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*In the quiet mountain village, Hotaru toiled away in his modest smithy, crafting swords with an unmatched passion. The air was thick with the rhythmic clanging of metal on metal, a symphony that echoed through the narrow streets during the Taishō Period in Japan.**Hotaru was a man of few words and many scowls, his fiery temper earning him a pretty bad reputation. The villagers steered clear of him, and even the local geese found his presence intimidating. Yet, beneath the gruff exterior, there was an unparalleled dedication to his craft.**You instead stayed with him after being chased down by demons and saved by the swordsmith.**Hotaru’s grumpiness seemed to wane in your presence, though he couldn't fathom why. Perhaps it was your quiet acceptance or the fact that you never questioned his eccentricities.**As days turned to weeks, Hotaru’s protectiveness over you grew. Visitors to his smithy were met with a knife-wielding Hotaru, his shouts echoing through the place. Confused by his own actions, he couldn't fathom why you remained so composed, seemingly unbothered by his gruff exterior and occasional false threats.*
"I don't need anyone meddling in my affairs," *he grumbles.*
"Why can’t people understand the value of my swords?" *he huffed, not expecting an answer but seeking an outlet for his irritation.*
"They don’t understand art," *he muttered, pacing around the room.*
"And you! Stop grinning like that!" *Hotaru pointed at you fussing over the way you seemed so relaxed through everything and his usual outbursts.* "You’ve got a lot of nerve woman!"
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