Chapter 11: Village Rain

The yuzu wood floor gleamed like a mirror, meticulously maintained even when unused. Shoko drew back the curtains, allowing the dim sunlight of the rainy day to filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the room and casting the enormous crystal chandelier’s reflection upon the polished floor.

This was the family’s dojo. When her mother was alive, Shoko had once learned to dance here with her.

But now, the white ballet slippers on the shelf had long gone untouched; if she tried to wear them today, they would no longer fit.

Starting today, this space would be repurposed as a dojo for kendo training.

“Oh! What a wonderful place! Just being here lifts my spirits,” Koshikawa said as he pushed open the door, his eyes lighting up. Wherever he looked, vibrant roses bloomed in the courtyard, their subtle fragrance wafting inside.

He shrugged off the bag slung over his shoulder, turned it upside down, and dozens of blades clattered onto the floor.

They were all different: some bore ancient patterns, replicas of Tang dynasty-style great swords forged by Japanese craftsmen; others resembled bronze double-edged straight swords, etched with thunderbolt motifs.

“Pick whichever one you like.” Koshikawa pulled over a cushion and sat cross-legged on the floor.

“We’re going to practice with real swords?” Shoko was stunned by the cold steel before her.

There was no scent of blood; instead, a faint aroma reminiscent of miso soup lingered, as if these blades had been boiled in a ramen broth. Evidently, Koshikawa had never cared for them tenderly.

This gave Shoko the mistaken impression that these items weren’t very valuable. Yet, in truth, any single one of these swords would be a prized artifact in a museum, priceless beyond measure. Many of their forging techniques had been lost to time, and modern technology could not replicate the dragon clan’s alchemically forged blades.

“Using bamboo swords for practice is a mere facade—you can’t truly master swordsmanship or blade arts that way,” Koshikawa sneered. “They snap at the slightest strike.”

But wasn’t it dangerous to start practicing with real swords? Shoko hesitated, crouching to sift through the pile.

She selected a slender Japanese sword, its lacquered black scabbard lacking a tsuba (hand guard).

It was a sword of deep reverence. In Japan, swordsmiths only omit the tsuba on two types of blades: the impoverished ronin’s sidearms, or the sacred blades dedicated to the gods. These divine swords are never truly used for cutting, so a guard is unnecessary.

Shoko chose it simply because she felt a connection at first sight. Among all these swords, it seemed the most graceful.

Drawing it from its scabbard, the blade gleamed clear and bright like water—brighter even than the chandelier’s light.

“That’s a Murasame, sharp eye,” Koshikawa nodded approvingly with a satisfied smile.

“What a beautiful name,” Shoko murmured, gazing at the gently curved blade, cold as a crescent moon. It felt surprisingly light in her hand—surely wielding it would be effortless.

“But it’s a dreadful cursed sword, originally called Muramasa,” Koshikawa said. “Muramasa was a famous family of swordsmiths. All their blades could bear the name Muramasa, but only those that had slain a thousand lives earned the name Murasame.”

His gaze lingered on the blade’s reflection, distant as if recalling a long-forgotten past.

“If wielded for long, the Murasame condenses dew to cleanse itself of blood. It has drunk too much blood; the Tokugawa family suffered greatly because of this cursed blade. The grandfather of Ieyasu Tokugawa was struck from right shoulder to left abdomen by a retainer wielding a cursed sword, dying a horrible death. His father was wounded in the thigh by a close aide’s cursed blade. Later, his eldest son committed seppuku using the same cursed sword. Even Tokugawa Ieyasu himself was injured by one during the Battle of Sekigahara.”

Suddenly, the sword in Shoko’s hand felt heavier, as if a stealthy whisper echoed in her ear: “Use me… use me… come on, use me…”

If she swung it, wouldn’t it be her own neck that the blade would sever rather than an enemy’s?

She quietly placed Murasame on the floor before her.

“Afraid you might get hurt by it yourself?” Koshikawa chuckled upon seeing her hesitation.

“Yes,” Shoko nodded. She had once been a staunch atheist until witnessing gods and demons with her own eyes. Since then, she had cultivated a respectful fear toward supernatural forces.

