Chapter Text
Hakuji sat cross-legged in his room, carefully pulling the sleeves of his dojo uniform into place. His fingers lingered a little longer than usual on the knots of his belt, tightening and loosening them once, twice, as though the repeated motion could drain away the storm of nerves hidden deep in his chest.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the hall. He paused, glancing over his shoulder just as the paper door slid open a few inches.
“Koyuki.” He pronounced softly, a flicker of warmth immediately softening his eyes.
She stepped inside with that quiet grace that always seemed to follow her. “Hakuji.” She said gently, the syllables almost a whisper.
“Have you taken your medicine today?” His tone carried more concern than anything else, even now, even hours before the duel.
A tiny frown pulled at her lips. “Yes, father gave it to me just a little while ago.” She stuck out her tongue in mock disgust, her nose wrinkling at the memory. “The taste is still awful, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it…”
Hakuji couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. “You always make that face.” He murmured, shaking his head with a hint of laughter in his voice. “It almost makes me forget I’m supposed to be serious right now.”
He opened his arms slightly, a silent invitation. Koyuki’s hesitation lasted only a breath before she stepped closer, placing her delicate hands in his. He closed his own larger hands around them, his thumbs brushing gently across the back of hers in slow, steady motions. The contact grounded him.
“You look tense.” She observed, her eyes scanning his face with quiet worry. “How do you feel?”
Hakuji let out a slow exhale, his smile turning a little more subdued. “Strangely calm.” He admitted. “Calmer than I thought I would be. I know what I have to do, I know I’ll fight with everything I have… because I won’t forgive what they tried to do to us.” His jaw tightened, but he quickly softened his gaze again, not wanting her to see only his anger.
Her hand rose slowly, almost timidly, to rest against his cheek. He leaned into her touch at once, eyes closing, his breath steadying as though her palm alone could quiet the fire burning inside him.
“Hakuji…” She whispered, her voice carrying a quiet certainty that he found stronger than any vow he could make. “Everything will be fine. You’re strong, stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”
When he opened his eyes again, she was smiling faintly. From the sleeve of her haori she pulled something hidden, a small braid of thread, the colors interwoven to mimic the shade of her eyes.
His breath caught at the sight of it. He remembered the day he had bought it for her, laughing at the stall keeper’s sales pitch, yet watching her hold it as though it were a precious treasure.
Koyuki held it out to him with both hands. “I read in a book… that in the old days, warriors would carry something given to them by the people they loved. A charm to protect them, so I…” She faltered, her cheeks warming, but she continued with quiet resolve. “If it’s all right, I would like you to wear this. So that no matter what happens out there, you carry me with you.”
For a moment, Hakuji simply looked at her, overwhelmed by the quiet courage in her eyes. Then he smiled, soft, genuine, touched in a way words could not fully capture.
“Of course.” He said, his voice low. “Thank you, I’ll wear it proudly.”
He pulled up the sleeve of his uniform, baring his wrist. With hands that trembled just a little, Koyuki tied the braid around him, her fingers careful, precise, as though each knot was a prayer.
“It suits you.” She said softly once it was fastened.
“Because it’s from you.” Hakuji replied. He caught her gaze and held it. For a long moment, neither moved. Then he lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, his lips lingering as if drawing strength.
Her face flushed, but her smile widened, her eyes shimmering with unshed emotion. “You don’t need to be afraid.” She told him. “No matter what happens, I believe in you.”
Before he could answer, a polite cough sounded from the doorway.
Both Hakuji and Koyuki turned sharply, their hands still entwined. Standing at the door was Keizo, his expression one of amused warmth rather than reproach.
“Well…” He said with a gentle chuckle, stroking his beard. “It seems my daughter is not the only one with someone to look after her.”
Color rushed to Koyuki’s cheeks, and Hakuji’s ears burned red as he hastily released her hand, though only halfway, their fingers still reluctant to part.
But the older man only smiled, his eyes soft. “I’m glad to see you supporting each other. That’s the way it should be.”
Koyuki ducked her head shyly, murmuring something under her breath, while Hakuji straightened, swallowing the nervous knot in his throat.
