Young Musashi: Before Cutting Through Doubt 🎬 Episode 1: The First Sword Stroke on the Moss

Episode 1

🎬 The First Sword Stroke on the Moss

Morning in the bamboo grove is always colder than a person's breath.

Musashi stood on a moss-covered boulder, gripping his wooden sword with both hands.

He felt dampness under his feet. The moss held water, quietly clinging to the soles of his straw sandals. The bamboo rustled in the wind. High above, the leaves brushed against each other, making a soft, whispering sound. That sound could have been someone laughing in a low voice far away, or perhaps it sounded like weeping.

Musashi counted his breaths as he listened to that sound.

One.

Two.

Three.

Make the exhale longer than the inhale. If you do that, your heart will not waver, his father had said. Or rather, should he call him father, or master? Musashi still could not decide.

Is the one connected by blood the father?

Is the one who teaches the sword the father?

Or is the one who only looks at him and says, 'It is still not enough,' the father?

Every time Musashi thought about this, he felt a small knot form deep in his chest.

The knot only grew tighter when he tried to untie it.

When he tried to cut it, it retreated even further inside.

That is why, lately, Musashi had decided not to think about it. He swung his wooden sword so he would not think. He broke a sweat so he would not waver. To forget something, he came to the bamboo grove earlier than anyone else.

But the wooden sword he swung to forget was always a little heavy.

'Practicing alone again?'

A voice called out.

Musashi did not stop his wooden sword. From right to left, from left to right. Only the sound of cutting through the wind was his reply.

"I know you can hear me."

The girl approached without hesitation.

She looked two or three years older than Musashi. She tied her hair with a red cord and carried a basket in her hand. Inside the basket were wild vegetables and a few still-green persimmons. She had large eyes and a face that seemed to be smiling even before she actually did.

She must be a village girl. I do not know her name.

Musashi stopped his wooden sword and looked at the girl.

"It's dangerous."

"You're the one in a dangerous spot. You'll slip on the moss."

"I won't slip."

"People who think that are the ones who slip."

The girl said this, then nimbly sat down on the edge of a large rock.

Musashi frowned.

"Don't sit there."

"Why?"

"You're in the way of my training."

"Training? Who are you fighting?"

Musashi did not answer.

The girl looked around the bamboo grove and tilted her head exaggeratedly.

"I don't see any enemies."

"There are enemies that cannot be seen."

Hmm. So, do you defeat an invisible enemy every morning?

Musashi remained silent.

Was he defeating it?

He did not know.

If he swung his wooden sword, his arms would grow stronger. His legs would become more resilient. His eyes, too, would become quicker to notice the shadows of birds and the swaying of leaves.

However, the things inside his chest would stir on their own.

About blood.

About his father.

About his mother.

About where he came from and where he was going.

No matter how many times he cut those things, they would return in a different form as soon as he had cut them.

Musashi had a habit of observing his own heart from a slight distance.

The self that was angry.

The self that was lonely.

The self that wanted to be acknowledged by someone.

Even when those selves were rampaging inside his chest, another Musashi would be sitting on a slightly higher tree branch, staring down at them.

Ah, they are making a fuss again.

Ah, they are about to lose again.

Just like that.

The girl took out a green persimmon and threw it at Musashi.

Musashi accepted it reflexively.

"Want to eat it?"

"I don't need it."

"It's astringent, isn't it?"

"Then why give it to me?"

"Even just holding it, you can smell the autumn, right?"

Musashi looked at the persimmon in his hand.

Indeed, from the hard, green skin, he could faintly smell the earth and leaves. A fruit not yet ready to eat. But one that would eventually turn sweet.

Musashi felt a slight dislike for that persimmon.

He felt as if he were being told that he was the same.

Not yet edible.

Still immature.

Still green.

His father's eyes were always saying as much.

"What is your name?"

When Musashi asked, the girl grinned.

"Orin."

"Orin."

"That's right. Like a bell. But I don't ring as prettily as a bell."

"That is not for you to say yourself."

Then, what about you?

Musashi.

Musashi. That sounds like a strong name.

Musashi did not answer that remark either.

A strong name.

What good is a strong name if the heart is weak?

Musashi adjusted his grip on his wooden sword.

Go home.

Why?

This has nothing to do with women.

The moment he said it, the air changed slightly.

The laughter vanished from Orin's eyes.

The sound of the bamboo grove faded into the distance.

Musashi knew he had said something wrong. But he did not immediately understand what the mistake was.

Orin stood up and hooked her basket over her arm.

So, it has nothing to do with women, huh?

Musashi remained silent.

Maybe only men swing swords. But let me tell you, it's not just men who get cut down.

Her voice was quiet.

It pierced his heart more deeply than if she had shouted.

Orin crouched at the base of a bamboo stalk and picked up a thin, broken branch. She held it like a wooden sword. She was likely imitating Musashi, but her hips were too high and her footing was unsteady.

Is this it?

No.

Then, like this?

No.

Teach me.

Musashi furrowed his brow.

Why?

Because I want to know.

What good is it for a woman to know the sword?

Because I don't want to be told I'm in pain by someone who doesn't know the pain of others.

Musashi was left speechless.

Orin kept the branch held out, looking straight at him.

In those eyes, Musashi saw something strange.

It was not fear.

It was not flattery.

It was not admiration.

It was simply eyes that saw him as a human being.

His father's eyes saw Musashi as a sword.

The villagers' eyes saw Musashi as a troublesome child.

