The fog over the lake dissipated slowly, reluctantly, as if clinging to the dark water and the sharp rocks of the shore. In the predawn silence, only a soft rustle could be heard as the blade of a sword slid across a wet grindstone, describing a smooth circle, then another. The movements were precise, devoid of fuss. The hand holding the blade did not waver even once.
Yuichiro, sitting on the creaking floorboards of the narrow dock in front of his cabin, was finishing his morning ritual. He didn't like to rush things. Haste created mistakes, and mistakes in this world, even in such a quiet corner of Wano as an abandoned valley by a lake, could cost lives. He ran the pad of his thumb along the edge of the blade, testing the sharpness. Cold steel glinted in the first ray of sunlight that broke through the mountain peaks. Enough.
He was fifteen. A month in this country felt like a year. Wano was not inhospitable—she was as indifferent as an old, gnarled tree. She accepted you, but she didn't hug you. The air here was different, denser, saturated with the smell of moist forests, volcanic ash and something ancient, metallic. Even the stars seemed differently positioned at night.
He found the cottage abandoned, a tiny fisherman's or woodcutter's hut nestled between rocks and a crooked pine tree. He repaired a leaky roof, inserted half-rotted paper screens, and built a clothes rack out of driftwood. That was enough. Inside, there was an ascetic order: a thin sleeping blanket rolled up against the wall, an earthenware jug of water, a small hearth, and a pair of wooden bowls on a shelf. No extra stuff. No reminders.
He stood up, sheathed his sword in a plain black sheath, and attached it to his belt with a simple rope. His clothes were just as inconspicuous: worn trousers of dark gray color, similar to work "hakama", and a loose shirt made of coarse fabric, belted with a wide belt. On top is a short working "haori" without patterns, the color of sun—bleached clay. There was nothing to distinguish him from the hundreds of rootless wanderers who occasionally appeared in the remote villages of Vano. She had a slender, almost fragile figure, dark hair pulled back in a low, careless ponytail so as not to interfere, and a calm face with attentive eyes that were too tired for his age. He looked like a ghost, like a shadow that had accidentally lingered in this world.
His goal today was simple — to walk along the upper forest path to the stream and check the traps set a couple of days ago. The stocks of rice and dried beans were melting, and the fish in the lake, despite all the tricks, were reluctant to bite. The forest surrounding the valley was dense and old. Locals from the nearest village, which was half an hour away, called him "Yuichiro" and went there cautiously. They talked about werewolf bears, about spirits that lead astray, but Yuichiro realized the main thing in a month: the real dangers here were quite material. A boar with fangs as sharp as daggers. A pack of hungry wolves. Or something bigger.
The path wound upward, winding between the mighty trunks of cryptomeria. The air was cool, humid, and full of the smells of rotten foliage, pine needles, and damp earth. Yuichiro walked silently, stepping so that not a single branch would snap. His gaze swept over the surrounding space, noting everything: a branch broken by a fern, fresh droppings on a stone, the direction of the lightest breeze stirring the tops of the cobwebs. It wasn't magic or a special gift. It was a habit. The habit of surviving, of reading the world like an open book, where every detail is a letter, and their totality is a warning or an indication.
He found his snare empty. One was torn from its place — some force tore out a flexible pole and dragged it into the thicket. Yuichiro frowned as he squatted down. A footprint was imprinted on the soft ground. Not a hoof, not a paw. It was more than that, with fingers spread wide, with deep claw dents. The trail was fresh, maybe last night. He ran his hand over the print, assessing the size. The creature was massive, heavy. Predator.
He froze, listening. The forest noise—the chirping of birds, the chirping of cicadas, the rustle of leaves—was a natural cover. But underneath it... there was silence. Not absolute, but unnatural. It was as if life was hiding in a small area of the forest, frozen in anticipation. His fingers went to the hilt of his sword by themselves. He felt no fear. Just a cold, familiar composure that spread through his body, slowing his breathing, sharpening his eyesight. He became part of the silence.
