The fire crackled low as the newborn slept. Outside, the valley wind howled through the mountain pass like a whisper of ghosts, carrying with it the scent of blood and burning pine from distant skirmishes. Even in peace, the Warring States period never stopped reminding them: war was always nearby.
Tatsuro stood at the threshold of the wooden longhouse, arms crossed. He hadn't slept. He rarely did anymore. The bloodline kept his body sharp, his mind alert—but something inside him felt restless.
Something was coming.
"Lord Tatsuro," said Takeshi, appearing beside him with a torch in hand. "There's… something you need to see."
They moved swiftly, slipping past the training fields, past the waterfall shrine, and into the deeper forest.
A dozen clan scouts stood in a loose circle in a clearing, weapons drawn. The air here was still, heavy with tension. At the center of it all lay the body of a massive black wolf—split in half, ribs shattered as if crushed by a battering ram.
But the real sight was beyond it.
A boy.
No older than seven or eight, standing naked in the river, chest rising and falling with slow, mechanical breaths. His arms were covered in blood—not his own. His body was covered in fresh bruises and scars. And in his hand…
A sword.
No child should've been able to lift it. The blade was taller than he was, a slab of jagged steel nearly five feet long, pitted and chipped. It wasn't forged—it was brutalized into existence. And yet, he held it as if it were an extension of his own soul.
The boy turned his head slowly. His one visible eye gleamed red in the moonlight. The other was swollen shut.
Tatsuro stepped forward. The scouts moved to block him, but he raised his hand.
"Let me approach."
He moved slowly, his boots crunching on leaves and bone fragments. The boy didn't flinch. He didn't speak. He simply watched him.
"What's your name?" Tatsuro asked.
No answer.
Tatsuro studied the boy. Something about him didn't belong to this world. The musculature, the stance, the sheer killing aura—it reminded him of someone. Someone from another lifetime, another story.
A cursed swordsman.
Guts.
The ROB's gift.
The boy didn't remember anything. But his body did.
He was this generation's chosen soul.
Tatsuro crouched in front of him. "You killed the wolf?"
A small nod.
"With that sword?"
Another nod.
Tatsuro smiled. "Then you're strong enough to stay."
The boy tilted his head. "Stay?"
"We're a clan. We fight to survive. We protect our own. And we name our blades."
He reached out a hand. "What do you want to be called?"
There was a long pause. The boy blinked slowly, then rasped out his first word:
"…Guts."
Tatsuro smiled wider. "Then welcome to the Tatsugan Clan, Guts. We've been waiting for you."
Guts grew fast.
Too fast.
Within months, he was wielding his greatsword like it weighed nothing. He trained from dawn until nightfall, only pausing to eat or sharpen his blade. He didn't talk much, but when he did, his voice was deep and distant—like a man haunted by things he couldn't quite remember.
Kaede tried to get him to play with the other children, but he always refused. They were weak, he said. They didn't understand. Only the sword spoke his language.
Raikō, barely a year old, would often crawl toward him. Guts never smiled—but he always sheathed his sword when the baby was near.
Kaede once asked Tatsuro if the boy frightened him.
"No," he said. "But he frightens everyone else. And that's why he's necessary."
Trouble found them three months later.
A group of mercenaries, former samurai stripped of clan loyalty, had begun raiding nearby valleys. They were led by a ronin named Shinjo the Butcher, a man known for decorating his armor with the teeth of children.
Word came that he was marching toward the Tatsugan border.
Tatsuro gathered his best.
Thirty warriors. Kaede. Takeshi. And Guts.
"Do we negotiate?" Takeshi asked.
"No," Tatsuro said. "We make an example."
They met in the misty pine hills, where trees grew so close together that movement was restricted to single-file lines. Shinjo's men laughed when they saw Tatsuro's group. They had triple the numbers.
The laughter didn't last.
Guts moved first—without waiting for orders.
He charged into their front line like a demon, the greatsword cleaving bodies in half with every swing. Blood sprayed the bark of trees. Bones shattered with dull cracks. Shinjo screamed orders, but Guts didn't stop.
By the time the Tatsugan warriors engaged, the enemy line was already broken.
Tatsuro moved with silent fury, his chakra crackling with newly evolved traits—shadows wrapped around his fists, solidifying into obsidian claws. He tore through shinobi with precision, his bloodline adapting to each element thrown at him.
Kaede fought beside him, dual blades dancing like fireflies.
When the dust settled, the pine forest had become a graveyard.
And Shinjo?
He didn't die easily.
It took five of them to pin him down. Even then, he spat curses and threats until Guts approached.
"No…" Shinjo wheezed. "No, not you—"
Guts didn't speak.
He simply raised the sword—
—and brought it down.
The body split with a wet snap.
Back at the valley, Guts stood before the entire clan, covered in blood. He said nothing.
Tatsuro stood beside him.
"This is what awaits anyone who dares harm us," he said. "We are the Tatsugan. We do not bend. We do not run. We evolve. We endure."
The cheers were thunder.
And in the shadows, Guts sheathed his sword, eyes distant.
Some part of him still searched for a world he couldn't remember.
But this was home now.
And he would kill to protect it.