The Blade That Knows His Name

Chapter 6: The Blade That Knows His Name

There it was. The name, Kamishirou, was mentioned again. 

It lingered in the air like an unwelcome ghost, settling heavily between them. Koushirou felt its weight pressing against his chest, though he did not fully understand why. Within just two days in Atami, he had heard it spoken more than once—always in hushed tones, always directed at his father. Strangers, men who carried themselves with quiet authority, had uttered it with certainty as if there had never been any doubt.

It was strange, odd. But doubt was all Koushirou had.

His father's name was Homura. Homura Daiki. That was the name Koushirou had inherited, the name he had carried since birth. And yet, this other name—Kamishirou—was spoken with the weight of something undeniable.

It was something absolute. Koushirou clenched his jaw. It felt strange. Unfamiliar. Wrong. A name was more than just a collection of sounds—it was history, identity and legacy. And yet, the name Kamishirou felt foreign on the tip of Koushirou's tongue, like a language he had never learnt but was somehow expected to understand.

Who was Kamishirou?

Koushirou was curious. It was the only truth he had known. So why was it beginning to feel like a lie?

Who was his father, really?

Koushirou sat frozen as he watched his father face the shadowed figures in his safe space - the inside of the cab. The air inside the cab felt tight, suffocating. His so-called safe space feels smaller with every passing second. Koushirou's fingers curled into the fabric of his pants as he sat rigidly in his seat, his breath shallow and his grip tightening as if to ground himself. He wanted to move, wanted to step out—but something inside him kept him rooted.

From behind the smudged glass, he could see them clearly now. The figures had emerged from the darkness, stepping into the pale glow of the street lamps. They bore the weight of men who had long walked the path of violence, their very presence thick with the scent of blood and steel.

They did not fidget. They did not shift. They stood like statues carved from stone, unmoving and unshaken.

Waiting.

The driver had long gone silent, gripping the wheel with stiff fingers. Aiko's hand hovered near Koushirou's wrist, tense but firm, as if unsure whether to hold him back or push him forward.

And then there was Daiki.

Koushirou had never seen his father quite like this before. He was impossibly still, his posture devoid of hesitation. There was no hesitation in him, no uncertainty. He stood in the open, alone against the men who had come for him, his posture impossibly still. An air of quiet inevitability, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.

Their appearances said it all - these were no ordinary strangers. Koushirou could see it in their measured stances, in the way they carried the weight of something unspoken yet unmistakable. Bearing the weight of those who lived a life of violence and duty, their presence was thick with the scent of blood and steel. These men were the kind of people his father had strictly warned him about. Ones he was never allowed to go near. His memory of his father's warning was vivid in his mind.

"Never go near strangers with suspicious backgrounds, Koushirou. Not even a step." 

Koushirou never truly understood why. But today, he finally did.

Daiki stood in front of the cab, facing them alone. The weight of expectation and unspoken history pressed upon him like a mountain, yet he remained still, unmoving and unreadable. His back was to Koushirou, but even without seeing his face, Koushirou could tell—his father was not afraid.

He was prepared. 

The realisation sent a shiver down Koushirou's spine. 

Koushirou watched as his father's opponents fell, one after another, cut down with the same terrifying precision. The air was thick with the scent of blood and steel, the weight of violence settling heavy in the night.

And then, only one remained.

The leader stepped forward, unhurried, unfazed. His movements were smooth and deliberate, the kind that belonged to someone who had long abandoned the notion of fear. One who had the confidence of someone who had nothing to fear. The dim light cast shadows over his face, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. Yet, when he finally spoke, his voice carried with an unsettling ease—calm, almost amused, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.

"I've dreamed of this day for as long as I can remember." The leader's voice was smooth and deliberate, each word measured as if he had rehearsed them in his mind countless times before. His lips curled into a slow, cunning smirk, the kind that sent a chill down the spine of those who truly understood what it meant. The dim light cast a long shadow across his face, leaving only the sharp gleam of his eyes visible beneath the brim of his hat.

"I nearly lost hope when you abandoned Asakusa. Thought you had disappeared for good." He exhaled, almost wistfully, before his gaze sharpened. "But it seems the gods haven't turned their backs on me after all. Fortune smiles on me today."

