Glossary:
Shishi: Refers to the Isshin Shishi, the faction that wanted to reinstate the power of the emperor during the Bakumatsu.
-sensei: Honorific to refer to a master or expert in a field. Also used for teachers.
-dono: Honorific to refer extremely politely to someone.

THE SWORDSMITH (II - PART I EPILOGUE)

He loved those sunsets. When plum blossoms bled their colors into the cool winter air casting it in pink and gold, and the snow looked like soft down feathers falling over the fields of Otsu. It made him warm inside, much more than sake ever could, and turned his favorite tobacco that much lighter as he swirled the smoke around in his mouth. That smell that worked its magic in everything it touched; white plum blossoms just made even the worst winters brighten up. He had even dreamt of them that first night of the year: Fuji-san cradled by a soft bed of plum blossoms. A wonderful start for a better year. The gods knew he needed a good one.

The thought stung a bit more than Shakkū was prepared for, making him pause in his track. He swallowed and took a deep breath, letting himself surround by the delicate fingers of the trees lining the path. That's better, he thought, and with a bittersweet smile resumed his path only to come to a sudden stop once again. At the entrance to his home, right next to the overgrown vegetable patch, stood the silhouette of a young man. A young man with a patched scarf made of the strangest garb he'd ever seen. One with the deepest blood-red hair…

"Hey! Kid!"

The smith had heard the stories from Kyoto: The red-haired demon with wild eyes and a sword that could not be matched. Some of them—well, most of them—were wildly exaggerated, specially the part where he bathed in the blood of its enemies. Bullcrap—once Shakkū had had to lock the kid in and throw away the key to make him bathe at all, damned be politeness and Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu's hygiene habits. Still, actually seeing the kid again made the past ten years all the more real. The struggle. The loss. And it filled his chest with pride, knowing that the revolution was well on its way to bring about a new era thank to the little kid that shared his roof at the tail-end of winter when his own son was born.

"Will y'look at ya, all grown up an' everythin'!" Shakkū greeted, vigorously patting the kid's smallish but firm shoulders. "I wouldn't 'ave thought you had such a spurt in ya, but you've shut me up!"

"Yeah" the redhead conceded, softly. His voice was deeper, but mellower: it was as though all the zesty stubbornness had been drained out of him, leaving behind only a shell, a pair of opaque eyes and a deep cross-shaped scar.

All too aware of his gaze, the redhead turned the scared cheek away from Shakkū. He looked like a kid who had broken a bowl, shame and guilt weighting heavy over his shoulders as he tried to hide the pieces from his mom.

What have they done to you, kid…?

Absorbed by his thoughts, it took a moment for the smith before he noticed the young man had turned sickly pale: Eyes wide, he stared at something in Shakkū's hand, but what could be so terrible as to drain the blood from a demon's face? He followed the kid's gaze.

"Oh. Yeah…" the man muttered, lifting the wooden bucket he'd been carrying in his hand, where a ladle and a wilted chrysanthemum swayed gently inside. "After ya left, the bastards came back. Dunno if they wanted to weed out traitors or thin out the herd, but… By the time Chōshū got to me, I had already been in the Shishi wagon for a while," he smiled, bitterly.

Silence.

"But cm'ere, let's go inside!" Shakkū beckoned, both for the kid and for himself. He started towards the workshop with a devious smile: "We ne'er got to share a drink ya 'n me. I think I still have a bottle of sake around here somewhere…"

"No, I... Shakkū-dono, I didn't—" fumbling with words and visibly uncomfortable, the redhead followed.

"Drop the 'dono' stuff, will ya? Ya can't keep that up with the guy who saw ya struggle lifting a dog-head hammer" Snickered the smith, unceremoniously sorting through his well-used tools. He dug up a jug, swished it around and, counting at least a good few drinks inside, he turned around with a smile. One that vanished from his face as soon as he saw the kid extending his sheathed sword in a white-knuckled fist.

"… We've just won our first battle. The revolution is just starting and you want to quit? Now?" the smith growled, his seething anger turning his eyes into the thinest slits.

"Katsura-sensei has given his permission," the kid excused himself, "The revolution will continue and a new era will come…"

"After all the men you've killed."

"Yes. But I can't, I… I won't kill. Ever again," the redhead replied, and the way he held his gaze despite the resentment distilled by the smith made the man sick. But he wasn't finished: "It's because of that that I came to you today, Shakkū-dono—"

"Pft. Don't go all polite on me now."

"... I fear this sword will become a symbol of the lives I took," the young man continued, undeterred. "I can't let it become a banner for people who could take advantage of that."

Silence.

But he was right.

"You're too naïve, kid. Always been," Shakkū scoffed, taking the sword from the kid's hands. He unsheathed it it, examining the blade for the reddish glow that the stories told about. "I guess it'll be interesting to see how I can smelt something so drenched in blood".

The redhead lowered his gaze, but did not flinch otherwise. If he was not running from what he had done, and boy had he done a lot, then what was with the scar that made him turn away like that?

"Thank you. For everything" Bowing deeply, the kid turned to leave.

"… Hold on!"

After digging around like he did for the jug of sake, Shakkū emerged from the workshop with another sword in his hands. "Catch!"

The kid caught it in the air as expected, but his hand was dragged down a little by the unexpected weight.

"But I won't…"

"Listen, kid," the smith interrupted, leaning against the entrance. "Ya can't run from yourself. How many red-haired swordsmen do ya think run around here today? And with the scar on top of that…"

The redhead was about to protest, but Shakkū continued: "You will need it. For yourself, for others…" the weight of those last words pushed down the remains of the smith's bitterness. "I reckon it'll fit ya just right. And when that sword breaks, and ya can still believe the lies ya tell yourself... well, come on down and pay me a visit."

Bowing deeply, the young man left, sword in hand. It was that last gesture what made the man's stomach sink: He couldn't shake the feeling that tit would be the last time he'd see that kid around.

Shakkū lowered his gaze to the sword in his hand: It was dirty, scratched, all knackered and eerily heavy with the blood of so many. What would Iori say…?

"Dad? Who was that?"

The man turned to see a beady-eyed boy, barely ten next week, peeking behind the kitchen door. Seikū had grown so much in so little time…

"Just a lost kid," he dismissed with a bitter smile. Walking towards his son, Shakkū couldn't help the thought that it was time he made good on his promise and smelt that sword into one worthy of the gods; a sword worthy of building the new era. For his and everyones's sons.