It was then that he heard the sound. Not a growl, not a roar. At first, there was a thud, like a heavy log falling. Then - a frightened, senile exclamation, immediately cut off. And finally, a low, hoarse rumble, full of carnivorous satisfaction.
Yuichiro disappeared from the path. He didn't run—his body just shifted towards the sound, sliding through the trees like gray smoke. The branches that clung to the clothes seemed to part on their own. He didn't think about where he was going or why he was running. His thoughts were as clear and quick as a blade: someone was in trouble. The predator is nearby. To act.
He emerged into a small clearing, now bathed in bright morning light. The painting was minted in my mind instantly. An old man who fell to the ground, knocking over a large wicker basket with roots and mushrooms. His iron-tipped staff lay to the side, broken in half. And above him, blocking out the sun, stood a Creature.
It wasn't a bear, although it looked vaguely like one. It was on its hind legs, covered with dirty brown fur, matted together. The powerful forelimbs ended in paws with thick, curved, dirty-yellow claws, each the size of an adult's finger. But the head... the head was almost human, distorted, ugly. His small, deep-set piggy eyes glittered with dull greed. The wide mouth, stretched in a silent growl, was full of teeth, sharp and uneven. Saliva dripped from his mouth. It was the boar werewolf, the "inugami", about which scary stories were whispered in the villages. A creature in which a beast and a demon are mixed, a creature of the dark forest thickets.
The old man, pressing his back against the roots of a huge tree, tried to crawl away. His face, lined with wrinkles, was pale, but in his dark eyes, wide open with horror, smoldered not resignation, but fierce, desperate determination. He held out his hands, trembling but clenched into fists, a pathetic defense against claws capable of ripping open the belly of a bull.
Inugami made a new sound, something between a grunt and a giggle. It took a lazy step forward, clearly enjoying the moment, stretching the anticipation of its meal. His massive clawed paw came up for a blow that was supposed to smash the old man's chest.
Time shrank for Yuichiro, then stretched. He saw everything: the dust of the sun in the air, the drops of dew on the cobweb at the edge of the clearing, every single hair on the back of the monster's neck. He saw the trajectory of the swing, the point where the claw would stick into the flesh. He saw the old man's face.
My thoughts stopped. Only the action remains.
He didn't shout, he didn't challenge. He just showed up. Not from the side, not from behind — he materialized in the space between the old man and the raised paw, as if he had always been there. His movement was so fast and smooth that it seemed not to be reality, but a play of light and shadow. Gray haori mixed with the morning mist that was still swirling around the ground.
Inugami started, his small eyes narrowed in amazement. It didn't have time to figure out where this sudden barrier came from. The predator's instinct reacted faster than reason — the raised paw crashed down with a deafening whistle, but no longer on the old man, but on a thin, fragile-looking figure.
Yuichiro didn't jump away. He *moved*. A minimal, barely noticeable shift of the body to the side — and the terrible claws sliced through the air a centimeter from his shoulder, plunging into the soft earth with a dull sucking sound. At the same moment, his own hand shot up. There was no wide, spectacular swing. The sword left its scabbard with a short, sharp movement, and the cold steel described a rapid, dazzling arc in the air — a vertical, clean line from top to bottom.
There was no loud clanging, screaming, or roaring. There was only a strange, wet rustle, as if someone had torn a thick, wet canvas. Then silence.
Inugami was frozen in a ridiculous position, still bent over the place where the man had been. His piggy eyes widened in incomprehension. Then slowly, very slowly, a thin scarlet line appeared from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. The line widened into a gap. Dark blood gushed out of the crack, drenching the muzzle. The monster made a short, bubbling sound and collapsed on its side like a felled tree, already dead, without even having time to realize what had happened to it. His huge body convulsed in a final spasm and froze.
Yuichiro stood over the carcass, his sword already lowered. The blade was clean — the blow was so fast and precise that the blood did not have time to get on it. He took one calm breath, which seemed to be waiting for the whole forest. And the forest life has returned: Birds chirped again, and cicadas chirped. The threat is over.
