The Oath of Silence

Chapter 4: The Oath of Silence

The festival's distant hum had long since faded, leaving only the rhythmic chirping of cicadas and the occasional creak of wood settling in the night. Yet within the inn where the Kamishirou household was, the air was thick with unspoken words.

Daiki stood with his back to the door, his knuckles pale where his fists clenched at his sides. Though Kyoji was gone, the presence he left behind was suffocating, lingering in the walls like smoke that refused to clear.

Three days.

The weight of those words pressed against him, curling around his ribs like an iron chain.

Across the room, Aiko stood with her arms folded, her expression hard, unreadable. She had said nothing since they stepped inside, but Daiki could feel the quiet storm brewing beneath her composed exterior. She wasn't simply waiting for answers—she was demanding them, her silence more piercing than any accusation.

On the tatami mat near the hearth, Koushirou sat stiffly, his small hands still clutching the war fan. He hadn't let go of it since Kyoji had laid eyes on him. His fingers, usually full of restless energy, were tense, curled so tightly around the sharp edges that his knuckles had turned white.

He wasn't a child easily frightened. He had always been sharp and observant. But even if he didn't understand the full weight of what had transpired tonight, he understood enough. 

He was no longer the helpless little child who cried when he scraped his knees or clung to his mother's sleeve in the dead of night after a storm. He had outgrown those fears long ago. But this—this was something different.

The tension in the room was unlike anything he had ever felt before. It wasn't the fleeting panic of getting lost in a festival crowd or the nervous excitement of trying something new. It was something deeper, heavier. A silence thick enough to smother the air itself.

His father's face was carved from stone, but Koushirou could see the faint strain at the corners of his mouth, the rigid set of his shoulders. His mother's hands, always steady, had curled into tight fists at her sides.

Koushirou had seen arguments before. He had heard his parents bicker about small things—the price of rice, the stubbornness of the old innkeeper, the way his father always forgot to air out his yukata. But this was not a simple quarrel.

This was a battle fought in silence.

And somewhere, deep in his bones, Koushirou knew.

This was about him.

His grip tightened around the war fan, the edges pressing into his palm.

He had spent his childhood chasing after his father's shadow, desperate to prove he was strong enough, fast enough, and skilled enough. But now, for the first time, he wondered—what if that shadow had been hiding something far darker than he ever realised?

And what if it was already reaching for him?

Daiki exhaled slowly. He needed to speak before Aiko did—before her anger, her fear, made the choice for him.

"They've found us," he said finally. The words came out heavy. His voice was quiet but firm. 

Aiko's breath hitched, but she did not react immediately. She simply closed her eyes, as if bracing for a blow she had long expected. When she finally spoke, her voice was controlled—too controlled.

Aiko had always known. 

Aiko had always known there was something lurking beneath the surface of her husband's quiet strength. She had never pressed him for answers he wasn't ready to give, but that didn't mean she hadn't seen the signs. The ghosts he carried clung to him like shadows, whispering to him in the dead of night, pulling him away even when he was right beside her.

She had noticed the tension in his shoulders when they entered unfamiliar towns, the way his eyes darted to every exit before they sat down to eat, the subtle way his grip would tighten around Koushirou's wrist whenever a stranger looked at their son for a beat too long.

Aiko had loved Daiki enough to accept his silences, to let him carry the weight of his past alone. But now—now—the past was not just his burden to bear. 

Aiko's lips pressed into a thin line. "The ghost you once spoke of—was it them?"

Daiki flinched. It was barely perceptible, just the faintest tightening around his eyes, but Aiko saw it. She always saw it.

He exhaled through his nose, his gaze flickering toward Koushirou before returning to her. "Not a ghost," he said quietly. His voice dropped lower, the words heavy and final. "A curse. A curse of the Asakusa Group."

Aiko's breath hitched, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeve. A curse. Not a ghost. Not some lingering regret of the past, but something living, something inescapable.

Daiki had always been careful with his words. He did not speak of things lightly. And if he was calling this a curse, then it was not simply a matter of old enemies seeking him out.

It was something deeper. Something bound to him in a way she had never fully understood. She had noticed the quiet habits, the unspoken rituals—the way his gaze lingered on shadows, the way his hands never truly rested—but still, she stayed by his side. She trusted Daiki because, to her, he was family. A family entrusted to her by the master of Hoshimura's martial arts dojo—her late father.

"You swore you'd never let this happen. You promised us -"

Daiki looked away, his jaw tight. His hands curled into fists at his sides as though trying to grasp onto something that had long since slipped through his fingers. 

"I thought—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I thought I had more time."

Aiko swallowed hard, her chest tightening. "Time?" she repeated, the word bitter on her tongue. "Time for what, Daiki? Time for them to forget you? Time for the past to bury itself?"

Daiki flinched.

Her voice was steady, but Daiki could hear the tremor beneath it—the fear, the betrayal.

Aiko took a step closer, her voice softer but no less firm. "Who is Kyoji?"

