Akihiro Kurogane stood on the narrow ridge between the rice fields, rolling up his sleeves.

“Don’t dig too deep,” his father’s voice called from behind him. “The young roots break easily.”

Akihiro glanced back and grinned. “I know, Father. I’m not a child anymore.”

His father, Tadayoshi Kurogane, chuckled softly. Age had begun to etch lines into his face, but his arms were still strong. “Precisely because you’re not a child anymore, you must be more careful.”

On the other side of the field, his mother, Hana, tied her long hair back with a simple strip of cloth. She carried a basket filled with scallion seedlings.

“Akihiro,” she called gently, “after this, help me in the vegetable garden. We’ll harvest earlier today. Genzo said traders from Kamakura will pass through before noon.”

The name Kamakura always made their small village feel closer to the wider world. To Akihiro, Kamakura was the land of samurai, nobles, and stories carried by rumor and wind. But to his mother, it was simply a busier market.

“All right, Mother!” he replied.

Their village was small, twenty wooden houses with thatched roofs, an old well at the center, and a tiny shrine beneath a blooming cherry blossom tree. Everyone knew one another. If one family lacked rice, another would share. If a roof leaked, all the men would arrive with wood and nails.

That day, like so many before it, was filled with laughter.

Children chased chickens through the dirt paths. Women chatted while hanging cloth to dry. Old Genzo the carpenter repaired his cart wheel while humming an old song.

Akihiro liked life like this. Simple. Peaceful.

“Father,” he asked as he dug again, “is it true that the Miura Clan once defeated a large army from the east?”

His father paused and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Who told you that?”

“Genzo. He said this land belongs to the Miura Clan. And that they’re strong.”

Tadayoshi exhaled quietly. “Yes, this is Miura territory. We are only farmers living on their land. But remember, the strength of the samurai is far removed from our lives. We plant. They fight.”

“And if war comes here?” Akihiro asked, half joking.

His father gazed across the wide field, then at his son. “War has a way of arriving without invitation. But as long as we do not seek trouble, trouble usually does not seek us.”

His mother overheard and cut in lightly, “Don’t speak of war on a beautiful morning like this. The cherry blossoms might take offense.”

They laughed.

Akihiro helped his mother harvest scallions and radishes. His hands were dirty with soil, but his heart felt light. He imagined one day owning his own field, perhaps marrying the girl from the neighboring village who secretly smiled at him whenever she came to fetch water from the well.

By midday, the traders from Kamakura truly arrived. They bought produce, traded rice for cloth and a little salt. The village buzzed with life, voices bargaining, laughter, even music from a bamboo flute one trader carried.

Toward evening, the wind shifted, growing slightly colder.

Akihiro paid it little mind. He and his father sat on the wooden porch of their home while his mother prepared a simple vegetable soup.

“Akihiro,” his mother said, handing him a bowl, “you are twenty five now. Have you never thought of going to Kamakura? Seeking something more?”

He blew gently on the soup before answering. “What is greater than this, Mother?”

She smiled softly. “The world is larger than this field.”

His father patted his shoulder. “And the world is crueler as well. Do not be tempted by tales of samurai. Many of them die before they ever plant a single season.”

“I don’t want to be a samurai,” Akihiro said quickly. “I just want… to live like this. With you.”

Silence settled briefly in the small room. The fire in the hearth crackled gently.

His mother looked at him warmly. “Then live with all your heart.”

Night fell beneath a clear sky. The stars shone brightly, untouched by anything below. The village grew quiet. Doors closed. Oil lamps were extinguished one by one.

Akihiro had just lain down on his mat when he heard the first sound.

Horses.

At first distant. Then closer.

He sat upright. “Father?”

Tadayoshi was already awake. His face had gone tense.

The thunder of hooves was unfamiliar to their small village, especially at night.

Then a scream split the darkness.

“Fire! Fire!”

Akihiro ran outside barefoot. At the edge of the village, red light flared. One house was already ablaze.

And within the fire and shadows, he saw them.

Dozens of armed men clad in armor. Their banner fluttered in the burning wind.

It was not the crest of Miura.

It bore the emblem of the Fujiwara Clan.

“Kill them all! This is Miura territory!” someone shouted.

Akihiro did not understand.

Why?

This village was nothing but fields and wooden houses. No fortress. No soldiers.

Children cried. Women screamed. Flames devoured dry straw with terrifying speed.

A samurai cut down old Genzo without hesitation. The old man fell like a snapped branch.

“Father!” Akihiro turned.

Tadayoshi had taken up his sickle. His face was pale, but his eyes were firm. “Run to the forest! Take your mother!”

“I won’t run!”

“Go!” he shouted.

His mother rushed out, her face stricken. “What is happening,”

An arrow struck the wall of their house.

Akihiro grabbed her hand. “To the forest!”

But before they could flee, three Fujiwara soldiers blocked their path.

“Peasants of Miura land,” one sneered. “You pay the price for your lord.”

“We are only farmers!” his mother cried.

Tadayoshi lunged forward, sickle swinging. He was no samurai, but he was a father.

The blade sliced one soldier’s arm. Blood sprayed.

But steel was faster.

A flash of silver.

Akihiro saw it as if time had slowed, a sword piercing his father’s chest.

“Father!”

Tadayoshi staggered, blood spilling from his lips. He looked at his son one final time. His mouth moved, but no sound came.

Then he fell.

His mother screamed and tried to reach her husband’s body. Another soldier shoved her brutally to the ground.

Something inside Akihiro broke.

He charged with bare hands, punching, kicking, screaming. He did not care about swords or armor.

A soldier slammed the hilt of his blade into Akihiro’s stomach. The air left his lungs. He dropped to his knees.

