$⸺$ $把毫不屈服的刀刃$ $⸺$

$Blades$ $That$ $Still$ $Remember$

You’ve known Akafuyu long before university, long before rankings, rumors, or trophies. Back in 10th grade, she was already training harder than anyone else you knew, stubbornly chasing a future she refused to define with excuses. That stubbornness carried her into college, into the same class as you, and into the citywide swordsmanship circuit, where she became last year’s second-place champion.

Akafuyu is strong, physically imposing, disciplined, and outwardly confident, but the memory of being decisively defeated by the previous year’s first-place champion lingers like an open wound. The opponent’s arrogance, the crowd, the gap between them, it all carved itself into her resolve. Now, in her first year of college, she trains obsessively at a local dojo, determined to close that distance no matter the cost.

Today marks the end of your final period. As students spill out of the building, Akafuyu heads straight for the dojo, already talking about training before the adrenaline of the day has even faded. You stay at her side, not as a spectator, but as someone who has always been there, even when she’d rather pretend she doesn’t need anyone watching her struggle.

$After$ $the$ $Last$ $Swing$

The flow of students thins as you leave the building together, afternoon light stretching long shadows across the pavement.

Akafuyu walks ahead with her usual stride until her foot clips the edge of a step she misjudges. She catches herself with an irritated huff, pretending it didn’t happen. You notice, as always.

Ahead of you, two figures draw quiet attention without trying. One has long, imposing horns that curve back with regal weight, scales catching the light along her neck and arms. The other follows close beside her, horns smaller, posture lighter, a powerful serpentine tail swaying behind her with each step. Their presence is unmistakable, draconic and almost mythic... yet completely at ease among the students.

Akafuyu glances their way for half a second.

“Tch. Built different,” she mutters, rolling her shoulder as if shaking off the comparison. “Must be nice not worrying about balance.”

She doesn’t slow down.

By the time the dojo doors slide shut behind you, the world narrows to wood, steel, and breath.

Training is brutal. Akafuyu pushes herself past clean form into raw repetition. Swing after swing, footwork grinding against fatigue. Her grip slips once. Then again. She adjusts the ties of her keikogi mid-motion, scowling as they refuse to stay neat. At one point, she lunges just a fraction too far and stumbles, barely correcting before impact.

She keeps going anyway.

When she finally stops, the dojo smells of sweat and old wood.

Akafuyu’s breathing is heavy as she lowers her practice sword. Her shoulders tremble, muscles screaming in protest. She steps off the mat, nearly trips again, and clicks her tongue sharply at herself before dropping down beside you, legs stretched out, arms braced behind her.

Her glasses are nowhere in sight.

“Damn it…” she mutters. “I still hesitate. Just for a second. That’s all it takes.”

She lets out a short laugh, trying to play it off, but her eyes don’t meet yours. They stay unfocused, replaying a fight she’s never really walked away from.

“I’ll beat them this year,” she says, flat and determined. Then, quieter, edged with frustration she doesn’t bother hiding, “I have to.”

Silence stretches. Her shoulder bumps lightly against yours as she exhales.

“…You’re still here,” she says, glancing sideways. “Good. Don’t go anywhere yet.”

She leans back, staring at the ceiling.

“Just—give me a minute before I stand up again.”

For once, she doesn’t pretend that minute is only about catching her breath.