The morning mist still clung to the stone roads as Hinata made her way toward the lower edge of the capital with Kuro at her side and Kaito walking a respectful distance behind. The city was slowly waking, blacksmiths and merchants preparing for the coming festival. But among them, one name echoed in reverent tones—Masamune, the Iron Flame, the greatest swordsmith of the Land of Iron.
His forge was not tucked into the busy merchant districts but sat alone, nestled near the foot of the mountain slope, with thick wooden beams braced against the rock wall. Even from outside, the rhythmic beat of hammer on metal rang out like a heartbeat.
They were greeted by a broad-shouldered apprentice who bowed deeply and led them into the warm, glowing interior of the forge. The air inside was heavy with iron, oil, and fire. Hinata could feel the weight of intention in every corner, as if the building itself remembered every weapon forged within.
Then he appeared—Masamune, a man older than Takama, with a mane of gray-black hair bound behind his shoulders, soot-smudged skin, and bright, intelligent eyes that pierced as surely as any blade.
"So," he said, voice like crushed stone, "this is the girl who carries my blade."
Hinata bowed. "I am honored, Master Masamune."
He gestured to a table, where her sakabatō rested.
"Your father commissioned it with care. I forged it of common steel, but with an edge folded by my own hand. It is strong, enduring, and kind—as you requested."
She nodded. "It has never failed me."
Masamune grunted. "And yet... it was not made truly for you."
He walked in a slow circle around her, hands behind his back.
"A sword should not only be used—it should listen. Flow. Return. That blade hears you, but it does not speak your language."
He picked it up and placed it in her hand. "Swing. Let me see."
Hinata hesitated, then stepped into a kata. Her movements were fluid, guided by countless nights with Takama and the feedback of Kuro's quiet watching. But even as she moved, she could feel it—the slight dissonance, the way the blade didn't quite respond to the subtleties of her will.
Masamune nodded. "As I thought. You wield it well—but it resists your soul."
He turned to a shelf and uncovered a set of long, polished ingots—each a different color, a different source.
"These are base metals. Some are touched by chakra, others shaped by nature alone. Touch them."
She reached out slowly. One by one, she passed her fingers over the metals.
The fifth—silvered-black with faint white striations—vibrated softly at her touch.
Kuro growled faintly, ears perked. Kaito blinked, startled.
Masamune inhaled slowly. "Interesting. That alloy comes from ore mined deep in the north, said to resonate with spiritual energy more than physical. Few can touch it without recoil."
Hinata looked down. "It feels... like it recognizes me."
"No, it was waiting for you"
He turned fully to her now. "I will need time. And you. I will watch you at court. I will listen to how others speak of you. This blade cannot simply be forged in fire—it must be tempered in will."
Hinata bowed deeply. "I understand."
"Leave the sakabatō with me. You've earned a better companion."
<<<< o >>>>
Later that day, Hinata walked along the outer edge of the northern garden paths, Kuro close, Kaito a step behind. The city buzzed with activity—the upcoming spring ceremony drawing noble families and warriors from across the nation. Flags flew. Couriers ran. Blacksmiths fired kilns late into the evening.
"That was impressive," Kaito said finally.
"Master Masamune?"
"You." He paused. "That metal chose you. That doesn't happen often."
Hinata smiled faintly. "Perhaps it sensed the strength of my Grey Soul hidden behind my touch."
Kaito looked puzzled. "You speak of things I don't understand."
"A Grey Soul is one of the advanced states a soul is capable of reaching, the mark of a powerful soul, few reach it. It's not something you see—it's something you feel, when your intent becomes clear."
Kaito hadn't known what to expect when Lord Takama told him he would be guarding the girl called Hinata. He had imagined a pampered child, perhaps naive and clumsy, still mourning a family left behind.
What he found instead was something else entirely.
She walked with her eyes closed, yes—but with a grace that defied her supposed blindness. At her side, that enormous black dog—Kuro—never strayed, guiding her with subtle movements. Kuro unnerved him more than a few battle-hardened samurai he'd faced. That one eye gleamed with awareness, and when it turned toward him, Kaito felt a shiver travel down his spine. And yet, beside Hinata, the hound was calm. Loyal. Gentle.
That contradiction unsettled him. She, who looked so delicate she might break at a harsh word, commanded the loyalty of something so fearsome.
And then, inside Masamune's forge, he saw her step forward—not meekly, but with quiet confidence. He'd watched her perform a kata that bore the unmistakable mark of the Gin family's ancient style. Her balance, her execution—it wasn't raw talent. It was something sharpened by intention.
Even the sword she carried. A sakabatō. A reverse blade.
He understood now. She wasn't made for killing. She was forged, like the weapon she would soon bear, to protect.
He didn't say these things aloud. He simply followed her through the garden, and when she spoke of a Grey Soul and things he couldn't understand—he believed, without knowing why, that they were real.
<<<< o >>>>
That night, she meditated beneath a blossoming pine. In the stillness of her breath, she felt the memory of the forge, the rhythm of her blade, the spark of the metal that had waited for her.
And she whispered:
"I will grow. I will learn your voice. And one day... we will speak together in battle."
Above her, the moon shimmered silver—listening.