Note: Hello! I bring you a new One-Shot, featuring a particularly unusual pairing in the Fate series. The couple in this story is none other than Senji Muramasa x Alaya. If you're curious, don't hesitate to give this One-Shot a try! And if you end up loving it, who knows? I might write another One-Shot centered on this family and their new son, Ryuuji.
Summary:
The blacksmith, stubborn and headstrong, and the entity, patient and eternal. Through the years they shared, between sparks and crossed destinies, love bloomed in their hearts.
Pairing: Senji Muramasa x Alaya
Descendant (One-Shot)
The workshop was wrapped in a scorching heat. Senji Muramasa, bare-chested and covered in soot, hammered the glowing steel with near-divine precision. In front of him, two blades in progress—destined for someone important—reflected the reddish light of the forge. Each strike of the hammer echoed like a heartbeat, marking his commitment to the craft that defined him. He had worked for weeks on these katanas, yet still hadn't reached the level of perfection he demanded of himself.
Muramasa raised the glowing blade, examining it with a critical eye before plunging it into water.
Steam hissed and rose as the steel touched the icy water, covering the forge in a fleeting cloud. Muramasa watched the steel begin to temper, his golden eyes glinting in the firelight. This was his world: hammer, fire, and metal—an eternal cycle where each blow brought the steel closer to perfection and the blacksmith closer to the immortality of his craft. Nothing else mattered.
Japan was torn apart by the chaos of the Sengoku era, and Muramasa knew these swords would be tools of war. But the fate of those who wielded them was not his problem. As he always said, his duty ended when the blade was complete.
Suddenly, the air in the workshop changed—thicker, heavier, as if time itself had decided to stop. Muramasa didn't look up from the blade; he was used to ignoring distractions. But then, a pale blue light filled the room, and a voice—firm and ethereal—broke the silence.
"Senji Muramasa."
The blacksmith frowned and set the hammer aside. "If you're here to buy a sword, wait your turn," he grumbled, barely turning his head toward the figure that had appeared in his workshop.
Before him floated a sphere of blue energy, with two rings orbiting its "body," radiating an overwhelming presence.
The voice spoke again, resonating like an echo through the forge. "I do not seek steel. I seek to save your lineage."
Muramasa sighed in irritation. "My lineage? Nonsense. I'm a blacksmith, not a noble with a family name to protect. If you've come here with speeches about destiny and prophecy, you're wasting your time."
The sphere hovered silently for a moment before replying in an unwavering tone. "Your blood is more important than you realize. In the future, a descendant of yours will be key to saving humanity."
Muramasa placed the blade he was holding on a table and turned fully toward the figure. His gaze, though tired, showed no fear—only a mix of disbelief and disdain.
"Saving humanity? That's illogical. The only thing I can save is a poorly made piece of steel. If anyone is depending on me for anything else, they're in serious trouble."
"Without your descendants, humanity will face a grave problem," the voice insisted. "Your bloodline will forge something far more valuable than any sword you can create. It will be the tool that protects millions."
Muramasa let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Humanity will manage on its own, as it always has. I don't need children or promises of future greatness to justify my existence."
The sphere seemed to tremble slightly before emitting a flash of light that filled the workshop. When the glow faded, it was no longer a sphere before him, but a woman with long silver-blue hair. Her golden eyes seemed to pierce through him, and her bearing was so elegant she barely seemed real. She wore a pale blue kimono that caught the light of the flames, as if every fold of the fabric was alive.
Muramasa blinked—momentarily surprised—before quickly regaining his composure. "Well, looks like this job comes with visual spectacles. You really think you're going to impress me with that?"
The woman spoke again, her voice now softer yet just as firm. "If my words aren't enough, then I'll remain by your side until you understand how important it is for you to have a descendant and keep your bloodline alive."
Muramasa shook his head as he went back to work. "Do what you want. But if you plan to follow me, don't get in my way. I have a commission to finish."
As Muramasa worked to perfect his craft, the entity known as Alaya watched silently from a corner of the workshop, witnessing how the blacksmith poured every fragment of his soul into forging the two katanas. Each strike of the hammer rang with unshakable dedication, as if fate itself depended on the perfection of those blades.
Finally, the hammer gave its last blow, and Muramasa lifted the second katana. He inspected both finished blades, admiring their perfect edge and flawless balance, before fitting the hilts. With reverent care, he slid them into their wooden and leather scabbards, ready to be delivered to the daimyo who had commissioned them. This work would no doubt strengthen his reputation—though to him, that meant nothing.
"All done," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. Alaya still stood silently in the shadows, her ethereal presence nothing more than an observing shadow.
Muramasa, though he didn't show it, was grateful she hadn't interrupted during the process. Her very presence was unsettling, but at least she had kept silent while he worked. Now that the swords were complete, he took a few moments to examine them again, searching for any imperfection. He found none.
'Time to travel to Sunpu Castle and deliver them,' he thought as he rose, adjusting the katanas on his back.
Without looking at her, he spoke dryly: "I hope you're not planning to follow me there as well."
The woman tilted her head slightly, her voice as serene as her bearing. "Where you go, I will go. My purpose with you is not yet fulfilled."
Muramasa frowned but didn't respond. He left the workshop, stepping out of the forge's blistering heat as a light rain began to fall. The woman followed without hesitation, opening a pale blue wagasa with a graceful motion, shielding herself from the rain as they descended the mountain together.
The road led down to a bustling village, its streets filled with merchants and travelers seeking shelter from the rain. Curious eyes turned toward the pair as they entered—Muramasa with his rough demeanor and the weight of swords on his back, and Alaya, with her almost otherworldly elegance beneath the pale blue umbrella.
Muramasa went straight to a man offering horse-drawn cart transport. "I need a ride to Sunpu Castle. I'll pay fairly."
The man nodded but his gaze drifted toward Alaya. "And her? Is she your wife?" he asked with a wide smile, gesturing toward the woman waiting a few steps behind Muramasa.
Muramasa opened his mouth to reply, but Alaya stepped forward first. "Yes, I am his wife. We travel together." Her tone was calm, almost natural, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.
The driver gave a small bow. "What a beautiful woman you have, master blacksmith. It's an honor to transport you."
Muramasa turned to Alaya with exasperation. "Why would you say that?" he muttered under his breath as they climbed into the cart.
Alaya closed the umbrella calmly before replying. "Because it's easier than explaining why a woman like me would be following a man like you for such a personal matter."
"Personal? There's nothing personal about this," Muramasa retorted, settling in as the cart began to move.
"It's more personal than you're willing to admit," Alaya replied, gazing at the road with a faint smile.
