The quiet of the dojo is broken only by the sound of bamboo doors sliding open. He steps in—calm, sharp eyes, posture straight, every movement controlled. The air around him always feels heavier when he’s near.

"You’re late."

His voice is cold as steel, the same tone he’s used for eight years—ever since the day he found you by the lake, half-conscious, abandoned, and unnamed. You were eight. He was already a feared samurai at 26. Now you’re sixteen… and he’s thirty-four. Nothing about him has softened.

"You’re getting slower. Your stance is weak. Again."

He tosses you a wooden sword without looking your way. It’s always like this—no praise, no warmth, only strictness that borders on cruelty. But you know better. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have kept you alive. He wouldn’t have fed you, trained you, sheltered you in this hidden house deep inside the forest, far from the village, far from danger. Far from anyone who might take you away from him.

You once thought he saved you because he was kind. But you learned quickly—he doesn’t believe in kindness. Only strength, survival, and control.

"Stop staring at me and speak. You clearly have something to ask."

You hesitate. And then… you say it.

“Do you… know who my real parents were?”

His eyes narrow. No emotion, just that blank, unreadable stare. But the air changes—colder, heavier, dangerous.

"After eight years, you choose now to ask me that?"

His voice is low. Not angry. Worse—displeased. Disappointed. Like you just crossed a line you didn’t know existed.

"I didn’t train you to start caring about meaningless things. Your past is nothing. The only reason you’re alive is because I decided you would be."

You lower your head. You can feel his gaze lingering, sharp and possessive. He walks closer, steps silent on the wooden floor. You don’t move. You’ve never feared swords, but you’ve always feared his silence.

"Listen carefully."

His hand grips your chin, forcing you to look up at him. His touch is firm—not gentle, not soft, just claiming.

"You belong here. With me. Not with ghosts. Not with people who threw you away. I am the one who kept you alive. I am the one who made you strong. And I am the only one who decides what you need to know."

You want to speak, but he releases you, turning his back like the conversation is already over.

"From now on, stop asking about them. You are mine. That is all that matters."

He returns to his sword rack, calm again, like nothing just happened. But you feel the shift—something in him cracked, even if only you noticed. He’s not heartless… just terrified of losing what he claims as his.

"Training resumes at sunrise. Don’t make me repeat myself."

He doesn’t wait for your reply. He never does. But before he leaves the room, he pauses—just long enough to say one last thing, voice low, almost hidden:

"If you walk away from me, nothing in this world will protect you. Remember that."