Ichigo can't Fight

The sea air was thick with the scent of salt and fish, mingling with the faint aroma of sakura blossoms from the trees lining the docks.

The waves lapped against the stone embankments, carrying whispers of long-forgotten legends. The sky, tinged with the first hues of twilight, cast golden reflections upon the water.

A small wooden canoe, weathered by time and travel, drifted steadily toward the dock. A lone figure stood at its helm, guiding it forward with practiced ease.

"Is it really him?" a voice whispered excitedly.

"No doubt about it. That hair... it's unmistakable."

The murmur spread like wildfire through the gathered crowd, drawing more villagers toward the docks. Fishermen abandoned their nets, merchants left their stalls unattended, and even weary travelers found themselves caught in the thrall of anticipation.

Ten-kai had returned.

The foreigner swordsman—a legend in Sakai Port Village. His fiery red hair, wild yet striking, stood in stark contrast to the more subdued tones of the villagers. It was a color foreign to these lands, yet it had become a beacon of both hope and fear. His sharp, golden eyes, like a hawk surveying its prey, carried the weight of countless battles.

Once, he had been nothing more than an abandoned child, the bastard son of a Western sailor who had left him and his mother to the mercy of the streets. But unlike many who had been swallowed by the shadows of Sakai's underworld, Ten-kai had carved his own path.

His body bore the discipline of a warrior, his stance the grace of a seasoned fighter. Though his sword remained sheathed, there was a quiet, lethal aura about him—the presence of a man who had long walked the razor-thin line between life and death.

As he stepped onto the dock, the wood creaked beneath his weight. The crowd, though eager, maintained a respectful distance. The spirit of bushido demanded that one not approach a warrior uninvited.

He lifted his head slightly, inhaling the familiar scent of Sakai. The air still carried the stench of blood and war. Some things never changed.

A few feet away, on the deck of the gold tiger, two men watched him.

"Who is that?" Payne leaned against the railing, his curiosity piqued.

Kento, standing beside him, didn't bother to glance up from the katana he was meticulously cleaning. The blade gleamed under the dimming sunlight, every stroke of the cloth against its surface precise and deliberate.

"A swordsman," Kento replied indifferently.

Payne narrowed his eyes. "You mean the swordsman these slackies have been raving about? The one who took down the tri-fighting spirit maniac?"

This time, Kento's hand paused mid-wipe. A fleeting moment of recognition.

But just as quickly, he resumed. "What does it matter to you?"

Payne grinned, stretching his arms behind his head. "I'm just dying for a piece of action."

Kento sighed. "Your idea of action led to the death of a crime boss and the collapse of his syndicate.

Now, Sakai is nothing but a battleground for rats scrambling for power." He flipped the blade expertly in his hand before sliding it into its scabbard. "A reckless fight can change the course of an entire city. And not always for the better."

Payne scoffed. "You sound like a monk."

"No," Kento muttered, eyes still fixed on his sword. "I sound like someone who has seen too much."

For a brief moment, Payne almost felt a tinge of pity. Kento was a shadow of something—someone—he once was. Whatever fire he had before had long since been extinguished.

Shaking off the thought, Payne leaned closer. "Speaking of old flames, where the hell is Katsuo?"

Kento's expression remained unreadable. "On a mission."

"What mission?"

"You'll see him when he completes it."

"Great." Payne rolled his eyes. "You're really a killjoy, you know that? I wonder what you were like before all this."

A silence followed.

Kento's grip on his sword tightened ever so slightly. For a moment, a flicker of something buried—forgotten—lost flashed across his face. Before all this? What was he before this? A question he had no answer to.

His thoughts wandered, and he didn't even notice when the blade nicked his finger. A small droplet of blood trickled down the edge of the sword.

Yet before it could fall, the wound sealed itself.

Kento stared at his reflection in the blade. He didn't even feel the pain anymore.

Perhaps, he never did.

Yet the feeling remained.

Adjusting his sword, he exhaled deeply before stepping forward.

A battle was coming and this mysterious swordsman's arrival had just marked it.