The father gave one last knowing glance at the ribbon tied neatly on Hakuji’s wrist before turning away. “I’ll be waiting outside when you’re ready.” He said, his tone calm, reassuring.
When he left, silence lingered for a heartbeat before Hakuji and Koyuki looked at each other again, both embarrassed, both smiling faintly, and both a little more certain that whatever awaited them, they wouldn’t face it alone.
They followed him down the dim corridor, the paper doors humming faintly at their touch. The house seemed to gather itself around them, quiet, careful, as if even the tatami held its breath. In the small sitting room Shishio gestured for them to kneel.
They came to rest side by side, knees folding the same way they always did. Koyuki mirrored Hakuji exactly, hands flat on her thighs, fingers splayed just so, Hakuji let both palms settle on his knees, feeling the familiar grain of the straw beneath his skin.
The man took the place opposite them, the plain cut of his robes making him look smaller and somehow more solemn than usual. For a long second he simply studied Hakuji’s face, the jaw set too hard, the eyes too bright at the edges. He nodded once, then began in that low, deliberate voice Hakuji had learned to obey without hearing the words all the way.
“Hakuji.” Shishio said, “You go out there today in the name of Soryuu. That’s not merely the name of a school, it’s a promise. You stand for what we teach, steadiness, restraint, and the protection of those who cannot defend themselves.” His fingers folded together as he spoke, voice steady. “You will be watched, more than your opponent’s technique, they will watch how you carry yourself.”
Hakuji kept his head bowed, but his eyes were on Shishio, the ribbon at his wrist had warmed beneath his sleeve and he drew his focus to it like a touchstone.
“Do not let the anger that brought you to my door carry the match for you.” Keizo continued. “Anger is sharp and quick, but it burns out. Use it if you must, but do not be its servant. Keep a clear head, count your breath, control your distance. If you run on heat, you will be worn thin before the fight decides.”
Koyuki’s hand tightened, unconsciously, at his side. She kept her posture composed, but her eyes were bright with worry.
His tone softened just a fraction. “ Keep your guard high, do not commit to one strike without purpose. If you find the man smaller than your anger, temper the blow, if you find his sword…” He cast a glance toward the doorway, then back at Hakuji. “Do not close blindly.”
Hakuji straightened a little. “I understand.” He said, low. The words were taut but honest. “I will remember your teachings.”
Shishio gave him a look that could have been a scolding and a benediction at once. “Protect Koyuki, never let a threat find purchase while you are able.” He tapped the tatami once, a small puncture of emphasis. “And after everything’s settled, no matter how the day goes, you will come home with your honor intact. That is more than pride, it’s the thing that gives our ways meaning.”
Hakuji felt the raw animal urge that had been tightening his limbs loosened under the steady, measured pressure of Shishio’s words. He bowed then, a precise and practiced motion, knees touching, forehead bending, deep enough to mean more than mere courtesy.
When he rose again his face was calmer, eyes clear. He inclined his head toward Shishio in respect, the man returned the nod, and for a sliver of a second something unspoken passed between them.
Outside, the road was alive in the way small towns gather around any event, a low buzz of voices, the scraping of carts, the distant clatter of a hammer. Shishio helped them to the yard, Hakuji steadied the cart while Koyuki climbed in, tucked under a light blanket. Shishio took the handles and pushed.
“You’ll not pull it.” He said to his student with a small, private sternness that betrayed his care. “You will rest, we will not allow you to weaken even by an iota of strength..” He glanced at Hakuji as he spoke, there was the faintest softness under the direction.
Koyuki laughed quietly, a sound like a bell muffled by cloth. “Father.” She teased, “I can walk, you know.”
“And I know you can,” Shishio answered, smiling in spite of himself. “But I will choose to spare you the work.” He adjusted the blanket and pushed on. The cart creaked a polite complaint with each bump of the lane; Hakuji walked at Shishio’s side, hands tucked behind his back, chin slightly angled toward Koyuki. He watched her as if memorizing her face in case the world tried to change it.
They turned toward the training field behind the shrine, the place already thrumming with expectation. Torii gates stood sentinel at the shrine’s edge, ropes and paper streamers fluttering in the breeze. The field itself was a flattened patch, earth well-baked, ringed by low posts where villagers had tied long, faded banners for the occasion.
