As Daichi disappeared into the flow of people and dust, Raizo turned back toward the stall. His small feet padded across the stone road in worn waraji, stopping just before the man crouched behind the table.

  Kingo, Raizo’s father, looked up and saw his son’s shadow falling over him—thin legs, bruised arms, and straw sandals too small for the road.

  Kingo rose slowly, brushing grain from his palms, his face already twisted with anger.

  “Why did you attack the samurai?!” he spat, his eyes wild. “You could’ve gotten us both killed!”

  Before Raizo could answer, Kingo’s hand curled into a fist and struck the boy in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Raizo stumbled backward, his sword clattering to the ground.

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  “Is that a sword?” Kingo sneered, bending to pick it up. “I suppose the samurai pitied you. What a fool.”

  He turned the blade over in his hands, eyeing its balance, its worth.

  “This’ll fetch a fine coin,” he muttered. “Maybe it’ll finally put food on the table you keep scraping clean.”

  Raizo slowly rose to his knees, clutching his ribs, tears building in his eyes—not just from the pain, but from the words.

  “I thought you’d be proud…” he said, voice breaking.

  Kingo didn’t look at him.

  “Go home. Now.”

  Raizo didn’t move. He stood there for one last breath… then turned and ran, the crowd swallowing him as he vanished into the river of people, chasing the last direction he saw Daichi disappear.

  Behind him, Kingo held the sword high above the stall and called out:

  “Please, stop by—we have a fine wakizashi for sale! Very rare! Good price!”

  His voice was lost in the street noise, but Raizo didn’t hear it anymore.

  He was already gone.