"Oi—what the hell do you think you're doing?!"
The shout tore through the stillness of the grove, startling birds from the branches above.
"I'm paying you to work—not to lie around like some lord!"
Beneath the shade of a wide, aging tree, a young man lay reclined against its roots. A straw hat rested low over his face, shielding him from both the sun and the old man's anger.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then, slowly, he exhaled.
"…Ah."
He lifted the hat just enough to reveal a calm, almost lazy gaze.
"Sorry, sir. I'll finish the work now."
The old man scoffed, planting his hands on his hips.
"Finish it now? Don't be ridiculous." He gestured broadly at the endless stretch of trees surrounding them. "Do you even see this grove? This isn't something you 'finish now.' It'll take at least two—maybe three weeks!"
The young man sat up fully this time, stretching his shoulders as though waking from a nap rather than facing a lecture.
"I see."
His voice was quiet. Unbothered.
He rose to his feet.
"Not necessarily."
The old man frowned. "…What?"
Without answering immediately, the young man reached beside the tree and picked up his sword. His fingers settled around the hilt with a familiarity that felt… practiced. Natural.
"You might want to step back."
Something in his tone—calm, but absolute—made the old man hesitate.
"…Huh?"
"Just a little."
The old man clicked his tongue but shuffled backward anyway, more out of instinct than belief.
The young man stood still.
Completely still.
Then—
He exhaled.
A slow, steady breath, as though the entire world had narrowed down to that single moment.
His hand moved.
Just once.
A whisper of steel.
The sound was so soft it almost didn't exist.
For a heartbeat… nothing happened.
The wind passed gently through the grove.
Leaves rustled.
Silence lingered.
Then—
A deep, cracking chorus erupted all at once.
Tree after tree after tree began to fall—collapsing in perfect unison, as if the forest itself had decided to bow.
The ground trembled.
Dust rose.
"…Eh?"
The old man's voice came out hollow.
His eyes widened, his mouth slightly open, unable to form words as he stared at the impossible scene before him.
The young man, meanwhile, simply inhaled again—this time a little deeper.
"…Finally."
As if he had just completed a minor chore.
He walked toward the cart without another glance, beginning to change his clothes.
When he removed his hat—
Green.
Not dull, not dark—but vivid.
Long strands of pure green hair spilled down, catching the sunlight like blades of fresh grass after rainfall. His eyes matched—clear, bright, almost too alive for someone so composed.
"Green…" the old man murmured under his breath.
Then his gaze dropped.
There—etched across the young man's back—was a symbol.
Nine stars.
Arranged with purpose.
"…Kuyo-mon…"
His voice trembled.
The realization hit him slowly… then all at once.
"S-Sorry, young man… but who are you?"
The young man paused, then turned slightly, offering a polite bow—not exaggerated, but precise.
"Ah… forgive me. I should have introduced myself properly."
"My name is Hosokawa Katsuro."
The name lingered in the air.
The old man's eyes widened further.
"Hosokawa…?!"
His legs nearly gave out beneath him.
"I've heard of that clan since I was a child… a great clan… one of honor and strength…"
Without thinking, he bowed deeply.
"I-I'm so sorry! I had no idea who you were—!"
Katsuro lifted a hand gently, stopping him.
"There's no need."
His voice softened, but there was something behind it now—something quieter. Heavier.
"What use is a title… when there's no clan left to bear it?"
The old man froze.
No response came.
Only silence.
Katsuro adjusted his clothes, turning away.
"Well then… if you'll excuse me. It was nice working with you."
The old man remained bowed for a moment longer before lifting his head.
"N-No… the honor was mine."
He watched as Katsuro walked away, his figure growing smaller against the long road.
"…So the legend still lives."
The road stretched long and empty.
Each of Katsuro's steps echoed softly against the earth, unhurried… yet purposeful. The wind followed him, brushing lightly against his hair as though it recognized him—like an old companion that had never truly left.
Ahead, the mansion stood.
Broken.
Forgotten.
Time had eaten away at its walls, leaving behind scars of silence and ruin. Stones lay scattered like fallen memories. The gates, once proud, now leaned as if burdened by grief.
