NHK Midori-yama Studio, Prop Warehouse.
The place resembled a sleeping armory.
Dimly lit shelves were packed with “weapons” from every era of Japanese history—from Sengoku-period jumonji spears to the uchigatana carried by the Shinsengumi in the final years of the shogunate.
The air carried the distinctive smell of rust-preventive oil mixed with old leather.
Shin Kitahara stood before a rack lined with katana.
Ten minutes earlier, while rehearsing the blocking for his next scene, he had noticed that the tsuba—the guard—on the prop sword at his waist had started to come loose.
An ordinary background actor might have wrapped some tape around it and called it good, or simply pretended not to notice.
After all, in a wide establishing shot, no viewer was going to notice whether a sword guard wobbled slightly.
But Shin couldn’t ignore it.
With decades of experience buried inside his “old soul,” even a tiny flaw in the weapon’s balance or feel could interfere with the rhythm of his draw.
And on a Taiga drama, where details mattered, a loose blade rattling at the wrong moment could easily make the sound department call for a cut.
Better to fix the problem now than get halfway through a take and be scolded for it later.
“Excuse me, Sasaki-san.
The tsuba on this sword is loose.
Could I trouble you to either repair it or exchange it for another one?”
Shin offered the prop sword with both hands to the prop master repairing a suit of armor in the corner.
Sasaki was a cantankerous old craftsman who hated actors who complained about every little thing.
But when he looked up and realized it was Shin—the newcomer who had recently earned praise from Reiko Ohara—his expression softened slightly.
“Leave it there.
I’ll find you another one.”
Sasaki grumbled under his breath before disappearing between the deeper rows of shelves.
Shin remained where he was and waited.
His gaze drifted toward a nearby corner where discarded props had been piled together.
There were broken spear shafts, torn straw sandals, and a cardboard box filled with snapped pieces of wood.
One pale, broken piece caught his attention.
It was the remains of a wooden practice sword made from high-quality white oak.
The bokken had snapped cleanly into two pieces.
Its surface was covered in dents and scars left by countless impacts, yet the handle had been polished almost glossy by years of use.
Bzzz—
[Equippable Item Detected — Common / Damaged]
[Item: Broken White-Oak Practice Sword]
[Original Owner: A deceased legendary NHK tateshi—a sword-fight choreographer who trained countless major stars of the Showa era with this very bokken.]
[Slot: Hand / Weapon]
[Condition: Broken — Spirit Intact]
[Base Attribute: +15% Accuracy to Fundamental Kendo Movements]
[Special Trait: Zanshin — Passive]
[Note: This wooden sword witnessed countless brutal hours of practice.
While equipped, your drawing, cutting, and noto—returning the blade to its scabbard—will automatically adjust toward textbook-standard form.
In particular, your zanshin—the posture and awareness maintained after completing an attack—will possess a striking old-school elegance.]
“Movement correction?”
Shin’s eyes brightened.
He had acted in historical productions back in China during his previous life, but flashy choreography designed for television was completely different from the movements of a genuinely trained swordsman.
Taiga drama sword fights—tate—were notoriously demanding.
Even a slightly sloppy movement could make experienced viewers laugh.
Shin crouched and picked up the broken half containing the handle, weighing it in his palm.
The moment his fingers closed around it, a heavy sensation traveled through his body, almost as if an invisible hand were guiding the angle of his wrist and the distribution of his strength.
“What are you doing?
That’s garbage.”
Sasaki returned carrying a repaired prop sword and gave the broken piece of wood in Shin’s hand a puzzled look.
“Ah, the wood seemed pretty good.
I thought I’d take it home and use it as a paperweight.”
Shin improvised the excuse without missing a beat and rose with a smile.
“Suit yourself.”
“I adjusted the balance on this one.
Don’t break it again.”
“Thank you.”
Shin slipped the broken bokken into the wide inner fold of his costume and accepted the new sword.
His fingers settled around the hilt.
At that moment, the weapon seemed to become an extension of his arm.
…
Three o’clock that afternoon, Studio 2.
Today’s scene was an action sequence.
The setup was simple:
Late at night, an assassin infiltrated the residence and attempted to murder Kasuga no Tsubone.
Masasada Inaba—played by Shin—had been standing guard outside her room.
The instant the assassin appeared, Masasada would draw his sword and kill him with a single strike, protecting his mother.
Tatami had been laid across the set.
The tateshi, the production’s sword-fight choreographer, was explaining the sequence to the stunt performer playing the assassin.
“Kitahara-kun, your movement is simple.”
