His heats always left the bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth. From the moment he was born, the world had taught him that boys should never bend. He only knew his parents through Tsutako’s stories, but those stories brought him peace. His sister had told him that their mother had loved him desperately and unapologetically, shielding him fiercely when necessary. Yet, she’d also spoken of their father, who was kind and gentle, adoring Giyuu as if he were a miracle, as if he held the stars in his eyes and the world in his palms.
But they were gone. Their deaths had left Giyuu and Tsutako unprotected, exposed to a harsh world determined to shape them. From that moment, strength stopped being an option—it became a necessity. While weakness and vulnerability were accepted, even expected, from his sister, they were considered his gravest sin. He was a boy, after all, and boys were meant to be strong and stoic. But Giyuu was neither.
During his first heat, as he trembled and tried in vain to stifle his tears, shame coiled around him like a venomous snake, its poison seeping into thoughts that would follow him forever. He was broken. He was strange. The whispers of the village echoed in his head: Giyuu was undeserving of respect, he was deeply flawed.
He was still an impressionable teenager when he met Urokodaki-sensei. In his eternally hopeful heart, he dared to believe he could become a little like his master—strong, independent, and reliable. Urokodaki Sakonji was the first male omega Giyuu had ever encountered, and he was awe-inspiring. Disciplined, successful, and proud of his nature, Urokodaki embodied everything Giyuu had ever dreamed of being.
And then there was Sabito.
Sabito’s scent was to Giyuu what a flickering flame was to a firefly—irresistible, drawing him closer even at his peril. For just a taste of Sabito’s light, Giyuu would have gladly embraced an early demise.
At the foot of Mount Sagiri, every day became a struggle, a tug-of-war between Giyuu’s conscious mind and the primal urges of his omega nature. Urokodaki kept a watchful eye on them both, ensuring neither Giyuu nor Sabito would succumb to folly or make a decision they would regret.
Sabito, for all his rebelliousness, possessed an incredible sense of self-control. While he often challenged Urokodaki-sensei, he held him on a pedestal, and that reverence extended to Giyuu. They would snuggle and even kiss, but Sabito’s sharp teeth never descended to claim him. Not that Giyuu would have hesitated to say “yes” if they had.
Sabito had always maintained his restraint—until Giyuu’s last heat.
That day, the sun felt like burning coals against his skin, its heat relentless and oppressive, pressing down on him as if the sky itself demanded submission. The air was thick and heavy, clinging to his lungs—each breath a struggle against the fever coursing through his veins. His body ached with primal desperation, an urgency he could neither name nor control. Every nerve felt raw, exposed, as if the heat had stripped away his layers, leaving only instinct behind.
Urokodaki was not inclined to be lenient, regardless of the weather. Heat was no excuse to slack off either, so he had to endure the pins and needles stabbing at every inch of his skin, the spasms in his tired muscles, and the debilitating cramps in his stomach. Nowhere felt safe. A million scents assaulted his nose, leaving him nauseous and overstimulated. Urokodaki-sensei controlled his own scent so effectively that it was almost nonexistent, leaving only Sabito as a calming presence of sorts. Yet even Sabito’s scent was a double-edged sword, he was someone his omega could recognize but his presence created more problems than Giyuu could easily manage.
He had retreated to a shadowed corner at the back of Urokodaki’s hut. The absurd number of repetitions he’d been ordered to perform was an insufficient distraction from the storm raging inside him. At least it helped against the desire to wither away in a corner. For the time being, he was granted space, and he clung to the hope that he could ride out the turmoil in silence. But the scent of Sabito lingered, the memory of his closeness stirring the omega in him to life, clawing at the remnants of his self-control.
It was maddening, that scent—a perfect blend of Hinoki cypress and sencha. Hours of exposure to the aroma in Urokodaki-sensei’s house had made it familiar, fresh, and grounding, yet now it was laced with something warm and wild that ignited a hunger in him too vast to ignore.
Giyuu curled in on himself, his hands releasing the bokken, which fell to the ground in a cloud of dust. He clawed at the fabric of his haori, as though the texture might anchor him, but it only made things worse. The rough weave scraped against his hypersensitive skin like sandpaper, and the scent glands at the back of his neck felt ready to burst in a spiral of pain.
But the pull was too strong, too visceral. His omega screamed for Sabito, drowning out reason and filling his mind with a singular, all-consuming need: him. Giyuu clenched his jaw until it ached, his teeth grinding as he fought the tide threatening to overtake him.