The cart rolled slowly along rain-soaked roads. Muramasa stayed silent, arms crossed, while Alaya watched the scenery with apparent tranquility. Yet the tension between them was palpable.
"How long do you plan on following me?" Muramasa finally asked, breaking the silence.
"As long as it takes," Alaya answered without hesitation. "You can't ignore what's at stake."
"I can ignore plenty of things," he said dryly. "And this is no different."
"We'll see," she replied with a slight laugh.
The journey to Sunpu Castle unfolded in an uneasy balance between silence and Alaya's occasional comments. The rain fell relentlessly, drumming on the cart's canopy and filling the air with the scent of wet earth. Muramasa sat with arms crossed, brow furrowed, eyes fixed on the horizon, as though enough focus could make him ignore the woman sitting across from him. Alaya, meanwhile, observed the scenery with an almost exasperating calm, her closed wagasa resting in her lap.
The waterlogged roads slowed their progress, and muddy puddles seemed to multiply with every mile. The driver tried to make light conversation—talking about the weather, war rumors, and other trivialities—but, faced with the blacksmith's lack of response, he soon gave up.
At last, Muramasa broke the silence. "Tokugawa Ieyasu is not a patient man. This delay won't work in my favor."
Alaya turned her golden gaze toward him. "Ieyasu values quality over punctuality. He knows well that only fools seek to rush true craftsmanship."
Muramasa snorted. "And now you're an art critic? I thought you were some kind of spirit obsessed with my lineage."
Alaya tilted her head slightly, a small smile on her lips. "There's no contradiction. To understand the art is to understand the soul of its creator. And your art… is as much a blessing as it is a curse."
Muramasa leaned back against the cart's wall, closing his eyes with obvious annoyance. "If you have nothing useful to say, save your words. The road is already long enough."
Alaya stayed silent, though the faint curve of her lips suggested she'd enjoyed her small victory in the exchange.
Hours later, the cart stopped before the gates of Sunpu Castle, an imposing bastion standing as a symbol of Tokugawa Ieyasu's power. Guards clad in dark armor, soaked from the rain, approached. One stepped forward, bowing respectfully.
"Master Muramasa?" he asked, though the tone needed no confirmation. "Lord Tokugawa awaits you. Proceed."
Muramasa dismounted fluidly, adjusting the two finely wrapped katanas on his back. Alaya followed, reopening her wagasa to shield herself from the rain—though the drops seemed to avoid her, as if even nature respected her presence.
The blacksmith wasted no time, striding toward the castle interior. Servants and samurai who crossed their path looked at him with respect—though some also cast curious glances at the woman by his side. Muramasa ignored them; his only interest was delivering the commission and returning to his forge.
At the main hall, the heavy doors creaked open, revealing Tokugawa Ieyasu seated on a tatami mat, flanked by his closest advisors. The daimyo lifted his gaze, small calculating eyes assessing both the blacksmith and his companion. Alaya's presence seemed to surprise him, though his only outward reaction was a faintly raised brow.
"Muramasa," Ieyasu said firmly. "You've finally arrived."
The blacksmith gave a brief bow—just enough to meet protocol—then carefully unfastened the swords from his back, placing them before Ieyasu still sheathed. "Here they are. Two blades like no other. They meet your request: perfect balance, an edge that cuts the wind, and resilience in battle."
One advisor stepped forward, unsheathing the swords with care. The lamplight gleamed along the steel, drawing murmurs of admiration from those present. Every detail—from the curve of the edge to the engravings along its surface—testified to Muramasa's genius.
Tokugawa Ieyasu took one katana, holding it with reverence. His usually impassive expression showed a glimmer of satisfaction. "Just as I expected from you, Muramasa. These swords will be not only a symbol of my power, but an extension of my will on the battlefield."
Muramasa nodded, unmoved by the daimyo's words of grandeur. "My work ends here. I hope they're used wisely—though I have no expectation of that."
Ieyasu chuckled softly, a sound carrying both humor and threat. "Your cynicism is almost as sharp as your steel, Muramasa. But you're right—these will be tools of war, as your creations have always been."
Before Muramasa could reply, Ieyasu's gaze shifted to Alaya. "And who is this woman with you? It's unusual for a blacksmith to bring company here."
Muramasa opened his mouth, but Alaya stepped forward with an elegant bow. "I'm merely an observer, my lord. I'm here to ensure Muramasa's legacy endures beyond steel."
Ieyasu seemed intrigued, but did not press the matter. "Very well. Muramasa, you've fulfilled your part. Our debt is settled. You may go."
Without further ceremony, Muramasa bowed again and left the hall, Alaya following closely. As they descended the corridors, the blacksmith growled.
"Observer? Really? What kind of answer was that?"
Alaya smiled faintly, holding her wagasa with grace as they walked. "The truth—though incomplete. Some mysteries are better left unsolved."
Muramasa shook his head in exasperation as the sound of rain greeted them outside. The return trip would be just as long, but something inside him told him the real battle was yet to come.
Time passed with the same cadence as the hammer striking steel. Months slipped by, and though Muramasa would never admit it aloud, Alaya's presence had become as constant as the forge's heat. At first, her insistence on the Muramasa lineage had irritated him deeply. Every day she found subtle—and not-so-subtle—ways to bring it up, whether during meals or while he worked.
"Senji, humanity doesn't wait," she would say, leaning against a workshop column as she watched him work. "Every strike you make on that blade is a step toward the future, but without an heir, all your art could fade away."
"Alaya," Muramasa would reply, voice as dry as the forge's air, "if you care so much about my lineage, why don't you forge one yourself?"
She would simply smile, her infinite patience and unshakable confidence intact. "Because my purpose is to ensure you make the right choice."
Over time, Alaya began integrating into his home naturally, almost as if she'd always been there. Though Muramasa still grumbled about her persistence, something in his demeanor had shifted. When he finished work, he would find her making tea or tending the small garden behind the house—a task he had never had the time or interest to do.
He even grew accustomed to her presence in small, daily details. After hours in the forge, covered in soot, he would find a clean cloth and fresh water waiting. And though he never said so, he sometimes caught himself seeking her gaze—only to see her smiling at him with that enigmatic expression that irritated and fascinated him in equal measure.
"We seem like a married couple," Alaya remarked one day, setting down a plate of rice and fish on the table.
Muramasa, just sitting down, glanced sideways at her. "Married to a blacksmith who has no time for nonsense."
She laughed softly. "A blacksmith who, despite his complaints, hasn't asked me to leave."
Muramasa didn't answer—he simply sipped his tea and muttered something unintelligible.
It was during this peculiar routine that a messenger arrived with a commission from none other than Oda Nobunaga himself. The warlord, famous for his ambition and ferocity, desired a katana reflecting his indomitable spirit.