Only now did he turn around, looking at the one he had saved for the first time. His face was still impassive, but there was no contempt or triumph in his eyes, just a slight weariness and a question.
The old man did not move, still pressing his back against the tree. He looked first at inugami's motionless body, then at the young man in front of him. The horror in his eyes was gradually melting away, replaced by incredible, almost unbearable amazement. He saw the hunters of the village hunting wild boars. He had heard stories of samurai cutting through enemies with a single blow. But what he had just seen... it was neither one nor the other. It was like a natural phenomenon. The way the fog suddenly cuts through a ray of sunlight and disappears without leaving a trace.
"You..." the old man's voice was hoarse, ragged with shortness of breath. He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. "You... saved my life."
Yuichiro silently sheathed his sword. He walked over to the broken staff, picked up both halves, examined them, and set them aside. Then he bent down and gave the old man his hand. It was a simple, practical move.
"Can you stand up?" - he asked. The young man's voice was quiet, even, without emotional fluctuations.
The old man, still in disbelief, grabbed his hand. The young man's hand, despite its slimness, turned out to be unexpectedly strong and firm. He helped him up. The old man staggered, leaned against the trunk of a tree, brushing the leaves and earth off his clothes.
"Damaged?" Yuichiro asked again, his gaze briefly scanning the old man from head to toe.
—No... no, it seems to have worked out. The old man took a deep breath, running a trembling hand over his face. "Thank you, young man. Without you... without you, that thing would already be gnawing at my bones. He nodded towards the dead inugami, and a shiver ran down his spine. "I'm Takumi." I live in a village at the foot of the eastern slope."
Yuichiro inclined his head slightly in a polite but distant gesture. "My name is Yuichiro."
—Yuichiro...— the old man repeated the name, as if tasting it. How long have you been in our area?
— Recently. I live by the lake.
"By the Black Lake?" There was surprise and a new shadow of concern in Takumi's voice. "Alone?" There's... there's unrest. Forest spirits, creatures…
"I'm doing fine,— Yuichiro replied shortly, and there was no bravado in his tone, just a statement of fact. He looked at the scattered mushrooms and roots. — Your shopping cart.
— Oh, yes ... — the old man finally broke away from the contemplation of the savior and looked regretfully at his scattered harvest. — Old bones still need healing roots. My joints ache. — He slowly, with a slight groan, began to collect the scattered goods back into the basket.
Yuichiro silently began to help. He did this without fuss, carefully folding the roots, shaking the earth off them. His movements were economical, precise. Nothing superfluous.
Takumi watched him stealthily while they worked. Youth, a strange, almost supernatural dexterity, the ability to wield a sword, which here, in the wilderness, could only dream of village guards ... and at the same time a complete lack of arrogance, even some kind of detached silence surrounding this young man. He didn't look like a samurai seeking service or a Ronin bandit. He looked like... a lonely pine tree on a cliff.
The basket was filled. Takumi hoisted her onto his back, grunting, and leaned back against the trunk. It would be hard to walk without a staff. Yuichiro, noticing this, looked around, found a suitable strong branch, broke it off and, with quick movements of a short knife, which he took from his belt, cleaned it of twigs and bark. It turned out to be a rough but durable staff. He handed it to the old man.
Takumi accepted the gift, and for the first time, a semblance of a smile appeared on his wrinkled face, warm and sincere. - thanks. You're... an unusual guy, Yuichiro. Your hand is firm, your eye is sharp, and your heart doesn't seem to be stale, even though you hide it far away.
Yuichiro didn't say anything to that. He just stood there, ready to go.
—Let's go,— Takumi said, taking a tentative step with the new staff. — The road to my hut is short. The sun is already high. You saved my life—the last thing I can do is offer a traveler a cup of tea. I have good green tea, not the kind of stuff they drink in the village. And... I need to thank you somehow.