Stalls nearby had been shuttered; some townsfolk had left their work to watch. Children climbed on each other’s shoulders, women folded fans to their lips, old men leaned on canes and rocked their heads. The air tasted of dust, sun-warmed wood, and the faint sweetness of rice cakes being handed out by a baker’s wife who’d set up a small table for the crowd.
At the far side of the field a raised platform had been hastily erected, simple planks, a short canopy of indigo cloth hung with the magistrate’s crest. On it sat a low lacquered table stacked with scrolls, behind it, the magistrate’s attendants whispered. Beside the platform were two men in plain but functional armor, town constables, not full samurai, spears stood at the ready, their faces serious at the interruption of their daily routine.
The magistrate himself was already in place, his robes stiff and tidy, a faint crease of displeasure between his brows as if he’d rather be anywhere but presiding over a duel. Ink stained one finger of his scribe, who hovered, ready with brush and paper.
As Keizo eased the cart to a stop, Hakuji could feel the eyes of the village settle on them like a weight. The magistrate gave a curt nod, though his mouth suggested impatience.
The rival master came into view then, his gait smooth, his smile an announcement. He was flanked by a tall, solid youth wearing a training uniform much like Hakuji’s, the boy’s chest broad, neck thick with muscle, and at his left hip an oiled metal sword hung in a scabbard. It caught the sunlight and threw a narrow, bright line across the packed earth.
At the sight of the blade Shishio’s face tightened; he made a small, reflexive grin, a pull at the lips, eyes narrowing in instant disapproval. Hakuji felt the tension like a chord drawn taut.
The rival master noticed and gave a flippant laugh. “Surely you didn’t think this would be only fists?” He called, voice pitched so the crowd could hear. “Each house has its specialty. We favor the blade. If your man wishes to test his hands, it is more than welcome that I place my boy’s sword at his feet.”
Shishio’s reply was measured. “You speak boldly, the magistrate must determine the conditions. We do not want a death in the village.”
“Oh, of course.” The rival master said, the honey of his words masking something harder. “But do not ask me to disguise the truth. If we will judge honor, let us judge skill in the way it’s practiced.” He tapped his own hip with a finger, the gesture theatrical. “I will not bind my style to some pantomime.”
The magistrate rose from his seat then, his robe whispering. He walked to the edge of the platform and planted both hands on his knees as he positioned himself, looking at each man in turn. When he spoke his voice carried the authority of law.
“We will have order.” He said, curt. “This is the law of the village, and I will speak plainly. No killing, no intent to kill. Wooden practice swords, bokken, are permitted, live blades are not.” He glanced meaningfully at the rival master’s sword and the crowd shifted with a murmur. “If a live blade is drawn, the attacker will be considered to have forfeited honor and will answer to the magistrate. Is that clear?”
The rival master’s smile stiffened but he bowed his head briefly. “Very well, magistrate. My student will meet your choice of rules.”
Shishio gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction at that ruling. “We accept these terms.” He said. He turned to Hakuji in a voice meant only for him. “If the man uses a bokken, watch for feints to the hands. If he feints your lower, strike true to the centerline. Remember your breathing, remember the Soryuu base, strong, anchored, minimal waste.”
Hakuji’s jaw flexed. “I won’t let fury rule me.” He leveled his eyes at Shishio. “I will be the Soryuu.”
Koyuki reached up, palpably nervous, and smoothed the sleeve of Hakuji’s uniform. “Come back to us safely.” She said, almost a prayer.
Hakuji bent and kissed the back of her hand quick and reverent. “I will.”
The magistrate resumed his seat and read aloud the formal conditions, one round only,the bout will continue until one man yields or is rendered unable to continue, yielding means the losing party will accept any reasonable demands of the winner, no killing, no weapons that endanger life, interference from spectators will be punished.
The scribe wrote briskly, his ink scratching in the silence between sentences. When the rules were declared, the crowd's murmur turned into a low, expectant hush. Both pairs of masters stepped forward, the rival master a shade too eager, Keizo rock-still and composed.
Hakuji and the other youth faced each other in the dirt, measuring each other like a pair of coiled springs. Hakuji’s fingers flexed once, felt the braid warm at his wrist, and found in that small, woven thing the steadying weight of someone else’s faith.