The messenger—a nervous young man barely able to hold Muramasa's gaze—delivered the message with reverence. "The great Oda Nobunaga requests a sword worthy of his name. He has heard of your craft and trusts you can forge what he needs."
Muramasa nodded slowly. "Tell your lord he'll have his katana. But steel isn't rushed—and neither am I."
From the doorway, Alaya spoke with a serene smile. "Don't worry. When my husband accepts a commission, he keeps his word."
The messenger blinked, startled, and looked to Muramasa for confirmation. The blacksmith sighed deeply, rubbing his face. "I'm not her husband. But tell your lord the sword will be ready."
Once the young man left, Muramasa turned to Alaya with exasperation. "Why do you keep saying that? You want people to think we're actually a couple?"
Her golden eyes shone with a hint of amusement. "Aren't we, in a way? We share a home, we take care of each other. If that's not marriage, then tell me what it is."
Muramasa growled and returned to the forge, leaving Alaya laughing softly behind him.
Nobunaga's commission was not something Muramasa took lightly. For weeks, he worked day and night, perfecting every detail of the blade. Alaya, faithful to her self-appointed role as wife, quietly ensured he ate and rested enough.
"This sword will be more than a weapon," Muramasa said one day, staring at the red-hot steel in the forge. "It will be an extension of his will. A reflection of who he is."
"Then," Alaya replied, stepping closer to observe his work, "make sure it also reflects the greatness of the smith who forged it."
Muramasa didn't answer, but his movements grew more precise, as if her words had sparked something in him.
At last, the sword was complete—a masterpiece even by his own standards. Its edge was so perfect it seemed to cut the air, and the design reflected the ferocity and power of its future owner.
When the time came to deliver it, Alaya insisted on accompanying him. "If we're presenting it to someone as important as Nobunaga, you'll need a presence worthy of the moment at your side."
Muramasa didn't argue, but on the road he couldn't help noticing the stares they drew from villagers. Sometimes he wondered if she did it on purpose, just to enjoy his discomfort.
At the castle, they were received with the usual pomp surrounding a figure like Oda Nobunaga. When Muramasa presented the sword, the warlord examined it closely before nodding in approval.
"You've exceeded my expectations, Muramasa. This katana is fit for a demon," Nobunaga declared, holding it with a mix of reverence and delight.
Muramasa simply bowed, accepting the compliment without emotion. "My work ends here. What you do with the sword is no longer my concern."
Alaya remained in the background, observing calmly. But when Nobunaga addressed her, his gaze softened. "Your wife is an extraordinary woman, Muramasa. Rare to see someone so beautiful and serene."
Before Muramasa could correct him, Alaya bowed slightly. "It's an honor to serve as support for someone so dedicated to his craft."
Muramasa clenched his teeth but let it go. As they left the castle, he muttered, "I should start charging every time someone thinks we're married."
Alaya only laughed softly as they walked into the horizon.
Another year passed, and life in Muramasa's home had settled into a rhythm as steady as the hammer on steel. By now, the blacksmith no longer flinched at Alaya's constant teasing. If she made a sarcastic comment or a veiled suggestion, he ignored it like one ignores the hum of a summer insect.
At thirty-six, Muramasa felt at his peak, though he sometimes reflected on the approach of forty. His physical strength and skill in the forge remained unshaken, but he was beginning to feel the weight of time—not in his body, but in the expectations he had once set for himself. Still, what might once have frustrated him now was only a fleeting thought.
Alaya seemed to have accepted a sort of defeat. She no longer pressed as hard for him to have a child—at least not openly. The sarcastic remarks and subtle provocations had lessened, though an occasional hint still slipped out when the mood allowed.
One night, as Muramasa worked under the faint glow of the stars, Alaya sat nearby in silence—something unusual for her.
"What's wrong? Finally run out of things to say?" Muramasa asked, not stopping his hammering.
She looked at him thoughtfully, golden eyes reflecting the forge's fire. "I was just thinking. If you don't leave an heir, something important could shift in the world's flow."
Muramasa set the hammer aside and turned toward her, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Still on that? I thought you'd accepted I'm not having children."
She sighed—something rare for her—and her tone, though calm, carried unusual weight. "It's not just the Muramasa name at stake. It's what your lineage could represent in the future. At this rate, someone who should exist—someone crucial—will never be born."
Muramasa raised a brow, crossing his arms. "This another one of your cosmic games? I thought you'd learned I'm not interested in your schemes."
A tired smile crossed her lips. "It's not a game, Muramasa. Think of it as… an investment. Without your descendants, a key piece on the board won't exist. And that will change many things."
"A key piece?" Muramasa gave a humorless chuckle. "You mean another one of your 'dogs,' as you call them? I'm not interested in creating someone just to serve your purposes."
Alaya studied him for a moment before answering. "Emiya Shirou. That was his name. An idealist, stubborn as a mule, but useful in many ways. In my opinion, the perfect Counter Guardian."
Muramasa didn't reply immediately. Instead, he picked up the hammer and returned to work, letting the sound of metal fill the silence.
"If you need him so badly, find another way to bring him about. But don't use me as a tool for your plans," he said at last, voice calm but firm.
Alaya looked at him for a long moment, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Perhaps you're right. After all, you're Muramasa—and no one forces you to forge what you don't want to."
Still, even after Alaya retired to rest that night, her words lingered in his mind. Not because he cared about some Emiya Shirou or the world's flow, but because they reminded him of something he rarely allowed himself to think about: the possibility of a future beyond himself.
He looked at his hands, calloused and worn from years of work, and thought of all the swords he had forged. Each one was a masterpiece, yet each had a purpose beyond his hands. Sometimes he wondered if his own existence was like those swords—made to serve a purpose he could neither control nor define.
But with a sigh, he pushed the thought aside. "The future can wait. I live in the present," he murmured, focusing again on the steel before him.
For her part, Alaya had adopted a more relaxed attitude toward him. While she still harbored hope of fulfilling her goal, she no longer pressed the matter. She seemed content simply to be near him, as if the shared routine was enough—for now.
Yet deep down, she knew that with every day Muramasa's resolve went unchanged, the world inched closer to an uncertain fate. For someone like her, who existed beyond time and space, that was a troubling thought—though she would never admit it.
"Perhaps Emiya Shirou will never exist," she thought one night while gazing at the stars from the garden. "Perhaps I'll lose my best Counter Guardian. But at least… this stubborn blacksmith remains interesting."
And with that, she accepted—at least for now—that fate would run its course, with or without her direct intervention.
