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Chapter Text

Windblades burst forth into the forest, cutting through the humid jungle air, stirring up flying leaves and glittering dew. Fungi bolted before the sky-blue crescents much like the leaves, grounded geoshrooms tramping through the undergrowth in a panic, their smaller kin hopping and tumbling after them.

“Know your place!”

An imperious voice, ringing out through the forest with absolute command as though the fungi could understand – yet also filled with an almost malicious glee. This had been a cleanup task, but the speaker had also found some measure of enjoyment in it.

“Thank you, Nara Kintsugi! Shroom-kin will not be back for a while…” The blue Aranara hovered up, looking after the retreating fungi over the undergrowth’s ferns and creepers. Behind him, one of the cavern entrances to underground Vanarana was secure once more. “…Aranakula is home, but now will not panic over shroom-kin and scare the viparyas. Very good.”

The Wanderer gave a brief hum. “You coddle him too much. But as long as it prevents you from using your Ararakalari… fine.”

It was to his advantage that Ararycan not use his powers drawn from memory and forget, just for a little while. Normally it would’ve been fine, but this was a bit of a special case. He couldn’t really believe he was doing this, himself, but he’d gotten this far. “You’d better have paid attention.”

“Yes!” The Aranara turned around, drawing his little wooden blade. “Nara went like this, and this!” He slashed through the air, horizontal, diagonal – then expectantly looked at his friend. “Right?”

“…Adequate. Now, watch this.” Kintsugi took out a piece of cloth, carefully folded it, then used it to clean the forest dew, a few shreds of stray leaves and a smattering of fearfully sprayed spores off his weapon, before sheathing it at his side with equal care.

Today, he hadn’t flung out his windblades by merely sweeping his hands through the air in cutting motions. Today, as with the days before, he’d used a blade.

It hadn’t actually touched the fungi once; the windblades emanating from it had done all the work. All the same, keeping it pristine was something he took very seriously.

He watched with approval as Ararycan mimicked these motions as well, passing a little folded leaf over his tiny wooden blade before solemnly sheathing it at his own side. Perhaps sometime before, it would’ve amused him to see the little being so serious, but not now. This matter was actually important to him.

It was a novel thing, showing his care and dedication to something so openly. But in this case, attempting to hide it would be far more effort than it was worth, and it’d shame him besides. There was still some genuine pride in him – some genuine respect, for certain things at least.

“Now,” he spoke, wrapping his hand around the blade’s hilt, “let’s go through the steps again.”

Ararycan nodded with determination, mirroring his stance with his own little blade while still hovering in the air. “Alright!”

He’d spent weeks forging. Ahangar of Sumeru’s smithy had not been happy with him – not after the full extent of what he’d wanted to do came to light. Initially, the blacksmith had welcomed him to his forge and anvil, even offering tips, but Kintsugi had rebuffed him with trademark defiance. “I know exactly what I’m doing,” he’d scoffed, lugging in his own raw iron chunks. “I mastered this craft a long – well, quite a while ago.”

“You must’ve been very young,” Ahangar had observed, doubtfully eyeing his youthful face and unassuming physique, but forced to reconsider somewhat seeing how much he could carry in one go.

“Hmph. Surprised?” He’d started fashioning a deceptively simple construction of unfamiliar make from clay bricks, fresh from Akim’s stall lower on Treasures Street.

“…Just at what you’re doing now. What is that?”

Kintsugi had leered at him for a moment. “…An Inazuman tatara. A type of furnace. I’ll be needing it to smelt this iron into steel.”

“You can do that using my forge, right here. There’s also already useable steel here, you can use that.”

“No I can’t, and I won’t. I’m just here to borrow your anvil and tools.” And that had been that.

He’d worked meticulously and fast, but just creating and fine-tuning the tatara alone had taken over a week. When it was up to his standards, he’d smelted and refined the steel he needed, increasingly triumphant – he’d be using actual steel, not jade steel. He had no need for the ire of a dead god to create something exceptional enough to befit him, thanks very much – he remembered what Isshin methods used to be before jade steel was brought in by that meddlesome, brazen-faced – …no, he wouldn’t even do him the courtesy of thinking about him, not here…

He might not be going back to Inazuma anytime soon, but one day he aimed to, and perhaps he’d be taking his creation with him just to make one more point.

He’d used his Anemo abilities to coax the flames within the tatara to exactly the heights he needed as he worked, and continued to do so when the time came to actually start fashioning his blade. Sparks flew, and Ahangar warned him more than once as he’d shrugged off his unpractical haori and refused to replace it with any kind of protective clothing – but he’d flat-out ignored the advice every time, and smugly come out of the forge without so much as a singe mark on his skin, hair or bodysuit every time as well, to the blacksmith’s combination of ever greater annoyance and intrigue.

In Inazuma, forging a blade usually included ritual thanks to the Raiden Shogun, the one who’d shared the bladesmithing art with humanity in the first place. He forwent this in his own work, but still turned to look southeast occasionally, muttering his thanks to different recipients with a far-off gaze. Ahangar kept catching the same small collection of names. “Your teachers?” he assumed, one sweltering afternoon.

No reply ever came his way. Kintsugi simply kept working, both at his blade…

Niwa ruffling his hair and praising his first kageuchi. Katsuragi insisting he take breaks he didn’t need. Miyazaki showing him the baffling intricacies of folded steel. Nozomu and Kinjirou panicking when he’d been showered in sparks, but never burned…

…and the quiet waves of emotion that accompanied its development.

He folded and hammered the metal deep into the night, again and again, tirelessly, to the unanswered concern of some kind-hearted passers-by. Fortunately, the forge was situated amidst the other shops of Treasures Street, not actual residences – although the Akademiya’s night owls attempting to study at Puspa Café did find themselves disturbed by his ceaseless hammer blows and the oft-repeated hiss of quenching water. Eventually, some of them came over to watch, and especially those from Kshahrewar and his fellow Vahumana students and scholars found themselves lingering, interested in the forging process, and the cultural differences between Sumeran and Inazuman craftsmanship.

“You’re using a very interesting historical method,” a certain voice had remarked one starry evening. “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen this described in its entirety, let alone seen it done. Even in Inazuma itself, no one does it this way anymore, as far as I’m aware.”

Kintsugi had looked up, into the perceptive, mustachioed face of Aqaba, his peskiest of colleagues. “You must not have done a very thorough job researching.” A careless sigh, scattering embers under his hammer as his breath passed over the glowing steel. “Unsurprising.”

The merest hint of indignation, before the scholar carefully schooled himself and let it go. The suggestion of lots of practice where it came to this kind of restraint. “May I ask why you’re doing it this way? You could’ve imported crystal marrow.”