Near the edge of the gathered press, Koyuki’s father stood with an attention that was part pride, part calculation. He nodded almost imperceptibly to Hakuji. There was no long speech now, only the old exchange of looks between a teacher who had trained a man and a man who had accepted the training.
The magistrate lifted his hand; a constable behind him clapped a wooden board twice—a clean, resonant sound that cut through the air. “Begin.”
Hakuji breathed in, counted the beat of Koyuki’s ribbon against his skin, and stepped forward. The village watched as a boy who had once kept his fists to survive now moved with the quiet, disciplined purpose of someone who fought for more than himself.
The clap of the wooden board still echoed when both young men lunged forward, closing the space with startling speed. The rival student drew his bokken up in a tight arc, his form crisp, polished. Hakuji raised his guard, arms absorbing the first impact with a dull crack of wood against forearm.
The force rattled down to his bones, and he blinked, this was no ordinary fighter. Each strike that followed carried not only strength but precision, the kind drilled into him by countless hours under strict instruction. For the first few exchanges, Hakuji found himself pressed back, his sandals sliding in the dust.
“So this is Soryuu’s defender?” The rival youth taunted between blows, his face twisted in concentration. “Your fists won’t hold forever against a sword, even a wooden one!”
Hakuji gritted his teeth, blocking again, then ducking a quick slash meant to rattle his temple. He answered with a hook to the ribs, but the boy twisted, taking it on the elbow instead of his side. The crowd gasped at the rhythm of the clash, the bokken singing through the air, Hakuji’s fists cutting quick, sharp lines in response.
For a fleeting moment, doubt flickered across his mind. The rival’s technique was sharp, honed, far from the sloppy aggression he had grown used to fighting on the streets. A strike grazed his shoulder, the sting biting through cloth. Another swiped his forearm, leaving the skin throbbing. He hissed, stumbling back a step. He’s fast… sharper than he thought. The youth pressed forward, confidence flashing in his eyes. “Yield now.” He jeered. “Or I’ll beat you down until you cannot rise.”
The words burned in Hakuji’s chest, and for a moment he saw not just his opponent but the shadow of those who had tried to poison Koyuki, the smirk of men who believed they could take her from him, the frailty of her smile as she tried to be brave for him this very morning.
His gaze dropped to the cord on his wrist, woven threads the color of her eyes, and the pounding in his heart steadied. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, and exhaled long through his nose.
“You’re strong.” Hakuji admitted, voice calm now, measured. He raised his fists again, stance lowering, the coiled spring of Soryuu’s discipline. “But I’ve fought for scraps, for breath, for my own life. And today, I fight for more than myself.”
His eyes hardened, and with the next clash he shifted. Instead of yielding ground, he stepped into the bokken’s arc, letting the wood skim his arm as he drove a fist hard into the rival’s chest. The boy staggered back, eyes wide, breath punched out of him.
The crowd erupted in cheers and shouts. The rival recovered quickly, fury flashing, and swung low for Hakuji’s knees. Hakuji leapt over it, twisting mid-air to hammer his heel across the boy’s temple. The rival reeled, but answered with a desperate slash upward that caught Hakuji’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. Blood welled faintly at his lip, metallic on his tongue, but he only grinned through it.
“That’s all?” Hakuji spat to the dirt, then surged forward with renewed vigor. His fists were blurs now, one, two, three strikes landing at the ribs, the shoulder, the side of the neck. Each blow precise, not wild, every ounce of Shishio’s words channeled into discipline rather than rage.
The rival swung his bokken wildly to fend him off, but Hakuji slipped past the guard, ducked low, and rose with an uppercut that snapped the boy’s head back. The bokken slipped from his grip, clattering uselessly onto the earth.
A hush fell for a heartbeat before Hakuji pressed in the final motion, a swift hook across the jaw that sent the rival sprawling, his body rolling once before lying still in the dust. Silence hung in the air until the magistrate’s voice rang clear.
“The victor, Soryuu’s disciple!”
The crowd broke into cheers, voices lifting in waves. Hakuji stood there, chest heaving, sweat trickling down his temple, the cord on his wrist darkened with dust but still bright, still whole.
