“Are you… adventurers?” he asked, his voice rough but kind.

  Yuki and Yoru exchanged a glance.

  “Yes, we are,” Yuki replied, stepping forward.

  The old man’s expression lit up with relief. “That’s wonderful. Then, may I ask for your help? Our village has been under attack by monsters for the past few weeks. We’ve sent word to the guild, but no one has come. We’ve been holding them off using special herbs—monsters hate their scent—but our supply is running low.”

  Yuki clenched his fists. He had no combat experience, but something inside him stirred—a desire to help.

  “I don’t know how to fight... but I want to do something.”

  He turned to his companion. “What do you think, Yoru?”

  Yoru gave a soft smile. “Whatever you decide, I’ll stand with you.”

  Yuki nodded, his resolve solidifying. “We’ll do what we can to help. Please… can you show us what weapons you have? And what kind of monsters we’re dealing with?”

  The old man’s eyes sparkled with gratitude. “Of course. Forgive me—I should have introduced myself. I am Takamori Genzō, the mayor of this village. On behalf of everyone in Takamori, thank you.”

  “It’s our pleasure, Mayor,” Yuki replied respectfully.

  Mayor Genzō led them down a narrow path to the village training hall, a simple wooden building weathered by time. Inside, weapons hung along the walls—bows with quivers of arrows, spears with chipped tips, and a few swords dulled from use.

  “Take whatever you need,” said the mayor. Yuki put his rusty sword down on a table

  Yuki walked slowly among the weapons, his gaze drawn to something at the far end of the hall. There, on a rack apart from the rest, rested a black and red sword. Its blade shimmered faintly, like it held an ember deep within.

  “That sword…” the mayor said, his voice dropping to a reverent tone. “That is Shinkurō—the Deep Black Flame. It once belonged to our village’s greatest hero. No one has been able to wield it since.”

  As if in a trance, Yuki stepped closer. The moment his hand hovered near the hilt, the sword began to glow—a deep red light pulsing like a heartbeat.

  “N-No way…” the mayor whispered, eyes wide.

  Yuki reached out. The warmth of the blade radiated into his palm. The moment he touched it, a blinding white light engulfed him.

  A voice echoed in his mind.

  "Protect this world… You are the chosen one."

  “Yuki!” Yoru shouted, rushing forward. “Are you alright?!”

  Yuki staggered, blinking as the light faded. The sword pulsed gently in his grasp, now calm.

  “I… I think I’m okay,” he murmured.

  “The sword has chosen its next wielder,” Genzō said in awe.

  “What…?” Yuki asked, stunned.

  The mayor looked at him solemnly. “When the hero of our village fell long ago, the sword went silent. It has not responded to anyone since—until now.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Yuki stared down at the weapon in his hands. He hadn’t planned for this. He didn’t know how to fight. And yet, something within him had changed.

  A week had passed since Yuki and Yoru arrived in Takamori Village. The quiet forest had become familiar, its looming trees less threatening, though the air still carried tension like a storm waiting to break.

  Every day, the villagers worked tirelessly. Makeshift barricades rose around the village’s edge—wooden spikes, reinforced fences, and trenches lined with oil. Herbs were gathered and bundled, their sharp scent filling the streets. Yuki spent his days helping wherever he could: lifting lumber for walls, calming frightened children, and sharpening old weapons.

  Though the villagers still whispered behind his back—“the boy with the glowing sword,he looks weak” “the one chosen by the hero’s blade, what a joke”—Yuki never acted superior. If anything, he seemed more distant, carrying a quiet weight no one could see

  The sun dipped low as Yuki and Yoru followed Mayor Genzō into the village. Though they’d offered to help, not everyone looked pleased.

  Whispers chased them like shadows.

  “That boy doesn’t look like a fighter.”

  “What can someone that pale do with a sword?”

  “We asked for warriors, not children and strays.”

  Yuki heard it all but said nothing. His fingers twitched at his side, brushing the hilt of the rusted sword he’d picked up earlier. He didn’t blame them. Not really.

  The villagers were scared.

  So was he.

  They spent the first afternoon helping reinforce the village defenses. Yoru worked alongside the hunters, her feline reflexes proving useful in tracking and climbing. Yuki, though, was handed a shovel.

  “Dig trenches. That’s something you can manage,” a stern-faced man said, shoving the tool into his hands.

  Yuki nodded without complaint.

  He dug until blisters formed on his palms.

  Then he kept digging.

  The next day, he helped carry water from the well to the healer’s hut. Then firewood. Then bundles of herbs. Always quiet. Always polite. He tried to offer smiles, but few were returned.

  Some kids pointed at his white hair. A few older boys muttered about how “he probably dyed it to look cool.”

  At one point, while setting up defensive stakes along the perimeter, a loose log rolled toward a group of children playing nearby. Yuki leapt, pushing a small boy out of the way just in time.

  The boy stared up at him, eyes wide with shock.

  But the boy’s mother ran over and pulled him back. “Stay away from him,” she said sharply. “You don’t know where he’s from.”

  Yuki’s hands clenched. He looked down at the scrape on his arm and said nothing.

  Yoru watched from a rooftop nearby, her ears twitching, her expression unreadable

  That night, Yuki trained in secret again—same clearing, same sword. His hands ached from both digging and swinging, but he kept moving.

  “I get it,” he whispered to the trees. “They don’t trust me. I haven’t earned it yet.”

  He swung again. And again.

  Yoru watched in silence, unseen, a strange pain settling in her chest.

  "You’re stronger than they see, Yuki... but you shouldn’t have to bleed to prove it.”

  The next morning, while Yuki gathered more herbs outside the village walls, two boys from the militia passed by.

  “Still pretending to be useful?” one said with a smirk.

  The other laughed. “Careful, he might hit you with a bucket.”

  Yuki didn’t respond. He just carried the herbs back to the healer, nodding politely.

  The old woman looked at the bundle, then at his hands—blistered, bruised, fingers wrapped in cloth.

  “…You brought the right ones,” she said, voice gruff. “Good eyes.”

  Yuki blinked. “I—thank you.”

  She turned away quickly. “Don’t get cocky. You’re still just a kid.”

  But a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as he left.