The tateshi was a broad, powerfully built middle-aged man.
He demonstrated the choreography as he spoke.
“The assassin charges you.
You draw, cut horizontally, and he goes down.
The important part comes afterward—you have to return the sword to the scabbard.”
“If you’re not comfortable doing the noto yourself, we can cut away or use a hand double for the close-up.”
Noto—sheathing the sword—was one of the hardest movements to make look effortlessly cool in a period drama.
Many young actors couldn’t find the mouth of the scabbard without looking down.
They would poke around awkwardly outside the frame or lower their eyes to guide the blade home.
Either way, the illusion of a master swordsman disappeared instantly.
“Let me try doing it myself first.”
Shin tightened the straps of his costume and regulated his breathing.
“All right.
Let’s run through it once.”
The director raised his hand.
“Action!”
At the command, the stunt performer playing the assassin let out a shout and charged forward with his sword raised.
Shin remained where he was.
His center of gravity sank slightly.
[Equipment Activated: +15% Accuracy to Fundamental Kendo Movements]
In that instant, his mind became completely still.
He didn’t need to think.
His body moved before conscious thought could catch up.
His right hand flashed to the hilt.
His left thumb pushed against the tsuba, breaking the seal between blade and scabbard—the first motion of koiguchi no kirikata.
Shing—!
A streak of silver tore across the dimly lit set.
Fast.
Precise.
Ruthless.
The blade stopped exactly five centimeters from the assassin’s neck.
The wind from the strike was sharp enough that the stunt performer instinctively blinked.
Then he dropped to the floor on cue.
Shin didn’t immediately sheath his sword.
He remained frozen at the end of the cut, his eyes locked on the fallen assassin with an icy, unwavering stare.
Zanshin.
The state of continuing awareness after an attack—never relaxing until the threat had been completely eliminated.
Three seconds passed.
Only after confirming that the enemy was no longer a danger did Shin move.
With a crisp turn of his wrist, he flicked the blade in a controlled motion, as though shaking imaginary blood from its edge.
Then his left hand settled around the mouth of the scabbard.
His right hand drew the blade backward, the spine sliding along the web between his left thumb and index finger.
Not once did Shin lower his eyes.
His gaze remained fixed straight ahead, sharp as a hawk’s.
Click.
The tip found the mouth of the scabbard perfectly.
Shhhk—
The blade slid smoothly home.
Clack.
The tsuba met the mouth of the scabbard with a crisp final sound.
From beginning to end, the sequence had flowed without a single wasted movement.
There was an almost mechanical precision to it, yet beneath that precision lingered something far more unsettling—the killing intent of a warrior who had performed the same motion countless times before.
The entire studio fell silent.
The director, who had been ready to call for a camera cut, simply stared with his mouth half-open.
The stunt performer who had been standing by as Shin’s potential hand double quietly lowered the sword in his hands.
“Cut!
Good!”
The director slapped his thigh in excitement.
“Beautiful!
That noto was textbook-perfect!”
The tateshi hurried over, staring at Shin in open surprise.
“Kitahara-kun, have you trained in iaido?
You don’t pull off a blind noto that cleanly without at least three or five years of practice.”
“I practiced a little for acting work in the past.”
Shin gave the same modest answer as always without the slightest change in expression.
“That’s not something you learn from practicing ‘a little.'”
The tateshi gave his shoulder an appreciative pat, then turned toward the camera crew.
“Did you get the close-up on his hands?
If you missed it, we’re doing a safety take!
Those hands are too steady to leave on the cutting-room floor!”
“Got it!
Crystal clear!”
The cameraman raised an OK sign.
Only then did Shin loosen his grip on the sword.
A faint layer of sweat covered his palm.
The effect of the broken bokken was even stronger than he had expected.
For those few seconds, he had genuinely felt as though he had become a warrior whose swordsmanship had been hammered into his bones through years of merciless training.
Shin walked over to the monitor and watched the playback.
Onscreen, the young samurai’s eyes were merciless as he returned the sword to its scabbard, yet every movement remained controlled and elegant.
It carried the unmistakable flavor of an old-school jidaigeki performer—the kind of presence rarely seen in younger actors anymore.
“Looks like you’re about to collect another thirty-thousand-yen technical-performance allowance.”
Producer Ishida happened to pass by and teased him with a laugh.
Shin smiled faintly and bowed in thanks.
In a place where skill determined how far you could climb, every beautiful movement was another rung on the ladder.
And Shin was making sure every step beneath his feet was solid.