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A decade later, a fifteen-year-old Hiroshi would become known as the youngest swordsman ever to master the Whispering Blade. What the world would never know, was that he was the second youngest.
I did it, he thought, and the blood spreading from his body seemed unimportant. Tou-sama, Kaa-chan, I did it! He couldn’t wait to tell them! If part of him was lucid enough to understand that he was never going to see his parents again, he ignored it.
“With that in mind, you should be careful in this endeavor.” Takeru lowered his head again, voice peaceful. “I doubt my death jiya will manifest as dramatically as my brother’s, but it may still be extremely dangerous. Make sure you get clear as soon as you’ve severed my spinal column.”
“You’re doing it now, aren’t you?” Misaki accused. “Retreating into the mountain, so you won’t have to face this like a man.” “I am not.”
For his whole life, Takeru had been certain that he was right to cast his pain off on the mountain, that it was the only way—because how could one possibly hold so much suffering in something as small as a human form?
Hold the line, he had said as his son looked at him in fear. And Mamoru had. He had protected Takayubi with everything he had. Now it was Takeru’s turn.
And Misaki somehow understood why he had given her that last opening. If she truly wanted to kill him, then he was alone. He was willing to stand and fight, but he would rather die than do it alone. It wasn’t just the challenge of responsibility he was accepting as his hand touched hers; he was accepting her. Cool fingers ran over Misaki’s sword hand, over her sleeve to brush the hair back from her face. In the falling snow, Takeru stared at the woman he had married and saw her for the first time. “I accept.”