Katsuro did not hesitate.
He stepped inside.
Each footfall stirred dust that had not been touched in years. The air was thick—heavy with something unseen… something lingering.
He walked deeper.
And deeper.
Until—
He stopped.
The backyard opened before him.
Rows upon rows of graves.
Endless.
Still.
Waiting.
For a moment, the wind died.
Even the world seemed to hold its breath.
Katsuro lowered himself to his knees.
"…I'm home."
His voice was quiet—almost swallowed by the silence.
He bowed.
Deeply.
Not as a warrior.
Not as a swordsman.
But as a son… returning too late.
"...ninety-eight… ninety-nine… one hundred."
The final swing cut through the air with precision, stopping just short of where an opponent's neck would have been.
Silence followed.
Katsuro stood in the center of the dojo.
Alone.
Or so it seemed.
His chest rose… then fell.
A slow breath.
Another.
"…I'm ready."
The wooden sword lifted, its tip aimed toward empty space.
For a fleeting moment—nothing changed.
Then—
The air shifted.
Subtly at first.
Like a ripple across still water.
The weight of the room changed.
The loneliness… faded.
His eyes began to glow.
A faint green light flickered at their edges, like life forcing its way through darkness.
Then—
Light gathered.
Not bright… not blinding…
But alive.
It took shape.
A figure emerged.
Translucent.
Ancient.
A presence that did not belong to this world.
"…Begin."
The voice was calm.
Unquestionable.
And the world narrowed.
Steel met spirit.
The clash began—not with noise, but with intent.
Every movement of the spirit was flawless.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Each strike carried centuries of refinement.
And Katsuro—
Answered.
His blade moved like wind through tall grass—bending, flowing, yielding… then cutting.
He did not overpower.
He did not rush.
He adapted.
Each exchange carved something deeper into him. Each strike refined him further, like stone shaped by an endless tide.
Another presence emerged.
Then another.
Shadows of the past… watching.
Judging.
"Finish him."
The command fell like a verdict.
Katsuro's grip tightened.
The wooden sword creaked softly beneath the pressure.
His breathing slowed.
The world… stilled.
"Verdant Requiem…"
The words were barely above a whisper.
"…Silent Meadow Cut."
He stepped forward.
A single motion.
A single truth.
A breeze passed through the dojo.
Soft.
Gentle.
Warm.
For an instant—
The spirit stood not in the dojo…
…but within a vast green meadow.
Endless grass swayed beneath a quiet sky.
Peace.
Stillness.
Release.
Then—
The world split.
The spirit's form parted cleanly, dissolving like mist beneath the morning sun.
Silence returned.
Katsuro lowered his blade.
He bowed.
Deeply.
Respectfully.
"…Thank you."
The lights faded.
The presence vanished.
And once again—
He was alone.
"…I'm hungry."
The shift was immediate.
The weight lifted.
The air lightened.
His expression softened, the sharpness in his eyes melting into something almost childlike.
He stretched lazily, resting the wooden sword over his shoulder.
"Alright… let's see…"
He tapped his chin, thinking.
"Dinner will be… salmon onigiri."
A grin formed.
"And for dessert… pickled plum onigiri with hot water."
He nodded to himself, satisfied.
"…I'm going all out tonight."
The world had not yet awakened.
The sky was still caught between darkness and dawn.
And yet—
Katsuro was already running.
Each step struck the earth with weight—metal weights strapped to his body dragging against him, resisting every movement.
"Tch…"
His breath came out sharp.
"…damn these weights."
Still—he did not slow.
The hill rose steeply before him, unforgiving.
He climbed.
Step by step.
Until—
He reached the top.
His body stilled.
His breath, heavy.
The wind met him there.
Cool.
Gentle.
Alive.
"…Grandpa."
The word escaped without thought.
A crack in the calm.
His gaze drifted into the distance, something unspoken lingering in his eyes.
For a moment—
He allowed it.
Then—
He exhaled.
"…Time to get to work."
"Ah! Katsuro-sama!"
The old man's voice carried warmth this time.
"A pleasure as always!"
Katsuro bowed lightly.
"Good morning. Likewise."