And then, like a mirage conjured by the fever and heat rising from the ground, Sabito appeared. His presence filled the space without a sound, drawing Giyuu’s eyes to him and him alone. Sabito’s gaze was sharp and unyielding, yet softened by something Giyuu couldn’t name. The warmth of his proximity wrapped around Giyuu like a second heat, making the fever in his veins burn hotter. Yet Sabito stopped a few steps away, the invisible line between them holding firm—for now.
“Pull yourself up, kid,” Urokodaki-sensei said. Giyuu hadn’t even noticed his presence until the man spoke.
He always seemed to appear when Giyuu felt like giving in—silent and steadfast, as though he had known all along what was coming. Urokodaki’s voice carried that same unshakable certainty now, a quiet demand that somehow cut through the fog clouding Giyuu’s mind.
He always believed in him more than he deserved, yet that blind faith left him feeling both grateful and unbearably ashamed.
“He’s burning up,” Sabito murmured, his voice low and steady yet tinged with concern. Giyuu, too exhausted to lift his head, caught the faint scent of Hinoki cypress mingled with Sabito’s own wild edge, and it only made his chest ache more. Had he looked closer, he might have noticed the way Sabito’s lavender eyes darted between Urokodaki and him, hesitant, questioning whether he should obey or cast caution and respect aside.
“And your closeness is not going to help, Sabito,” His tone was as firm as ever, though there was no real reprimand in it. He crouched down, his broad frame filling the space beside Giyuu. When his fingers brushed against Giyuu’s cheek, the warmth of the calloused touch sent a shiver through him. It cracked the fragile shell of composure he had fought so desperately to maintain, threatening to spill him into a heap of tears.
“Pull yourself up, son,” Urokodaki repeated, his voice steady, unyielding. There was that word again—son. Giyuu had heard him use it a handful of times before, but each time it landed like a stone in his chest. It wasn’t the kind of word you could ignore. It wasn’t the kind of word you deserved if you failed.
Giyuu had been too young when his parents passed to remember much about them. No one had ever called him “son” in a non condescending way. But every time Urokodaki-sensei said it, he felt as if he was precious.
With a deep, trembling breath, Giyuu clenched his hands into fists and pressed them against the ground. His muscles screamed in protest, his fevered body begging him to collapse, but Urokodaki’s presence loomed larger than the pain. Slowly, he forced himself upright, his movements shaky and labored. When he reached for the bokken lying in the dirt, the wood felt heavier than it should in his sweat-slicked hands, but he gripped it nonetheless.
“Don’t go easy, Sabito,” Urokodaki-sensei warned, fixing his student with a pointed look.
Sabito hesitated, the weight of a decision heavy in the silence between them. Giyuu felt it—the conflict settling like a shadow in Sabito’s usually clear eyes. But the moment broke, and Sabito leaped forward, landing a hit against Giyuu’s arm before he could get out of the way.
The sharp sting barely registered. A breath of wind brought Sabito’s scent—delicious, wild, and penetrating—to his nose, threading through his senses like an unforgiving current. It pulled and pushed at his sanity, as relentless as the waves that had always threatened to drag him under. His omega stirred, crouching low within him like a predator ready to pounce, aching to claim the alpha before him… or to be claimed. The pain of his heat flared, fierce and consuming. How had he not noticed how much he wanted Sabito?
Their bokken crashed together again and again, the sharp crack of wood ringing through the air. Sabito was always on the attack, relentless and fluid, his movements leading them around the training grounds in what felt like a twisted, careful mating dance. Giyuu remained on the defensive, every instinct in him following Sabito as though he were destined to do so.
But then something changed.
Sabito’s eyes, always sharp and focused, darkened with an edge Giyuu had never seen before. Giyuu’s own scent—rampant and uncontrolled—clung to the air, thick and undeniable, no doubt spreading as far as the nearest village. Yet it had never made things different between them. Or at least, that’s what Giyuu had always thought.
Now, though, his instincts screamed at him to stop.
Sabito’s scent closed in, suffocating, enveloping him completely. It wasn’t just around him anymore—it was him, threading through every shallow breath Giyuu drew, consuming every thought he tried to form. It pressed against him, leaving no room for air, for reason. His omega stirred violently, clawing at the edges of his mind, pushing his body to act.
And then their eyes locked.
The world fell silent.
The pounding of his heart in his ears, the crash of their bokken, even the rustle of the wind through the trees—all of it faded, eclipsed by the intensity of Sabito’s gaze. His trembling stopped, not in relief but in something deeper, something primal. It was the stillness of prey caught in a predator’s sights, suspended in the moment between fight and flight.
