The cacophony of hollering voices, hammering metal, and shuffling bodies blanketed a long, circular streetway. You could feel the pulse of life through the soles of your feet as the rhythmic footfalls of the crowd reverberated through the pavement. It was an ecosystem propelled by constant motion, by never-sleeping business, by the desire for protection via the implements of war—the arms district.

I knew this place well. Many days had been spent with my family along this very walkway, watching my father barter with blacksmiths, or my mother show me the different types of weapons that a ninja might wield. As a child, it had all filled me with a sense of wonder—the intensity of the sights and sounds, the spectacle of iron and steel. I couldn’t escape the feeling even now, walking through the district, though I wasn’t here to view a demonstration or marvel at the sharpness of a nodachi, but instead to conduct business of my own.

Or of my family’s, rather. One of our sparring weapons required a special repair job, and I had been tasked with the errand of checking up on the status of said repair. Busy-work, obviously, but I didn’t care—I was eager to display my commitment, in hopes that my reliability would lead to greater tasks in the future.

And so I made my way through the crowds of passersby. Some would see the Kumogakure symbol on the hitai-ate that I wore as a belt and bow, thanking me for my service. I would nod and smile, though being a kunoichi had never felt like a noble undertaking on my part, but something that was as natural as breathing air. It was in my blood, and I took no special credit for that. Most would spare me the hassle, however, and simply avoid my path on account of the enormous, life-divesting weapon that I carried strung along my back. Better that way.

Working through the thrumming environment, I eventually reached my destination, a modest building that looked as if it could crumble at any moment, though never did. Masanori’s—a staple of the district, it had been here since before I was born. Unfortunately, its owner had recently passed away and, leaving no successors, new management had taken over the shop. Nearing the entrance, I could see a small throng gathered at the open doorway, peering inside anxiously.

Curiosity piqued, I cleared a path of my own. “Ahem.. Excuse me, pardon me,” I bade, brusquely squeezing inside the charming shamble of a shop.

I noticed the girl first. A squat, ardent youth with deep-green hair that flowed like the scales of a pinecone. I had seen her before—unmistakably—though I couldn’t put my finger on where. She seemed avid about something, slamming a set of swords onto the smithy’s counter. The older man behind the counter seemed just as spirited, though in the opposite charge. Katana or Tachi… I was oddly intrigued by their argument until I watched the old man headbutt the girl.

Something in me leaped at the sight. Before I knew it, I was standing beside her, right hand over my shoulder, instinctively itching at the hilt of my zanbatō. Seeing her face, recognition flashed before my eyes: a training ground, a pool of sweat, a pile of bandages—a kunoichi. And then Steel Wing was drawn, hovering over the counter, its u-shaped edge jutting forward to curve around the man’s neck.

“How’s this for a katana?” I snapped, my eyes locked onto the man’s, vehement and unwavering. “Who do you think you are, anyway? How dare you?” My gaze traced the man from head to toe, a look of disgust evident on my face.

“That’s no way to treat a girl, let alone a Kunoichi of the Cloud. You think you're a badass? Masanori is rolling over in his grave,” I spat, pushing my blade further, without a care for the scene being caused or the flock of onlookers that I knew were forming behind us. I had always had a place in my heart for fellow female ninja. Seeing her assaulted, my own task had all but slipped from my mind; if he fucked with her, he was fucking with me. And if she was too considerate to punish the pathetic man for his bad behavior, then I would gladly handle the job for her.

My glare never left the wrinkly old curmudgeon, almost hoping for any further hostility. I had spent my life around hard-nosed men; their language was my own. For some, a gentle reproach had all the effect of a spring breeze passing by an immovable stone—that is, no effect at all. I knew this well.

No, some required the sting of a sprung hand. And as his scowl softened, I could see that he understood my point. And so my blade ambled away, ever so slowly, back to its resting place, while my still-suspicious gaze remained glued to his own, listening to his impassioned tirade with an expression of boredom. “A mouthful, isn’t he?” I groaned toward the green-haired girl. My right foot tapped against the dusty floor impatiently, though I did listen in hopes of finding some resolution.

As he spoke, my gaze drifted from his aged and iron-worn face to the piles of weaponry that still required work. A sigh escaped me, visibly dissatisfied as I spotted our sparring sword among the junk-heap, as cracked as ever.

“Look… whatever. If you’re behind, then that’s your fault for not hiring any help, you greed-monger. We’re as busy as you are—and because of your nonsense, I have to return to my family empty-handed,” I barked, pointing toward the hefty blade lodged amongst the messy mound of metal. And then my gaze fell upon the pile of tachi laying uselessly on his counter, for they were, in fact, tachi. It was as simple as telling green from blue, in my eyes. But I had sympathy for the kunoichi, who just wasn’t as well-versed in the finer points of sword culture.

“Ugh! Okay, fine!” I relented, deciding to help the girl see her mission through, if for no other reason than to speed his progress toward our disabled blade. But I could count plenty of reasons; the sight of the exotic girl had piqued my curiosity, and I felt an obligation to help a kunoichi in need—even if she didn’t see any need herself. Stepping forward, I wrapped my right arm around the pile of swords, hefting them all in a single swoop. I then addressed the old man one last time.

“If I catch you head-butting—no, if I catch you so much as touching another customer again, I’ll make you wish that you were in Masanori’s place,” I warned, continuing as I watched his mouth beginning to open in retort, “Blah, blah, blah—get your shit together, old man.”

And with that, I tapped the girl’s shoulder and turned to leave. “Let’s go, sweet thing—before he has a heart attack. I’ll lend you a hand.”