Nine Centimeters from Death

In the half-light of a tea pavilion, scented with incense smoke and aged pine, the silence was deeper than the night. The samurai entered slowly, stepping in such a way that the blade of his katana would not chime against the metal fittings of the saya. Before entering, he removed the weapon from his belt and, kneeling on his right knee, placed it to his right side—blade turned inward, tsuka pointing left. Had he placed it on the left, with the blade facing outward, it would have been a sign of distrust. Had the tsuka pointed directly at the host—it would have been an open provocation. There was nothing accidental in this gesture: the length of the sword, its angle in relation to the body, the direction of the blade, and the positioning of the hands—all spoke volumes about the visitor’s intent. In this world, steel had its own alphabet, and every warrior knew it better than his own name.

The katana, a sword worn with the blade facing upward and always on the left side—to allow it to be drawn in a single fluid motion—was not merely a weapon, but a language. The angle at which it protruded from the obi (帯) betrayed one’s social rank: those who wore it higher (more horizontally) were the ones who could afford more space—both literally and symbolically. Saya-ate, the accidental touching of another samurai’s scabbard in a crowd, could be taken as an insult or a challenge to a duel. Koiguchi san sun (鯉口三寸)—drawing the blade three sun (9 cm)—was already considered the act of drawing the weapon itself, according to the law, and carried serious consequences.

In this article, we will enter the world in which the blade was the soul, and every gesture surrounding it—a manifestation of a clan’s honor, the warrior’s status, and the intentions of an encounter. We will speak of the ways the sword—tachi and katana—was worn throughout various eras, how it was handed over, removed, placed, how its position in space spoke before any words were uttered. We will show why offering an unsheathed blade could be the ultimate expression of trust, and how touching the blade with bare hands could be an unforgivable breach of etiquette. This is a story of the art of presence with a weapon, of a language without words, of a world in which a warrior’s core virtue was silence—so he spoke through his sword.

The Sword Defines the Warrior

In Japan, the sword was not merely a weapon—it was an expression of the soul, a record of the warrior’s life and breath. In a samurai’s hands, the katana did not exist as a tool of death, but as an extension of his spiritual and moral spine—it carried his intent, his dignity, his code. It is no wonder they used to say:

刀は武士の魂なり

Katana wa bushi no tamashii nari

“The katana is the soul of the samurai.”

From childhood, the warrior was taught that the blade was not only for cutting—it spoke, instructed, warned, and punished. When a samurai looked at the polished blade, he saw not just steel and temper—he saw himself. And when he passed it on, he passed on a part of his soul.

In the society of feudal Japan, where everything had its ritual and place, the sword was also a symbol of authority and social identity. In the Edo period, when weapon-wearing was regulated by bakufu edicts (more on the structure of society in that era here: What to Do with a Society of Samurai Who Only Know War and Death in Times of Peace? - The Clever Ideas of the Tokugawa Shoguns), only samurai had the right to wear daishō—a pair of swords: the longer katana and the shorter wakizashi (for more on the types and history of the katana, see here: Discover the Katana – The Birth, Maturity, Wartime Life, and Noble Old Age of the Samurai Sword). This was not merely a matter of armament—it was status, visible from afar. The sword said: this man has privileges, but also duties. He has the right to carry arms, but also the obligation to know the rules of their use. Violating those rules could mean disgrace—or death. A samurai’s rank dictated not only what kind of weapon he could carry, but also how and where it was worn, how it was laid down, and how one bowed with it at one’s side.

The samurai sword gained different meanings depending on the era. In the time of the Sengoku-jidai—the “Warring States period”—it was a true tool of life and death. Battles, ambushes, duels—the sword was a companion of everyday life. Fighting was fast, brutal, and the technique of drawing and cutting in a single motion, known as iaigiri (a combination of nukitsuke and kiri), could mean survival. A warrior had to know not only technique, but also the language of threats without blows—a gentle push of the tsuba with the thumb, the sliding of the saya, the revealing of the tsuka… All of this was a message. Interestingly, in those times the tachi was more commonly worn by samurai than the shorter katana. However, in the Edo era (1603–1868)—a time of relative peace—the sword (now the katana) transformed into a symbol of the samurai class. It became ceremonial, spiritual. It was still worn—but more to be a samurai than to fight as one. Hence a rich ritual developed around the sword—how it was worn, set down, handed over, and presented.