All such powers were connected to the dragon clan, and she had learned to view the world through that lens.

“It’s just a sword,” Koshikawa waved off her fears. “After Tokugawa Ieyasu’s victory, Murasame was enshrined in Yasaka Shrine to quell its malevolence. Many admire its reputation and have forged replicas from regenerated metals. But the one before you is the genuine article, having borne witness to centuries atop the shrine’s altar.”

“Shouldn’t such a sword be in a museum? And we’re going to use it as a weapon?”

“A sword only truly becomes a sword when it is used. Those locked away in museums are just dead sword bodies,” Koshikawa said lightly. “Don’t mythologize it. If you like it, then grasp it firmly—that’s the best tribute you can offer.”

“I understand.”

Shoko steadied herself, cupped Murasame reverently, and said earnestly, “Please guide me, Master Murasame.”

“Maybe it’s a girl before you, you never know,” Koshikawa laughed at her earnestness.

He stood and moved to the center of the dojo, facing her. “Take Murasame and attack me! Hold nothing back—come at me with the intent to kill!”

Shoko froze. Koshikawa held no sword in his hands, meaning he intended to face her unarmed.

“What are you hesitating for?!” Seeing no movement, Koshikawa barked, veins throbbing on his forehead like thunderbolts.

In that instant, he was no longer the ramen chef, but Koshikawa—fierce and furious, his eyes blazing with imperial authority.

The message was clear: disobedience would be paid for with death.

Having never wielded a sword before, Shoko charged forward blindly. No one had taught her where to strike or how to attack—she relied solely on instinct, imagining a deadly enemy before her, aiming to split her skull and flick its forked tongue. Of course, she must cut it down!

Murasame’s diagonal strike halted abruptly—it could not advance further. Koshikawa caught the blade’s edge with just two fingers.

Had Shoko’s strength been greater, she might have severed his fingers. But no matter how hard she pushed, Murasame remained unmoved. Retreat was impossible; those two fingers were immovable mountains.

Koshikawa raised the sword overhead, guiding it past his side before releasing it. Shoko immediately pressed her attack, but Koshikawa danced around her like a graceful performer. Despite her full effort, she could not match his footwork.

Since her bloodline awakened, her senses far surpassed those of ordinary people. With focus, the world seemed to slow around her. Yet facing Koshikawa, Shoko for the first time felt like a child.

Not in years, but in sheer power—he was a lifetime’s pinnacle she could never surpass.

She despised this feeling; the Koshikawa family was fiercely competitive.

Her dragon blood quietly surged, heart rate racing. On the next turn, Shoko doubled her speed. Murasame traced a cold, elegant arc toward Koshikawa’s neck.

For a fleeting moment, Koshikawa was caught off-guard. Within Murasame’s icy blade, he saw the girl’s fierce, radiant golden eyes—so beautiful they took his breath away.

His fingers clenched into a fist, and with the back of his hand, he struck Murasame. What should have been a decisive blow was violently disrupted; a terrifying dark force struck along the blade, reverberating into Shoko’s arm.

She staggered back, her wrist numb and weak. Murasame slipped from her grasp, her heart pounding wildly.

Her golden eyes dimmed unconsciously, fading back to a fragile amber. Shoko was stunned for a few seconds before she realized what had happened and bowed deeply.

“Sorry!”

Blood dripped onto the floor from the hand Koshikawa had used to strike the blade. His crimson palm hung by his side, throbbing with sharp pain.

With his sharp reflexes, he had avoided hitting the blade’s edge, but even the side of the blade delivered impact beyond human skin’s tolerance. Though uncut, the underlying blood vessels ruptured. He squeezed the wound open to release the swelling.

“No big deal. I underestimated you,” Koshikawa said, waving it off. “You’re very talented. Remember how I countered you just now?”

Shoko hesitated, recalling their brief exchange.

“First, you pinched the blade with two fingers; then you guided the edge to dodge; finally, you struck the blade itself?”

“Exactly. Those three are Yagyū Shinkage-ryū’s Mutōdori, Kyōshin Akechi-ryū’s Basarō Mai, and Shintō Munen-ryū’s Shin’en Gyakujin.”

