Afro put Himari down from his lap. The sound of the girl's feet hitting the ground was the only sound before the sharp command:
"Stay."
He walked to the wagon. There was no hesitation in his step, only the calmness of someone who no longer fears the abyss. When he arrived, he grabbed the heavy canvas and, in a violent gesture, ripped it off, throwing it aside as if it were a useless rag.
From within the darkness of the cage, the figure materialized. A colossal Fu Lion, ghostly blue, overflowing with thick smoke that smelled of incense and ancient death. Its eyes were piercing orbs that seemed to read the lineage of those who stared at it. The creature's size made the carriage seem small; its presence crushed the air around it.
The Fu Lion did not move immediately. It stared at Afro through the bars, growling low, its piercing eyes shining in the center of the blue smoke. They were inches apart, but the creature remained static, like a nightmarish statue waiting for a signal.
As soon as the last trace of the purple flames from the seals faded, the invisible barrier dissolved. Without a single iron bar bending, the demon began to advance. Its massive body passed through the cage structure as if it were made of mist, the ghostly matter sliding through the solid metal without making a sound. It became clear: the bars were just a backdrop; what held him prisoner was the will of the seals Afro had burned.
Outside the carriage, the creature materialized completely, its claws snapping against the road surface. The smoke emanating from it grew denser.
"My name is Fume," the demon's voice was not a sound, it was a vibration that resonated in Afro's bones. "I come from distant lands... From the Middle Kingdom... I am hungry, swordsman."
Fume tilted his enormous head, sniffing the air. His nostrils flared.
"You have a confusing smell. You smell like a demon, but also like human flesh. I trust my nose; I do not practice cannibalism, so I will not eat you." The Fu Lion looked away at the trail of children trembling in the distance. "Those little sources of heat, however... would be a fair feast. But you saved them. As thanks for their release, your will regarding what you have freed must be respected. I will refrain. I will satisfy my hunger with the corpses you left behind."
Fume stared at Afro again, blue smoke enveloping the swordsman's feet.
"But first, I am indebted to you for getting me out of this porcelain box. What do you desire? Whose head should I take to seal this favor?"
Afro looked at the children, his face unperturbed, before responding.
Later...
Afro drove the main wagon, his hands firmly on the reins, while Himari sat beside him. The silence on the road was heavy, but the girl's mind was restless.
"Father," she called softly. "About that technique... Ne no Tachi. Why don't the movements have beautiful names like those of other swordsmen? It's always just first, second..."
Afro didn't take his eyes off the road, but his voice was calm as he explained the fundamental difference:
"Ne no Tachi is not a style of display; it is a set of flows. The movements are numbered because they are linked to a specific form of movement, breathing, and circulation of Dao. You think of the number and your spirit flows through a predefined channel. The numbering serves to save mental effort. In the heat of death, there is no time for poetry, only for the next phase of the flow."
He paused briefly before continuing. "Outside, two swordsmen may say they use the same Style, but their execution Technique will be different. One may strike higher, the other faster. They follow the pattern: Art, Style/Form, and Technique. There is time lost deciding how to apply the form/style."
He adjusted his grip on the reins, feeling the vibration of the cart.
"Ne no Tachi operates on another level, it is a set, because it eliminates choice. When a swordsman invokes Ne no Tachi, he is not choosing a form; he is entering an already defined Set. There is no variation. What is written is what must be done. It is Art and Set."
"Why?" Himari asked, dissatisfied.
"Because it saves mental effort," Afro replied categorically. "In the middle of a battle, your brain is your greatest enemy if it has to decide between ten ways to cut. In a set of flows, the decision was made centuries ago. You just count the movement and your body executes the corresponding flow. It's an automated system for killing."
"There's a problem with your explanation. You always say you don't know how to use the Dao, but I see you. You did the Ne no Tachi, you do that technique of releasing Souls. And worse... you say 'Ethereal Art'. Ether is an element, and you invoke the element. That doesn't make sense if you don't have spiritual energy."
Afro continued. "My master used to say that I have no harmony, so I am unable to manifest the Dao." Afro let out a short sigh. "You're right, Himari. It doesn't make sense to a human. But I'm not just a human."