He looked at Koyuki at the edge of the field, her hands clasped to her chest, her smile trembling with relief, and though his body ached from every strike he’d endured, his heart felt impossibly light.
The magistrate’s gavel struck the wooden block once more, commanding silence from the buzzing crowd. His expression was sharp, unimpressed, and his voice carried with the weight of finality.
“By the terms agreed.” He declared. “The challenged school has been defeated. As such, they will issue a formal apology to the Soryuu dojo and its disciple. Furthermore, compensation shall be paid for the dishonorable methods employed in this rivalry, methods that endangered innocent lives.”
His eyes narrowed, sweeping over the rival master, who stood rigid, face pale and lips pressed tight. “Though no physical proof of the poison remains, your loss here confirms the truth of the accusation. You will make reparations for it, do you understand?”
The man’s jaw worked, pride battling with shame. Slowly, stiffly, he bowed until his forehead nearly touched the dirt. His student, still dazed from the beating, followed suit, voice barely audible as he whispered. “We… understand.”
The crowd murmured, some in shock, others with righteous satisfaction. The magistrate gave a curt nod. “Then it is settled, may this be a lesson to all, dishonor has no place among warriors.”
Hakuji, still panting, lowered himself into a deep bow before the magistrate, sweat dripping from his chin onto the earth. “Thank you… for your judgment.” He said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his body. When the magistrate dismissed them, Hakuji turned, scanning the sea of faces until his gaze found Koyuki and her father at the edge of the crowd.
“Koyuki…” He breathed, and then he ran. Dust kicked up beneath his sandals, the ribbon on his wrist fluttering. She moved before her father could stop her, her frail frame moving faster than it had in weeks, tears glimmering in her eyes. When he skidded to a stop just in front of her, she couldn’t hold back, she threw her arms around him, burying her face against his chest.
“You did it, Hakuji!” She sobbed, her voice muffled but radiant. “You protected us… you protected everything!”
For a moment, Hakuji froze, his arms hovering uncertainly. Then, with a shaky exhale, he wrapped her tightly against him, careful not to squeeze too hard. “I promised, didn’t I?” His voice cracked faintly.
Her father approached, resting one hand on Hakuji’s shoulder with surprising force for an old man. “Magnificent, boy!” he said with a booming laugh, pride swelling in his tone. “I knew you had it in you, but to see you fight with such heart… you carry the spirit of Soryuu in your fists. I couldn’t be prouder.”
Hakuji bowed his head, still holding Koyuki gently. “Thank you, Shishio… it was your teachings that carried me through.”
More voices began to rise from around them. Villagers approached, some clapping him on the back, others bowing in respect. “Incredible strength, young man!” one exclaimed. “I’ve never seen fists move like that.” Another one complimented.
Hakuji’s ears burned red, unused to such attention. “I didn’t do it for praise.” He muttered, but the smiles and praises only grew louder.
Keizo laughed beside him, eyes shining with pride. “See? Everyone saw what I’ve always known. Tonight…” He clapped his hands together with dramatic flair. “We feast! A victory like this demands a banquet!”
“A banquet?” Koyuki’s eyes widened, sparkling with delight. “Father, really?”
“Of course!” He grinned, eyes twinkling. “What use is pride if not to share it over sake and fine food? We’ll buy the best cuts, the freshest rice, even sweets. Let the whole house smell of celebration!”
Hakuji blinked, still flushed, but then allowed a small smile to curl at his lips. “I… I’d like that.”
The trio began their walk back through the village, the crowd parting for them with respectful bows. On the way, they stopped at market stalls, the father selecting a generous cut of fish, Koyuki pointing shyly at candied plums, and Hakuji, awkward but smiling, carrying baskets that seemed to multiply in his arms with every purchase.
As they made their final stop, a merchant leaned over his stand, presing a bag of small fruits gently against Hakuji’s chest, and whispered. “The way you fought today, lad… you’ll be remembered, as someone who protects what matters.”
Hakuji paused, taking the gift and glancing at Koyuki, who squeezed his sleeve with a tender smile. He nodded at the merchant. “That’s all I want.”
