Soul of a Samurai

My world was small.

For the first few weeks of my new life, I knew nothing but warmth, hunger, and exhaustion. Every day blurred into the next, an endless cycle of sleeping, eating, and… other bodily functions. I had no control over my movements, my voice, or my needs. It was frustrating in a way I couldn't fully grasp, but I didn't have the capacity to be angry about it.

I was a baby. That much was clear.

My mother was the most consistent presence. She held me, fed me, soothed me when I cried. Her voice was soft, her touch gentle, and she always smelled like something sweet and earthy. Her long black hair would sometimes tickle my face as she hummed softly while rocking me to sleep.

Then there was my father. His presence was different—stronger, heavier. His voice was deep, and though he wasn't as physically close to me as my mother, I always knew when he was nearby. He carried me sometimes, his rough hands surprisingly careful as he held me up to look at me properly.

And every day, they called me by a name.

"Kyojin."

The first time I heard it, I didn't react. The second time, I blinked. The third time, I realized—that was my name.

Kyojin.

I didn't know what it meant, or why they had chosen it, but with each passing day, I grew more accustomed to it. Every time my mother smiled down at me and whispered "Kyojin," or my father muttered it with quiet approval, it became more and more me.

It was strange, having no memories of a past life but still feeling the weight of something missing. I didn't know who I used to be, if I had been someone else at all. But the more time passed, the less it mattered.

I was Kyojin now.

A month passed.

I was still weak, my body barely able to do more than wiggle my fingers and kick my legs, but I was more aware. I recognized my parents' voices, the patterns of the day, and the warmth of the blankets that wrapped around me each night.

And then, one day, I saw something new.

It happened in the late afternoon. My mother was holding me, cradling me in one arm as she fed me. The rhythmic action of drinking had become second nature by now, my tiny body desperate for nourishment. But as I suckled, something outside the small window caught my eye.

A flash of movement. A gleam of light.

I blinked, my sluggish vision focusing on the figure outside. My father.

He stood in the yard, his long white hair flowing slightly with the wind, his expression calm and focused. In his hands was a sword.

I froze—or at least, as much as a baby could.

He moved with precision, his body flowing from one stance to the next. The blade in his hands gleamed under the fading sunlight, cutting through the air with practiced ease. His movements weren't just strong; they were refined, controlled.

I had never seen a sword before. Not that I could remember, at least. But something about the sight of it—of him—struck me.

He was skilled. That much was clear, even to my undeveloped mind.

My mother must have noticed my staring, because she chuckled softly. "Your father is strong, isn't he, Kyojin?"

I didn't respond, of course. I couldn't. But if I could have, I would have asked—What is he training for?

Because in that moment, I understood something.

My father was not just a simple man. He had seen battle. He had wielded that sword before, not just in practice, but in necessity.

I didn't know what kind of world I had been born into, but as I watched my father swing his blade with practiced ease, a single thought settled in my mind.

This is a world where strength matters.

And I, Kyojin, was a part of it.