Soul of a Samurai

Five months had passed.

I didn't know the exact number of days, but I understood the rhythm of my new life well enough to sense time moving forward. My existence was simple—sleeping, eating, pooping, watching my father swing his sword, then repeating the process all over again.

It was a dull cycle, but it was all I had ever known.

I had grown used to my mother's warmth, to the sound of her voice humming softly as she rocked me in her arms. I recognized my father's presence, the way the air seemed heavier when he was near, his deep voice steady and commanding even when he was simply speaking to my mother.

And, of course, I had grown used to watching him train.

Every day, when the light outside began to fade into the soft glow of evening, my father would step outside with his sword. His movements were always precise, his blade gleaming in the dying sunlight as he practiced over and over again.

But that wasn't the only thing I had come to recognize.

Sometimes, my father would leave.

It didn't happen every week, but often enough that I noticed the pattern. One day, he would step out of our home wearing something different—white armor, polished and sturdy, covering his chest and shoulders. A sheathed sword always rested at his hip, and his long white hair was pulled back, making him look even more imposing than usual.

Each time, my mother would stand by the door, holding me close as she watched him go. She never stopped him, never tried to convince him to stay. She would only nod, whispering something soft before he turned and disappeared down the path.

And then we would wait.

Sometimes he would return the next evening, sometimes after two or three days. There was never a set time, but he always came back, his white armor dirtied, his expression calm but tired. My mother never asked where he had been, never pressed for details. She only welcomed him home with a quiet smile, as if she already knew.

And maybe she did.

I had learned something important in these past months.

I couldn't speak, couldn't move much beyond weak wiggling, but I could listen. And I had been listening closely.

The first thing I learned was that we lived in a place called the Land of Iron.

I had heard the name multiple times now, mostly when my mother spoke to my father or when she conversed with the occasional visitors who stopped by. It seemed to be an important place, though I still didn't know much about it beyond its name.

The second thing I learned was that my father was something called a samurai.

That word had been repeated enough times that I was sure of it. Whenever he left in his white armor, my mother would murmur something like, "Be safe, my samurai." When visitors came, they would sometimes mention "the samurai" in hushed tones, their voices filled with respect.

I didn't know what made a samurai different from an ordinary swordsman, but I understood one thing clearly—my father was not just a simple man with a sword.

He was someone important. Someone strong.

The thought stirred something deep inside me.

Would I become a samurai too?

I was his son, after all. Would I one day wear the same armor, wield a blade like his, and leave on long journeys only to return days later with weary eyes and a steady heart?

The idea intrigued me. I had no past, no memories of another life, and no expectations for my future. But if this was the path that lay ahead of me… would I follow it?

I didn't have an answer.

And before I could think too much about it, my tiny body betrayed me once again. My eyelids grew heavy, my thoughts slipping into the haze of exhaustion.

Sleep came swiftly, dragging me back into the darkness.

For now, I was only Kyojin—the baby who ate, slept, and watched.

But one day… maybe I would be more.