“…Mh. Personal preference.”

Just when the distant clanging at strange hours had become a familiar fixture, it suddenly stopped one night, and Kintsugi busied himself annoying the street’s denizens with an endless parade of increasingly refined whetstones, sharpening and polishing his creation far beyond any discernable further improvement – to the untrained, ignorant eye, as he insisted. That got most residents of the Nation of Wisdom off his back.

Then, as suddenly as he’d shown up in the forge, he was gone, taking his creation and dismantling the tatara. Ahangar found himself oddly missing his presence, despite everything. The strange youth had felt like he belonged there.

He hadn’t been done. He’d just relocated to the Sanctuary of Surasthana.

“…It’s a little weird. You speak to me through the Divine Tree all the time.”

“It’s not like it’s my actual body,” Nahida had giggled, watching him carve the blade’s intricate handguard in her bright, airy personal chambers. “I’m the avatar of Irminsul, remember?”

“Still.” He’d looked up at her for the barest moment. “No one ever dares using this wood. Are you playing favourites again, just giving me permission like that?”

She’d shrugged, huddled on her chair. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just that no one ever asks to use the Divine Tree’s wood, even though the tree is strong and ancient and can spare a handguard, hilt and scabbard. I might ask you why you asked permission at all,” she smiled, eyes glinting cheekily.

“You might, certainly.” He didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth quirked slightly as Nahida giggled while he continued working.

The handguard and hilt were both carved in Nahida’s chambers, often during their talks, the Archon watching the process intently with her eternally curious eyes. Eventually, she asked to fashion the sheath herself, coaxing it from the Divine Tree using her mastery of all things Dendro. Thus, it was formed from one single piece of Sumeran hardwood, instead of the customary two halves joined together. The two of them also tended to the lacquerwork together, Kintsugi decorating the sheath with swirls of Inazuman maple leaves and Nahida adding Sumeran lotuses, the two styles melding seamlessly. Every leaf and petal was outlined in thin gold, forming a delicate network of branching light.

When he sheathed the blade at his side for the first time, Nahida looked up at him. “Did you name it?”

“Yes.” He’d paused, a hand on the wrapped hilt. “‘Masamune’. I would name it ‘Masamune Isshin’, but that’d draw a little too much attention, for obvious reasons.” Of my own making.

He’d looked into his Archon’s eyes and still seen more curiosity. “…It means ‘revealer of truth’.”

She’d smiled, heartbreakingly fond. “A very apt name, everything considered.”

“It’s been forged using what I remember of Isshin art,” he’d murmured. “…Which entails striving for complete harmony between blade and mind from the very beginning. The blade is supposed to become an extension of the wielder’s will.”

“It suits you,” she’d observed, her eyes on the blade. “And, well… it complements you,” she smiled. “It was created using Sumeran materials, but Inazuman methods of refinement. You might consider yourself the opposite.”

He’d stared down at it as well, his eyes going wide with something like wonder. “…Huh.” A seamless whole, a perfect match between blade and wielder…

…perhaps he really had retained enough of Isshin art to get it right, even after four centuries doing everything he could to forget.

It’d been Nahida who’d set him on this whole path, culminating in a fully formed blade and his forest practice with Ararycan, to begin with. Nahida, and Zubayr Theater’s star dancer.

As always, it’d been his own fault. He could only come back to Nilou’s performances so many times before she’d take note of him in the audience, even if he wasn’t front and center – there was no getting around his hat, especially after the Akademiya Extravaganza. She’d approached him after one such performance before he’d been able to quietly leave the way he always did, and chatted and asked away the way she always did. Her smile was always so warm, and she just refused to be deterred by his standoffish attitude – he could never find a good way to escape her.

“It’s good to see another academic in the audience,” she’d smiled, eyes sparkling like Vana’s clearest pools. “Ensures us all that the performance is up to Akademiya standards, you know?” She’d looked so amused, but disarming at the same time – he’d known she was toying with him somewhat, but not in a malicious way. That was still a new and puzzling thing to get around for him. “Tch. I’m not one of those pedantic morons wasting their time hemming and hawing over the meaning of ‘wisdom’ in here…”

Right into her trap. “So… you’re here because you enjoy our shows?”

“I –” He let out a quiet growl. “If you want to delude yourself into –”

A soft, private laugh, going unheard by anyone else around them in the Bazaar. “It’s okay to like things, you know.”

“I – !” He clenched his jaw. What did he even say here? I’m only here because of the childish fascination my former blank slate self, oblivious at a fruit stand of all things, had for the cheap dazzlement you deign to put onstage – a former self that still exists within me and somehow still gets just as dazzled – “…Alright, fine, yes, I like them. Happy?”

She’d beamed, almost taking his hand between both of her own, but reconsidering when he flinched and bashfully folding them behind her back instead. “It’s very nice to hear, thank you.”

He scoffed. “It really doesn’t take a lot for you to feel complimented, does it?”

She chuckled. “I can tell it means a lot, coming from you. And… somehow, I get a sense you know what you’re talking about. You told me you were originally from Inazuma. That nation has a rich history of dance and theater as well, doesn’t it?”

A nation of puppets, dancing on strings of worship to their glorious Archon. But no, that wasn’t entirely fair. Inazuma could be more than that. He’d seen it himself.

He’d blurted it out before he’d even known it himself. “Your Sumeran sword dances. They drew me in first. I learned to perform those of Inazuma, a long time ago.”

And her eyes had gotten so big and so shiny he’d wished he could just disappear into his hat right then and there.

It was the most peculiar thing. He could barely even remember what she’d actually said in response.

All he knew was it’d only taken that initial show of overwhelming enthusiasm, interest and the request to perhaps watch him perform to give him the entire, fully formed idea he’d spend the next month following through on. Funny how that worked.

None of it would’ve actually happened without his Archon, though.

“Something on your mind? Let’s work through it together. Two heads are better than one,” she’d smiled, bright and sunny over tea one morning, when he’d been quietly staring into his cup for longer than usual.

He’d surprised himself by simply saying it. “I want to perform a sword dance.” He’d looked up, into her eyes, as annoyed with himself as he was startled by his candour. “I… spoke with Nilou a few days ago.” That wasn’t really an explanation, but he couldn’t bring himself to say more. Nahida didn’t really need more, however. Her eyes had instantly sparkled with interest, eager curiosity and encouragement, and he’d filled her in on the specifics. Mercifully, and entirely by the Archon’s design, the topic had shifted to sword dances in general as opposed to his specifically, and his mind and tongue had come untied enough for him to actually tell her more.

