Being the strongest sword of a war tactician did not please Kosetsu. He wasn't the battle-born type. But there are some things that are worse than shedding blood on the battlefield. When you're the strongest sword of a war tactician, you get watch the hundred thousand soldiers in the valley below burn alive without a single sweep of your sword.


It's the smell of it that gets him the most.

The smell of blood is not the most irritating. He is a sword, though he might not like to admit it, Kosetsu cannot bring himself to be truly repulsed by the crimson smell.

But fire is not something he can get over. Forged by it, he knows that he can burn by it too.

"You make me nervous by standing so close to the edge."

That is the voice of a god that doesn't know their own might. One who can set a whole mountain valley alight with a slight nod. They wrote, issued, and signed a hundred thousand death warrants with a short breath. A god who, with a swish of their hand, defied time and space to re-create this inferno in every era in history.

"You make me nervous by creating such a dangerous edge for a sword to be standing on."

The saniwa's shadowy presence is betrayed only by the scratching of the earth. Kosetsu tries not to go blind when following a pebble's descent into the still-scorching flames.

"It's my job to create such things."

His hand is limply at his side while he watches the enemy corpses feed the burning. It is the stench of burnt metal, charred flesh, and their final moments of fear. The human takes his limp hand. Kosetsu notices the smell of tea wafting from the saniwa. After they've stood there for some minutes, the sword wonders how his fingers suddenly curled around the other hand.

"Tea and alcohol are inside."

"Who brought the tea?"

"Sayo."

A comfortable but impenetrable silence settles. The saniwa's thumb mindlessly caresses Kosetsu's hand. It's familiar and welcome until it stops. His senses are taut and he catches his saniwa's hand just as it is about to escape him. He doesn't look at the miniature god standing beside him, merely swivels around, taking that being with him.

There are celebratory cheers as Kosetsu enters the tent with the deity in tow. The tantou pours tea and hugs the silvery tachi warmly.

Kosetsu was successfully given the slip during this time, but he keeps the image of his god in the corner of his eye.

A whole urn of sake replaces his hand in the saniwa's grip.