The right to wear the daishō (the pair of katana and wakizashi) was not universal. It was reserved solely for the warrior class. Merchants, peasants, and artisans could not even dream of owning a katana—except in rare cases as a family heirloom, but never worn at the waist. Even rōnin—masterless samurai—became a problem for the bakufu, for they had the right to carry swords but lacked a defined role in society. Thus, there were attempts to reduce their numbers or force them to renounce their status, which meant losing the privilege of bearing arms and having to bow to anyone who did possess a sword. The katana, then, was not only a weapon—it was a passport of class, a symbol of loyalty to one’s lord and state, and a calling card of the soul, upon which one could judge a samurai even before he spoke.

How to Wear a Katana

In feudal Japan, the way a samurai wore his sword was like a map of his status and intentions. There was no room for accident—every gesture, every angle of tilt, every side of the body had meaning. The sword spoke for the man: of his social position, character, intentions, and even his degree of refinement. In a society where etiquette was as important as the blade itself, the way of wearing the weapon was an art in its own right.

At the Belt (obi 帯) – Wearing the katana and tachi in Different Eras

During the Sengoku period, the tachi (太刀) prevailed—a longer, more curved sword worn with the edge facing downward, suspended from special leather straps (ashi 足 – “legs”) attached to the armor belt. The tachi was ideal for mounted combat—its draw from the saddle was smooth and swift.

Over time, especially in the Azuchi-Momoyama period, the uchigatana (打刀)—a form of the katana—became more popular. The katana was worn tucked into the obi belt, on the left side of the body, always with the edge facing upward. This configuration allowed for a quick draw with the right hand and a cut in a single, fluid motion—a technique known as nukitsuke (抜き付け), which is the foundation of sword arts such as iaido.

It is worth noting that the sword was placed in the obi without a shoulder strap or any fasteners—it was held solely by the tension of the fabric. Sometimes an additional element played a role: the sageo (下緒 – “hanging cord”)—a decorative but also functional cord that secured the scabbard (saya) to the obi belt.

□ Left Side of the Body, Blade Facing Up

Placing the katana on the left side of the body, with the blade facing upward, had profound practical and symbolic meaning. First of all—all samurai were trained to fight with their right hand (even if they were left-handed), so wearing the sword on the left allowed for an effective drawing and cutting motion. Secondly—the upward-facing blade protected the edge: when the katana was inserted into or drawn from the saya, it slid along the spine (mune 棟), not the cutting edge (ha 刃), which prevented it from becoming dulled.

But there was also a third layer: this arrangement said, “I am ready, but I do not seek a fight.” The positioning of the sword was a legible message.

□ The Angle of Wear and Social Status

An interesting detail of etiquette was the position of the sword in relation to the body. Individuals of high status—daimyō, officers, dignitaries—wore their katanas almost horizontally, protruding clearly forward and behind from the obi, emphasizing their “personal space,” which also had a defensive significance (it made it harder to be approached by surprise).

Lower-ranking samurai, foot soldiers, or retainers, on the other hand, kept their katanas closer to the body, almost vertically, with the saya parallel to the leg. This was a gesture of humility and modesty, but also of caution—the less space around oneself, the less opportunity for conflict.

This seemingly trivial detail held great significance—just like the manner of moving with the weapon. A dragging sword signified carelessness or provocation.

□ Saya-ate (鞘当て) – Accidental Contact of Scabbards as an Insult

In the crowded alleys of Edo or Kyoto, it sometimes happened that the scabbards of two passing warriors would accidentally brush against each other. But in this world, “accident” did not exist. This event had a name: saya-ate (鞘当て – “scabbard strike”).

Touching someone else’s saya could be perceived as a provocation or insult, or even as a challenge to a duel. In a culture where every gesture carried meaning, one had to move with skill while armed, holding the hilt raised and the saya close to the body. Many master swordsmen could interpret such an encounter in an instant—whether it was deliberate, accidental, or worth responding to—and that sometimes determined life or death.

□ Koiguchi san sun (鯉口三寸) – “Three sun from the Guard” and the Cost of Impulse

One of the most important, and today nearly forgotten, terms of sword etiquette was koiguchi san sun (鯉口三寸). It literally means: “three sun from the scabbard opening (koiguchi 鯉口 – literally ‘carp’s mouth’),” or approximately 9 centimeters of exposed blade.

Under shogunate law, this meant one thing: the sword had been officially drawn. Even if the blade had not yet fully left the saya—if it was extended by 9 cm (3 sun)—the samurai was considered ready to fight. If he had neither the right nor the reason to draw—it warranted punishment. Even seppuku (切腹), or ritual suicide, was not excluded.

There were even anecdotes: if five peasants insulted a samurai and he drew his sword—he had to kill all five before sheathing the blade again. Otherwise—his name would be covered in shame. If he drew and failed to kill—punishment awaited.

Koiguchi san sun was therefore an irreversible moment—like pulling a trigger that had not yet fired, but already required consequence. There was no room for bluff.

