The sound of wood meeting wood echoed across the courtyard again.
Crack.
Step.
Breathe.
Father's voice carried through the morning air.
"Your stance is too tight, Ryu. Let your Ki flow through the sword, not around it."
I tried again, lifting the training blade. My hands ached, but I wouldn't stop. The older retainers watched from the sidelines, pretending not to smile when I stumbled. I was the heir of the Ryoma Clan. I couldn't look weak, even if I was only ten.
I exhaled slowly, remembering what Father always said — the sword is an extension of your spirit.
My next swing felt different. Lighter. The air around the blade pulsed faintly as if it had a heartbeat.
Father's brows lifted just a bit. "Good. You're learning to listen."
When training ended, the servants bowed as we passed. I could tell Father hated it — the bowing, the distance, the way people treated him like something more than human. He always said a samurai's worth wasn't in his title but in his will.
Our home stood on the edge of a valley, surrounded by endless sakura trees. The petals fell even when there was no wind. Mother said the spirits of the ancestors made them dance to remind us that peace never lasts. I never understood what she meant until much later.
After lunch, I went to the back garden. My sister, Aya, was sitting under the plum tree polishing her blade. She was sixteen and already carried herself like a general.
"You swing too wide," she said without looking up. "You'd die before your second strike."
I frowned. "I hit Father's Ki this morning."
She laughed quietly. "You probably tripped into it."
I grabbed a stick and faced her. "Let's spar, then."
Aya smirked and stood, drawing her real sword — though she only unsheathed it halfway. "Fine. First to land a touch wins."
I charged forward, channeling my Ki through my arms like Father showed me. The stick met her blade, and for a split second I felt her pressure — calm, sharp, focused. She barely moved, just redirected my swing with a flick. The next instant, her sheath tapped my chest.
"Dead," she said.
I sighed. "You didn't even try."
"You don't always need to. A samurai wins before the first strike."
That was Aya. Cold when she trained, but warm when no one was looking. She handed me a rice ball and sat back down. "You'll get it one day. You just think too much when you fight."
"Thinking helps," I said.
"It slows you down."
I didn't argue. I just watched the petals fall, wondering if there'd ever be a day when I could beat her.
⸻
That evening, the clan gathered in the great hall. Lanterns burned softly, their light dancing across the walls lined with ancestral armor. Father sat at the head, calm as always, while the elders discussed border disputes and taxes.
I didn't understand most of it. Politics bored me. But I noticed something strange — every time the Shogun's name was mentioned, the room grew quieter.
After the meeting, I asked Father about it as we walked back to the garden.
"Are we in trouble with the Shogun?" I asked.
He smiled faintly. "Not trouble. But the world changes, Ryu. Lords grow jealous when peace lasts too long."
"Then why do we stay loyal?"
"Because honor doesn't depend on the world. It depends on us."
He always spoke like that — calm, simple, but with weight. I didn't really get it then. I just wanted to be like him.
We stopped near the edge of the cliff. The valley stretched below, glowing orange from the sunset. Father rested a hand on my shoulder.
"This land breathes because of Ki," he said. "Every tree, every river — it all flows together. When you swing your sword, you cut through that same flow. Never forget that."
I nodded. "Yes, Father."
He looked down at me, his expression softening. "One day, your Ki will surpass mine. I can feel it already. But power means nothing without restraint. Remember that."
The wind picked up, scattering petals across the ground. For a brief moment, I thought I heard something beneath the sound of the breeze — a low hum, deep in the earth. It almost sounded like… breathing.
"What's that?" I asked.
Father turned, confused. "What's what?"
"The sound."
He listened for a moment, then shook his head. "Only the wind."
But I wasn't sure. It didn't feel like wind. It felt like something alive.
⸻
That night, I couldn't sleep. The sound from the cliff wouldn't leave my head. I slipped out quietly, barefoot, and walked to the edge. The moon hung low, lighting the valley like silver water.
The hum was louder now. It pulsed beneath the ground like a heartbeat. I placed my palm on the dirt — warmth rippled through it. My Ki flared, reacting to something deep below.
Then it stopped.
I stayed there for a long time, just listening.
When I finally turned to go back, I saw Mother standing behind me in her robe, arms crossed.
"You shouldn't be out here, Ryu."
"I heard something."
She smiled gently and walked over, kneeling beside me. "The land speaks to those who listen. Your Ki is strong — stronger than you think. But some voices aren't meant to be heard yet."
"Then when?"
"When you're ready."
She placed her hand on my chest. "Until then, focus on what's in front of you. Family. Training. Honor. Those are what matter most."
I nodded, but I could still feel that faint rhythm deep in the ground. Something waiting.
Mother noticed the way I was staring at the cliff and sighed. "Promise me you won't wander too far."
"I promise."
She smiled again, kissed my forehead, and led me back inside.
As I lay in bed, I thought about Father's words, Aya's teasing, and that strange hum beneath the valley. It all blended together — the peace, the pride, the stillness of our world.
At the time, I thought it would last forever.
But looking back now… that night was the last time I ever heard my family laugh.