"Demons don't need to study the Dao to manipulate the world; they are born with innate abilities, engraved in their blood. The stronger the demon, the more of these 'tools' it brings from the cradle. I was born with two." Afro pointed to his own eyes, "the Eyes of the Sun and the Dash in Souls... To perform Ne no Tachi or the Kubasake Art. What I do is heresy. I use the brute force of my demon side to simulate this circulation. Where others use the harmony of the spirit, I use the violence of my blood, with pressure, tendons, and fury. I force my muscles and nerves to act as if there were spiritual energy there."
"That's why normal swords break. When I execute it with the fury of a demon, the steel can't withstand the pressure. I don't follow the rhythm of nature... I break it until it obeys me." Afro concluded.
Himari was silent for a moment, feeling the sway of the cart. Then, in a small voice but laden with hidden meaning, she asked:
"Father... when will I learn those moves? The Ne no Tachi?"
Afro didn't hesitate with his answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, where the darkness was beginning to give way to the first shades of gray of the bright dawn.
"When you're five. You're four now. For now, you must observe. Consider this your theoretical lesson."
He knew, however, that her question was not about martial ambition. Himari was using the technique as a linguistic shield to avoid the real issue: the fact that she had left the inn without saying goodbye, that she had risked everything and ended up in an iron cell.
Their relationship had always been shaped by this pattern. For as long as Himari could remember, her life had been a cycle of danger and rescue. She was a magnet for trouble, acting recklessly and getting herself into situations that would paralyze any other child with terror. But Himari wasn't afraid. She knew that no matter how deep the hole she fell into, Afro would be there to pull her out. Over time, this routine made her mature early. She didn't get into trouble out of naivety; in a way, her intelligence had been shaped to test her father's limits, to force him out of his lethargy and be the protector she needed. Himari was not a victim; she was the strategist who knew exactly how to bring out her father at his most powerful and terrifying. But deep down, she likes to play heroes.
"I'll watch, Dad. I promise."
Afro didn't hesitate. The answer came mechanically and coldly: "I'm not your father, Himari."
The girl didn't react with sadness. She had heard that phrase a thousand times, in a thousand different situations. For her, it was just another part of the training, a way for Afro to test her emotional resilience. She didn't believe, even for a second, that it was true. For as long as she could remember, the world consisted of her and that man with golden eyes and the smell of iron. If he wasn't her father, the sun wasn't the sun. So she continued to call him that, ignoring his correction with the stubbornness of a child who had already chosen her own reality.
But Afro spoke the truth. And the truth was a burden that only he carried.
He looked at the small figure beside him. Afro had killed Himari's real parents. His path was paved with corpses, and that child was the only fragment of life left from a hunger that had been sated. For Afro, the only way to honor the lives he had taken was not through charity or abandonment, but through preparation.
He didn't leave her at just any dojo. No dojo master would teach Himari how to exploit the flaws in Afro's guard.
"Father or not," said Himari, closing her eyes as the cart entered the village limits, "you are here now."
Afro did not reply. Ahead, torches cut through the early morning fog, the villagers gathered silently at the village gate, their faces anxious and pale, watching the scene as if awaiting a sentence.
A lone and terrifying figure. Standing one step ahead, right in the center of the village gate, like a guardian, was a man who looked as if he had emerged from a bath of slaughter. He wore full samurai armor, a deep crimson red, the color of dried blood, held together by black silk threads. His Kabuto (helmet) was a piece of archaic and magnificent engineering, with large side flaps that looked like the wings of a raven of prey, but the focus was on the Menpo, the mask that protected his face.
The mask was not made of metal, but of the same sickly white porcelain as the Master Afro had killed. It had a glassy texture, polished to the extreme, which reflected the light of the torches in a distorted way. The sculpted face was terrifyingly passive: almond-shaped eyes that were just black, empty slits, and a subtle, almost imperceptible smile that never changed, regardless of the violence of the words that came out from behind it. It was a face that denied humanity, giving the samurai an unbreakable appearance. Behind him, the villagers watched the scene as if waiting for a sentence.
When Afro was far enough away that each syllable was like a hammer blow, the samurai acted. In a fluid movement charged with military discipline, he drew his katana. The blade was no ordinary one: at its corners, runes glowed with a pulsing light, as if the sword itself were alive and hungry.
He raised his weapon to the gray sky and his voice tore through the fog, powerful and authoritative:
"SWORDSMAN, KNEEL. THE PORCELAIN HAS COME TO CLAIM WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY THEIRS!"