The forge was alive. The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel echoed through the Kajiwara workshop, sparks dancing like fleeting stars in the dimly lit space. It was a melody Kajiwara Denzan had known since childhood, one that spoke of craftsmanship, discipline, and legacy.
At just ten years old, Denzan stood before the anvil, his small hands gripping a hammer too heavy for him. The heat of the forge stung his skin, sweat dripping down his brow as he raised the hammer once more.
"Again," his father's voice cut through the air, firm but patient.
Kajiwara Gorou was a man of few words, but his expectations were as unyielding as the steel he forged. His blades had armed samurai, soldiers, and even wandering mercenaries, earning the Kajiwara name a reputation of unmatched quality. Now, that legacy rested on Denzan's shoulders.
Denzan exhaled sharply, steadying himself. He struck the glowing metal again. His arms burned, his grip wavered, but he did not stop.
His mother, Sayaka, stood nearby, watching with quiet concern. "He's still young, Gorou," she murmured.
"A weak grip leads to a weak blade," Gorou replied. "And a weak blade shatters in battle."
Denzan clenched his teeth. He understood. To bear the Kajiwara name meant to be strong. To be unbreakable.
Yet, even as he honed his skills in the forge, his heart was restless.
The sea was close—always calling. When his chores were done, he would sneak to the Ritou docks, watching ships come and go, their sails billowing like the wings of great birds. He listened to sailors spin tales of adventure, of lands beyond Inazuma, of storms and battles on the open sea.
One evening, as he sat on the edge of the docks, his older brother approached, hands tucked into his sleeves. He was taller, stronger—a craftsman in his own right, yet different from their father.
"You always sneak off here," his brother said with a knowing smirk.
Denzan didn't look away from the horizon. "Don't you ever wonder what's out there?"
His brother chuckled. "You've got the look of someone with a storm in his soul."
Denzan frowned. "Storm?"
"Aye. Some people are content with a forge and a home. Others hear the sea and feel like they should be out there instead." His brother sat beside him, gaze thoughtful. "But you know, even the strongest blade starts as molten ore. It has to be shaped before it finds its true purpose."
The words clung to Denzan like salt in the air.
That night, he returned to the forge, where his father placed a newly forged katana before him.
"Your first blade," Gorou said. "It will remind you of this moment. Of the weight you carry."
Denzan wrapped his fingers around the hilt. The steel was cool, solid. For the first time, he felt it—not just the weight of the sword, but of expectation, of heritage… and of the path ahead.
But deep in his heart, he still heard the call of the sea.
By the time he reached his late teens, the forge had shaped him—his hands bore callouses from years of hammering, his arms strong from lifting steel. He had grown into a skilled blacksmith under his father's guidance, yet the restless storm within him never settled.
The sea called louder with each passing day.
One evening, while delivering a batch of swords to a merchant ship bound for Kannazuka, Denzan overheard whispers at the docks. Men in hushed voices spoke of something stirring in the shadows of Inazuma—rebellion, defiance against the rule of the Shogun.
The Vision Hunt Decree.
Denzan had heard the stories—warriors stripped of their Visions, their ambitions crushed beneath the Raiden Shogun's will. The Kajiwara family had always been neutral in political affairs, their duty solely to their craft. But something about the decree unsettled him. A blade was meant to protect, to fight for its wielder's convictions. What good was a sword if those who wielded it were stripped of their strength?
As he prepared to leave, a scuffle broke out nearby. A group of soldiers clad in purple-and-black armor cornered a man against a stack of wooden crates. The man's clothes were tattered, his stance unsteady, yet his eyes blazed with defiance.
"Hand it over," one of the guards ordered, stepping closer.
The man clutched his side, blood seeping through his fingers. "It's… mine," he spat. "You have no right."
A Vision. Denzan spotted the faint glow of Electro at the man's hip—a fading light, a power soon to be stolen.
Something inside him snapped. Before he could think, Denzan moved.
In one swift motion, he grabbed a stray iron rod from a nearby cart and slammed it into the back of one soldier's helmet. The guard staggered forward, caught off guard, giving the wounded man just enough time to break free.
"You—!" The remaining soldiers turned on Denzan, blades drawn.
"Run!" Denzan shouted, gripping his makeshift weapon.
The injured man hesitated but knew better than to waste the opportunity. He bolted into the alleyways of Ritou, disappearing into the shadows. Denzan, however, was not as fortunate.
A blunt force struck his side, knocking the wind from his lungs. He barely managed to stay on his feet before a second blow sent him crashing to the ground.
"Tch. Just another smith's brat playing hero," one of the soldiers scoffed before raising his sword.
Lightning flashed—real lightning, not just the crackling in Denzan's blood. A blur of motion, a flash of steel, and the guard was thrown back. A new figure stood between them, twin blades humming with Electro energy.
"That's enough," the newcomer said coolly, twirling his weapons. His face was partially hidden beneath a hood, but the confidence in his stance was unmistakable. "You're making a mess of things."
The soldiers hesitated.
"You—you're with the Resistance," one of them growled.
The hooded warrior smirked. "What gave it away?"
Realizing they were outmatched, the guards retreated, cursing under their breath. Denzan remained on the ground, coughing, his ribs aching.
"Not bad," the stranger said, offering a hand. "Not smart, but not bad."
Denzan hesitated before grasping it. "Who… are you?"
The warrior chuckled. "A friend. You just helped one of ours escape, so that makes you interesting." He tilted his head. "Come with me, Kajiwara Denzan."
Denzan stiffened. "How do you know my name?"
"We've heard of the Kajiwara blacksmiths." The warrior's grin was sharp. "And we could use a good smith in the Resistance."
Denzan glanced toward the sea. The path before him had changed.
He wasn't leaving Inazuma—not yet.
But perhaps, just perhaps, he had finally found the storm he was meant to chase.