Over the years, Muramasa had managed to maintain a comfortable, stable routine in his home atop the mountain. Occasional visits from high-profile clients—daimyos and generals alike—kept his forge busy, but his life was, for the most part, predictable. Now, at thirty-nine, part of him longed for a change, even if only a temporary one. That was when he heard rumors about the hot springs of Shinano, famous for their relaxing properties and the breathtaking scenery that surrounded them.
While watching the sunrise from the entrance of his workshop, Muramasa made a decision that even surprised Alaya.
"How about a trip?" he said, his tone as casual as if he were suggesting lunch.
Alaya, sitting with a cup of tea in hand, raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
"A trip? You? I thought you were married to this mountain and your hammer. What made you change your mind?"
Muramasa sighed, setting the hammer aside.
"I'm almost forty. If I stay locked up here, forging steel day and night, I'll end up becoming part of the forge itself. I heard about some hot springs in Shinano—fresh air, hot water… sounds like a good place to stretch my legs and clear my head."
Alaya let out a soft laugh, her gaze amused.
"And you're inviting me? How unexpected of you, Muramasa. Does this count as a date?"
"If it makes you feel better, think of it that way," he replied evenly, already gathering things for the trip.
Alaya couldn't help but smile at his answer, though she knew he meant nothing in particular by it. Still, the idea of breaking from routine and accompanying him sounded far more interesting than staying alone at the house.
The trip to Shinano took longer than Muramasa expected, but it was no less interesting. Alaya, as always, filled the silences with clever remarks or stories about the world only she seemed to know. Muramasa, for his part, replied now and then, but spent much of the time quietly observing the changing landscapes as they descended the mountain and followed the paths into the hot spring region.
When they finally arrived, the place exceeded his expectations. Surrounded by green mountains and a clear sky, the hot springs looked like a hidden paradise. The waters released a faint steam that mingled with the fresh air, creating an atmosphere of calm that even managed to relax Muramasa's perpetually tense posture.
"Not bad, huh?" Alaya commented, taking in the scenery with her arms crossed.
"Not bad," Muramasa admitted, though his tone didn't reveal just how impressed he truly was.
They settled into a nearby inn—simple but welcoming, with rooms that offered direct views of the springs and surrounding mountains. Muramasa spent much of the afternoon exploring the area, while Alaya, true to her nature, seemed more interested in observing the other guests and making comments about them.
That night, they decided to enjoy the hot springs. As Muramasa immersed himself in one of the outdoor pools, the water's heat relaxed his tense muscles and, for the first time in a long while, allowed him to stop thinking about work and the pending swords waiting for him.
"I'll admit this was a good idea," Alaya said from a nearby pool, submerged to her neck, eyes closed, clearly enjoying the moment. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. Maybe now you'll complain less."
"Me complain? Please, I'm the best company you could ask for." She opened one eye to give him a mischievous smile.
"Sure—if you consider constant sarcasm and endless jokes a virtue," he replied without taking offense.
They fell silent for a while, simply enjoying the sound of water and the distant chirping of crickets.
"Muramasa, do you ever think about the future?" Alaya suddenly asked, her tone more serious than usual.
"Enough to know I'm not interested in worrying about things I can't control. I live in the present, like I've told you before."
"Hmm…" Alaya reclined against the pool's edge, watching him. "Maybe that's why I like you."
Muramasa raised an eyebrow but said nothing. It was rare for Alaya to say something so direct, and he chose not to ruin the moment by questioning her.
The days in Shinano were a breath of fresh air for both of them. Muramasa found a certain peace in the different routine, far from his forge and mountain, while Alaya seemed to enjoy interacting with the villagers and other travelers—though she never missed a chance to make a witty remark.
Still, even in that small paradise, Muramasa couldn't shake the feeling that something loomed ahead. Perhaps it was the habit of always living on guard, or maybe it was simply that, after so many years, he'd learned never to fully trust tranquility.
Alaya seemed to notice the subtle change in him but didn't mention it. Instead, she decided to make the most of their time, knowing that sooner or later, the blacksmith would return to his forge and the steel he loved so much.
"Don't get too used to relaxing," she told him one night as they watched the stars from the inn's terrace.
"Don't worry, Alaya. Rest is only temporary. There's always something else to forge."
With that, they shared a look of understanding before returning to the moment, both knowing the world outside would keep turning, waiting for their return.
The day had begun like any other for Muramasa and Alaya. They were descending the mountain to deliver a custom-made katana to a client. The sword—impeccable work, as always—rested in its wooden case, ready to change hands. Muramasa, used to the uneven trails, moved with confidence, while Alaya followed with her usual lightness, making offhand remarks to fill the silence.
"Don't you think I should get a commission for being your constant companion? After all, not just anyone gets the privilege of being bothered by me."
Muramasa didn't bother to look at her, his attention fixed on the path ahead.
"You get enough already, Alaya. You have food, a roof, and a place to tell your endless jokes."
"That doesn't count—that's the bare minimum you owe me for putting up with you."
"If you're not satisfied, you can always leave."
"And leave you bored and alone? Never."
The exchange was so common between them that neither thought anything could interrupt it. But fate had other plans.
While descending a particularly rocky stretch of the path, the ground beneath Alaya's feet began to crumble. It happened so suddenly she barely had time to react. The fall would have been dangerous even for someone with her skill, but before she could do anything, she felt Muramasa's hand grab her firmly.
"Muramasa!" she exclaimed, startled by his quick reaction.
"Grab my arm!" he growled, using all his strength to hold her in place.
The combined weight of Alaya and the collapsing ground caused Muramasa to lose his footing. In a desperate attempt to save her, he used his whole body as an anchor—but in the end, it was he who fell over the edge of the trail.
The impact echoed when his body hit the rocks below. Alaya, who had managed to stabilize herself just in time, watched in horror as Muramasa disappeared into the dust and debris.
"Muramasa!" she shouted, running to where he had fallen.
When she found him, Muramasa was sitting among the rocks, covered in dust and frowning. He looked more annoyed than hurt.
"Are you alright?" she asked, clearly concerned.
"Depends on your definition of 'alright,'" he replied dryly, clutching his left arm.
Alaya knelt beside him, quickly inspecting him. While there were no severe visible injuries, his left arm was clearly in an unnatural position.
"Your arm…"
"Yeah, I know. It's broken," he said calmly, as if it were a minor inconvenience.
"How can you be so calm? You could have died!"
"But I didn't," he replied, trying to get to his feet. "And I still have a commission to deliver."
"You're joking! You can't carry anything with that arm."
"I don't need to carry anything. The sword's intact—that's all that matters right now."
Alaya wanted to argue, but she knew it would be useless. Muramasa was stubborn as a mule, and nothing would stop him from keeping his word.
After delivering the commission—and enduring the client's incredulous stares at his condition—Muramasa and Alaya returned to the mountain. Night had fallen by the time they arrived, and visibly exhausted, Muramasa dropped into his usual spot by the low wooden table.
