Each morning, Hiroto sharpened his blade with the same care his father had taught him. War was coming—so the village said. But Hiroto felt no fear, only a quiet question growing louder inside him.
At dawn, he walked beyond the rice fields, past the shrines, and up the forgotten path into the forest. Here, steel meant nothing. The trees did not bow to warriors. He sat beside the stream and laid his sword down.
“Who am I without this?” he whispered.
For hours he listened—to the wind through pine, the hush of water over stone. No battles, no orders. Just breath.
He remembered the first time he held a sword: how light it felt, how heavy it made him.
The sun dipped low before he rose. He picked up his blade, not as a warrior, but as a man who now understood he was more than the steel he carried.
When he returned to the village, the war was still coming. But Hiroto would meet it on his own terms.