"I nearly lost hope when you abandoned Asakusa," he continued, tilting his head slightly, studying Daiki with something resembling amusement. "Thought you had disappeared for good. That you had finally severed all ties, faded into the crowd like a ghost." He exhaled, slow and controlled, almost wistful. 

"Thought we belonged to each other," the leader murmured. But there was no sorrow in his voice—only the quiet certainty of a man who had always known the past would catch up, yet laced with unmistakable bitterness. 

He was studying Daiki—not as an opponent, not as an enemy, but as something far more personal. Something once his own. "I resented the boss for letting you go. For giving you the freedom the rest of us were never granted."

His fingers flexed around the hilt of his blade, the tension barely restrained beneath his deceptively calm exterior.

"But the worst of it all?" He exhaled sharply, his smirk twisting into something colder, something darker. "You threw everything we built together away. Just like that."

His words carried the weight of betrayal, of old wounds that had never healed.

"But it seems the gods haven't turned their backs on me after all." His fingers twitched at his side, the barest movement, yet it carried a weight that did not go unnoticed. His gaze was sharp, unwavering and dark, with an emotion that Koushirou couldn't quite name. "Fortune smiles on me today."

Daiki exhaled slowly.

"You talk too much." 

The man chuckled—a low, gravelly sound, far too relaxed for someone standing over the bodies of his fallen subordinates. He shook his head slightly, as if amused by Daiki's response. "Still the same as ever," he mused. "Blunt. Dismissive. Acting like none of this matters." His smirk widened, and for the first time, Koushirou saw something flicker in his father's eyes—something that passed so quickly he almost missed it. "But it does matter, doesn't it?"

Daiki said nothing. 

The man took another step forward, his hands slipping into the pockets of his coat. The slight tilt of his head, the casual posture—it all spoke of someone who believed himself to be in control. 

"You wouldn't be here otherwise."

The leader's voice was confident, edged with the certainty of a man who had spent years waiting for this moment, envisioning every possible outcome. His smirk deepened, amusement dancing in his eyes as he studied Daiki.

"Not after all this time," he added. "Not after everything you've done to disappear."

The air between them was thick, charged with something unspoken. Koushirou could feel it from the safety of the cab, a weight pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. His fingers curled tighter against the fabric of his pants as he watched, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Daiki, as always, was unreadable. His expression remained impassive, not rising to the bait, not giving the man before him the satisfaction of a reaction.

The leader clicked his tongue. "Still stubborn." His hand lifted, slow and deliberate, and from the folds of his coat, he drew a long blade.

It wasn't just any blade.

It was that blade he had once wielded. The one he had left behind, the one that was proof - a symbol of their bond, their shared past and unspoken oaths. 

A blade that once belonged to him was now in the hands of another.

The leader of the group tilted his head slightly, watching Daiki with something between amusement and quiet reproach. He lifted the blade just enough for the dim light to catch the steel's edge, allowing its reflection to dance across Daiki's face.

"You remember this, don't you?" His voice was deceptively soft, yet it carried the weight of something undeniable. "The weight of it. The way it fits perfectly in your grip."

Koushirou's breath caught in his throat.

"This sword," the leader continued, voice smooth like silk, "is more than just steel. It's proof of who we were. Of what we built together. It was the symbol of our identity." He exhaled, slow and deliberate, his smirk deepening. "And yet, you left it behind. Just like you left us behind."

Daiki's gaze remained cold. Unreadable.

But Koushirou saw it—the slightest tension in his father's fingers. The way his breath, steady as it was, seemed just a fraction deeper than before.

For the first time, Koushirou wondered if this blade—this symbol—wasn't just something his father had abandoned.

But something he had feared.

And then, as if drawn by an unseen force, the past surged forward.

Daiki remembered the first time he received the blade. It was the day he graduated from high school and his inauguration into the life he had never truly wanted, yet had been groomed for since birth.

The ceremony had been lavish, as such events in their world often were. The room had been filled with the weight of history—silent, expectant, as if the very walls of the dimly lit chamber had absorbed the stories of countless others who had stood where Daiki was now.

He had stood before them—before the assembled leaders, the men who were once his mentors, the ones who had raised him to this inevitable point in his life. His palms were clammy, his heart racing, but his exterior remained stoic. He had been trained for this moment, and yet, he had never felt more unprepared.