His omega no longer clawed at him; it crouched low, coiled and watchful, waiting for a signal that never came. Giyuu’s breaths were shallow and uneven, his chest tight as though the air itself had thickened. Sabito’s scent bore down on him, heavy and wild, blurring the lines between reality and instinct.
The sharp gleam in Sabito’s eyes pierced through him, making him feel exposed, and even when Giyuu hated every second of it, he couldn’t look away. He felt seen in every bad way possible. His omega bristled with both longing and fear.
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, every beat of Giyuu’s heart amplifying the tension. The stillness was unbearable, and yet he couldn’t break it. His instincts screamed at him to act—to submit, to run, to do something. But he continued fighting, his body no longer his own, his omega was out, waiting in a strange, fragile anticipation.
Fear coursed through him, sharp and undeniable, and he was afraid.
“You smell so good,” Sabito said, his voice hoarse, rasping with something unspoken. His eyes were locked on Giyuu’s pale neck, unblinking and fixed like a predator sizing up its prey.
There was probably nothing more threatening to an omega than hearing those words from an alpha.
The air between them grew heavier, charged with something volatile. Giyuu squared his shoulders, his feet planting firmly into the ground. Caution was a luxury he could no longer afford. A sudden, desperate surge of energy struck his body like lightning, cutting through the fog of heat and exhaustion. The world narrowed into tunnel vision, and the only thing he could see—could focus on—was Sabito.
Every attack was met with an equally strong defense. Their bokken crashed together in rapid succession, exchanging blows with a precision born of sheer instinct. There were no words now, no distractions—just the primal rhythm of their movements. Each swing was sharper, each block harder, the sound of wood against wood echoing through the training grounds.
There was nothing friendly in this face-off.
Sabito’s pupils were blown wide, his lavender irises nearly swallowed by the black. His sharp canines had descended, gleaming unnaturally bright as they protruded from bloody gums. He was not himself. The calculated control that always defined Sabito was gone, replaced by something raw and untethered.
Giyuu knew what that look meant. Knew what Sabito’s instincts demanded.
And though a part of him—a traitorous, aching part—would not have cared if Sabito bit him, if he left a mark that would bind them together forever, Giyuu knew better. Sabito would never forgive himself if it happened this way, under the crushing weight of instinct and heat.
Gritting his teeth, Giyuu poured everything into each strike, forcing himself to focus on the rhythm, the fight. His muscles screamed in protest, his fevered body threatening to betray him with every swing. But he didn’t falter. He couldn’t afford to.
Where was Urokodaki-sensei? Why wasn’t he stepping in?
The pain of the heat surged again, sharper than before and just as unforgiving, nearly buckling Giyuu where he stood. It was too much, almost too much. But he held his ground, driven by the desperate hope that someone—anyone—would intervene before he made a mistake he couldn’t undo.
But Sabito was stronger. He always had been.
He had an uncanny ability to read Giyuu’s movements as if they were written in a language only he understood, a skill that no amount of training could rival. For someone who had always struggled to read books, Sabito could read him with startling precision. No defense Giyuu attempted could catch him off guard anymore.
Sabito was everywhere. His darkened eyes bore into Giyuu’s soul, haunting and unrelenting, and his scent—wild and overpowering—clung to the air, wrapping around Giyuu like chains.
Not like this, Giyuu thought. The words repeated in his mind like a mantra, a fragile thread tethering him to reason. His movements were growing sloppy, his arms heavy with exhaustion, his legs trembling under the strain. The pain of the heat clawed at his mind, desperation setting his nerves ablaze. Not like this.
He wasn’t sure if he whispered it between gritted teeth or if it was only a desperate prayer in his head. Maybe it was a plea to Sabito, a last-ditch effort to bring him back to himself. Whatever it was, it was useless.
Sabito moved with the swiftness of a predator, and before Giyuu could react, he was pinned to the ground. His bokken lay out of reach, his arms restrained above his head. Sabito’s weight straddled him, his expression wild and foreign.
For a fleeting moment, Giyuu couldn’t help but notice how attractive Sabito looked, even in this state. But the thought curdled into fear. This wasn’t Sabito—not the Sabito he knew.
And that terrified him.
He was completely vulnerable, laid bare in a way that made him feel like prey caught in a trap. Worse, he knew he was the reason Sabito had lost control. If Sabito bit him now, if he claimed him in this moment, it would be Giyuu’s fault, he had let his scent out of control and that had triggered Sabito. The weight of that knowledge crushed him more than the alpha’s physical hold ever could.
With every ounce of strength he had left, Giyuu twisted his body, wrenching free of Sabito’s grip in one swift, desperate motion. Their positions reversed, Giyuu managed to roll out of Sabito’s reach. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him, muscles screaming in protest, but he didn’t stop. He rolled again, his fingertips brushing the familiar surface of his bokken.
