bowler hat," he murmured, eyes flicking briefly to the window — to the world beyond, stretching eastward.
For a moment, neither spoke. Only the faint ticking of a cicada echoed through the silence.
Finally, Aoi reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small cloth charm, sewn from faded kimono fabric patterned with plum blossoms. She set it gently on the table before him.
"It belonged to your father," she said. "He carried it when he left for the war. I've mended it over the years… thought it might bring you luck."
Hanzo looked at it quietly — at the uneven stitches, the weathered threads. He could feel the weight of her love in every imperfection. Slowly, he smiled.
"Thank you, Mother," he said softly. "But if I die, I'll sue the heavens for false advertising."
She swatted his arm, half scolding, half laughing. "Don't joke about such things."
"Sorry," he said, grinning. "You know me — humour's cheaper than medicine."
He tucked the charm carefully into the inner pocket of his grey haori, where it rested close to his heart.
The morning mist began to fade as Hanzo stepped outside. The village road stretched before him, still damp with dew. Word had spread that he was leaving; a small crowd had gathered near the gate — friends, neighbours, a few nosy onlookers pretending they weren't sentimental.
"Oi, Hanzo!" shouted Genji, the burly fisherman who smelled perpetually of sea salt and bad decisions. "You sure you're not just running away because Kiyo beat you at arm wrestling?"
"Hey," Hanzo shot back, laughing. "If I recall, I let her win. Don't want crying to her momma"
The young woman in question — Kiyo, a dockhand with the personality of a typhoon — crossed her arms. "Oh, really. Excuses, excuses. I won fair and square? Sounds like someone's still sore."
The group burst into laughter.
An old monk from the nearby temple shuffled forward, beads rattling softly in his hands. "Do not stray from the path of compassion, young Hamamura. Strength without kindness is merely violence."
Hanzo bowed deeply. "And kindness without strength is merely sentiment, sensei. I'll try to balance the two."
The monk smiled. "Then you have already surpassed most men."
A gentle hush fell over the group. Even the cicadas seemed to be still for a moment. Hanzo turned to face them all — the faces he had grown up with, the people who had seen him fall, fight, and laugh.
"Everyone," he said, voice steady, "thank you for everything. If I don't come back… sell my other fishing rod to Genji. He still owes me 67 fish."
"You wish!" Genji barked. "You're not dying before you pay me back that sake you owe."
Hanzo smirked. "Then I suppose I'll have to survive, won't I?"
He slung the oak staff across his back, adjusted the strap of his pack, and began walking toward the road that curved eastward — toward the unknown.
Behind him, the chorus of farewells rose like a tide.
"Take care, Hanzo!"
"Don't pick fights with bears again!"
"Try not to charm every girl in Tokyo!"
He raised a hand in mock salute, calling over his shoulder, "No promises!"
The road stretched long and winding. The landscape rolled gently — rice paddies glimmering in the light, distant hills painted in hues of green and amber. He walked with easy rhythm, the bo-staff tapping lightly against his shoulder, geta sandals clicking against the dirt.
Each step felt like a page turning.
As the sun climbed higher, Hanzo allowed himself a quiet smile. The world, for all its sorrow and cruelty, was still breathtaking.
He stopped briefly by a riverside to drink from his canteen. The reflection that stared back at him was that of a young man standing between two worlds — Meiji Japan, with its trains and rifles and Western ideals, and the shadowed realm of curses that hid just beneath its surface.
"Seventeen," he murmured, watching the ripples distort his image. "Seventeen years since I've reincarnated into this world."
"Fighting cursed spirits ain't shi." He then splashed water over his face, wiping his hair back. "Luckily, I got myself a Heavenly Restriction and another boon from that guy."
A faint flicker pulsed at the edge of his awareness — a whisper at the back of his mind. Observation Haki, his sixth sense, reached outward like invisible tendrils. He could feel the faint residue of cursed energy somewhere distant, faint but malignant.
He took a breath, letting it fade. There would be time enough for fighting.
For now, he wanted to remember this peace — the smell of the countryside, the laughter of his friends still echoing in his head, the warmth of his mother's miso still lingering on his tongue.
By noon, he reached a small hill overlooking the bay. Hiroshima spread out below him — ships gliding along the harbor, merchants shouting in the distance, gulls circling above the waves. The city looked alive, vibrant, oblivious to the unseen horrors that lurked beyond the veil of ordinary sight.
Hanzo watched it all in silence.
He had once believed that the world could be saved through sheer strength. That fists and willpower alone could beat back darkness. But now, after years of fighting curses in secret, he knew better. He needed more power, a grade 1 cursed spirit is not a problem for him right now, but he needed more for the enemies in the future.
He exhaled softly. "Well, off we go then," he said, looking toward the horizon.
The wind picked up, ruffling his hair. He adjusted his haori, smiled faintly, and began the descent down the other side of the hill.
As the day wore on, he passed through small hamlets — children chasing each other with wooden swords, farmers tending their fields, the occasional traveling merchant offering him roasted chestnuts.
He bought one, bit into it, and grimaced. "Burnt. Like my last attempt at cooking."
The merchant blinked, confused. "Pardon?"
"Ah, never mind. I was just… roasting your skills."
The merchant frowned. "I do not understand."
Hanzo sighed. "You don't need to."
He tossed another coin and kept walking, laughing to himself.
By late afternoon, the sun dipped low, turning the fields gold. Hanzo reached a small ridge, where he could see the eastern road curling away like a ribbon toward Fukuyama — the next leg of his journey.
He stopped for one last look back.
From here, the rooftops of Hiroshima shimmered faintly in the distance, half veiled in mist. He could almost imagine his mother standing at the doorway, watching the road, a hand raised to shield her eyes.
He whispered, "I'll be back."
The wind answered softly, carrying the scent of the sea.
Hanzo smiled. Then, with renewed stride, he walked eastward — toward new battles, strange towns, and the unseen evils waiting in the dark.
The road ahead was uncertain. But so was life. And if fate insisted on spinning its wheel, then Hamamura Hanzo would make sure to grab the spokes and steer it himself.