The Tale of an ordinary ninja

The group of three—Akira, Umiko, and Lady Mochizuki—arrived at the Land of Iron amidst a chilly breeze, the air thick with the scent of snow and metal. The Land of Iron was a nation of towering mountains and sprawling valleys, its streets bustling with merchants, samurai, and travelers. The trio was welcomed by Kazuma, an older man in his mid-fifties, with a kind but shrewd demeanor. His snow-white hair was neatly tied back, and his sharp, intelligent eyes peered through round spectacles perched on his nose.

"Kazuma-san," Umiko greeted him with a polite bow, her graceful demeanor radiating warmth.

Kazuma bowed in return, his voice deep yet warm. "Lady Umiko, it is a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Toshiro speaks highly of your business acumen."

Umiko smiled graciously. "The pleasure is mine. Thank you for hosting us in your beautiful country."

Kazuma gestured toward the bustling village ahead. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. I've arranged for you to stay at the Imperial Blossom Inn—the finest accommodations in the Land of Iron. The merchants' meeting will be held this evening."

After exchanging pleasantries, Kazuma's attendants led them to the inn, a grand building of polished wood and paper screens, with a bubbling hot spring tucked behind its gardens. Mochizuki and Umiko retired to their rooms to rest, preparing for the evening ahead.

However, Akira's curiosity tugged at him. The village was alive with the clanging sounds of swords and the disciplined movements of samurai. Deciding to explore, he ventured into the heart of the village, his pink hair and alert eyes drawing a few curious glances from passersby.

As Akira wandered the streets, his ears caught the sharp clash of steel emanating from a nearby dojo. Drawn by the sound, he approached the building, its grand entrance adorned with banners bearing the crest of a prominent samurai clan. Inside, the large wooden hall was abuzz with activity. Samurai of all ages were practicing various techniques, their movements precise, their swords gleaming.

What truly caught Akira's attention, however, was a duel unfolding in the center of the dojo. On one side stood a young boy, no older than 15. He was lean and agile, with unruly black hair that fell just below his ears, framing sharp, determined eyes. His expression was calm, almost cold, betraying no hint of nervousness. He wore a traditional samurai gi, his left arm resting lightly on the hilt of his katana.

Across from him stood his opponent, an older and more muscular samurai, clearly in his late twenties. The older man's demeanor was arrogant, his smirk brimming with overconfidence. "Kirito," the man taunted, "do you really think you can defeat me? You're just a child."

Kirito remained silent, his dark eyes locked onto his opponent like a predator sizing up prey. The spectators murmured among themselves, many doubting the younger boy's chances.

The older samurai charged first, swinging his blade with brute force. Kirito sidestepped effortlessly, his movements fluid as water. His katana was still sheathed, yet his calmness only seemed to aggravate his opponent.

"Draw your blade, boy!" the older man growled, his pride clearly stung. He lunged again, this time aiming for Kirito's side.

In a blur of movement, Kirito's hand flew to his hilt. The sound of steel slicing through the air resonated sharply as his blade came alive, coated in a brilliant crackle of lightning chakra. The blue energy hissed and sparked, illuminating his sword like a storm contained in steel.

The audience gasped, their astonishment palpable. Chakra slashes were a hallmark of advanced samurai techniques, and for someone so young to wield lightning chakra with such control was nothing short of remarkable.

Before his opponent could react, Kirito took a single step forward, his blade arcing gracefully through the air. The lightning slash cut through the space between them with a thunderous crack. The sheer force of the technique sent the older samurai flying backward, his sword clattering to the ground as he collapsed, unconscious.

The dojo fell silent, save for the faint hum of dissipating electricity. Kirito calmly sheathed his katana with a single, deliberate motion, his expression unchanged. He turned away from his defeated opponent without a word, walking toward the exit. His movements exuded a quiet confidence, as though the fight had been beneath him.

Akira, who had been watching the duel with wide-eyed fascination, felt his heartbeat quicken. He had trained diligently in the Leaf's Kenjutsu techniques, but witnessing the samurai's unique style firsthand was something else entirely. Kirito's mastery of lightning chakra and his seamless integration of it into his blade left Akira both awestruck and eager to learn more.

As Kirito walked past him, Akira couldn't help but call out. "Hey!"

Kirito stopped, his sharp eyes flickering toward Akira. For a moment, the two young swordsmen locked gazes, a spark of mutual recognition passing between them.

"You're skilled," Akira said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "What's your name?"

Kirito tilted his head slightly, studying Akira before answering. "Kirito. And you are?"

"Akira," he replied, stepping forward. "I've never seen someone handle chakra slashes like that. How did you learn it?"

Kirito's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "That's a story for another time. If you're interested in learning, come back tomorrow. Maybe I'll show you what real swordsmanship looks like."

With that, Kirito turned and disappeared into the snowy streets, leaving Akira standing in the dojo, his mind racing with questions and his determination to improve ignited like never before.

As Akira made his way back to the inn, the scene from the dojo replayed in his mind. He felt a new sense of purpose stirring within him, a desire to master not just the Leaf's Kenjutsu techniques but to understand the unique art of the samurai. The Land of Iron held secrets that he was determined to uncover, and his encounter with Kirito was just the beginning.

By the time he returned to the inn, the evening sky was painted in hues of orange and purple, a quiet reminder that the merchants' meeting—and perhaps even greater challenges—lay ahead.