The door creaked open, letting in the scent of travel—dust, horse sweat, distant smoke. A man stepped inside, tall and broad-shouldered, clad in travel-worn yoroi, the lacquer chipped and dull from months of use. He removed his kabuto and placed it with care on the wooden mantle beside the hearth.

  “I have returned,” he said, voice low, deliberate.

  From deeper within the house, a woman’s voice answered. “Welcome home, my lord…”

  Her tone was soft, but brittle at the edges.

  Daichi followed her voice, passing through the dim interior where lantern light flickered across tatami mats and faded scrolls. He found her kneeling beside a woven cradle, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

  “Have you borne the child yet?” he asked. “It has been nine months and thirteen days.”

  She looked up, eyes shimmering, lips parting hesitantly.

  “Y-Yes, my lord… I have.”

  A pause.

  “And the child?”

  She glanced at the cradle. “…A daughter.”

  Silence fell like ash. Daichi’s jaw tensed, his eyes scanning the child without stepping closer.

  “You promised me a son,” he said, each word sharpened like a blade.

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  “I—I prayed, every day,” she whispered, trembling. “The heavens chose otherwise…”

  Daichi stepped back. His expression, once unreadable, hardened.

  “The line ends if I fall. The house ends. What use is a daughter in times like these?”

  He turned away, walked back to the mantle, and took his helmet with a swift, decisive motion. Without another word, he stormed out, the door sliding closed behind him with a thunderous finality.

  Behind it, the woman wept—quietly, so the child wouldn’t wake.

  Outside, the city greeted him with the murmur of late afternoon: clanging bells, shopkeepers' cries, the rustle of silk and straw in the wind. Daichi mounted his horse and rode slowly through the winding roads, his gaze cutting through the crowds.

  A son. One worthy of steel and name. I will find him.

  He passed beggars, vendors, lantern-makers. Boys laughing, running barefoot. Too soft. Too timid. Too small.

  Then—movement near a busy stall.

  A ronin, ragged and unshaven, was shouting at a merchant. His hand seized a sack of rice, pulling it from the stand without offering coin. The merchant protested weakly.

  Suddenly, a boy—not more than ten—threw himself at the ronin, fists swinging.

  “Put it back!” the boy yelled. “You can’t just take it!”

  The ronin snarled and shoved him aside. The crowd flinched and turned away, unwilling to interfere.

  Daichi reined in his horse and watched in silence, eyes narrowing.

  The boy scrambled back to his feet, chest heaving. His hand reached down to the ronin’s belt. He drew the man’s sword—too large for him—its weight nearly toppling him. Still, the boy raised it with shaking arms and stepped forward, teeth clenched.

  Daichi’s lip curled into a faint, rare smile.

  He dismounted.

  “That blade does not belong to you,” he said, loud enough for both to hear.

  The ronin turned, eyes widening at the sight of the armored man.

  “I meant no offense, samurai—” he stammered, already backing away.

  “Leave,” Daichi said, without drawing his weapon.

  The ronin hesitated, then spat to the side and slinked into the alley, vanishing like smoke.

  Daichi approached the boy, who still held the sword awkwardly, unsure whether to stand tall or collapse under the weight of it.

  He said nothing at first—only looked.