In the world of samurai, every millimeter of the sword, every angle of its wear, and every line of movement carried meaning. Wearing a weapon was not a physical burden—it was a living declaration of identity, one that said everything before a single word was spoken.

The Ritual of Removing and Handing Over the Sword

In the world of the samurai, the sword was not only a tool of battle but also an extension of the spirit, a mark of status, and an instrument of communication. The moment of handing over the weapon—whether upon entering a house, during a visit to a daimyō, or on the battlefield—was deeply ritualistic, marked by strict rules of etiquette (reihō 礼法) and a highly symbolic language of gestures.

→ Entering a Home – Surrendering the Weapon as a Sign of Trust and Subordination

When entering someone else’s residence—especially the home of a higher-ranking individual—the samurai had to remove his long sword (katana) and place it in a designated area near the entrance. This act was a clear gesture of trust, humility, and acknowledgment of hierarchy.

The weapon was received by a special attendant—katanamochi (刀持ち – “sword bearer”)—who would place it on a dedicated stand (katana-kake 刀掛け) or in a storage space at the entrance.

The guest retained only the shorter sword—wakizashi (脇差)—used for defense indoors or, if necessary (and sometimes it was), for seppuku (Samurai Seppuku: Ritual Suicide in the Name of Honor, or Bloody Belly Cutting and Hours of Agony?).

The host, on the other hand—if he held a higher status—did not have to remove his weapon, thereby emphasizing his dominant position.

→ Sword-Passing Rules Dependent on Rank

The rules for handing over a sword were strictly dependent on the hierarchical relationship between the two individuals involved.

A person of lower rank would present the sword with both arms extended, palms facing upward, in a gesture of utmost respect—one hand beneath the tsuka (柄 – hilt), the other under the kojiri (鐺 – end of the scabbard).

A person of higher rank could accept or hand over the weapon with one hand, usually the left, grasping the middle of the saya (鞘 – scabbard), which signaled distance and confidence.

Additional gestures were not left to improvisation—every movement carried meaning. The exact forms could vary depending on the etiquette school prevailing in the time and place—for example, Ogasawara-ryū (小笠原流), which was observed at the shōgun's court from the Kamakura period onward.

→ Which Side and Which Hand? – The Language of Sword Gestures

No less important than how the sword was held was its orientation:

   -   The tsuka (柄 – hilt) should be directed toward the recipient—this signified trust, as it enabled immediate drawing of the blade.

   -   If the tsuka pointed toward the giver, with the edge toward the recipient—it conveyed hostility or threat.

   -   The blade (ha 刃) was always directed toward the one giving the sword—receiving the weapon with the edge facing oneself was a sign of humility and acceptance of risk.

In every variation of this exchange, the symbolism was clear: who controls, who trusts, who dominates—it was all visible in the position of the hands, the angle of the sword, and the manner of grip.

→ Shiraha

A particularly powerful gesture was the handing over of a bare blade—shiraha (白刃), meaning without its saya (scabbard). In this case, the giver held the sword vertically, by the tsuka, with the sharp edge (ha) facing themselves. The recipient, in turn, would grasp the sword below the guard (tsuba 鍔), so that the weapon could be drawn and used immediately.

This was a gesture of profound symbolic weight:

“I give you a weapon that you cannot refuse to return.
I give you my life—because I trust you will not misuse it.”

This form of presentation was reserved for:

   -   official ceremonies of sword bestowal (e.g., during the transition from chōnin to bushi),

   -   moments of the highest trust (e.g., as a pledge of loyalty to a daimyō),

   -   or death rituals, where the sword was given to someone preparing to commit seppuku.

The Sword’s Place and Position

In the world of the samurai, even before a single word was spoken, the sword could say everything. The way the weapon was worn, laid down, or positioned in space held the power of a declaration—just as expressive as a bow, a word of honor, or a hand gesture. Every act involving the sword, every position—whether on tatami, at the hip, or on a stand—spoke of intention, relationship, and mutual trust.

When a samurai entered the home of another warrior or the residence of a daimyō, his first act was to remove his katana and place it beside him according to precise rules of etiquette. Sitting in seiza—knees on the mat, heels tucked under the body—the sword would be placed on the right side, with the tsuka (柄 – hilt) turned toward himself and the ha (刃 – edge) facing inward. This configuration made a swift draw impossible and was a clear sign of peace, respect, and deference. The sword was within reach but not ready for battle—and that spoke louder than a bow.

