"Some flowers only bloom through the blade."
The air in Takayama always smelled like cedar and rain — a scent that lingered on Nala's clothes even after training. Mist clung to the morning, curling around the hills like shy spirits. A pair of sparrows danced on the crooked fencepost as if to announce the start of another day.
Inside the dusty dojo behind the house, the rhythm of wooden swords echoed like a heartbeat.
Crack. Step. Block. Breathe.
Nala's bokken collided with another, the jolt running through her arms. Sweat beaded at her temples, curls damp against her forehead. She didn't flinch.
Across from her stood her grandfather, Kenjirō Hisakawa, the man known decades ago as Shinkenshi — the "True Blade" of the Eastern Syndicate. He was a man time hadn't softened. His frame, though aged, carried the presence of someone who had lived through war, loss, and discipline. Bronze skin, weathered from years under the open sky, stretched over muscle that had not yet faded. His white hair was pulled back into a low knot, a few stray strands drifting with the wind. A long scar crossed his face from brow to cheek — an unspoken tale no one dared ask about.
He wore his old haori like armor, sleeves rolled to reveal faded ink—kanji etched into his skin during his youth, symbols of honor, sacrifice, and strength. His hands, lined and calloused, still moved with a lethal grace. His eyes, sharp as any blade he had ever wielded, seemed to scan the world without pause. But when they landed on Nala, they softened — only for a moment.
"Again," he said, voice like gravel and wind.
Nala stepped forward without hesitation. Her movements were precise, honed over years of repetition. She was quick, but he was quicker — disarming her in one swift motion.
She breathed out, barely winded.
Kenjirō eyed her with approval, though his expression barely shifted. "You're holding your breath during the spin," he muttered. "Still."
"Yes, Ojīsan," Nala replied.
He nodded once and turned away, his worn robe trailing like smoke. "Again. But this time, imagine you're facing the one who took your family."
A silence fell between them — heavy, full of memory. Nala didn't need to imagine. The image was always there, etched into her mind. Her hands tightened around the wooden handle.
Later that day, Nala sat outside with her saxophone balanced on her lap. The notes she played were soft and slow — meandering like the river behind their home. It was the only time she ever allowed herself to feel softness.
She stopped abruptly, aware of eyes watching.
Kenjirō stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
"You're playing that piece again," he said.
"It's the only one I wrote that doesn't sound... angry."
He chuckled, just a little. "Maybe anger sharpens the blade, but music refines the soul."
She looked away, lips pressing into a thin line.
"I was not always a good man, Nala," he said after a pause. "Your grandmother softened me. And your father... he gave me reason to believe I could raise a better world."
Nala glanced at him now.
"I've seen what revenge does. I taught it to many. But you—" he pointed gently with two fingers, "you must balance the steel in your hands with the bloom in your heart."
"I haven't cried in fifteen years."
Kenjirō gave a soft, knowing sigh. "The flower does not bloom when it's told. It opens when it's ready."
That evening, her best friend Lena arrived — arms full of mochi and trouble. She was the opposite of Nala in every way: bubbly, loud, and full of color. Her Japanese-Hispanic accent blended into her rapid-fire storytelling as she flopped down on Nala's futon.
"You have to come with me to town next week. There's a traveling swordsmith with a booth, and I bet he's giving away used blades," Lena said, kicking her legs in the air like a child.
Nala arched an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a good thing."
"It is! For the plot! For destiny!"
Despite herself, Nala let a smirk slip. Lena always managed to bring a flicker of warmth into the stillness she lived in.
Outside, the petals of the black lotus bush near the porch swayed in the breeze — soft, but strong. The symbol of the Hisakawa clan, and now... her.