Daiki hesitated. How could he explain? How could he condense the years of blood, betrayal, and tangled loyalties into a few simple words?

"He's the second-in-command of the Asakusa Group," he said at last. "Shirogane's partner."

Aiko's expression didn't change, but the weight of the revelation settled between them. She knew the name Shirogane. Daiki had mentioned him only once before—a ghost from his past, a name spoken in hushed tones on nights when memories refused to let him sleep.

Daiki stiffened, his expression darkening. He had burnt the parchment to ashes, yet its presence lingered like a spectre, refusing to be erased. The memory seared itself into his mind—the delicate, almost elegant script that had spelt out his fate. Though the parchment had turned to cinders beneath his hand, its message remained, unspoken yet suffocating, woven into the very air they breathed.

The summons had found its way back to him. Kyoji had delivered a new one, as if the Asakusa Group had known—expected—Daiki's defiance.

Burning the parchment had meant nothing. It had been a gesture, a fleeting act of resistance against something far greater, far more insidious.

They had never truly given him a choice.

Aiko's gaze never wavered from Daiki's face, but he could feel the shift in the air between them—sharp, taut, like a drawn bowstring.

"They expected you to burn it," she murmured, almost to herself.

Daiki exhaled slowly. "Yes."

Aiko exhaled sharply, turning away. Her hands found the back of a wooden chair, gripping it tightly as if grounding herself. "And you burnt it."

Daiki didn't answer.

"You burnt it," she repeated, her voice quieter now, laced with something raw—something close to disbelief. "As if that would change anything."

And that was why Kyoji had come. Not just to deliver the summons, but to ensure that Aiko and Koushirou felt its weight. Not simply to remind him of the time he had left, but to make certain there was no more pretending. No more illusions of safety.

Aiko inhaled deeply, steadying herself. "And what does this new summons say?"

Daiki's fingers curled into fists. The words were etched into his mind as though carved into stone.

Slowly, he reluctantly reached into his sleeve and pulled out the note. The parchment was thinner than before, the edges crumpled from where he had gripped it too tightly. He held it for a moment, as if debating whether to keep it hidden a little longer, but there was no point.

He handed it to Aiko. She took it without a word, unfolding the delicate paper with steady hands. Aiko's gaze flickered down to the parchment in her hand. The ink was precise, each stroke deliberate, as if whoever had written it had taken their time, knowing that the weight of their words alone would be enough to suffocate him.

Kamishirou Daiki,

Blood is not forgotten.

Three days remain.

Nothing more. No threats, no demands—just a simple statement, as if the outcome had already been decided. Because there was no need for them. The Asakusa Group wasn't asking for anything. They weren't making demands. They were simply stating a fact.

Daiki clenched his jaw, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "Three days remain." That's all they had left. 

A rustle of fabric drew his attention back to Aiko. She had folded the parchment carefully, her fingers moving with a quiet precision that was almost mechanical. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm—but it was a dangerous kind of calm, the kind that sat at the edge of a blade.

Aiko's grip tightened. The paper trembled, just slightly. Aiko's lips parted slightly, but whatever she had been about to say never came. Silence settled thickly between them.

For a moment, Aiko said nothing. The candle between them flickered, casting shifting shadows across her face, sharpening the angles of her cheekbones and making her look almost unfamiliar.

From the tatami mat, Koushirou's voice cut through the quiet. "Three days until what?"

Both parents turned.

Koushirou was watching them carefully, the war fan still clutched in his hands, his knuckles white. His small fingers, usually fidgeting with idle energy, were rigid around the lacquered wood, the delicate gold inlay of the Kamishirou crest catching the dim lantern light.

His gaze, so much like Daiki's, was clear, sharp.

Daiki swallowed hard. Too sharp.

Daiki felt something deep in his chest splinter. Koushirou was young, but he was no fool. He had spent his childhood listening, watching and piecing together the things adults left unsaid. And now, with the weight of the summons pressing down on them all, he could see what his father wasn't saying.

Three days.

Three days until Kyoji returned. Three days until the Asakusa Group expected him to surrender his son—or fight to keep him.

Daiki had no answer that would spare Koushirou the truth.

And the boy knew it.

He had spent his life shielding Koushirou from the world that had once shaped him. He had taught his son how to wield a blade, how to move unseen, how to listen to the quiet things that lingered beneath the surface of words—but he had never wanted Koushirou to understand this.

This inevitability.

This impossible choice.

Daiki knelt in front of him, reaching out with careful hands. He pried the war fan from Koushirou's grip, his calloused fingers brushing against his son's. The lacquered wood was warm, the metal edges pressing sharply against his palm as he closed it.

Koushirou did not look away.

The silence in the room stretched taut, the air thick with the unspoken. Aiko stood motionless, her arms folded tightly across her chest, but Daiki could feel the tremor running through her, a barely contained storm beneath her composed exterior. The candlelight flickered between them, long shadows stretching across the tatami, twisting their reflections against the walls.