"I don't need gratitude,— Yuichiro said, starting to walk next to the old man, matching his slow pace.
—Passed by," Takumi snorted, but there was no resentment in his voice, just skeptical curiosity. —All right, all right. You don't need gratitude, whatever you say. But would you like some tea? Are you really going to refuse an old man you just pulled out of the mouth of a demon?
Yuichiro looked at him. There was not only stubbornness in the old man's eyes, but also something else—human curiosity, a desire to solve a riddle, and perhaps a simple, deep joy that he was still alive. There was something... warm. Unfamiliar, but not hostile.
—Okay,— he finally agreed quietly. "I'll have some tea."
The village of Takumi turned out to be not the village itself at the foot, but a tiny, isolated settlement — just three or four huts scattered along the slope above a fast mountain river. The old man's hut stood a little to one side, at the edge of a small rice field that had already been harvested for the winter. It was slightly bigger and tidier than the one Yuichiro had occupied. Bundles of dried herbs and red peppers hung in front of the entrance.
It was modest but cozy inside. A clean tatami mat on the floor, a low table, a shelf with pottery, a small altar to the ancestors in the corner with a smoldering stick of incense. The air smells of smoke, dried herbs, and old age—not musty, but kind and settled.
—Sit down, make yourself comfortable," Takumi pointed to a pillow by the table, took off his basket and staff, and bustled around the hearth, where the coals were already smoldering. "I'm going to boil some water." The best tea should be brewed over the right heat.
Yuichiro sat down, placing the sword next to him on the floor, parallel to the wall. He sat straight, but not tensely, his gaze calmly roamed around the room, noting details: well-made joiner's joints of the beams, an old but well-kept chest in the corner, several wooden blanks and chisels on a low bench against the wall.
"Are you a carpenter?" - he asked.
Takumi, pouring tea leaves into a small teapot, looked around, surprised. — How did you find out? Yes, I was. The best in the whole neighborhood, if you don't brag. Now my hands are shaking, my eyes can't see very well — just minor repairs and toys for my grandchildren when they visit. But the eye remained. He nodded toward the rafters. "I see you're getting it too." You can see it from the building.
"I can do a little,— Yuichiro confessed. "To fix the roof."
"That's how people live," the old man sighed, putting the kettle on the fire. "They fix roofs, plant rice, protect themselves from creatures..." He paused, and silence hung in the room, filled only with the crackling of coals and the boiling of water. "Today you...— he began again, cautiously. "The way you acted... it's not village science. And not the techniques of the guards I've seen.
Yuichiro was silent, staring at the steam starting to escape from the spout of the kettle.
—Okay, okay,— Takumi waved his hand as if to ward off an annoying fly. — If you don't want to talk, don't. Everyone has their own secrets. In our times... it's even wise. He poured hot water into the cups to warm them, then poured it out and covered the tea leaves, pouring them with a new portion of boiling water. The fragrance instantly filled the hut — grassy, fresh, with a slight bitterness.
He placed one cup in front of Yuichiro and the other in front of him and sat down, smacking his lips with pleasure. — Drink while it's hot. This is tea from my own tiny plantation. Just a few bushes on a sunny slope.
Yuichiro took the cup, nodded his thanks, and took a small sip. The drink was really good —clean, invigorating, no frills. He felt warmth spreading through his body, washing away the residual tension from the fight.
—Thank you,— he said simply.
—That's good,— Takumi chuckled with satisfaction. He was drinking his tea, squinting, studying the young man through the steam.… What brings you to Wano? To our remote places? People usually run here, not come.
The question was straightforward. Yuichiro put the cup down on the table. "I'm looking for a quiet place,— he replied honestly but evasively. — Where you can live without participating in other people's wars.
The deep wrinkles around Takumi's eyes became even deeper. —Silence..." he said thoughtfully. —A valuable commodity. Especially here. Especially now. His voice dropped, even though there was no one else around. "You've probably heard. About what is happening in the country. About the new owners.