By the time the sun began to set, their cart brimmed with food, their laughter carrying down the street. The dark shadow of dishonor that had loomed over them was gone, replaced with the warmth of victory and the promise of a shared future.
They walked the last stretch home with the cart between them, Hakuji taking the handles this time while Keizo kept an easy hand on his shoulder. The sun leaned toward the horizon, painting the lane in long, honeyed strokes, dust motes drifted like small, golden planets around the cart axle. The older man’s voice came low and steady down the line, half instruction, half praise.
“You kept the center.” He said, glancing at Hakuji. “That’s what won you the exchange after his first feint. You didn’t chase the blade, good.” He paused as Hakuji shifted, the ribbon at his wrist flicking in the last light.
“But your right hand was high and too eager, your guard should rebound faster. A beat earlier and you could have avoided that scrape to the jaw.” But his mouth twitched into something almost like a smile. “All in all, a clean fight. You held yourself like Soryuu.”
Hakuji listened, fingers burying in the cart wood, the fatigue of the day rubbing against the satisfaction in his ribs. “I felt him in my ribs.” He admitted quietly. “When he went wide with the bokken I thought…” He cut off, chuckled, and shook his head. “But then I remembered your centerline drills.”
“Keep the drills in your muscle, not only your head.” He gave Hakuji a brief, engulfing look, pride and worry braided together, and then shifted direction.
When they reached the gate, Keizo stopped and met Hakuji’s eyes with that steady, slightly exasperated expression. “A hot bath, Hakuji. Now, clean yourself.” He shouldered the cart so Koyuki could climb down and motioned toward the kitchen. “Tonight I’ll cook. Koyuki, you can help, but only with the rice and tea. Let the boy rest.”
Koyuki bobbed in a quick, obedient bow, cheeks still flushed from the day. “Of course, father.” Her fingers brushed Hakuji’s sleeve as she passed, a soft anchor of contact.
Hakuji offered the smallest of smiles, a thing like a cracked moon, and let them steer him. In the bathing alcove the water crackled in the iron kettle as Keizo fed the flame, steam rising slow and steady. Hakuji set his bundle down, peeled off the dusty outer layers, and the first sweet ache of muscle loosened as he unwound his belt. The ofuro was cedar-warmed, the tub’s wood still carrying the faint smell of last night’s smoke and the lemony tang of soap.
He drew a handful of warm water and poured it over his shoulders, watching the grit bead and run, dark ribbons of dust spiraling away down the drain. When he lathered the soap and rubbed it over his scalp, the motion became nearly meditative, the scrub scraping at the day until the sting in his jaw felt like memory rather than current pain.
Steam feathered across his shoulders; the room hummed with the gentle crackle of the hearth. From the other room Koyuki’s laugh drifted in, light and small, followed by her father’s slow, pleased hum as he called out. “Be careful with the claws, girl… Don't burn the rice!”
Hakuji closed his eyes and let the heat press into his bones. For a long moment he floated there, the busy world reduced to water on his skin, the ribbon at his wrist a cool point of contact. He let his shoulders slack, and with them fell the iron knot of obligation and fear.
All of it washed over him like a blessing. He thought of the field, of the crack of wood and the thud of a body on dust, and he felt, properly, the small, fierce relief that came from keeping a promise.
When he had cooled and the water slid from his shoulders in steady sheets, Hakuji clapped his palms, the sound muffled in steam, and called in a quiet voice, “I’m done.” The alcove paper sighed and opened a sliver. Koyuki’s face peered through, hair tidied, cheeks flushed with kitchen heat. She held out a clean haori, its fibers smelling of plum blossom soap, the same scent that had lived on the ribbon she had tied to him earlier.
“It’s almost ready.” She said softly, her smile was small and full at once; she lingered a heartbeat, then brushed a wet strand of hair from his temple with a fingertip. The contact made his chest thump in a steady, grateful rhythm.
Hakuji slipped into the haori, the fabric settling across his shoulders like a hand finding its place. He followed Koyuki to the main room, and the sight made something in his ribs unclench completely, a low, round, table in the center of the tatami, lacquer glinting under the lantern light, plates arrayed like small islands.