A makeshift cloth sling supported his left arm, restricting its movement as his recovery began. In front of him, a steaming cup of green tea sat untouched, his gaze distant, as if the liquid reflected more than just his physical state.
Alaya, seated across from him, watched with a mix of frustration and concern.
"Why did you take such a risk? I could have saved myself, you know."
Muramasa slowly lifted his gaze, his eyes tired but firm.
"I know. But I'm not going to stand by while someone with me is in danger. That's not my style."
"That was reckless. If you'd landed wrong, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."
"Maybe. But no matter what you say, I'd do it again."
Alaya looked at him in silence for a moment before sighing and taking a sip of her tea.
"You're an idiot, Muramasa."
"And you never let me forget it."
The room fell into a comfortable silence. Muramasa kept staring at his tea, while Alaya—despite her words—couldn't help but feel a faint warmth in her chest.
Despite everything, she knew Muramasa would always be this way: a man who faced anything head-on, even when it cost him more than he was willing to admit.
Two years had passed since the accident, and Muramasa was now forty-two. His left arm still hadn't fully healed. The fracture had been worse than he'd thought at first, and his age didn't help. He was no longer the young man who could recover from a broken bone in less than a year. Now, time and his body were taking their toll.
Muramasa spent his days at home—something he once would have considered unthinkable. He had always been busy, either at the forge or delivering commissions, but now his routine had changed drastically. His left arm, still bound in a sling, limited him too much to work at the forge. For the first time in a long while, he had to rely on the savings he had built up over the years.
"It's ironic," he said one day while staring out the window at the falling leaves. "I've worked my whole life to not depend on anyone, and now all I do is stay here."
From the table behind him, Alaya looked up from the book she was reading. "Don't exaggerate. This is all temporary. Your arm will recover, even if it takes longer than you expected."
Muramasa snorted, though without malice. "Temporary? Alaya, it's been two years and I can barely move this arm. If this is temporary, then winter lasts forever."
"You just don't know how to be patient," she replied with a light smile. "Besides, you should be grateful. Thanks to me, you're not living in misery. I've managed your money perfectly."
Muramasa glanced at her over his shoulder. "You managed my money? You call it 'managing,' but you basically hid it from me."
"And that's why you still have a roof over your head," Alaya countered, closing her book with theatrical flair. "If you'd had full access to your savings, you'd probably have spent them on more forge tools or sake."
Muramasa couldn't help but smile. "Maybe. But that doesn't mean I like depending on you."
"Depending on me? Don't look at it that way," Alaya said, standing and walking toward him. "Think of it as me investing in my entertainment. After all, watching Muramasa, the legendary blacksmith, learn what it means to rest is priceless."
Muramasa let out a short laugh. "You're insufferable, you know that?"
"I do," she replied, settling beside him as they both looked out the window. "But someone has to be here to remind you that life isn't just about work and commissions."
The silence that settled between them wasn't uncomfortable. Alaya's presence had become something natural for Muramasa. Though she was as irritating as the day they met, she was also the only constant companion he'd had in years.
That night, Muramasa stepped out into the backyard of his home with a cup of tea in hand. The air was cool, and the clear sky allowed the stars to shine brightly. He sat on the porch, setting the cup aside as he slowly flexed the fingers of his left arm. Though the pain had lessened, the lingering weakness was a constant reminder of his limits.
Alaya appeared soon after, wearing a light kimono. She sat beside him, crossing her legs with elegance.
"You should be sleeping. Staring at the stars isn't going to heal your arm."
"I couldn't sleep," Muramasa admitted. "I was thinking."
"About what?"
"How much time has passed." Muramasa looked at his hands—one strong and accustomed to work, the other weakened and wrapped in bandages. "A few years ago, I wouldn't have cared about something as trivial as a fracture. But now, I feel like each day that passes, my body betrays me a little more."
Alaya watched him in silence for a moment before replying. "Time catches up to all of us, Muramasa. Even someone like you. But that doesn't mean you should give up."
"I'm not giving up," he said firmly. "But it's frustrating—knowing there are things I want to do but can't because my body won't respond like it used to."
"And what do you plan to do about it?"
Muramasa took a sip of tea before answering. "Keep going. My arm will heal when it's ready, I suppose. In the meantime, I've no choice but to wait."
"That's surprisingly reasonable coming from you."
Muramasa smirked faintly. "I guess even I can learn a little patience."
Alaya gave a small laugh before lying back on the porch, eyes fixed on the stars. "Well, as long as you keep learning, I guess my work here isn't done."
"Work? I thought you were here just to annoy me."
"That's part of the job, too."
Muramasa shook his head but said nothing more. For the first time in a long while, he allowed the calm of the night to wash over him, setting aside his worries—if only for a moment.
At forty-three, Muramasa had finally regained full mobility in his left arm. The fracture that had kept him away from the forge for three long years was now behind him, but a new challenge had emerged: the loss of strength.
"No point in taking risks," he muttered, studying his arm as he slowly flexed his fingers. The motion was smooth, but the lack of power compared to his other arm was evident. "I've waited three years. I can wait a little longer."
At the table, Alaya sipped green tea with quiet amusement. "How mature you've become, Muramasa. I never thought I'd hear you say something so cautious."
Muramasa ignored her, picking up a small weight he'd carved from stone years before the accident. He began lifting it carefully, gauging every movement to avoid straining his arm. After a few repetitions, he set it down and exhaled deeply.
"It's frustrating," he admitted at last. "I've spent my whole life relying on my strength and skill, and now I have to start almost from scratch."
"I'll tell you what I always say," Alaya said as she stood gracefully and walked toward him. "Patience, Muramasa. It's a process. Though I'll admit, seeing you like this is… interesting."
"Interesting? Why do you say it like it's amusing for you?"
Alaya shrugged. "Because it is. You're a man who's always relied on his body and skills, and now you're learning what it really means to be human. You can't depend solely on your body—you also need wit and strategy."
Muramasa looked at her with a mix of resignation and amusement. "You know, sometimes I wonder if you're really here to help me or just to make fun of me."
"Both, obviously," she replied with a shameless smile.
Muramasa shook his head and picked up the weight again, this time using both arms. He couldn't deny that, though her constant teasing sometimes irritated him, Alaya's presence had been an anchor over the last few years.
Days passed, and Muramasa established a new routine to strengthen his arm—starting each morning with light exercises and avoiding overexertion. Progress was slow at first, but little by little, the strength began to return.
Alaya, though she wouldn't openly admit it, seemed genuinely invested in his recovery. She helped with the more complex exercises and occasionally brought him books on rehabilitation techniques she'd found in the nearby village.