Yuichiro nodded. He heard it. The whispers in the port pubs, the fear in the eyes of the rare travelers, the silent tension that hovered even in this remote forest. The names "Kaido" and "Orochi" drifted here like distant thunder heralding a storm.
"They don't get to bearish corners like this,— Takumi continued. "For now." They need big cities, ports, and mines. But their shadow is long. Taxes are rising. People are being taken to jobs they don't come back from. And those who complain..." He took a sip of tea, and his hand trembled slightly. — Our region, Hakumai, has always been calm. Barren mountains, deep forests. But their law also comes here. Quietly. But it comes.
He paused, then looked at Yuichiro intently. — You say you don't want to participate in wars. I understand. Who wants to? But know this, young man: sometimes silence has to be protected. Sometimes, in order to live in peace, you need to say "no" loudly once. Or... to silently remove the one who breaks this silence. His gaze became sharp for a moment, like that chisel on the bench. — How you took out that inugami today.
Yuichiro met his gaze. The room was quiet again. The pressure of those words hung in the air. He understood what the old man was talking about. It wasn't just a conversation about the country. It was a hint. An invitation? Or a warning?
"I'm defending what I consider my own,— Yuichiro finally said. His voice was low, but there was an unwavering steel in it. —My house. My land. My life. If someone's war comes here, to my land, it will be resisted. But I won't go looking for her where she doesn't exist.
Takumi looked at him for a long time, and then nodded slowly, with approval. — An honest answer. Wise, perhaps. It is difficult to predict what the wind will bring from the plains. He finished his tea. "You're strong. And you're lonely. It's a dangerous combination. Power attracts attention, both from enemies and those seeking protection. Loneliness makes you a target.
"I'm used to it,— Yuichiro said.
"I see,— the old man sighed. —Well, remember, Yuichiro is from the house by the Black Lake. The door to this hut is always open for you. For tea, for conversation... or if you need help. Even if it's just an old carpenter with his stories. And also..." He got up, grunting, and walked over to the chest. He opened it, rummaged inside and took out a small bundle of soft cloth. He unfolded it. Inside was a new, well-tanned leather sword belt with a simple but sturdy steel buckle. — Here you go. I see your rope is already frayed. It's not a thank you for life," he added quickly, seeing that Yuichiro was about to refuse. — It's a gift from a neighbor. From one lone wolf to another. In these lands, we need to hold on to each other, even if we just nod silently when we meet on the trail.
Yuichiro looked at the belt, then at old Takumi. Something in his chest, frozen and motionless for a long time, trembled slightly. It wasn't pity, it wasn't sentimentality. It was a confession. A recognition that he is no longer just a ghost gliding through a foreign land. He got a neighbor. There was... a point of reference.
He slowly reached out and took the belt. The leather was soft and durable.
"Thank you," he said, and the word made more sense than any of the others.
—That's fine,— Takumi grinned. "Now go.The sun is setting, and you have a long way to go to the lake. And be careful. Forest rumors spread quickly. That a strange swordsman has settled by the Black Lake, capable of knocking down inugami with one blow... such rumors can attract not only grateful villagers."
Yuichiro stood up, attached a new belt to his belt, and shifted the sword scabbard onto it. He carefully coiled the old rope and put it in his bosom. He bowed to Takumi, a little deeper this time, with a little more respect.
"See you later, Takumi—san."
"See you later, Yuichiro." Come in for tea.
The young man walked out of the hut into the already golden light of the late afternoon sun. The air was clear and cold. He set foot on the path leading back to his house, to the lake, to his solitude.
But something has changed. The silence around them was the same, but now it wasn't absolute. Somewhere out there in the valley, there lived an old carpenter who knew it existed. Who offered him tea and gave him advice. In this silence, there was a barely audible, human echo.
Yuichiro was walking through the forest, and his footsteps, still noiseless, seemed a little more... weighty now. He wasn't just gliding through the world. He left a light, barely noticeable trace in it. And maybe that wasn't so bad.