The man who had taken him under his wing, who had watched him grow from a troubled teenager into the poised young man now standing before them—had stepped forward. His voice was smooth and firm. "Today, Kamishirou Daiki, you step into your rightful place. You are no longer a child. From this day on, you carry the weight of your ancestors."

Daiki's eyes had drifted down to the sword in the older man's hands. It gleamed in the low light, the steel gleaming with a cold, deadly promise. It was a weapon that was as much a part of the Asakusa legacy as any of the blood that had been shed to claim it.

He had placed the hilt into Daiki's hands, his fingers lingering just a moment too long, pressing the cool metal into his grip. The weight of the sword had felt right. It had felt natural—as if it had always been meant for him, as if he were only ever meant to wield it.

"Take this blade, Daiki. Let it be a symbol of your loyalty, your service," the leader had intoned, his voice low. "It is a symbol of your bond with us, with your heritage. You will wield it as you carry the responsibilities of our world."

Daiki had clenched the hilt, feeling the power and legacy surge through him. It had been a turning point in his life, a moment where the man he had once been had been fully consumed by the man he was destined to become.

And yet, as he had stood there, holding the blade, something inside him had shifted. There had been a flicker of doubt, a gnawing feeling that no one, not even the older man could see.

He had carried the sword with him ever since. But in truth, it had never felt entirely like his. The blade had been a symbol, but it had also been a constant reminder of a life that had always felt like a cage, a life dictated by expectations, by blood, by the rules of an unforgiving world.

That was why he had left.

That was why he had walked away from it all.

Now, standing in front of him once again, the same blade was drawn, its cold steel gleaming ominously in the dim light. The man's voice echoed through the air like an omen. "You should've known, Daiki. You should've known that you could never run from this."

Daiki didn't flinch. His grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly, but he kept his expression neutral, unreadable. His son, Koushirou, was beside him, but he did not look at him. The boy had already witnessed enough tonight.

The leader's eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "You see, Daiki, this sword... It isn't just a weapon. It's a legacy. And whether you want it or not, it's yours. It always has been."

Daiki's lips parted just slightly as if he might say something, but no words came. Instead, he shifted his weight slightly, the tension palpable in the air between them.

"Do you know what I resented most about you?" The leader continued, his voice smooth, his gaze intense. "It wasn't that you left. It was that you abandoned everything we built. Everything we sacrificed." His gaze flicked briefly to the sword. "This blade represents a bond, Daiki. And by leaving, you severed it. But I won't let you forget."

The leader took a step forward, his shadow looming in the dim light, casting an eerie pall over the street. "I will make you remember."

In that moment, Daiki understood—this was not just about the blade. It was about the unspoken promises, the brotherhood that had bound him to this life, and the unspeakable cost of breaking free.

He had thought he could escape. He had thought he could build something different, something better. But now, the past was catching up with him, with a vengeance.

The man before him wasn't just a former ally. He was the embodiment of everything Daiki had left behind—every lie, every sacrifice, every betrayal. And as the leader's cold eyes bore into him, Daiki knew that this was no longer just about a sword. It was about the life that had once been his—and the life he had chosen to abandon.

The wind shifted, carrying with it the distant echoes of a time long past.

Daiki exhaled slowly, his heart steady, his gaze unwavering. He would face this. He would face the man who had once been his closest confidant. But not as the man he had been. He had left that version of himself behind, just as he had left the blade behind.

Now, he was something else. Something the leader didn't understand.

And Daiki intended to show him just how far he would go to protect the family he had built.

Even if it meant confronting the past he had never truly escaped.

Daiki's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. The words of the leader echoed in his mind, reverberating through the tension-laden silence that hung thick between them. The leader, still looming in the shadows, his smirk sharp as a blade, stepped closer, his presence oppressive, suffocating.

"I'm not the same man you once knew, Daiki," the leader continued, his voice dripping with venom. "You think you've changed? Do you think you've built something better? You've run from the truth. But here's the thing: no matter where you go, no matter how far you run, the truth always catches up."

Koushirou shifted beside him, his posture stiff, his face pale, but Daiki didn't glance at him. He could feel his son's unease, but he didn't have the luxury of addressing it. Not now. Not with the past standing before him like an immovable mountain.

The leader's hand gripped the sword tighter, his fingers flexing slightly as if testing the weight of the weapon, letting the anticipation stretch out.