“Sword dancing originated from samurai using their skills to retell tales of battle,” he’d recounted, unnerved by how easy it was to slip back into thinking and talking about his former homeland. “Later on, any skilled swordsman might’ve learned to perform them, and the material became more flexible as well. In Tatarasuna… Katsuragi and I once performed one portraying the glorious future of a newly forged blade, the Daitatara Nagamasa.” His voice had gone bitter then. He’d spent enough time thinking about it and reconciling with it, but to think about the exact meaning of that dance now, and how things had actually turned out for the Katsuragikiri Nagamasa…

He shook himself. “…Anyway. Every movement has meaning. Performances can be accompanied by someone reciting poetry or telling the story so anyone can follow along.”

Nahida had nodded, careful and attentive. “What kind of story would you want to tell?”

“The truth.” Plain and simple, and yet so very far from it.

She’d caught on at once, her eyes widening a little. “Kintsugi…”

“A practice round,” he’d added, his smile a little bitter, a little cutting, but only towards himself. “If I plan to make amends and let people in on what really happened, what role I really played in this world that forgot me… I want to try it out this way first.” He’d breathed out the barest little laugh. “Wield a sword myself for a bit before the descendants of the Raiden Gokaden sink theirs into my chest.”

“That is not the healthiest attitude to have,” she replied with slight admonishment. “Put it this way instead. Reliving your past in a new way through art can help you recontextualize, put your trauma into a narrative. The real world has no narrative, and things don’t necessarily make sense – but they will in this performance. It may help you discern new meaning. Sharing it with others in a beautiful way like this may help even more.” She sagely folded her little hands. “I think this may be a healing experience for you. When you’re ready, I will inform Sheikh Zubayr and have him arrange the venue without further issue. Your performance will also already be approved by the Akademiya and matra.” Her eyes twinkled. “As the God of Wisdom, I proclaim it to already reinforce the proper themes ahead of time. How’s that?”

“You –” He faltered. He was glad she always let him choose whether or not he wore his hat during these talks, as right now he really needed to pull it down over his face. “…Right. I’d… better get to forging, then.”

“You’re going to forge your own blade?” So bright, so awed. That chirpy little voice of hers would be the death of him someday.

“I’ll be using Isshin art on stage. It stands to reason I’ll be using a sword forged using Isshin art as well.”

And here he was, holding a completed Masamune, having used it to send slashes of Anemo though the forest and showing Ararycan the finer details of what he needed to know – dance, but with an underlying base of combat. The blade itself had never touched the fungi menacing Vanarana, or any other enemy. He did not intend to sully the steel at all. That was not what he planned to use a blade for ever again, Isshin or not.

He wouldn’t be able to put things off much longer.

It’d only been half a year since he’d been shown to the truth about the only real home he’d ever had in his long life; that it had been a home, after all. That he’d let it be taken from him and tarnished by misguided bitterness and hatred for over four centuries. That the humans he’d thought untrustworthy had loved him, and he’d thanked them by decimating their descendants and their legacy.

He’d thought about these things, of course. With grueling constancy. But he’d never really relived them. He’d begun to process matters, but he’d never retold the story in full.

He’d said it to the Traveler, first thing. I’m harsh on myself and everyone else. He wouldn’t be cutting himself any slack.

Well. Maybe a tiny bit. As tiny as a single Aranara who’d foolishly claimed to be his friend, with the same grueling constancy, even to the extent of being willing to venture into the very heart of Sumeru City just for his sake…

He’d hesitated a little too long, going through the steps of his performance’s final act with Ararycan one last time, his finishing stance unyielding and measured on the forest floor. The Aranara had looked up at him from his own mirrored stance, tilting his little mushroom-capped head. “All good, Nara Kintsugi?”

He hesitated. “…Yeah. I’m good.” He habitually cleaned his spotless blade, sheathing it, and Ararycan followed without a moment’s pause. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he observed the Aranara’s form – as good as it was ever going to get. “I think we’re ready.”

Chapter Text

This is stupid, this is stupid, this is so stupid.

Zubayr Theater had announced a new show, unlike anything ever seen before upon its stage; an outlander performance from across the sea, a narrative and dance by the hand of one who’d honed his craft to perfection.

The Archon herself was said to be in attendance.

I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be doing this. What was I thinking…?!

The audience gathered on the plaza below the stage, framed by gentle palm-shaped lamps, its central fountain quietly murmuring in its verdant pond. The theater’s arches rose towards the mossy roots and bowels of the Divine Tree, hung with glittering flower-shaped lamps. There was a buzz amongst the audience that was even audible backstage.

People were curious to see this outlander artform. Some were unnerved. “An entire performance centered around swords? Nilou using one for the spectacle of it on occasion is one thing, but…”

Behind the stage, Kintsugi closed his eyes. He knew metallic weapons were offputting to some of the citizens of the nation of Dendro. He didn’t regret taking one up again, though. Not for this.

“You look stunning,” Nilou murmured, gently bumping his shoulder with her own. Hovering at his other shoulder, invisible to probably everyone else, Ararycan nodded fervently. “Blue Nara, ready,” he quietly agreed. “…Mm. White Nara, now?”

He gave a slight smile, took a deep breath he didn’t need, and opened his eyes. “Alright.” He looked to the both of them once, nodded to Nilou, and stepped out on stage with them at his back.

What struck him weren’t even the waiting faces of his audience, but the new perspective on the Bazaar itself. The stage was surrounded by wooden walls and warm lamplight, so different and yet somehow similar to the night air, stars, sparks and ocean breezes of Tatarasuna – it felt just as safe and welcoming.

Two of the lanterns at the edge of the stage had been replaced by open braziers, softly sparking. That helped.

He could do this. In fact, he had to. In any case, he was going to.

People had started clapping as soon as they’d stepped out, but he quietly ignored them, moving to the heart of the stage as Nilou remained at the edge, and kneeling down with slow and measured motions. Once seated, he removed the sheathed sword at his side, as well as the folded fan from his belt, placing both down before him and bowing to them. Then, shifting on the balls of his feet without rising an inch, he turned to the right of the stage, to the southeast, bowing again for reasons only known to himself.

He calmly returned the sheathed blade to his belt, took up his fan and rose to his feet, still just as fluid and controlled, every movement showing mastery and – if he’d been human – immense muscle control.

He closed his eyes.

To those in the audience that knew him or were even faintly familiar with him, he was unrecognizable.

For one, instead of his normal attire, he was now wearing loose, pristine white clothing; a kimono and hakama that almost made him look like he glowed in the lamplight. His expression was more serene than anyone in Sumeru had ever seen it.

At the side of the stage, Nilou spoke.

“Our story opens in the Nation of Eternity, and concerns one born of and imbued with this very ideal.”

