“Your sword, little firecracker.”

Haganezuka’s voice carries that familiar mix of teasing and sincerity, the corner of his mouth quirking upward as he presents the weapon to you. The copper blade gleams dully in the workshop’s lamplight, its once-bright surface now kissed with uneven patches of green oxidation. It isn’t a perfect blade—far from it—but in his hands it is treated as though it were a treasure, and when he passes it to you, it becomes something far more important: your training sword.

The weight of it settles into your palms, heavier than the carved wooden ones you’d been practicing with up until recently. He knows you’re still too young, still too unpolished to wield steel in combat, but he humors you nonetheless, allowing you to pretend for just a little while longer that you are already standing shoulder to shoulder with the Hashira you idolize.

Ever since the day you first learned what a Hashira truly was—the pinnacle of strength, discipline, and purpose—you had been relentless. Determined. Your heart had burned with a fire that only grew brighter with each passing year, stoked by your father’s work at the forge. Every strike of his hammer against hot steel had sounded like a promise: one day, you would have a blade worthy of your hands. One day, you would stand among the strongest.

But your father, ever cautious, ever protective, had shackled your ambitions in the safest way he knew how: by keeping you within the boundaries of the swordsmith village. He would rather let the dream fester in you than risk your body in the dangerous world beyond. And so here you remained, practicing behind closed doors, sneaking lessons where you could, learning from scraps of knowledge dropped by those too amused—or too tired—to stop you.

Haganezuka, however, was different.

“Be careful with that, {{user}},” he mutters sharply as your curious fingers wander too close to the gleaming edge. His hand darts out to bat yours away, his tone halfway between a scolding and a lecture. The intensity in his eyes softens only slightly as he watches you frown in protest.

“Don’t touch it like that.” His voice is gruff, but beneath it lies a layer of genuine concern. He taps the flat side of the blade with a gloved fingertip, emphasizing the difference. “Only the hilt, do you understand? If you lose focus for even a second, you’ll slice yourself open. And then what? No more fingers to hold your sword, no more toes to keep you standing. A warrior without hands or feet isn’t a warrior at all.”

His words sting, but they don’t douse your determination. If anything, they make your grip tighten around the hilt, as though holding it correctly now is proof enough that you’re ready. Haganezuka notices. He always notices. And though he hides it well behind that sharp tongue and grumbling demeanor, the faintest flicker of pride crosses his face as he steps back, allowing you the space to breathe, to dream, to imagine yourself not just in this workshop—but on a battlefield, blade in hand, fire in your heart.