The sky above was painted with shades of crimson and gold, the last light of day filtering through the dense canopy of the forest. In the heart of those woods, a lone figure moved with relentless intensity.
Ken's bare feet gripped the earth, his hands wrapped in rough cloth, blood seeping through from torn knuckles. Every swing of his wooden blade sliced the air with purpose. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, yet he refused to rest. Sweat streamed down his brow, but he welcomed the sting—it reminded him that he was still alive, still fighting.
Thwack!The blade struck against the training post again. And again. And again.
"I will become stronger," he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse. "For Mother. For Father."
His arms trembled from exhaustion, but his spirit refused to break. In that moment, Ken wasn't just a 19-year-old boy with a wooden sword. He was a warrior in the making—sharpened by pain, forged by purpose.
He paused, lowering the blade, and leaned against a tree. The wind rustled the leaves gently, almost like a whisper from the past. Ken closed his eyes, allowing the memories to return.
He saw himself, much younger, laughing under the same trees. His father's voice echoed in the wind—deep, strong, comforting. "A blade is only as strong as the heart that wields it, Ken."
His mother's gentle hands combed through his hair, telling him bedtime stories of legendary samurai. The smell of rice cooking, the warmth of home… all of it was gone now.
Stolen.
Tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them away. There was no time for weakness.
His father had been murdered under suspicious circumstances two years ago, a case that was never truly investigated. Days later, his mother was falsely accused of the crime, labeled a traitor, and imprisoned. Ken was left alone—cast out by society, pitied by none.
But pity wasn't what he wanted.
He wanted the truth. He wanted justice. And above all, he wanted revenge.
He tightened his grip on the sword again.
"Who killed you, Father?" he whispered. "Why was Mother blamed?"
In the silence that followed, only the rustle of trees responded. But Ken took it as a sign. He wiped his brow, tied the cloth tighter around his hands, and resumed training.
This time, every strike was sharper, faster, more focused. The woods echoed with the sound of his fury and determination.
The fire within him had been lit. And it would not go out until the truth was found, his mother was free, and his enemies had paid the price.
This was only the beginning