There was grilled sea bream laid on a long wooden board, its skin crackled and lacquered; a tray of sliced sashimi, fat cuts of salmon and glistening slices of tai, arranged with a carved radish blossom, tempura piled in a delicate cascade, thick cuts of beef, tender and glimmering with fat, seared and resting on a wooden platter, simmered daikon and lotus root arranged in a lacquer bowl, miso soup steaming in a clay pot, pickled plums and crunchy tsukemono in small dishes, and for finish, skewers of dango and a small plate of candied chestnuts.
Hakuji’s eyes widened despite himself, incredulous, and then he laughed, short and hoarse. “This is… extravagant. You didn’t have to…” He stopped as Keizo pushed a bowl of hot rice into his hands and folded a cup of tea before him. The older man’s face was calm, a touch pleased around the eyes. “Tonight we celebrate properly.” He said simply. “You earned this.”
Koyuki slipped into the cushion beside him and lifted a cup in a small toast. “To Hakuji.” She said, voice bright, she reached across and squeezed his hand under the table, the touch was small but steady, and Hakuji felt his shoulders drop further, the fight entirely extricated from his muscles now.
They ate slowly, savoring each bite as if tasting not only flavors but the day itself. Hakuji took a careful piece of sashimi, cool, clean, salty, and closed his eyes. “This is good.” He murmured, surprised. “You can taste the sea in it.” He dipped his chopsticks into a little dish of soy and let the tang of wasabi kiss the corner of his mouth. Koyuki giggled as he fanned the heat away with his hand, she offered him a bit of the beef, and he accepted it like a truce.
Keizo ate with deliberate, slow movements, his critiques softened into conversation. “Next time, when the opponent feints low with the haft, you step outside and bind. It takes away his rhythm and opens a pocket to the ribs.” He rapped the table with a chopstick in emphasis and then added with a rare lightness, “And Hakuji, learn to enjoy a good meal. We’ll never have enough time to train on an empty stomach.”
Hakuji glanced at Koyuki and their eyes met. “You can start by eating slowly.” She teased, nudging his elbow playfully. “If you keep inhaling like that, you’ll scare the magistrate’s clerk into fainting.” He chuckled and slowed, humbled by the warmth at the table.
Outside, dusk stitched itself through the paper screens, the day’s last blue folding into the night. The lull that settled around them was soft and absolute, no more jeers, only the house, the three of them, and a table heavy with the small, cultivated pleasures of a safe household. When dessert came, swirls of sweet bean paste and a small cup of warm sake for Shishio, Koyuki leaned her head against Hakuji’s shoulder for a second, a tired, radiant thing. He rested his cheek against her hair and let himself be still, not because the world demanded it, but because he could finally choose it.
They talked then of small things, the baker’s daughter and whether she’d finally agree to sell him some of those candied plums, the magistrate’s frown that had loosened into a reluctant respect, the way the village children had cheered. Keizo hummed agreement, and every so often his eyes flicked to Hakuji with that steady approval that had the weight of both teacher and father.
When the last bowl was cleared and the lanterns were stoked low, Hakuji felt the day fold into him like a well-made stitch. He had stepped into the field to prove a point and had returned with more than honor, he had a voice at the table, a cord on his wrist, and the warm weight of two people who trusted him.
He bowed his head for a moment, not in formality but in gratitude, and Koyuki squeezed his hand in answer. Outside in the distance, the village slept under a thin, watchful moon. Inside, the house held its small, fierce light, the sound of low conversation and the scent of food lingered like a promise.
Hakuji moved quietly around the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up as he helped her father stack the last of the lacquered plates, rinse the chopsticks, and wipe down the low table. The fire in the hearth had died down to a faint glow, casting warm amber shadows across the tatami mats. Koyuki, perched on the edge of a cushion nearby, let out a small yawn, rubbing her eyes sleepily.
“You should go to bed.” Hakuji said softly, glancing at her with concern. “It’s late, and you’ve had a long day. I’ll be right behind you after I help Shishio close up the dojo.”
Koyuki nodded, her exhaustion written clearly on her features. “Yes… thank you, Hakuji.” She murmured, giving him a small, tired smile. She stood, brushing the last loose strand of hair from her face, and made her way toward the corridor. Before leaving, she turned to her father and gave him a small bow. “Good night, father.” She said softly, her voice carrying both respect and affection.