In Inazuma, sword dances were often accompanied by spoken or chanted poetry, especially when the performance depicted a full story. For this one, however, he’d made some adjustments for his mostly Sumeran audience. That, and he didn’t trust his own voice one bit right now.

“An immortal puppet, carved from white wood, without a heart and yet yearning for one more than anything, came to a community of blacksmiths and swordsmen.”

He finally moved, his eyes still closed, still smiling serenely. He unfolded his fan and elegantly raised its white expanse over his head in a moon-like arc as if in greeting, his sleeves unfolding like wings as he lowered his body in a half-turn. He flawlessly held the pose, motionless as a perfect statue.

Nilou spoke on. “He had nowhere else to turn, but they took him in and taught him many things, both on daily life and the forging and handling of blades. This was in the prosperous days of the island community.” Kintsugi kept moving, making use of his hidden joints to make every motion more doll-like, right at the edge of unnerving. He danced as though just learning to walk, threatening to stumble but always elegantly catching and righting himself, always in absolute control, gradually growing more sure-footed and less rigid, more human. The fan snapped shut, opened again and fluttered in his hand, symbolizing different other objects and bringing the dance to life; folded, it was a hammer, aided by swift little bursts of Anemo sent into the braziers to make them flare and spark. Unfolded and passed across his body, it was the wrapping and tying of a kimono or yukata. Outstretched as though offered to others, it was a bowl of food. He whirled and reached out, embraced the air with trailing white sleeves, almost rendering the people these motions and emotions were meant for visible to his audience. He was smiling, small and heartbreakingly fond, lost in some other time.

At the heart of the audience, on a raised seat to grant her the finest view, the Dendro Archon was speechless. Her eyes were wide, her little hand clasped to her mouth. She knew him. She’d seen some of his memories with her own eyes. And yet, to see him like this now…

He hadn’t drawn his sword yet. His eyes were still closed, and yet his steps never faltered, he never lost his balance as he moved from one end of the stage to the other with fluid, graceful strides. As she watched, Nahida took note of his proficiency with the fan; no matter how he moved, no matter how it fluttered, she realized he only ever showed one side of it to the audience, keeping the other facing towards himself and out of sight.

Nilou’s voice was almost surprisingly stable, although her eyes betrayed she’d been caught up in the spell as well. “…One day a newcomer arrived from across the sea, sharing secrets to revolutionize the forging process. What the smiths didn’t know was that this outlander’s method would slowly poison the island, blanketing it in toxic fumes emerging from the great furnace, bringing illness and death.”

Kintsugi’s dance slowed as she spoke, until one final movement – his hand darted down, and with a swift flash of reflected brazier light, he drew his blade at last, raised it before his face, dividing it into light and shadow, and opened his eyes. They gleamed, violet and fierce, at odds with his pristine and airy attire, filled with a pain and rage that sent a little jolt through the audience. The white fan was held off to the side of his body, as if to distance himself from its brightness and purity.

“People took note of the poisoning of the island, and its overseer, a young armory officer, eventually accused the outlander that’d brought the new technology, blaming him for – by then – many deaths and poisonings… but this had been the outlander’s plan all along.”

Kintsugi had folded his fan and tucked it away, grasping his blade with both hands and performing stroke after stroke, in agonized movements as though trying and failing to fight an imaginary opponent; with fluttering footsteps, he darted across the stage, always falling short and faltering.

In the audience, Aqaba had been watching intently. He’d been drawn to the performance without even knowing his enigmatic colleague would be the one on stage; something so unique, emerging from the Inazuman sword arts, he wouldn’t have missed for the world. He was quite well-versed in sword dances himself, and aware of the meaning of their varied movements. This agony was real. Real and raw, almost unnervingly so.

It was almost enough to distract him from the subject matter, and the ways in which it did and didn’t line up with his very own research.

When Nilou spoke again, it was almost reluctantly, sorrow tinting her voice. “In response to being rightfully blamed, the outlander tore out the young officer’s heart and gave it to the puppet carved from white wood.”

Kintsugi had slowly sheathed his blade and taken out the white fan again. As Nilou spoke, he suddenly, finally flipped it to the as of yet unseen side.

Red. A vivid blotch of contrast against his white clothing as he held it to his chest with cramped fingers, staring into the audience, eyes unseeing, body gone still – an eerie pause after his frenzy of movement.

“The outlander had hidden the heart within a certain device, telling the puppet this would help him cleanse the poisoned furnace – and that the smiths that’d been his family had chosen him as a sacrifice to venture into the flames, as he was not human.”

At the center of the stage, Kintsugi trembled, in a way that did not seem scripted. He bowed his head, his hair falling into his eyes, looking as if his legs might give way and he might crumple to the floor at any moment. There couldn’t be a greater difference with the measured dignity he’d displayed up to that point.

“…Coming out of the remnants of fire and corruption, badly injured but alive, the puppet asked the outlander what was in the device.”

Kintsugi stepped forward, his hand outstretched in question to an unseen figure, the red fan still clutched to his chest. Off to the side, Nilou pressed her own hands to her chest, emotion bleeding into her voice. “The outlander told him his friend had fled, leaving the island to wither – but not before murdering an innocent and taking their heart, offering the puppet that which he’d desired for so long in the cruelest way possible.”

Kintsugi stumbled forward as if the floor had given way beneath him, barely finding his balance again, faltering and freezing in complete bafflement – then looking to the fan, his expression going dark as storm clouds. He tore it from his chest, dug in his fingers – and ripped the fabric away, both red and white, flinging it to the floor and abruptly stomping his foot straight down, once, sending the sound ringing out through the theater. He trembled, half-turning away from the audience, his movements abrupt and measured and yet brimming with emotion. The ruined fan remained unfolded at his side. All that remained was a fragile wooden skeleton, dyed black.

“With the island thinking the young officer had fled, blame was shifted to the next in line of authority, whose subordinate ended up sacrificing himself for his superior’s honour. The prized sword that’d been used for the execution was thrown into the furnace in anguish, but another could not stand to see this, and he succumbed to his burns trying to save it… Yet, the puppet was unaware of all this, as he’d turned his back on the island and fled in rage and anguish.”

Any and all murmuring that might’ve been going on in the audience had gone very, very quiet by now.

“Misguided by the outlander’s lies, the puppet carved from white wood gave in to bitterness, hatred and rage.”

Kintsugi unsheathed his shining sword again, swift and bright as lightning, startling the audience with his complete shift in demeanor. Gone was his trembling vulnerability, gone was his previous playful grace. He was rigid, coiled, poised to strike, seemingly in any direction.

The one he struck first was himself, however.