He seized it, his grip tight despite his trembling hands.
Sabito pounced, his movements relentless, but Giyuu’s determination burned brighter than his exhaustion. He raised his bokken high, steadier than he’d ever managed before with a confidence he knew he did not possess.
“Seventh Form: Drop Ripple Thrust,” the thought surged through him like a tsunami.
With a sharp, deliberate strike, he drove the bokken into Sabito’s fast-approaching form.
Time seemed to slow as Sabito’s body staggered, then collapsed in front of him.
The world was quiet around him, unnaturally so, or perhaps it was just Giyuu, unable to hear anything over the thunderous beating of his own heart. His scent lingered thick in the air, enveloping him like a warm and comfy blanket. For a moment—an instant, or perhaps an eternity—nothing else existed.
Then the pain hit, sharp and all-consuming. Giyuu collapsed to his knees, clutching at his stomach as if he could hold himself together. It felt as though his insides were crumbling like a rock against the violence of the sea, his heart twisting and wrenching in his chest. He had hurt Sabito. The thought stabbed at him, cruel and relentless.
How could he be so weak? How could he let this happen?
Sabito had lost control, and it was his fault. Giyuu had pushed him too far, failed to protect him in his moment of need. And now, he’d hurt him—really hurt him—when Sabito had been vulnerable. What kind of friend did that? What kind of person?
Tears blurred his vision, hot and unbidden, streaking down his cheeks before he even realized he was crying. His breaths came in ragged, trembling gasps, and his chest ached with the weight of his shame. He was childish, pathetic. Why was he crying? He didn’t deserve the release of tears. This was his fault—every part of it.
Warm arms wrapped around him, steady and unyielding. Urokodaki-sensei.
Giyuu hadn’t noticed his presence until he felt the man’s quiet strength holding him together, grounding him when his world was threatening to come apart at the seams. His sensei didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. The embrace itself carried a silent reassurance, a reminder that even in this mess, he wasn’t alone.
Giyuu’s eyes felt puffy, his lashes heavy as he struggled to keep them open. His body trembled, exhaustion pulling at every fiber of his being. He wanted to apologize, to say something—anything—but his throat was too tight, his words swallowed by the guilt clawing at him from the inside out.
But the world was different. The pain was different, sharper and stranger, it twisted and shifted inside of him as if his body were something foreign. It wasn’t just his body that felt wrong—his very existence seemed to split, as though he were no longer himself but something ancient, primal, and entirely uncontrollable.
His body burned, every nerve firing at once, yet the sensation was oddly distant, like it belonged to someone else. His body felt too tight, too fragile to contain what he was becoming. He wasn’t a good enough vessel, not for this. The thought echoed in his mind, cruel and sneering, and through the haze of it, he saw Urokodaki-sensei take a measured step back.
The Tengu mask obscured the man’s face, but his stance betrayed his readiness—a coiled spring, muscles taut, prepared to act at the slightest provocation. Giyuu didn’t have to guess what he would do. He knew.
And that was the change, the thing that clicked into place with terrifying clarity. Giyuu’s eyes saw everything now, every layer peeled back until nothing was hidden. The muscles beneath Urokodaki’s skin shifted, contracting with precision. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest drew air into his lungs, oxygen feeding the blood coursing through his veins, pumping life with each deliberate beat of his heart.
He wanted to scream, but his throat wouldn’t obey. Instead, a guttural growl ripped through him, a sound so raw and feral that it startled even him. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat echoing like a drum in his ears, and his senses exploded outward.
The world came alive with an unbearable intensity. He could see it all, he could hear it all, and it was too much.
Every sound was a cacophony: the creak of the hut’s wooden frame, the faint rustle of leaves outside, the soft inhale and exhale of Urokodaki-sensei’s breath beneath his mask. Every scent was overpowering: the sharp tang of sweat, the earthy richness of the soil, the faint trace of Sabito lingering in the air like an accusation.
And yet, Giyuu felt cold.
The cold crept over him like the tide, sinking deep into his bones despite the heat radiating from his fevered body.
He could feel his spine lengthening, curving unnaturally until he was hunched over, his face close to the dirt. His hands—no, his paws—pressed into the ground, claws curling into the soil as if anchoring him to the last shreds of who he was.
His thoughts spiraled, desperate to latch onto something familiar, something that felt like Giyuu. But the sharp edges of his teeth pressing against his gums and filling his mouth with the metallic tang of blood, the foreign weight of fur covering his skin, and the alien strength coursing through his limbs told him otherwise.
