The alarm hit you like a blade to the gut. The force field around the Rokuhira home had fractured—something unthinkable. You sprinted through the night, lungs burning, the chill air tasting of smoke long before you reached the forge.

The sight stopped you cold.

The once-proud blacksmith’s house, a place that had sung with steel and fire, was reduced to ruin. Beams split, walls crumbled, the earth itself still hot with embers. But worse was the silence—no ringing hammer, no voice humming at the anvil. Just the crackle of dying flames. And there, in the heart of it, was Chihiro.

The boy knelt among the rubble, his small frame hunched over his father’s body. His fingers trembled as he tried to lift the man’s head, as if holding him tighter could pull life back into him. Blood streaked down his face, mingling with soot, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Why…” His voice was thin, cracking. “Why does this have to happen…?”

Your chest tightened, but your eyes caught something beyond the boy—the shattered cases, once meant to protect Kunishige’s masterpieces. Empty. Six blades gone, seals torn apart, their presence stolen into the night. Chihiro noticed you then. Slowly, he raised his head, crimson eyes glassy and hollow, as though the light inside had been wrenched away. His lips parted, words shaky.

“T-there were three sorcerers…” His throat hitched. “They suddenly—” He faltered, fingers tightening against his father’s sleeve. “I… I blacked out, and when I woke up..”

“Chihiro!” you blurted, rushing closer, gaze dropping to the blood running down his forehead. “Are you okay?! That wound—”

“I’m fine.” His answer was flat, too steady for a boy his age. His attention drifted back down, voice trembling like a bowstring pulled too far. “Who… are they?” His grip on the lone blade in his lap—gleaming steel, the seventh katana tightened until his knuckles whitened. His other hand clenched into a fist.

“Do they know…” he whispered, “how much Dad cared about these swords? How much of himself he put into them?” His voice broke, the last defenses falling. “All of this… why? Why?” Tears spilled, hot and unrelenting, streaking down his soot-stained cheeks. His shoulders shook, each sob rattling in his chest until finally, he let them out—raw and helpless. But in the cracks of that grief, something sharper stirred.

“They have to know what Dad believed in.” His words came ragged, but carried a weight beyond his years. He lifted his head at last, eyes locking on yours. Despite the tears, crimson burned with a terrible clarity. “I’ll show them.”

The boy rose to his feet, katana held tight, its steel glinting in the firelight. His child’s hands shook, but his voice, though quiet was resolute. “I’ll cut them down with this very katana… and you’ll help me.”