"I could've made you my right hand," the leader said, his voice low but filled with unmistakable regret. "You could've been the one to stand beside me, the one to carve out our place in this world. But you threw it all away. You left, Daiki, and I don't forgive that."

A flicker of something crossed Daiki's face, something almost imperceptible—a twitch of his lips, a slight narrowing of his eyes—but it was enough. Enough to make the leader pause.

"I wasn't a part of your world anymore," Daiki said, his voice calm, steady, like a rock against a rising tide. "I chose a different path, one that didn't involve bloodshed or following orders blindly."

The leader's eyes flashed with something darker now, anger or perhaps something more dangerous. "And you thought you could escape this, didn't you? That you could just walk away from everything we built, from the lives we took, from the lives we saved. You were part of this, Daiki. You always will be."

His voice dropped to a near whisper, like a threat wrapped in a familiar, chilling tone. "You can't escape who you are."

For a brief moment, time seemed to slow. The air between them thickened, and Daiki's mind flashed back to the moment he had turned his back on this life, the moment he had decided that the bloodshed and the chains of the past were not for him anymore.

He could still hear the leader's words that day when Daiki had announced his departure. "You'll never be free. You'll always be a part of us. You'll always be a weapon. And when the time comes, I'll come for you."

The leader was right in one regard: he hadn't been able to escape. But that didn't mean he had to return to it.

"I'm not the man I was," Daiki said, his voice low, the truth of his words weighing heavy in the air. "I made my choice. And I'm not going back."

The leader's smirk faltered, just slightly. "So you think you've grown? That you can walk away from all of this and still be untouched? You've forgotten everything. I never forgot. And now, I'll make you remember."

With that, the leader moved, fast, his blade flashing through the air, a lethal arc aimed at Daiki.

But Daiki was faster.

In one fluid motion, he jerked the wheel of the cab, the tires screeching as the driver slammed the car into reverse. The movement was swift, controlled, a testament to the skills Daiki had honed over the years. The cab lurched backwards, and the leader's blade swiped through empty air.

Koushirou, who had been rigid with fear, now shifted his weight toward his father, confusion and fear swirling in his eyes. He wanted to speak, to ask what was happening, but the tension in the air held his tongue.

"Stay calm," Daiki said without looking at him, his voice steady, almost serene. "Stay down."

The cab shot backwards, gaining distance between them and the leader. But the leader was relentless. With a grunt, he lunged forward, his figure moving with the fluidity of a predator, closing the gap in an instant.

The air crackled with the threat of violence, but Daiki's focus remained on the road ahead. He wasn't just avoiding the leader's strike; he was calculating, always calculating. Every move and every decision was about survival.

Daiki slammed the cab into drive and the driver accelerated, tyres screeching once again as the car lurched forward, heading toward the open road.

The leader cursed, his eyes narrowing in fury. He was no longer amused. His grip on the sword tightened, and he started toward the cab, but Daiki was already ten steps ahead.

Koushirou watched the scene unfold, his mind racing. His father's calm was a contradiction to the chaos around them, a stillness that only made the tension sharper and more pronounced. He didn't understand everything that was happening, but he could sense the danger. The weight of it.

"Why is he doing this?" Koushirou whispered to himself, almost as if the question were more for him than anyone else.

Daiki, his focus still unwavering, didn't respond immediately. He just kept his eyes on the road, his expression hardening with each passing second. He had left that life behind, but this man was a reminder of the past he could never escape.

"He never understood," Daiki muttered, more to himself than to his son. "He always thought I would come back to him. But that life isn't mine anymore. And I'll do whatever it takes to protect you, Koushirou."

The speed of the cab picked up. The leader's form was growing smaller in the rearview mirror, but Daiki knew this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and unresolved tensions, but Daiki felt an odd calm settling over him. He had walked away from the life he was meant to lead, and now, he would face the consequences. This man was a reminder of the past he could never escape - the one he once revered and looked up to as an older brother, Zen. 

But one thing was clear: he would face them on his own terms.

And no matter what, his family—Koushirou—would never bear the weight of the past. Not again.

He would not let that happen. Not while he still had breath in his body.

Koushirou's breath caught in his throat as he watched his father. Daiki didn't move; he didn't flinch. But Koushirou could feel the tension, thick and suffocating, radiating off his father. The storm was coming. The question was, how would Daiki face it?