Chapter 2: Blades In The Dark

Denzan's breath was still unsteady as he followed the hooded warrior through the winding alleyways of Ritou. The pain in his ribs throbbed with every step, but his mind was too preoccupied to focus on it.

The Resistance. His rescuer. The way the man had spoken his name.

Finally, they reached a secluded area near the docks, where the warrior pulled back his hood.

Denzan's eyes widened.

"Brother…?"

His older brother smirked, arms crossed. "Took you long enough to figure it out."

Denzan was speechless. He hadn't seen his brother in years—not since he left the forge to pursue his own path. Their father had called it reckless, a waste of talent, but his brother had simply said, *"A blade isn't meant to stay on the shelf."* Now, standing before him, clad in battle-worn gear with an unmistakable air of confidence, he looked every bit the rogue warrior their father had warned about.

"You—you're part of the Resistance?" Denzan finally asked.

His brother nodded. "And you just made quite the first impression."

Denzan clenched his fists. "I couldn't just stand there and let them take his Vision."

"Good," his brother said. "That means you're ready."

"Ready?"

"For something more than just forging weapons."

Denzan hesitated. He had always wanted freedom, to carve his own path—but was this it? A fight against the Shogunate? Against the very forces that had upheld Inazuma's order for centuries?

Before he could answer, a sharp whistle cut through the air. His brother's expression darkened.

"We have company."

A tall figure stepped into view, his crimson coat striking against the dim lamplight. His presence was commanding, his movements precise, controlled. Even in the darkness, his fiery red hair seemed to glow.

Denzan instinctively reached for his side, only to remember he wasn't armed.

The man's deep voice cut through the tension. "You're a long way from Mondstadt, Diluc."

Denzan's head snapped toward his brother. "You *know* him?"

Diluc's amber eyes studied Denzan before he spoke. "We've crossed paths before. Your brother isn't the only one keeping secrets."

Denzan looked between them, realization dawning. The infamous Darknight Hero of Mondstadt—what was *he* doing here, working with the Resistance?

His brother sighed. "It's a long story. But for now, we need to move. The Shogunate will be looking for you."

Denzan's grip tightened. His life as a simple blacksmith had ended the moment he swung that iron rod. Now, with his brother and an outsider like Diluc standing before him, he had a choice.

And they left to the underground Resistance's hideout.

The underground Resistance hideout was hidden beneath the dense forests of Yashiori Island, a place where stormy skies and shattered ruins told tales of past wars. The scent of damp earth mixed with metal filled the air, and Denzan could hear the rhythmic clanking of blades being sharpened, the murmurs of soldiers preparing for battle.

His brother led him through the winding tunnels, past warriors clad in makeshift armor, their faces weary but determined. Some glanced at Denzan, curious. A new recruit? A blacksmith? Or just another stray caught in the storm?

"You'll fit in soon enough," his brother said as they stepped into a dimly lit chamber filled with weapons—katanas, spears, and even foreign firearms. "You've already made an impression back in Ritou."

Denzan folded his arms. "I didn't do it to impress anyone. I just—" He hesitated. "I couldn't stand by and do nothing."

His brother smirked. "That's what makes you different from Father."

The words hit harder than Denzan expected. He loved his father, respected his skill, but deep down, he had always felt caged in the forge. His duty was to craft weapons, not wield them—but could he really stay a smith while the world around him burned?

"You're still thinking like a blacksmith," his brother continued. "A weapon's true purpose isn't just in its craftsmanship—it's in how it's wielded. You've made blades for others all your life. Now, it's time to forge your own path."

Denzan looked down at his hands—calloused from years of forging, yet itching for something more. He exhaled sharply. "Then let's get to work."

—---

Days passed in a blur. Denzan spent hours in the Resistance's armory, repairing broken weapons, forging new ones, and listening to stories from the warriors who wielded them. He learned of their struggles, their losses, and their hope.

But he wasn't just a smith anymore. His brother pushed him into training—sparring with the Resistance fighters, learning how to fight, how to survive. His katana, once just a symbol of his craftsmanship, became an extension of himself.

It was during one of these sessions that he found himself face-to-face with Diluc.

The Mondstadt noble observed him with a calculating gaze before tossing a wooden training sword at him. "You rely too much on brute strength," he remarked. "Precision matters just as much as power."

Denzan caught the sword, scoffing. "And what would *you* know about katana techniques?"

Diluc raised an eyebrow before stepping forward in a blur of motion. Denzan barely had time to react before the wooden blade stopped just short of his throat.

"You were saying?"

Denzan gritted his teeth.

"Again," Diluc said.

And so they trained.

At first, Denzan was frustrated—Diluc was fast, relentless, and had an uncanny ability to read his movements. But the more they sparred, the more Denzan adapted. He learned to balance strength with agility, to anticipate, to strike with purpose rather than blind force.

One evening, as they sat by the fire after training, Denzan finally asked, "Why are you helping the Resistance?"

Diluc stared into the flames. "Because tyranny must be opposed—no matter where it takes root."

Denzan nodded, understanding. He had once believed his place was only at the forge, but now he saw the truth—he wasn't just a smith, nor just a fighter. He was something else entirely.

The storm had come.

And Kajiwara Denzan was ready to face it.