He was shaping him into something new and he held himself with an elegance that he would have been jealous of.
His skin prickled, the sensation both strange and natural, embracing his soft coat of black fur that covered him like armor. The transformation was seamless and terrifying, leaving Giyuu in a state of fractured awareness.
He tried to focus, to claw his way back to himself, but the instincts flooding his mind were louder. Run. Fight. Survive.
A surge of panic overtook him, a desperate need to understand, to regain control, but it was swallowed by something deeper, darker. His vision shifted, narrowing into sharp clarity, and suddenly the world was no longer overwhelming—it was a map of movement and opportunity. Urokodaki-sensei’s stance, the tilt of his weight, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly by his side—it was all there, laid bare before Giyuu as though he’d always known how to read it.
His growl deepened, the vibration traveling through his chest as his new form settled, muscles taut and ready, four long tails curving around his back. Yet behind the instinct, a sliver of fear lingered. This wasn’t a battle. This wasn’t training. This was survival, and it terrified him.
Who was he? What was he?
He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to stay alive, to keep moving, to fight for control. But as his claws dug deeper into the earth, a cold realization swept over him: the boy he had been might already be gone.
“You are safe here,” Urokodaki-sensei said, his voice steady and unyielding, a lifeline cutting through the chaos. Giyuu’s ears twitched at the sound, the words grounding him even as his body felt like it did not belong to him anymore. Beneath the mask, a single tear slipped down Urokodaki’s face. Giyuu didn’t need to see it—he could feel the weight of it in the air, heavier than any blade he had ever wielded.
The steadiness of Urokodaki’s tone reminded him of the day they first met, when Giyuu was barely clinging to life. Back then, he had nothing—no family, no direction, no hope. Urokodaki had been an immovable force, unflinching in the face of Giyuu’s brokenness. Even now, Giyuu could not imagine what might scare him. He was a great swordsman, a Hashira, someone who had faced horrors beyond comprehension. Surely, no beast, no measly monster could frighten him.
That voice, steady as it was, carried something new. It wasn’t like the sharp command of a training day or the stern wisdom of a talking to when he got in trouble. This was deeper, rawer—layered with an ache that Giyuu didn’t know how to name. There was sadness in it, an echo of pain that stretched far beyond the present moment, but there was more.
Whatever it was what Urokodaki-sensei was feeling, it was something Giyuu had never heard before. It wasn’t fear—it couldn’t be. But it was raw, too raw for someone like Urokodaki, who had always seemed carved from stone, to speak it out loud. It tugged at Giyuu in a way that made him want to understand, but he didn’t know how. He never had. And he had long given up hope that he ever would.
“Sabito will be alright,” Urokodaki said, his words soft but firm, like a shield against the storm raging in Giyuu’s heart. “And I am proud of you.”
The words struck Giyuu harder than any blow ever had. Pride? How could Urokodaki-sensei be proud of him after all he had done, after the chaos he had caused? His heart twisted painfully, the thought of Sabito’s collapse replaying in his mind, an endless loop of guilt and failure.
“Come back to me, child,” Urokodaki-sensei said, his voice low and unwavering, a tether pulling Giyuu back from the abyss. The words stirred something deep within him—a longing, raw and overwhelming. He wanted nothing more than to throw himself into his teacher’s arms, where he knew he would be safe.
The body he inhabited—foreign, monstrous—moved before his mind could catch up. It leaped forward, closing the distance between them with an almost primal desperation. With every step, Giyuu seemed to grow smaller, harmless. The towering figure of strength and command became, in that moment, a sanctuary.
Time bent around them, stretching and collapsing all at once, and then the pain returned. At first, it was like gentle rain, a distant ache creeping back into his awareness. But then it hit with the ferocity of an open-sea storm, crashing through him in relentless waves. Giyuu clawed at Urokodaki-sensei’s back, his movements frantic and uncoordinated, his cries breaking through the quiet night like a child lost and desperate.
His fur melted back into pale skin, his claws dulled into trembling fingers. The beast was gone, leaving only Giyuu—fragile, shaking, and human once more. But even as the transformation subsided, the world still felt too vast, too cruel, and he had no control over his trembling body.
And then there was Urokodaki-sensei’s scent, faint but steady, like the first calm after a storm. It wrapped around him, grounding him, holding him together when he felt on the verge of splintering apart. His teacher’s arms encircled him, strong and unyielding, shielding him from the weight of the world they had both been born into.
“I will keep you safe, fox child” Urokodaki said, his voice steady, a vow as solid as the earth beneath them. And against better judgement, Giyuu accepted the protection.