With a diagonal strike upwards, he summoned a splitting gale where he stood, ripping through his white clothing and tearing the kimono and hakama to shreds, leaving them to flutter to the ground like so much snow. Underneath, he wore his regular attire, black shorts and tight sleeves – but his white haori and blue robes were hidden by another black garment, also covering his Vision like a clouded, starless night. He was left a dark specter, suddenly pale as death in contrast to his clothes, matching his skeletal fan in every aspect. In the audience, Nahida found her chest tightening with memory. Despite who he was now, despite her own resounding victory over him, Scaramouche had still left his scars on her – and this was him, in every aspect.

“Thinking his friends had betrayed him by sending him into the calamity and mocking his desire for a heart, he turned on them and their descendants – for he was much longer-lived than humans.”

He strode forward, stomping and striking, thundering and flashing, his face cold and tight with voiceless rage. The palm-shaped lamps flanking the stage dimmed, but his blade only seemed to shine more brightly, the remaining light glinting off it like lightning. There was a murmur in the audience – it seemed no one had expected the main character of the performance turning out to be a villain as well.

No one’s reaction had been as sharp as Aqaba’s, however. His eyes had widened as soon as the decimation of the bladesmiths had been mentioned, bringing a thoughtful hand to his mouth, furrowing his brow as though internally at war with himself.

“Time and again he would descend in his black rage, eventually all but driving the bladesmithing arts extinct. He would even come to aid the very outlander forces that’d really betrayed him, helping them to further poison his homeland.”

Kintsugi turned to one side of the stage, then the other, sending out gusts of wind with mechanical flicks of his wrist, sending up bursts of sparks from the braziers and replacing the warm lamplight with wild flame. His movements were still deliberate and restrained, yet somehow savage, evocative of very real combat, cutting and twisting, abrupt and sharp as methodical disembowelment. The skeletal fan curved over his head, tearing at the air like claws.

“His actions were misguided, but still his own, done by choice…”

Nahida had clenched a little hand into the fabric of her dress, watching intently even though what she saw pained her. She didn’t need to read Kintsugi’s thoughts to know he was tearing himself apart, and yet he pushed on. And yet he’d written his performance this way. Brutally honest with himself and everyone else, as always. The rage he’d once felt was not the rage he portrayed now. These emotions were aimed only at himself.

She only hoped he would not go too far. That he hadn’t gotten in too deep, and could still find a way out that’d leave him better than before he’d decided to express himself this way, not worse.

“…But deep down, all the puppet desired was a heart, and a place to belong, and someone by his side who would not betray him.” At the side of the stage, Nilou raised a hand to her chest as Kintsugi’s movements gradually slowed, and he came to a standstill midway through a strike, the fan raised overhead. “His actions were both inexcusable and born from a pain unlike anything he’d ever known.”

Kintsugi slowly sank to one knee, lightly resting the tip of his blade onto the stage and closing his eyes, looking pale and tired as the brazier flames died down. He bowed his head, shuddering for a moment with a shaky breath he didn’t need.

“After many years of misguided vengeance, and just as many travels through a world he didn’t feel he belonged in, a gentle breeze found the puppet. It carried with it the fresh green leaves of spring.”

He slowly looked into the audience, finding Nahida’s eyes. She jolted, mustering a shaky smile. He held her gaze for the barest moment, looking away and up before anyone else could really catch on.

Something was happening above him. Seemingly out of nowhere, the very wood of Zubayr Theater’s curved ceiling was erupting into branch upon fragile branch of green foliage and delicate white flowers, leaves and petals twirling down onto the stage in a soft shower of life. At first, Kintsugi took a measured, wary step back, raising his blade and performing a few stylized slashes through the fluttering cloud, but then he sheathed the sword at his side and raised up a hesitant hand as if to catch the petals. The skeletal fan rested by his side, all but forgotten.

“Try as he might to resist, he could not catch or harm the breeze, nor cut the fluttering leaves it carried.” Nilou wore the smallest smile. Nahida mirrored it as she caught the telltale glimpse of blue hovering near the theater’s ceiling, and the shift in Kintsugi’s entire demeanor as he looked up at his little Aranara friend, busy reminding the theater’s woodwork of the life it’d once contained – and him of the new life he’d found here. The audience murmured; where was the Dendro user causing this?

“The leaves on the wind told him the truth. He came to realize what really happened all those years ago, the bitter and the sweet; he had been loved after all, but he’d turned on those that’d loved him with his own hands.”

Kintsugi’s outstretched hand slowly closed, cradling a few of the fallen petals. He turned to look, for the first time, at the torn remnants of the white clothing he’d entered the stage in, kneeling down and gently touching them.

“…And the truth, however painful, set him free.”

He closed his eyes, smiling serenely for a moment, as though returning to the state he’d been in when he’d worn those white garments. Gently, carefully, he set the blackened remains of the folding fan atop them, then fluidly rose – and discarded the black garment covering his usual, blue-white attire. His elegant, trailing sleeves emerged on a gust of wind that sent leaves and petals spiraling everywhere, and his Vision shone bright enough to illuminate the stage. Nahida smiled in relief and joy to see its light, to see the return of the one she’d come to know.

“Knowing what had really transpired, his guilt was immense, yet there was nothing to be done but move forward and try to make amends. The world around him encouraged this, gently carrying him forward, not judging him no matter how he might judge himself.”

Nahida looked around as people murmured around her again, some glad to see the puppet in the story getting a second chance, others quietly protesting that he should face consequences, not simply stride into a welcoming new life. But on stage, Kintsugi didn’t seem all that aware of any of it, only looking up at his little friend descending down towards him, a hint of relief breaking through his careful acting. Nahida couldn’t help but smile as the Aranara joined the sword dance with his own tiny wooden blade, mirroring Kintsugi’s movements as he stepped and turned, wielding his sword in an entirely different way now; no more pain, no more rage, only a calm clarity showing on his face, his free hand lifting and gesturing with total control, sending out swirling currents of air in place of the fan he’d let go of.

Then, all but stunning the audience into silence, he raised his head and stepped into the air, easy as anything. His bright halo lit the stage like a moonrise, and his blade gleamed a luminous azure as it, and he, danced through the air in a dazzling display of swirling light, leaves and petals. He’d clearly practiced this, bending the traditions of sword dancing just enough to make it work without solid ground, creating something entirely his own – and also clearly reveling in it, for those who knew what to look for. His dancing thus far had been expressive, but the way he moved now surpassed all of it, and his face showed minute shifts of emotion that told Nahida he was truly feeling and expressing everything he’d set out to do. By his side, Ararycan showed the same perfect form, which might look slightly comical to both her and the few children present in the audience that could see him, quietly giggling and whispering amongst themselves without involving any of the adults – but Nahida knew the Aranara was helping immensely. He’d been an important catalyst in getting Kintsugi where he was in the first place. It only made sense to involve him in the depiction of the journey he’d been a part of.