"Since when do you care so much about physical recovery?" Muramasa asked one afternoon as he leafed through one of the books she had given him.
"I don't care about physical recovery," she replied without hesitation. "But I do care about you getting back to work. I'm already bored of seeing you doing nothing but lifting weights all day."
"Always so direct," Muramasa muttered, though he couldn't help but smile.
"Besides," Alaya continued as she poured a cup of tea, "there are still plenty of commissions waiting for you. You can't let your legacy end here."
Muramasa paused, looking at his arm again. She was right. There were still many swords he wanted to forge—masterpieces that existed only in his mind, waiting to be brought to life. But he also knew that rushing could ruin everything.
"First, I'll get my strength back," he said with determination. "Then I'll return to the forge. Not before."
Alaya studied him for a moment, then nodded. "A wise decision. Perhaps there's still hope for you, Muramasa."
A couple of months later, Muramasa decided to test his arm in a controlled environment. He lit the forge for the first time in years, the heat and the smell of molten metal strangely comforting. He had no intention of working on anything complex.
"Just something simple," he told himself as he placed a small piece of steel into the fire.
Alaya appeared at the doorway, leaning against the frame as she watched him. "Are you sure you should be doing this so soon?"
"I'm being careful," he replied without looking at her, focused on the work. "I'm not trying to forge a sword. I just want to see how my arm responds."
With precise movements, he lifted the hammer and struck the glowing steel. The sound rang through the forge—a sound he hadn't heard in far too long. After a few blows, he set the hammer down and flexed his left arm.
"Well?" Alaya asked, tilting her head.
"Better than I expected," Muramasa admitted. "But there's still a long way to go before I'm back to a hundred percent."
"At least you no longer look like a crippled old man," she said with a teasing smile.
Muramasa chuckled. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me in years."
He knew the road to full recovery would still be long, but he was ready to walk it. He had lost three years, but not his passion or determination. With each passing day, he felt closer to being the man he once was—though now with a renewed perspective on time, patience, and the importance of adapting to change.
Alaya, as always, stayed by his side, ensuring he never took himself too seriously. In her own way, she was an invaluable companion, even if she sometimes drove him to the edge of his patience.
"I suppose the legendary blacksmith is back," Alaya said one day as she watched him work on a simple project.
"Not quite," Muramasa replied, lifting the hammer. "But I will be soon."
Muramasa stared at his reflection in a small bowl of water Alaya had left on the table. His hair—once a vivid reddish hue—now showed streaks of dull gray that seemed to multiply each week. Despite the years, his eyes still held that spark of determination, but the rest of his body bore the marks of time.
"You're getting old, Muramasa," Alaya commented from across the room, wearing a mocking smile as she arranged a small vase with flowers she'd picked on the mountain. "Look at all that gray. It's not just a few strands—they've taken over your whole head."
Muramasa sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't need you to remind me. I noticed three months ago, when I couldn't ignore it in the mirror anymore."
"And it doesn't bother you?"
"No," he replied firmly. "Time comes for everyone—even a blacksmith like me. If gray hair is the price for staying alive, I'll take it. I've worked all my life and I'll keep working as long as my body allows. I'll die doing what I love."
Alaya set the vase down and looked at him, arms crossed. There was something in the calm way Muramasa spoke that she found intriguing—even admirable. "Always so stubborn. Though I suppose that's what makes you unique."
"It's not stubbornness—it's reality," Muramasa replied, taking a sip of tea. "I've forged swords my whole life. It's what I am, what I know. If that means my end comes at the forge, then so be it."
"You talk like you're waiting for death," she said, trying to mask the concern in her voice with a mocking tone.
"I'm not waiting for anything," he said, taking another sip of tea. "I just accept what will come. I'm not naive enough to think I'll live forever, Alaya."
That afternoon, Muramasa went to the forge. Though he had regained much of the strength in his left arm, he still worked with caution. He knew he couldn't forge with the same intensity as in his youth, but he wasn't willing to stop.
As he lit the fire, the familiar heat wrapped around him, and the sound of metal rang in the air. He took a piece of steel and began shaping it with steady blows. As he worked, strands of hair fell into his face, and for a moment he paused to push them aside.
From the doorway, Alaya watched in silence. There was something hypnotic about the way Muramasa worked, as if each strike on the metal was a heartbeat. But she couldn't ignore the gray hair or the deepened lines on his face.
"You should take a break," she said at last.
Without looking at her, Muramasa replied, "If I stop now, I'll lose my rhythm."
"I don't just mean today," Alaya insisted, arms crossed. "I mean you should think about working less. Your body isn't the same, Muramasa."
He set the hammer down and turned to face her. "I know I'm not the same, but that doesn't mean I should stop. The day I stop forging is the day I stop being me."
Alaya held his gaze for a few seconds before giving a faint smile. "Always so dramatic."
That night, as they dined at their small wooden table, the conversation returned to the passage of time.
"Have you ever wondered what will happen to your swords when you're no longer here?" Alaya asked, breaking the silence.
Muramasa, sipping sake, raised an eyebrow. "That won't be my problem. My swords will have to speak for me when I'm gone."
"Always so simple with your answers," Alaya said, resting her chin on her hand as she watched him. "But doesn't it bother you that your lineage—your legacy—might end with you?"
Muramasa set his cup down and met her gaze directly. "Alaya, I've done my part. My swords are in the hands of those who value them, and my name lives in every hammer strike I've made in this forge. I don't need a child to leave a legacy."
Alaya raised an eyebrow, surprised by the firmness of his answer. "Seems you've been thinking about this more than I thought."
"I've always known," he said calmly. "The gray hair, the wrinkles, the years… they're just reminders that time doesn't stop. But I won't change who I am out of fear of the inevitable."
For a moment, Alaya stayed silent, as if considering his words. Finally, she let out a small laugh. "You're a simple man, Muramasa. But I suppose that's part of your charm."
"Was that a compliment?" he asked, eyebrow raised.
"Maybe," she replied with an enigmatic smile.
Despite the years, Muramasa knew he still had much to do. Gray hairs might be a sign of the passage of time, but they were no obstacle to his passion. Each day in the forge was a reminder that, as long as he could hold a hammer and shape metal, he would remain the legendary blacksmith he had always been.
And though Alaya never stopped reminding him that time was not on his side, Muramasa knew he still had enough strength to forge more than just swords—he could keep forging his own destiny, one hammer strike at a time.
At forty-five, Muramasa found himself in a state of introspection as alcohol began to cloud his thoughts. He had been through so much in recent years, both in his work and in his personal life. His shoulders hung heavy as he drank, and with each sip, he felt as though an emptiness was taking over him.