Daiki exhaled. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than before.

"Until a choice must be made."

Koushirou did not look away.

"What choice?"

The question landed like a blade against Daiki's ribs, cutting deep.

Aiko's breath hitched.

Daiki hesitated.

He wanted to tell his son that the choice was his alone to make—that Koushirou would not have to bear the weight of it, that no matter what happened, his father would shield him. That they would leave, disappear again, start over in another town, another life, just as they always had.

But that would be a lie.

Because the Asakusa Group had already chosen for them.

They had sent Kyoji not just as a messenger but as a warning. There would be no slipping through the cracks this time. No quiet escape into the night.

And now, the only thing left to decide—

Was how far Daiki was willing to go to keep his son.

His fists clenched at his sides.

Deep down, he already knew the answer.

Aiko's fingers dug into her arms as she held herself still, as if willing herself not to break. She knew Daiki—knew the way his mind worked, the way he carried his burdens in silence until they crushed him. And she knew, without him saying it, that he had already made his decision.

But Koushirou was still waiting. Still watching.

His gaze was unwavering, sharp in a way that felt too knowing, too old for a boy his age. The candlelight caught in his dark irises, reflecting something unreadable, something Daiki wasn't sure he was ready to face.

Daiki forced himself to meet his son's eyes.

"Koushirou." His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, like the whisper of steel being drawn from its sheath. "Do you trust me?"

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and unyielding.

Daiki had spent years keeping his son safe, shielding him from the ghosts of his past, but in this moment, he saw the truth laid bare—Koushirou was no longer a child to be protected with half-truths and gentle hands.

He was listening. Understanding.

And he was waiting.

It was not the first time Daiki had asked him that.

But it was the first time it had felt like a choice.

Koushirou's fingers twitched around the war fan, the lacquered wood slick with the heat of his palm. The metal ribs gleamed in the dim light, their edges catching the glow like the polished sheen of a blade. This was his first real weapon, gifted to him by a man who carried the scent of blood and steel. It had once been a thing of curiosity, a lesson in precision and balance. But now, as it rested in his hands, it felt different. Heavier. As if the weight of expectation, of inheritance, had settled into it.

He had always known his father was different from other men—that the quiet strength he carried was more than just discipline. That the way he moved, the way he listened, the way his eyes scanned a room before stepping inside, was not the habit of an ordinary man.

But knowing was different from understanding.

Tonight, Koushirou understood.

His father had been a man with a past sharp enough to cut through the years, a past that had now turned its gaze on him.

He lifted his head, meeting Daiki's eyes. They were dark, storm-laden, but steady. Always steady.

The man who had taught him how to hold a brush, how to grip a bokken, how to read the sky before a storm—this was that same man.

The same man who had lied to him.

The same man who was now asking for his trust.

Koushirou exhaled, the weight of his father's gaze pressing against him. His grip loosened—just slightly. Then, his fingers curled again.

Tighter.

His knuckles turned white around the war fan, the lacquered surface biting into his skin. He felt the ridges of the metal frame, the cold press of steel where the ribs met. A weapon meant to be concealed, to be used with precision. It was a symbol of something, though he wasn't sure what.

But in this moment, it felt like proof—proof that the life his father had tried to keep from him was now reaching for him all the same.

The weight of it settled in his chest, heavy and immovable, like a stone sinking into deep waters. Koushirou had always been aware, in the quiet, unspoken way that children sense the things adults never say aloud. He had noticed the way his father sometimes hesitated before answering questions, the way his mother's gaze lingered on him just a second too long when she thought he wasn't looking, as if measuring the distance between the life he had and the life he was meant to have.

And now, with the war fan clutched in his hands and the tension crackling in the space between them, he knew.

He had never truly belonged to the world his parents had built for him. He had been born into something else. Something older, heavier, and inescapable.

Koushirou lifted his head. His dark eyes flickered between his parents, the air between them stretched taut with silence. Then, he turned his gaze to his father and asked the only question that mattered.

"Are you going to lie to me again?"

His voice was quiet, but the steel in it was unmistakable. Aiko turned toward Daiki sharply, her breath catching in her throat. But she said nothing.

Daiki stilled.

The words cut sharper than any blade.

Koushirou's question was not one of anger. He did not accuse, did not raise his voice. But that only made it worse.

Because it was not a boy asking his father.

It was a son asking a man he was trying to understand. A son who had already started to see the cracks in the truth Daiki had built for him.

For a moment, Daiki said nothing. His expression did not change. He did not flinch, did not waver, but something in him shifted—just slightly. A small breath. A subtle tightening of his jaw. The quiet resignation of a man who knew there was no longer any use in running.

Then, finally—

"No."

The truth was unvarnished, laid bare between them like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Koushirou studied his father's face, searching for doubt. He found none.

For the first time in his life, Daiki did not try to soften the edges of reality. He did not try to shield him from the weight of it.

And for the first time in his life—

Koushirou believed him.