In the end, Kintsugi raised his blade into the air vertically, looking up at it as though in reverence, before lowering it and delicately holding the flat of it across his free hand, quietly hovering above the stage. Ararycan solemnly followed the example. Nilou spoke again. “No matter where he went or what befell him in his new life, the puppet never forgot where he came from and who first showed him kindness. Not a day went by that he didn’t silently ask for their forgiveness…”

Kintsugi sank down a little and turned his head, murmuring something too quiet for anyone but the dancer to hear. She smiled. “…or thank them for everything they did, and continue to do for him even if only in memory.”

This had clearly been a spur of the moment. Nahida’s smile widened, just a little watery.

Kintsugi sank down further, eventually performing one more measured twirl of the blade, before landing, taking out a piece of cloth and carefully running it over the steel, then sheathing it at his side. He kept his hand on its hilt, his stance tense and seemingly ready to spring back into movement at any moment. He remained that way as Nilou spoke again. “In the end, the puppet’s story remains unfinished, his life ongoing. What to think of his fate, and perhaps the very nature of his fate itself as well, is up to the world. Did he deserve the second chance he was given? Has he really changed? Was he always good, always evil, or are things not that simple? Will he do the right thing going forward?”

Murmurs in the audience. People had not expected this – was this the ending already? The story didn’t have a conclusion, not the way they were used to. Some scholars’ eyes were glinting, however, their minds already working, their expressions shifting towards contemplation and approval.

“Matters could move in any direction, unpredictable as the wind. There is no script for life, and everything is subject to change and chance. Sometimes that makes things agonizing, sometimes beautiful, often both. Those who died – did they die for honour, for beauty, or meaninglessly? In the end, all that matters is the individual’s perception.” Nilou’s hands were clasped tightly at her chest. “In the end, everything is up to the individual. Your thoughts and actions are your own. If there is any message to this story, it would be to not end up on anyone’s strings, to stay mindful and always search for truth, and to live as and for yourself most of all.”

With those words, Kintsugi took his hand off the hilt of his blade, returned to his kneeling position he’d taken at the very start of his performance, placed his sheathed blade before himself and bowed to it once more. Then, returning it to his belt, he rose and left the stage, calm and rigidly upright, followed by his little partner only the children could see.

He was followed by an uproar of thundering applause, but he never looked back.

Nahida watched him go, surrounded by the voices of her people. “What was that… I’ve never seen a story end quite like that…”

“…physically really impressive… did you see how controlled his movements were?”

“…That truly did embody the themes and values of wisdom, especially those of the Vahumana Darshan! What bright, cutting observations…”

She heard it all, but listened to none of it. She could only stare at the spot where he’d disappeared so impassively and suddenly. All she knew was that she had to get out of the position of Archon as fast as she could, and make it backstage to be something else just as important, if not more so.

Chapter Text

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Text

As Kintsugi stepped backstage and away from the audience’s applause, Nilou and Ararycan soon followed him into the wooden corridors and dressing rooms of the Zubayr troupe.

He scarcely took note.

The dancer was exclaiming and gesturing, beaming with delight, as were the other theater crew as they welcomed them both into the warm, busy space – but it all came to him as through a veil of water.

“…you were amazing out there!”

“Such masterful control, and the emotion you put into it… I was moved the whole way through…”

“…we really have to put on a joint performance at some point…”

He ignored everyone, even Ararycan floating above him, and barely made it into the dressing room he’d used earlier before forcibly coming to a halt. He was trembling, his head held low, fists clenched. Nilou faltered. “…Are you okay?”

He tried to move, but his body wouldn’t obey. The shaking grew worse. He let out a shivery hiss. What a joke. After the total mastery over his movements he’d just had on stage, he was locking up now? He forced himself into taking another step, but a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. He tried to fight it off. “Let go of me –”

His voice –

He lifted a shaking hand to his face. Tears. Hot and wet, streaking down his cheeks.

The performance had really taken it out of him.

His betrayals, his realizations, his misguided rage and all its consequences. Reliving those actual fights – no, they couldn’t be called that. Those butcherings of those he should’ve been at the side of, would’ve been at the side of if the Kabukimono had only seen, had only stayed. The way he’d held Niwa’s heart in his hands again, lifeless and red. The way he’d torn it from his chest and flung it to the floor again.

The furnace. The snow. The Kabukimono’s excruciating vulnerability. The way everything, inside and out, had been stained black.

The way he’d felt like everyone had been right there by his side again, just for a fleeting moment. Like a bubble on the water.

Even with the mercies of the third act, even with Ararycan there to help pull him out of it and finish the story to the best of his abilities, it was proving too much for him now.

It was a slow, crumpling descent to the floor. Before he knew it, he was helpless to stop Nilou as she lowered herself to her knees as well, gently supporting him, allowing him to lean against her without a second thought. He tried to push her away, eyes blazing, but she wouldn’t budge. His legs didn’t seem to work, so he wasn’t really going anywhere either way.

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” She looked up, meeting the eyes of some of her concerned fellow performers in the doorway – Kourosh the juggler, Najia the prop maker. She quietly shook her head, signaling to keep their distance. They nodded, stepping away.

A stifled growl, barely there. “Y-you don’t even know what I’m crying about –”

“I don’t need to. This performance was clearly very personal to you. That’s all I need to know.” Nilou stayed right where she was, patiently, not judging him. It was nothing she hadn’t seen before, or experienced herself. Emotions often ran high in the arts. She could tell this was more than the catharsis of a completed performance, however.

After a brief, silent struggle within her companion, the dancer was at once rendered speechless and not surprised one bit as he closed his eyes at last – in defeat or relief, she didn’t know. She could only continue to support him as he curled into himself and the silent tears kept coming. He looked just like the puppet in pristine white robes he’d portrayed in the first act of his performance.

“Deep breaths. You’re alright. Here, follow this rhythm… breathe in for four, hold for six…”

“…Useless,” he rasped, but he followed her instruction anyway, shuddering his way through her gentle counting.

Somewhere above her, she heard the faintest hint of a melodious hum. The only reaction from the young man in her arms was a faint huff of breath – a laugh, a sob, or both.

That was how Nahida found them a little while later, having hurried in as soon as she’d been able to leave the audience. “Nilou! Oh… are you alright?”

Nilou looked up, her eyes widening to see the Archon in here, of all places. “Lesser Lord Kusanali…! Y-yes, I am fine, but…”

Nahida only smiled, her eyes fond beyond description. “I’m so incredibly proud of you both.”