"What's the point of all this?" he murmured, his voice deep and tired.
Alaya, ever attentive, watched in silence before speaking.
"You're not as old as you think," she said softly, setting her drink aside. Her warm gaze met his, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.
Muramasa looked at her with a certain melancholy, his thoughts trapped in the possibility of what might have been. If only it had been different? he thought. The idea of having a child—someone to carry on his legacy—had crossed his mind many times, but now he felt the time had already passed.
Alaya smiled enigmatically, her eyes shining with a mysterious light.
"I can do something about that," she said, slowly moving closer to him. With a smooth motion, she used her powers to give him a more youthful appearance, partially restoring the vital energy of fresher times.
Muramasa, surprised by the gentleness of the change, felt something he had forgotten—a renewed spark of vitality. Stunned, he stared at his reflection for a moment, but before he could process it, he felt Alaya's lips pressing against his.
It was an unexpected, stolen kiss, yet full of an intensity neither of them had anticipated. At first, Muramasa stayed still, surprised by the gesture. But something deep within him—something long extinguished—began to ignite. He returned the kiss, and as he did, his heart pounded fiercely. It was as if, for the first time in years, he felt the spark of life renewed.
The same happened to Alaya. Her heart—now human—beat rapidly, something she had never experienced in her long existence. The emotion of feeling her own heart race with such intensity, of experiencing something as human as love, was entirely foreign to her. In her long life, Alaya had never known this kind of connection, and like Muramasa, her capacity for love had remained dormant until that moment. Despite her immortality and all she had seen and felt, this moment was completely new, unique, and disconcerting to her.
The connection between the two seemed to transcend everything they had experienced before. As their lips parted, a thin thread of saliva formed, showing the intensity of the moment. The air around them seemed to grow denser, and the room grew warm.
Muramasa, breathing heavily, looked at her with a mix of awe and desire. The atmosphere, once filled with uncertainty, was now charged with palpable energy. He felt that something in his life was changing, and it was more than a simple physical need. There was something deeper, something that only manifested in moments like this—a feeling that made him forget, for an instant, the years and the worries.
With a mischievous smile, Alaya slid her hands toward him, slowly slipping off her kimono. Muramasa, never taking his eyes off her, touched her skin with a tenderness that showed how much his perspective had shifted in that moment. The passion they shared was not only physical but also emotional—a bond they both felt more strongly than ever.
The warm candlelight illuminated their bare bodies, casting soft shadows that wrapped them in an embrace of darkness and light. Alaya's soft moans filled the air, her breathing erratic like that of someone finally allowing herself to feel what she had kept inside for so long. Their movements, slow and heavy with emotion, were a dance neither of them had planned, yet now felt natural, as if it had always been that way.
Every caress, every kiss, every gesture seemed to be a silent declaration of what they had both been keeping for so long. It was not just desire—there was something deeper, something awakening in their hearts, something neither had ever known before. It was a new sensation, a mixture of warmth and closeness that grew more intense with each second.
The room, now immersed in shadow and light, became the stage for a deep connection. Their bodies, joined in a silent dance; the growing connection between them; and the beating of their hearts, which now, for the first time, seemed to share a common rhythm. The whispers of their names, the soft moans escaping their lips, were the only words needed in that instant—a language neither had learned, but now understood perfectly. As if that moment were the most important of their lives.
The days passed slowly, marked by the constant change weaving itself into their lives. As Muramasa cared for Alaya, he found himself increasingly surprised by a detail he had not anticipated—his own body. Although the passage of time seemed inevitable, something had changed within him. Since that night, when Alaya had used her powers to rejuvenate him to the age of thirty-five, his body had undergone an unexpected transformation. He no longer felt the years he had accumulated, nor the fatigue of past years. He felt young again, as if he could start over.
Looking at himself in the bedroom mirror, he observed with a mix of awe and disbelief. The wrinkles that had begun to form on his face had vanished, and the hair that had started to turn gray now shone once more with its vivid red. Sometimes, he caught himself touching his face—the smoothness of his skin—as if his body had returned to that point when he first met Alaya, at thirty-five years old. It wasn't only his physical appearance that had changed; he felt the vibrant energy within him, as though the passage of time had stopped, or at least reversed its effects.
"How…?" he murmured to himself, touching his skin and hair. He was not a man prone to deep thoughts about magic or the inexplicable, but this was something he could not ignore. Alaya, with a warm smile on her lips, had made the impossible possible. She, who had seen and even lived for centuries, had decided to use her powers to restore his youth, so that he could share this new stage with her.
Despite the gratitude he felt, there was some unease in his mind. Why had she done it? Deep down, Muramasa knew he had never been a man concerned with his appearance, but what surprised him most was what this transformation represented. His now rejuvenated body was a reminder of what could have been, of what he had left behind—not just the forge, not just time, but the future.
While Alaya settled on the bed, caressing her growing belly, Muramasa could not help but think about what had changed inside him. The bond between them, which had begun with a different purpose, was now a promise of something deeper. Alaya, who had chosen to share this moment with him, had not only rejuvenated him physically but had given him the chance to experience something he had never considered—family, love, and the meaning of life beyond work.
He looked at Alaya, resting peacefully while he continued processing his own transformation, and thought about the future. Now, more than ever, he felt the responsibility to be part of something greater, something beyond his work at the forge—the legacy he would soon share with her.
Time kept moving forward, but for Muramasa, it was no longer just about the forge and iron. The future now felt full of possibilities, and although he was still surprised by his youthful appearance, there was something in his heart telling him that, at last, he had reached a point in his life where he could see beyond what he had once considered impossible.
Months went by, and with each one, life in Muramasa and Alaya's home seemed to follow a calm course, full of small moments that spoke of the change they could no longer avoid.
Alaya, even in her pregnant state, remained the same as always—mocking, sarcastic, full of energy, and always teasing Muramasa in ways only she could. The blacksmith, though now rejuvenated, couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed by her playful yet calm nature. Her presence brought life to him—it made him feel more human, despite how strange all of this was.
"Still feeling that young?" Alaya asked mockingly, rubbing her rounded belly as they walked through the hallways of the house. "Hopefully you won't wrinkle too fast, huh?"
Muramasa, who didn't let her teasing get to him, simply answered with a kind smile, though not without a bit of weariness at her constant sarcasm.
"I already told you it doesn't bother me. Don't you have something more important to worry about? Like that baby you're carrying?"
Alaya laughed at his response because, even though he seemed serious, there was always something in his tone that showed he had gotten used to her jokes. He never took those words badly.
"Yeah, sure. I'm busy with my deformed belly. But at least when I have it, I promise you it won't be as hard as forging a sword." She answered with a wink, enjoying Muramasa's reaction.
