Day One. Raizo moved through the city like smoke, ear to whispers, eye to shadows. He listened to traders, tea-sellers, and drunk guards—but not a soul had seen the sword. Not a flicker of its spirit remained.

  At sunset, as he trudged home, something nudged his ankle.

  A small puppy, ragged but alert, padded beside him. Quiet. Watching.

  Raizo stopped. “Go,” he said flatly, turning his back.

  But when he reached the gate of his home, the puppy was still behind him, tail low, silent like a trained shadow.

  He looked at it for a long moment.

  “My father barely tolerates me. You won’t last here.”

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  He walked inside and closed the door. But the guilt scratched at his mind like the wind at old wood.

  Day Two. At dawn, as Raizo prepared to search again, the puppy sat at the gate—waiting.

  He sighed. “Stubborn.”

  As they walked through the alleys, an idea slowly bloomed in his mind—when he saw the rōnin samurai, weaponless, carrying only his sheath, mumbling and spitting curses.

  Raizo's eyes narrowed.

  He wants it back. But he has nothing. No steel. No pride. Only shame. And Father fears shame more than death.

  He knelt beside the puppy, scratching gently behind its ear for the first time.

  “You’re faster than I am. Maybe brave, too.”

  He pulled a scrap of parchment and wrote quickly, tying it around the puppy’s neck beneath a piece of fruit peel as bait. The note read:

  “He has your sword. He mocked your name. Seek him in the stalls at noon.”

  He whispered to the puppy and pointed, “Go. Just like before. But this time—run.”

  The dog bolted off, and Raizo darted to a hiding spot above the street.

  Minutes later, the rōnin cursed and shouted as the puppy darted through his legs. He grabbed for it—but it slipped between crates and vanished.

  Clutching the note, his face twisted into rage, the rōnin turned.