“Good night, Koyuki,” Her father replied, his voice warm. Hakuji watched her disappear into her room, the faint creak of the sliding door marking her retreat. He felt a gentle tug of protectiveness but allowed her the rest she clearly needed.
Once the kitchen was spotless, the dishes stacked and put away, Hakuji followed Shishio to the main room to finish securing the house for the night. He wiped down the last surfaces and took a moment to look around, the scent of the evening meal still lingering warmly in the air. Hakuji then approached her father, who rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, his eyes serious yet kind.
“Thank you, Hakuji.” He said, his tone quiet but firm. “For everything today, for protecting her… and for handling yourself with honor. I’m proud of you”
Hakuji blinked, a little taken aback by the sudden acknowledgment. “It… it was my duty.” He replied, his voice steady. “I would do it a thousand times over if it meant keeping you both safe.”
Keizo’s hand tightened ever so slightly on Hakuji’s shoulder. “I believe you.” He said simply, then released the contact. “Sleep well tonight, Hakuji. You’ve earned it.”
“I will.” He said, bowing slightly, a flicker of relief passing through him. He took a moment to glance around the room one last time, catching the soft shadows cast by the lanterns. Shishio gave him a nod, and Hakuji responded in kind, the unspoken respect between them lingering in the quiet of the house.
The hallways were still and hushed as Hakuji walked back toward his shared room with Koyuki. The moonlight filtered in through the paper panels, soft silver streaming across the tatami. He paused at the doorway, observing Koyuki lying on their futon. She had fallen asleep on her side, her back facing him, a book splayed loosely in her hand, proof that she had tried to stay awake, to wait for him, before exhaustion had finally claimed her.
Hakuji smiled softly, a mixture of affection and relief warming his chest. He knelt beside her futon and gently undid the binding in her hair, letting it fall freely over her shoulders. Koyuki exhaled a small sigh at the sensation, a quiet release in the stillness of the room. Hakuji’s fingers lingered for a moment before he rose and extinguished the oil lamp with a soft puff, plunging the room into a calm darkness, save for the silver moonlight that still painted the floor.
He slid under the covers, curling close to Koyuki. Her breathing was slow and even, steady and rhythmic, a small anchor in the darkness. Hakuji felt the familiar weight of the day’s events press gently on him, the adrenaline slowly unspooling from his muscles. He thought of the past days, the near loss of everything he cared for, the tension of the duel, the momentary fear that Koyuki’s safety could have been stolen away.
Yet now, here, he felt a fragile peace. He knew the threat was only temporarily abated, vigilance would always be necessary. But he allowed himself this night, this reprieve, the quiet company of the people he would defend at all costs.
His fingers brushed lightly against Koyuki’s arm as he adjusted himself in the futon, a silent promise to remain steadfast, ready for whatever danger might attempt to encroach upon their lives again.
A few days later, breakfast was a calm, sunlit affair. The table was smaller now, simpler fare than the lavish celebration, but it carried the warmth of routine, steaming rice, miso soup with floating wakame, pickled vegetables, and grilled fish. Hakuji sat beside Koyuki, who had neatly arranged her tray, while her father poured hot tea into small cups.
“Have you heard the rumors?” Her father began, voice low as he sipped his tea. “The rival dojo… they’ve begun losing students. Word spreads quickly when a dojo is disgraced, and with the attempted assassination, no one wants to train under them anymore. Their reputation is nearly nonexistent now.” He paused, letting the information settle. “The master is even looking to sell his land and leave town as quietly as possible.”
Hakuji exhaled, a breath that felt heavier than air at first, and then gradually lighter, like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. “That’s a relief.” He said, finally allowing himself a smile.
Koyuki reached over and linked her hand with his, giving a small, reassuring squeeze. “It feels like things are finally safe.” She said softly, her eyes shining with a mix of relief and lingering caution.
Hakuji nodded, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. He knew the world wouldn’t stay quiet for long, but for this morning, with the sun warming the tatami and the scent of fresh rice in the air, the world could wait. Peace, however brief, was theirs. And that, for now, was more than enough.