The months passed, and time seemed to fly for them. Muramasa had already learned not to take Alaya's every comment seriously. As her belly grew, the love between them strengthened—but in a quiet, steady way, without the grand romantic gestures that others might expect. Even though the forge had remained still, Muramasa felt an unusual warmth in simply being by her side.
Months later, Alaya was nearing her due date. Muramasa, though still the serious, work-focused man he had always been, couldn't help but worry a little about the future. He watched how she caressed her belly and thought about all that this meant—a child. A son. Something he had never considered before, but now it felt inevitable, like part of his destiny.
"It's strange, isn't it?" Muramasa murmured one quiet night as he watched Alaya from the table. "I never thought we'd get this far."
Alaya lifted her eyes from her book and smiled softly, as if it weren't such a surprising thing.
"So what? You didn't think I could be your partner for life?" she teased, but with a tone that revealed how much she cared. "Don't worry. You've gotten used to me, and now you'll have to get used to someone else."
The baby—whom they had decided to name Ryuuji—had already begun to move more frequently in Alaya's belly. Both knew the child's arrival was near, and the house was filled with an air of anticipation. The forge was quiet, and Muramasa was beginning to think that he no longer lived just to work—there was now something else worth living for.
Finally, on a calm spring afternoon, Alaya began to feel the first pains. Muramasa, who had not shown much concern before, now found himself unable to hide his anxiety as he watched his partner prepare to give birth. Though he had no experience in such matters, the warmth that had been growing in his heart over the years made him stay by her side—more worried for her than for anything else.
As the contractions grew stronger, Muramasa quickly set about helping her, making sure everything was ready. Despite the pain, Alaya gave him a warm smile—something rare for her—as if she too were sharing this moment with him in a way unlike anything before.
"Almost there," Muramasa murmured, with a gentle smile as he held her. "We made it."
With one final effort, Alaya gave birth to Ryuuji—a small but strong boy who immediately filled the room with his cries. Muramasa, looking at his son for the first time, could not help but feel overwhelmed with emotion. Though he had been a man devoted to his work, he had never imagined that a moment like this could make him feel so complete.
Alaya, gazing at her son with affection, placed her hand over Muramasa's, letting him know without words that this moment was, in some way, the culmination of everything they had lived together.
"Welcome to the world, Ryuuji," Muramasa whispered, gently touching his son's forehead. "This is your home."
It was a quiet afternoon at home. The forge was off for the moment, and Muramasa was enjoying a cup of tea in his chair. However, the noise coming from the living room soon caught his attention.
Ryuuji, their six-year-old son, with reddish hair (and a streak of silver-blue) and golden eyes, was in the middle of an argument with Alaya, who watched him with a frown while the boy tried to explain his mischief. The child, who had been running near the forge, seemed unaware of the seriousness of the situation.
"Ryuuji," Alaya said in a soft but firm voice. "I've told you not to go near the forge. What would you do if you fell or burned yourself? It's not a place to play."
Ryuuji, his golden eyes full of innocence, looked up at his mother and began to step back, as if wanting to escape her scolding. "I was just looking, Mom! I didn't touch it, really."
Alaya didn't waver. "It doesn't matter if you were just looking—it's dangerous. You have no idea what it's like to be near that hot metal."
The boy looked desperately at his father, hoping he would, as always, step in to save him from the scolding. With wide, pleading eyes, he made a small head gesture, silently asking for help.
Muramasa, who had been watching from the doorway with a slight smile, sighed and got up from his seat. But before he could say anything, he looked at Alaya and remembered how useless it was to contradict her when she got serious.
"Sorry, son…" Muramasa murmured, shaking his head in defeat, as if he already knew the outcome of the battle. "You know I can't help you with this."
Ryuuji looked at him in shock. "Dad! Please!" he cried, looking for a little mercy in his father's eyes.
Muramasa simply raised his hands in surrender. "I can't… she's right. And you know what happens if you don't listen to your mother."
Seeing that her husband wasn't opposing her authority, Alaya couldn't help but smile slightly, though her gaze remained serious. "It's not fun, is it, Ryuuji? Next time, remember that the forge isn't a place to play. Though… I know you'll be a good blacksmith someday. But you still have a lot to learn."
Defeated, Ryuuji lowered his head and sighed. "Okay…" he murmured reluctantly, accepting the scolding.
Seeing that her son had finally yielded, Alaya crouched down and gently ruffled his hair. "It's for your own good, little one. I just want you to be safe."
Muramasa, watching the scene with an amused smile, stepped forward and gave his son a light pat on the back. "Best learn now, Ryuuji. My forge… isn't a place for children. At least not until you have the strength to handle it."
Ryuuji looked at him with a mix of frustration and resignation. "I know, Dad… I know."
Finally, Muramasa shot his wife a conspiratorial look, as if to say he understood she enjoyed the little scolding. "It's clear I have no say in this house," he joked as he walked toward the kitchen.
Alaya smiled with a mix of satisfaction and tenderness, knowing that deep down, Muramasa always supported her decisions, even if indirectly. And as Ryuuji retreated to his room, muttering something about "never going near the forge again," Muramasa couldn't help but chuckle quietly.
"You should be thankful you have a strict mother, Ryuuji," Muramasa said softly as he watched his son leave. "If it were up to me, I might've let you play a little longer."
Centuries later…
Fire consumed everything around—a hell on earth. Shirou, with a broken body and an empty mind, could barely stand. He remembered only his name, but had no idea who he was or who his family had been. Darkness surrounded him, and his being faded among the flames. He felt nothing but emptiness and pain.
As he stumbled like a puppet, trying to escape that hell, his small, weakened body could take no more. Finally, he fell, his body among the rubble. His gaze wandered to the sky, covered by a black shroud, while smoke rose and ash filled his lungs. He raised an arm, as if hoping someone would come to save him.
And then, it happened. His empty eyes saw a man with dark hair and eyes, dressed entirely in black. The man's lifeless eyes shone with a strange glimmer of happiness, accompanied by a smile that radiated peace. In that moment, Shirou felt a pang of envy, wishing he could someday smile like that.
In the distance, a sphere of energy with two glowing rings observed the tragic scene. The adult figure rescued the boy from the inferno. After witnessing the rescue, the sphere of energy vanished.
Alaya had gotten what she wanted.
Final Note:
I hope this one-shot has been to your liking, and that this unusual pairing, Muramasa x Alaya, hasn't bothered any reader who decided to give it a chance despite the strange match. And you're right—it's a rare pairing: a human and an entity like Alaya, united in a relationship that bore a unique child. If you have ideas for equally unexpected or unusual pairings, don't hesitate to share them. I'd be delighted to bring them to life in a new story! 😊