Kirisawa Tsurugi used to believe the dojo was the safest place in the world. The scent of tatami, the echo of disciplined footsteps, the steady rhythm of practice—these were the sounds that shaped his childhood, comforting and familiar.
He had been swinging a shinai since he was old enough to understand the word kamae.
Every strike, every shout, every drop of sweat felt like a step toward becoming someone strong. Someone honorable. Someone who would never hurt others.
But all it took was one moment
One Mistake
to turn his sanctuary into a nightmare.
That afternoon began like any other. The dojo was warm, sunlight filtering through the paper windows, casting long, peaceful beams across the floor.
Students lined up with their partners, adjusting their gear, tightening their bogu, preparing for sparring practice.
Tsurugi stood across from his longtime practice partner, Hayato someone he trusted more than anyone in the dojo. They had trained together for years, learning each other's rhythms, mistakes, and strengths.
"Tsurugi, focus today," Hayato said with a grin behind his men mask. "Sensei's watching closely."
Tsurugi nodded. "I know."
His heart was steady, but there was something different about that day something he couldn't name.
Maybe it was the pressure of upcoming evaluations. Maybe it was simple fatigue. Or maybe it was nothing at all, just fate preparing to snap.
The command echoed sharply through the dojo.
"Start!"
The sparring began.
Tsurugi stepped forward, his stance firm. The shinai felt balanced in his grip, familiar and reassuring. He blocked Hayato's opening strike smoothly, counterattacking with a practiced fluidity.
Their swords clashed in a flurry of clack and crack, a dance they had performed countless times before.
He moved with instinct, responding without hesitation, matching Hayato's speed. Their spar grew faster, more intense. Sensei watched, arms folded behind his back, approving their technique.
But then—it happened.
A single misstep.
Tsurugi didn't know if he stepped too far or turned his hips too much. All he remembered was the sudden shift in balance, the subtle slip of his footing against the tatami. His body lurched forward, momentum spiraling out of control. His shinai, meant to stop mid-strike, continued in a wild, unstoppable arc.
"Tsurugi—!" Hayato gasped.
There was no time to pull back.
No time to correct himself.
The bamboo tip slammed into the side of Hayato's throat.
The world froze.
The sound wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was a dull, sickening thud—the kind of sound that didn't belong in a place of discipline and respect.
Hayato dropped instantly.
Students shouted. Someone screamed. Sensei rushed forward, kneeling at Hayato's side. The dojo, once quiet and rhythmic, erupted in chaos.
Tsurugi stood in the center of it all, his shinai still raised, trembling violently in his hands.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't understand how everything had gone so wrong in the span of a heartbeat.
Hayato gagged, clutching his throat. There was blood— not much, but enough to be unforgettable. Enough to stain the tatami, enough to freeze Tsurugi's heart.
"Tsurugi! Drop the shinai!" someone yelled.
He didn't remember letting go. He only felt the weight vanish from his hands, leaving behind a hollow, aching coldness.
Paramedics arrived. Students gathered in frightened clusters. Sensei's voice was stern but shaking as he explained what happened. Tsurugi could barely hear anything over the ringing in his ears.
I almost killed him.
I almost killed my best friend.
How could I—?
Hayato survived, thanks to quick treatment. The strike had narrowly missed damaging anything truly vital. Everyone told Tsurugi it wasn't his fault—that accidents happened, that he must not blame himself, that Hayato didn't hold any anger toward him.
Hayato even visited Tsurugi himself after recovering. He smiled, forcing lightness into his voice.
"Hey… I'm okay. It wasn't your fault, you know? You just slipped. It happens."
Tsurugi tried to smile back.
But he couldn't.
Because every night, the same moment replayed behind his eyelids: the slip, the strike, Hayato collapsing, his body hitting the ground with a choked gasp. No matter how many times people told him he wasn't to blame, the image burned deeper into his mind.
And the worst part?
He remembered how it felt—the momentum of the swing, the helplessness of not being able to stop it. He remembered the fear in Hayato's eyes. He remembered his own hands shaking uncontrollably afterward.
From that moment on, Tsurugi couldn't touch a shinai without his pulse spiking. His fingers stiffened every time he tried to grip a hilt. His arms froze mid-strike during practice. Sensei spoke gently, encouraging him to take breaks, to return when he was ready, but "ready" never came.
One day, Tsurugi stood alone inside the empty dojo. The afternoon was quiet. The sun cast the same warm beams on the tatami that it had on the day of the accident. He stared at the lone shinai lying in the center of the room.
It wasn't a weapon. It wasn't dangerous.
But to him… it felt like a living threat.
His chest tightened painfully. His breaths grew shallow. Sweat prickled his palms as he reached down, slowly, forcing himself to touch the grip.
His fingers trembled violently the moment he felt the texture of the handle.
He jerked his hand away.
"No…" he whispered. "I can't."
The fear wasn't of the shinai itself.
It was the fear of himself—of his own strength, his inability to control it, his potential to hurt someone again.
He knew people trusted him. He knew Hayato had forgiven him. But Tsurugi couldn't forgive himself. He couldn't silence the voice inside that repeated the same horrifying question:
What if next time… someone doesn't survive?
He took a step back from the shinai.
Then another.
And another.
Until he found himself outside the dojo entirely, heart pounding, breath unstable, hands cold.
That was the day Kirisawa Tsurugi stopped practicing kendo.
That was the day the sword he once admired became the thing he feared most.
And deep inside him—beneath the guilt, beneath the regret—was a wound that refused to heal, a wound that followed him into every moment of his life afterward.
A wound shaped like the blade he once trusted.