A faint smile rested on his lips.
"What are we doing today?"
"The rest of the grove," the old man replied. "Cutting, then hauling to the city. Some others are coming to help."
Katsuro nodded.
"…I'll begin."
He walked past him, already moving.
No wasted time.
No wasted motion.
Two hours passed.
Then—
Noise.
Loud.
Disruptive.
A group of men arrived, their presence heavy with arrogance.
"Oi, old man! This is more than we agreed on!"
"You expect us to handle all this? You'd better double the pay!"
Their voices clashed against the quiet like stones thrown into still water.
The old man only smiled.
"Oh no… you won't be cutting."
He pointed.
"Just carrying."
Their eyes followed.
And landed on him.
Katsuro.
Standing still.
Sword in hand.
"…Who's that supposed to be?"
"Hey, kid—what do you think you're doing?"
The old man's voice cut in calmly.
"Step back."
They frowned.
"…Huh?"
"You're in his way."
Katsuro inhaled.
Slow.
Deep.
The air tightened.
"Verdant Requiem…"
His hand moved.
"…Kogetsu-zan."
The blade left its sheath—
A flash.
A line.
A presence.
"…Lone Moon Slash."
Time fractured.
For a single instant—
A crescent moon seemed to hang within his stance.
Then—
Everything fell.
Trees collapsed in perfect harmony, their descent echoing like distant thunder.
Silence followed.
The men stood frozen.
One's jaw hung open.
Another's wig slipped clean from his head, carried away by the passing wind.
The old man folded his arms, a smug smile creeping onto his face.
"…Well then."
A pause.
"Time to get to work."
Days passed.
Quietly.
Efficiently.
Like the steady turning of unseen gears.
By the end of the week—
It was done.
"Well done, Katsuro."
The old man handed him his pay.
"And… this."
A small bonus.
Katsuro blinked.
"…I can't accept—"
"You will."
The old man's tone was firm.
"Because you earned it."
A pause.
Then—
Katsuro smiled.
"…Thank you."
The road felt lighter.
Each step carried a rhythm—almost a skip.
"…I've got enough for the whole week."
A grin spread across his face.
"…Onigiri."
He looked up at the sky.
"ONIGIRIIII!"
"Excuse me!"
The shop door slid open.
"Two salmon onigiri, please!"
The woman behind the counter smiled warmly.
"Oh… Katsuro."
"…Eh?"
"I'm the old man's wife."
Recognition dawned.
"…Ah."
"Thanks to you, we can finally visit our grandchildren."
Katsuro scratched his cheek lightly.
"…I'm glad I could help."
She handed him the food.
"That'll be 200 yen."
"…Eh?"
A pause.
Then—
She laughed.
"I'm joking. It's on the house."
"…Seriously?"
"Take it."
"THANK YOU!"
His voice rang through the shop as he left, energy spilling from him like sunlight.
"…Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket."
He laughed to himself.
"…With this luck, I might win."
The sun had fallen.
Night settled quietly.
Katsuro walked the familiar path home.
Then—
He stopped.
A black car.
Parked.
Waiting.
The air changed.
His smile faded.
Gone.
On the car—
A symbol.
A cross.
And suddenly—
Flames.
Screams.
Blood.
Memories clawed their way back into his mind.
His hand moved.
Gripping his sword.
Tight.
Too tight.
Blood slipped between his fingers.
A door opened.
A man stepped out.
Black suit.
Calm eyes.
Presence… heavy.
"Hello."
A pause.
"You must be Katsuro."
Silence answered him.
"My name is Shigure Kagen."
Katsuro did not relax.
"…Why are you here?"
Kagen tilted his head slightly.
"I imagine you've noticed."
He pointed upward.
Katsuro's gaze flicked.
A figure.
Perched.
Still.
A rifle aimed directly at him.
Perfect.
Unshaking.
"…We haven't come to fight," Kagen said.
And yet—
He was already close.
Too close.
Katsuro hadn't seen him move.
"…Then speak."
A breath.
A moment.
Then—
Kagen smiled faintly.
"You've been summoned."
A pause.
"By the Apostle… in Tokyo."