“…You are?” It was all she could do not to avert her eyes from that luminous, verdant gaze – she was secretly glad it hadn’t been her dancing, as she would’ve been sure to get stage fright with the Archon in attendance. She wondered just how her companion had been able to do it, even if he was Kusanali’s right hand.

“Mm-hmm. Thank you for all your help, Nilou. Before and during the performance, and now.” She turned to the dancer’s companion. He’d opened his indigo eyes by now, resting them on her, his jaw clenched in a subdued mixture of stubbornness and vulnerability. “Are you alright?” she asked him quietly.

“Mh. I will be. Don’t worry about me.” He shuffled away from Nilou. “Thank you for your help with the performance,” he stiffly muttered. “I can handle myself now.” He didn’t get up, however, merely crossing his legs and remaining seated. At his side, his sheathed blade rested against the floor.

Nahida looked up at Nilou. “Please, could you make sure we aren’t disturbed for a little while? We won’t be long.”

She nodded at once, rising to her feet. “Of course! I’ll… give you space, as long as you need. Thank you, Lesser Lord Kusanali. And…” She looked down at the young man. “…until next time?”

“…Maybe.”

As Nilou smiled and stepped away, Nahida moved in, taking a seat next to him, uncaring of the rough wooden floor. “That was beautiful, Kintsugi.”

“…Tch.”

“The performance and what came after.”

He refused to look at her. “Momentary lapses in reason.”

She smiled. “That’s not what the scholars are saying.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care much for their opinions even on a good day.” He rested his head against the wall, passing a hand over his face. “…I’m so tired.”

“You have every right to be.” Nahida looked down at her hands, idly toying with luminous green threads of Dendro energy. “You showed an exceptional grasp on both the artform and your own past, as well as the emotions that flowed from it. It was a little surprising to see you acknowledge, within the narrative, that there is no narrative, but I suppose it makes sense, considering your current perspective…”

“I was aiming to tell the truth. There’s no sense in making up pretty fairytales about how I think or hope things will end up. It’s too early to say if I’ll ever find meaning in the course of my life.” He was staring up at the ceiling, his head still resting back – but his hand rested on the hilt of his blade, his thumb absently toying with the wrappings. Masamune – the truth-teller.

He hadn’t gone through all the effort of forging that blade only to forgo endowing it with personal meaning. The name alone was enough to confirm that.

Nahida didn’t fail to realize it. “Those questions you posed to the audience at the end – whether or not you deserve a second chance, the nature of your being, whether or not you’re going to do the right thing. What do you believe?”

A mirthless little smile curled his mouth. “Only time will tell, won’t it? And determining all that is not just up to me, but those around me as well. My third act is still ongoing.”

“Third act, is the best act.”

Both Nahida and Kintsugi looked up. Hovering near the ceiling, having kept respectfully and reverently silent up until now, was a smiling blue Aranara. His flight was slow, weighed down by Kintsugi’s hat he’d fetched from the dresser, its ribbons trailing across the floor. Nahida beamed at him as he handed the headgear over to its rightful, quietly grateful owner, giving him a much-needed chance to shield his face. “Hello, Ararycan. Thank you very much for helping Kintsugi with his performance. And the hat, as well.”

The Aranara bowed quickly, hovering lower. “Very welcome, Lord of Dendro. Lots of fun. Ararycan would love to dance with Nara Kintsugi again, show the twirling whirling flying steps to all of Vana’s flowers and trees!”

Kintsugi glared, just barely lifting his head enough to do so. “I’m not giving an encore. Once was enough.”

Ararycan hovered in a little closer, beady eyes going a little sad. Kintsugi growled, low and quiet, even as Nahida stifled a giggle by his side. “No, don’t you – don’t you give me that face –”

The three of them ended up visiting Vanarana that very evening.

Kintsugi found he didn’t quite mind performing just the third act of his dance once more, whirling and drifting over the Phantasmal Gate and its lily-covered little lake alongside his little partner. As Ararycan hummed and laughed openly, much more at ease than in the theater, Kintsugi found himself grinning and sending out elated windblades, careening between the giant stalked plants shielding the Aranara’s home from the outside world. None of the sheltered grove’s little inhabitants – many of them gathered below – would ever worry, as he’d never strike down even a single leaf.

His dance was set to reverberating Aranara song under the stars, the little beings picking up on his emotions and matching them with their voices, gladly adding to the fluid, flowing whole. The Great Dream itself hummed along. He could do nothing but complete the dance, retelling his own story, reinforcing it up until the point he’d managed to reach in the present, returning himself to the here and now. A place to belong, among new faces slowly growing just as dear as the old.

He supposed it hadn’t all been a complete waste of time.

If anything, Lesser Lord Kusanali had a better seat this time, her little legs swinging down from the top of the Phantasmal Gate itself. She was beaming, radiant in Vanarana’s glistening atmosphere of pure life, more than happy with the chance to see him dance again.

Afterwards, the Aranara warmly welcomed him back to the ground, and this time he stayed on his feet effortlessly.

Days later, he’d felt ready enough to return to Puspa Café to work on his thesis.

Of course, this would turn out to be a mistake.

Barely an hour into his quiet, coffee-fueled bout of writing and research, absently petting Gata whenever the cat would jump onto the table or into his lap, he’d felt someone approach. Gata looked up, unfurling and daintily padding off in response.

“…Afternoon, Hat Guy. It’s good to see you. Mind if I take a seat?”

He looked up as well, warily eying his green-robed colleague – who else but Aqaba. “…Why not,” he muttered, collecting his scattered papers and books so the other could set down his drink. At least he’d asked this time.

The Vahumana scholar knew enough about him to not beat around the bush. “I was hoping to talk a little about your performance the other day. You clearly knew what you were doing. You must’ve performed sword dances before?”

“I must have,” he idly replied.

“The story lined up rather well with the true telling of the Tatarasuna tragedy you seemed to know so much about when you refuted my essay. Well, it lines up in some ways, that is, while contradicting it in others.” Aqaba supported his chin. “Why did you write it that way, if I may ask?”

Can’t I have a hobby? It was on the tip of his tongue, reflexive, so used to hiding every trace of that other past and safeguarding his current life in every possible way – safeguarding his ill-gotten peace and quiet.

…But that wasn’t why he’d written the performance. Quite the opposite.

He deliberated for a while, sipping his coffee, not showing any sign he might answer at all until Aqaba visibly started to think he actually wouldn’t. The scholar heaved a little sigh, defeated yet unsurprised, and started to get up and leave.

“…Sometimes, the truth does not line up with what everyone thinks they know.”