Now reverse this image. If someone during a meeting laid their sword on the left side, with the tsuka pointing outward and the edge toward the other person, it was a near-explicit sign of threat. In this position, a quick draw using nukitsuke and immediate cut was possible—a gesture that, in times of peace, was seen as extremely rude, and in many cases as a provocation or a prelude to violence. Sometimes such placement alone was enough to make someone feel insulted or threatened.

In the dōjō—the place of martial arts training—these rules have survived to this day. When not being worn, the sword is laid down on the right side, with the edge facing inward. Students never leave their katana just anywhere—the place where the weapon rests reflects their understanding of hierarchy, respect for the teacher (sensei), and for fellow students. Even the moment when the sword is laid at the entrance to the dōjō carries meaning—it marks the ritual of stepping into another world, a world of focus, learning, and devotion.

In private homes or official spaces, the display of the sword—most often on a katana-kake (刀掛け) stand—is also never arbitrary. Placing the tsuka on the left side (thus away from the viewer) with the blade facing upward and inward is a gesture of hospitality and non-aggression. This form of presentation was not only aesthetic but also social: it told guests, “you are safe here.” Conversely—a sword with its hilt turned to the right and its edge directed outward was a subtle signal of readiness for battle, commonly seen in inns, guardhouses, or places where samurai on duty gathered.

In an era where silence was considered the supreme virtue of a warrior, it was the sword that spoke first. Its presence and position could convey politeness, distance, disdain, or threat. And although we no longer live in a world where the placement of a katana could determine someone’s fate, the art of reading and speaking through the sword remains one of the most fascinating aspects of Japan’s warrior culture.

Etiquette of Sword Maintenance

Maintaining a samurai sword is not merely the care of a weapon—it is an act of respect for the past, for craftsmanship, and for the spirituality the katana represents in Japanese culture. Caring for the blade primarily means regular cleaning, oiling, and storing it in proper conditions. For maintenance, one uses special clove oil (chōji-abura, 丁子油), soft paper (nuguigami, 拭い紙), and a kit that includes a small brass hammer (mekuginuki, 目釘抜き) for disassembling the hilt. The blade should never be touched with bare hands. In samurai culture, such an act was considered a sign of poor manners and a serious breach of etiquette.

A crucial part of sword maintenance is its disassembly. To access the tang (nakago, 茎), one must gently remove the peg (mekugi, 目釘) that secures the blade within the hilt. Next, the decorative tsuba (guard), the brass spacer ring (seppa, 切羽), and the metal collar (habaki, 鎺), which keeps the blade stable in the scabbard, are taken off. All these elements must be placed in the correct order and stored with care—they are not only functional but often carry historical or artistic value. Disassembly is not merely for inspection—it is a ritual that allows direct contact with the sword’s innermost part, where the signature of the swordsmith (mei, 銘) is often engraved.

Today, these principles are upheld in both museums and dōjō. In museum institutions, those studying swords wear white cotton gloves, use soft cloths, and rest the blade on opaque paper. The blade must never be slid directly on the paper—it is gently lifted and set down again. Silence is strictly observed, and contact with the sword is limited to trained individuals. In the dōjō, meanwhile, students of arts like iaidō or kenjutsu learn not only how to fight, but also the full etiquette of handling a weapon. After training, the sword is carefully wiped down and placed in the correct position—with the edge facing upward and the hilt on the left side—serving both as a safety standard and an expression of respect for tradition.

Caring for the sword is caring for heritage—not only material, but spiritual. In a culture where the katana was called “the soul of the samurai,” every touch, every movement, and every gesture related to the blade carries meaning. Proper maintenance not only prolongs the artifact’s life—it becomes a practice that connects the modern individual with the centuries-old path of the warrior.

Conclusion

Although samurai vanished from Japan’s landscape more than a century ago, the sword remains—not as a weapon, but as art, symbol, and testimony. In museums such as the Tokyo Token Hakubutsukan (刀剣博物館) or in private collections, swords of indescribable beauty are preserved in honor of the old masters of swordsmithing and the warriors who once wielded them. Every detail of the blade, every hue of the hamon, every signature on the nakago is more than technique—it is a story: of honor, death, service, and silence. Conservation demonstrations, public sword inspections, and exhibitions of katanas as works of art have become forms of cultural contemplation, where history speaks not through words, but through steel.

In the dōjō, practitioners of iaidō still train in the calm, precise movements of drawing and returning the sword. In modern Japan, the sword is no longer a tool of violence—it is a gesture. A gesture of memory, of focus, of dignity. The lesson of respect that the sword imparts is one that can be applied outside the training hall and beyond history—in daily life. In an age of noise and haste, the katana reminds us of the power of silence and the importance of presence. Respect for others, for place, and for tradition—that is the final lesson the sword has to offer.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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