The children's eyes look at Musashi as if he were something frightening.

But Orin's eyes were different.

She is looking at a still-unripe persimmon named Musashi.

A fruit that is hard, astringent, and whose handling she does not yet know, yet she holds it in her palm to examine it nonetheless.

The knot in Musashi's chest moved just a little.

"Spread your feet."

Musashi said in a low voice.

Orin smiled.

"Are you going to teach me?"

"Just stand there and be quiet."

"Yes, yes, teacher."

"I am not your teacher."

"Then, Musashi."

Even though it was just his name being called, Musashi's hand faltered for an instant.

He did not let that go unnoticed by himself.

Ah, it wavered.

Another Musashi, sitting on a high branch, coldly told him so.

Just by having his name called by a woman, his heart had wavered.

Is this what the way of the sword requires one to cut away as well?

Or is it to avoid cutting away such things that one learns the sword?

Musashi did not understand.

Musashi stepped closer to fix Orin's wrist. The fingers gripping the thin branch were rougher than he had expected. They were hands that picked wild vegetables, carried firewood, and drew water.

They were neither white nor soft.

Yet, those hands were alive.

Musashi's hands were calloused from gripping a wooden sword.

Orin's hands were calloused from supporting a life.

Which was stronger?

Musashi could not answer that question.

"Like this."

Musashi corrected the angle of the branch.

At that moment, the scent of grass, sweat, and the morning air drifted from Orin's hair.

Musashi held his breath.

For an instant, the sword, his father, and the blood all felt far away.

There was simply a girl in the bamboo grove in the morning.

Could such a simple thing disturb his heart so much?

Musashi took a step back.

Orin tilted her head.

"What's wrong?"

"It's nothing."

"Your face is red.""

It's the morning sun.

Though it's still behind the bamboo.

Musashi gripped his wooden sword tightly.

It was not that he wanted to kill.

It was not that he wanted to run away either.

He simply did not want to know the name of the thing born within his chest.

He felt that if he knew its name, he would become weak.

Love.

Musashi wanted to keep pretending he did not know such a word.

Or perhaps, he already knew.

The pain felt when thinking of his mother.

The hunger felt when wishing to be acknowledged by his father.

The heat felt when someone called his name.

Though they took different forms, they seemed to grow from the same root.

Blood.

Love.

Swordsmanship.

Three threads were tangled within Musashi's chest.

If he pulled one, another would tighten.

If he chose the sword, love would get in the way.

When I see love, my blood aches.

When I think of blood, I want to prove myself with a sword.

Musashi was still just a boy.

And so, he did not know how to untangle those knots.

He only thought that if they could not be untied, they should be cut.

"Musashi."

Orin called out.

Musashi looked up.

Orin stood there, holding a branch, grinning.

"Shall we have a match?"

"You?"

"Yes."

"You cannot win."

"It doesn't matter if I win. I just want to know what fear is."

At those words, Musashi's heart stirred once again.

Fear.

For Musashi, what he feared was not losing.

It was being thought of as weak.

It was being bound by blood.

It was being held back by love.

To become a person who has nothing left but the sword.

And to know, in truth, that you are not needed by anyone.

Orin raised the branch.

Too slow.

Wide open.

If Musashi were serious, it would be over in a single breath.

However, Musashi could not move.

Orin's branch tapped Musashi on the shoulder with a soft thud.

It didn't hurt.

But Musashi felt as though he had lost.

Orin widened her eyes, then burst into laughter.

"I won."

"That wasn't a win."

"But I hit you."

"I just didn't dodge."

"You couldn't dodge, could you?"

Musashi tried to argue back.

But no words came out.

Perhaps that was true.

If it had been a sword, he could have dodged it.

He could have swiped at a branch.

But Musashi did not know how to receive the innocent strike of the girl who approached him with a smile.

Orin threw away the branch as if satisfied.

Well, I'm heading back. I have to deliver these wild vegetables.

Don't come back.

Musashi said.

Orin turned around.

You don't want me to come?

Musashi did not answer.

He did not want her to come.

He wanted her to come.

Those two feelings weighed equally in his chest.

Orin's face softened just a little.

I'll come again.

Listen to me.

I'll listen, and then I'll come again.

Saying that, Orin walked down the path through the bamboo grove.

Her red hair ribbon swayed once amidst the green.

Musashi did not move for a while.

In his hand, a green persimmon still remained.

An inedible fruit.

A bitter fruit.

But perhaps, a fruit that might one day turn sweet.

Musashi placed it upon a large stone.

Then, he took up his wooden sword.

This time, he felt as though he could see the invisible enemy just a little bit.

The enemy is not beyond the bamboo.

It is not in his father's shadow, nor deep within his bloodline, nor in a woman's smile.

The enemy is within his own chest, waiting to be named.

Musashi exhaled.

One.

Two.

Three.

He swung the wooden sword.

The wind tore.

The bamboo rang out.

The knot in his chest had yet to unravel.

But for the first time, Musashi thought:

Before I cut, I must see.

If I do not see, I will not even know what it is I am cutting.

Young Musashi planted his feet firmly on the moss.

Blood, love, and swordsmanship have not yet become a single path.

Even so, he looked his doubts straight in the face.

Cutting through doubt with a single stroke.

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Episode 2: The Mountain Pass Where Mother's Voice Echoes
Memories of his mother and lingering attachments to his family. At the mountain pass, an older traveling woman asks Musashi the meaning of a 'place to return to'.