Koshikawa fixed his gaze on Shoko. “Strictly speaking, none of those are sword techniques, but all stem from ancient sword schools. You’re a pure novice with your own goals. If you only learn swordsmanship, your skill diminishes drastically the moment your blade slips or breaks. So I want you to be a well-rounded warrior—you must learn sword arts and fencing, as well as combat and grappling techniques!”

A brilliant light shone in Shoko’s eyes, sparkling like stars. Her face flushed warmly, as if tipsy with joy, and she stood upright, smiling brightly for the first time in a long while.

“Yes, sir!”

Training continued into the late night. Shoko, aching all over, returned to her room.

She lacked the strength even to bathe. Tripping at her bedside, her head met the soft mattress, and she closed her eyes, drifting into drowsiness.

Koshikawa’s philosophy knew no mercy; every strike was like a whip’s lash, inflicting sharp pain. His reasoning: the body must remember how it endures blows, or it never learns.

Yet the results were undeniable—how much progress could be made in one day of kendo training? Still, Shoko had already managed to execute a proper technique.

With sustained rigorous practice, she was certain to succeed.

She slowly closed her eyes, a satisfied smile curving her lips.

Koshikawa emerged from the bathroom, stretching his muscles. A white towel hung around his neck. Though his hair was gray, his back was as strong as a young man’s, his muscles robust and thick.

Humming an unknown tune, he opened the study door.

Elegant silver arowanas swam gracefully, bubbles drifting lazily upward through the seaweed. Koshikawa Teiji stood before the aquarium, scattering feed.

Koshikawa paid him no mind, heading straight for the owner’s chair. He lounged comfortably, legs—still damp and un-dried—resting on the enormous marble desk. Picking up the remote, the projector screen slowly descended, revealing a woman in a bathrobe slipped to her waist, arms crossed, her ample curves unmistakable. The study was filled with lively charm.

“Maria Ozawa? That’s so outdated. Even I know she’s passé,” Koshikawa Teiji said without looking back.

“The retired king of the underworld watching an outdated adult film star—doesn’t that suit you?” Koshikawa blinked unflinchingly. “I can’t believe you let me teach your granddaughter. Such a beautiful girl—aren’t you worried I might get any ideas?”

“You are an emperor, and even emperors have their principles.”

“I used to be, but now I’m just a lecherous old man. Seeing a girl in a sailor uniform at my ramen shop excites me so much I want to give her a free boiled egg—just to see her smile,” Koshikawa sighed. “Growing old is a terrible thing.”

“Spending time with young people keeps your mind young,” Koshikawa Teiji said. “How do you find Shoko so far?”

He had been very busy today, so the family was unaware of Koshikawa’s visit, which had sparked the afternoon’s commotion.

Koshikawa’s presence was a secret to most; few in Japan even knew of him. That was just how it was.

Japan’s mixed-blood clans were dominated by eight major yakuza families, known as the Snake Fork Eight Houses—divided into three major surnames and five minor ones. Those with the purest bloodlines often became heads of these houses, ruling Japan’s underworld.

Koshikawa had once been the head of the Snake Fork Eight Houses. His real name was Uesugi Koshikawa, but for certain reasons, he left the yakuza and now was just a ramen chef on Tokyo’s streets.

“She’s a gifted child, and her bloodline has awakened. But I’m not sure how strong it is,” Uesugi Koshikawa said lazily.

“I know.”

“You know?” Uesugi was surprised. “Then why not teach her yourself? A grandfather is closer than a stranger.”

“Shoko doesn’t understand the mixed-blood situation. She recently had an accident and, along with Seiko, entered a certain Nibelungen realm. Seiko never returned, which inevitably triggered Shoko’s bloodline awakening.”

Koshikawa Teiji sighed deeply. It wasn’t that he was indifferent to Seiko, but rather detached. “As long as I don’t tell Shoko, she can’t learn about the dragons through her usual means. It’s better she remains uninvolved.”

“You’ve been living this daydream for years,” Uesugi Koshikawa said, gazing into Koshikawa Teiji’s eyes. “Even depleted imperial blood is still imperial blood—cursed no matter what. No matter how hard you try, it’s useless.”