Aqaba blinked, stopping in his tracks, facing him with widened eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“I said what I said. Are you deaf, or just slow?” He wasn’t going to make this easy. It wasn’t like it was easy for him, either.

The scholar slowly sat back down, steepling his fingers before his mouth, looking deep in thought. Kintsugi could practically see the man’s gears turning under that useless little hat, pondering what he already knew. He smirked a little, considering what he might’ve shown to the surprisingly observant aetiologist, this expert on cause and effect, history and its intricacies. He was proficient at ancient forging techniques, he did not tire easily, did not seem to need as much sleep as regular people. He was close to the Archon in a way that didn’t suggest he ever intended to leave, not even by dying of age. A strange Inazuman with a mysterious background he refused to elaborate on, showing up out of nowhere. His emotions during the performance…

It still startled him when the scholar finally spoke again. “…You’re the puppet, aren’t you?”

“That is… one conclusion a feeble human brain might arrive at.” He narrowed his eyes as he caught himself, too late. Human. As if he’d subconsciously already known the jig was up, making no effort to conceal it any longer.

“The performance was your story.” Aqaba held his gaze. “…But that doesn’t make any sense, even if you were some sort of long-lived youkai, even if you were there. Every bit of documentation, everything ever written on Tatarasuna, everyone I’ve interviewed, all the information I’ve dug up over the years… everything states Niwa Hisahide died going into the blighted furnace, and a descendant of the Hyakume clan was the one that murdered the bladesmiths in his vengeful rampage years down the line…”

Kintsugi sipped his coffee. It was all he could do. Keeping the cup steady already took all of his focus.

“…But you are saying…” Aqaba fell silent. Those indigo eyes over the steaming cup held a different truth, something somehow much more clear and true and alive than everything he’d read in all those dusty texts, heard from people’s distant recollections.

He knew what his heart was starting to believe.

He also knew how he felt about second chances, especially having witnessed the mysterious young man’s performance and heard its closing questions. No matter how those second chances might have been gained.

Kintsugi waited, watching as the scholar’s eyes softened minutely, not daring to move.

“…As a scholar of the Akademiya,” Aqaba began, “I must look to the documentation that’s there. The concrete evidence.”

It felt like a final agreement. An understanding. A shared truth, even if only fragments of it were spoken aloud.

“…Heh. I’ve done what I can. Believe what you will.”

“I will,” Aqaba smiled, getting up. “Thank you for everything, Hat Guy. And…” His smile grew a little warmer. “…best of luck, going forward.”

Kintsugi huffed out a little breath, briefly closing his eyes in amused concession. “The same to you, colleague. May we meet again.”

“I look forward to it,” Aqaba chuckled.

Never a dull moment.

He kept dancing, just not for the eyes of others.

Masamune remained his companion, both in his room in the Sanctuary where he cared for it impeccably, and on some of his outings into the wilderness. The only ones who’d ever occasionally see him wield it were the Aranara, and his Archon.

Kusanali had accompanied him on this particular journey that’d brought them to the Yasna Monument, having needed some change of scenery herself. She sat on one of its rounded stones amidst the pale, luminous flowers, his hat resting against it beside her. She swung her little legs and smiled faintly as she watched him silently turning and striking, alternately rigid and fluid, stepping without faltering once.

Eventually, she spoke up. “Will you ever forge another one?”

He halted mid-movement, thinking it over before continuing. “I don’t think so. I’m not actually a bladesmith.” Step and strike, meditative, as if it was helping him think. “I just wanted to make a point. Or several.”

She tilted her head, her hair brushing her shoulder. “Does that make Masamune a shinuchi or kageuchi?”

He glanced back at her, a glint of approval in his eyes. “Well well, look who’s been gathering knowledge.”

She smiled wider. “It’s a very intriguing topic!” The Inazuman practice of forging several swords at once, each one building on what the previous ones had taught the smith, before choosing from among them the ‘shinuchi’, or best weapon, while the rest were deemed ‘kageuchi’. “If you only forge one… is it both at the same time?”

He turned, the blade describing a full circle around his body, his small, measured steps keeping his body and center of balance perfectly level. “It’s not that simple. ‘Shinuchi’ also means something like ‘true self’, while ‘kageuchi’ means ‘shadow self’.” He raised the blade, looking up at it as it glinted in the soft forest daylight. “Masamune is its own true self, the best I could make. In that aspect, it’s a shinuchi blade. I could probably do better in the future, though, which could make it a kageuchi if I aim to improve on this exact design.”

“So much goes into the bladesmithing arts. Skill, ambition, philosophy…”

“There is one other way to look at it.” He returned to stepping and striking, not looking at her again, his movements growing a little swifter. “Traditionally, shinuchi blades were offered to the Shogun – to the gods, as a gesture of respect and…” He grimaced. “…divine entitlement, even if the court might ritually decline. Kageuchi were kept for humans.”

“But you are neither god nor human,” Nahida observed. “That doesn’t help.”

“…I plan to give this blade to a human when I meet him.” He half-turned to her, resting the sword by his side. “Kaedehara Kazuha, the sole remaining heir of Isshin art. He might learn something from it, recover some of the knowledge that was lost by his bloodline. It might also help him follow through on his decision once he learns about… my involvement with said bloodline.”

“…Kintsugi…”

“…So… no matter how good or unique… this blade is a kageuchi in that aspect at least. Nothing can take that away from it, and frankly, I’ve always preferred kageuchi over shinuchi anyway. Unpretentious. Honest.”

She watched him as he turned away and resumed his movements, some bittersweetness settling in her chest. “Yes,” she murmured, considering how he himself had come to be – a test, a prototype for some greater work. “So do I.”

He smiled to himself, just a little. “Don’t worry. This kageuchi blade probably has more than enough time with its current wielder left before it changes hands. Enough time was put into forging and refining it, it’s only fair.”

She let out a little chuckle behind him. “Considering how well you’ve been taking care of it, polishing it to a shine each day until it was brighter than even you may have thought possible, I’m sure others will also see its worth, and the limitless brightness of its future.”

His shoulders shook as he let out a quiet laugh. “A little on the nose there, Lesser Lord Kusanali.”

“What?” She smirked, folding her arms atop her rock. “We’re just talking about swords…”

He turned back to her, smiling with faint, exasperated fondness. “I appreciate it. And you’re right. It’d be a pity to let a good blade go to waste. I’ll make sure that wherever it may venture, its story does not end too soon.” He cleaned and sheathed Masamune, walking over and settling down in the grass at the base of her stone, next to his hat. “Happy?”

She leaned down, briefly resting a little hand on top of his head. “Very.”

“Hmm. Good.” And he closed his eyes, basking in the Sumeran sunlight, deceptively serene and tranquil as a sheathed blade once more.