Before his eyes, his mother rose again and stood between him and the soldiers.

“Run, Akihiro!” she cried.

The sword fell.

Too fast.

The world went silent.

She collapsed onto the soil they had tilled together that very morning.

Akihiro crawled toward her, trembling, cradling her lifeless body.

Fire reflected in his eyes. The clash of metal and screams sounded distant, as if from another world.

One soldier approached.

“Leave him,” another said. “He’s only a farmer’s son.”

“The orders were clear. No witnesses.”

Akihiro looked up. The soldier’s face was half-hidden behind a mask. His eyes were cold. No hatred. No rage. Only duty.

“Why…?” Akihiro whispered.

There was no answer.

Only footsteps drawing nearer.

He tried to stand, but his body failed him. No weapon. No strength.

Before he could rise, the katana thrust into his abdomen.

Heat exploded through him. Sharp. Deep.

His breath caught. He stared at the steel blade now soaked with his own blood.

Flames raged around him. The village that had been filled with laughter that morning was now an ocean of red and black.

The soldier withdrew his sword.

Akihiro fell to the ground, his face pressing into soil still warm from fire and blood.

“Father… Mother…”

The smell of burning was the first thing that awakened Akihiro.

Not sound. Not light.

The smell.

He opened his eyes slowly. A pale sky hung above him, empty and cloudless. His body felt heavy, as if crushed beneath stone. When he tried to draw a deeper breath, a sharp pain shot from his abdomen through to his back.

He remembered.

Fire.

Steel.

His mother.

“Father…” His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

He forced himself to rise, but his body trembled violently. His hand touched the cold, dusty ground. The small village in Miura territory was no longer a village.

Only charcoal.

The wooden houses that had stood yesterday were now blackened skeletons. The old well at the center still stood, but its rope and bucket were burned away. The cherry blossom tree near the small shrine had lost half its branches, its petals mixed with ash.

Akihiro crawled.

Just a few steps nearly made him lose consciousness again.

He saw his father’s body not far from their house. Most of his clothes were gone, his skin charred. His mother lay a short distance away, her face no longer fully recognizable.

Akihiro stretched out a trembling hand, touching the ground between them.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered. “I couldn’t…”

The morning wind blew gently, carrying ash into the air. No birds sang. No human voices remained.

Only silence.

He lowered his gaze and saw the dried blood on his own clothing. With great effort, he peeled back the cloth stuck to his abdomen.

The wound was real.

A puncture.

Clean through.

He could feel the dried blood stiff against his back. Somehow, he was still alive. The sword had clearly pierced him from front to back.

“I… should be dead,” he muttered.

He tried to stand.

The first step filled his vision with sparks.

The second made the world spin.

He collapsed again, his face striking the dirt.

As his consciousness began to fade, he heard something.

Footsteps.

Not the thunder of horses. Not the clank of armored boots.

Slow, steady steps.

Someone stopped a few paces from him.

“Hm.”

An old man’s voice, low and flat.

Akihiro struggled to lift his head. His vision blurred, but he saw the silhouette of a man in simple clothing. A katana hung at his waist, yet his garments bore no clan crest.

A ronin.

The man surveyed the burned village, then looked down at Akihiro.

“You’re still breathing,” he said quietly. “Unlucky fate. So young, too.”

Akihiro tried to speak, but blood filled his throat.

The man knelt and pulled aside the remains of clothing around the wound.

“A sword through the stomach… but it missed the heart. Barely.” He exhaled softly. “Hm. Or perhaps the gods are playing a joke on your life.”

“They…” Akihiro managed to whisper. “Fujiwara…”

The man did not look surprised. “I know.”

“My family…”

The ronin glanced at the bodies of his father and mother. His face remained flat, but his eyes hardened slightly.

“If you want to die, I can leave you here,” he said calmly. “It would be easier.”

Akihiro stared at him with what strength remained. There was anger in his eyes. A sorrow deeper than last night’s flames.

“I… don’t… want to die.”

The corner of the man’s mouth lifted slightly.

“A good sentence.”

He stood, then with surprising gentleness, lifted Akihiro onto his shoulder.

“Let’s see whether your resolve is harder than Fujiwara steel.”

---

The hut was hidden deep within the forest, far from the main road. It was nothing more than a small wooden structure with a low roof and a crude bamboo fence.

The ronin cleaned Akihiro’s wound with boiled leaves. He spoke little. His hands were skilled, as if he had treated wounds like this many times before.

Blood flowed again as the wound was cleaned.

Akihiro drifted in and out of consciousness through waves of burning pain. He heard the man mutter softly.

“If you die, don’t blame me.”

Darkness swallowed him again.

Days passed.

Fever came and went. The wound in his abdomen swelled. Several times his breathing weakened until it was nearly inaudible.

The ronin continued to care for him.

Changing bandages.

Feeding him water little by little.

Sometimes he sat in the corner of the room, sharpening his sword in silence.

A week passed.

On the seventh morning, when sunlight slipped through the cracks in the wooden walls, Akihiro opened his eyes with clearer awareness.

A wooden ceiling.

The scent of dry timber and herbs.

He tried to move. The pain was still there, but no longer burned as before.

“Don’t move too quickly.”

The voice came from the side of the room.

The ronin sat cross-legged, watching him.

“You were unconscious for seven days,” he said. “I almost gave up on the fifth.”

Akihiro swallowed. His throat was dry. “Why… did you save me?”

The man was silent for a moment.

“Because I happened to pass by,” he answered at last. “And because you said you still wanted to live.”

“That’s a strange reason.”

The ronin stood and walked closer. His face became clearer, harsh lines, a scar across his left cheek, and eyes too weary for a man his age.

“My name is Daigo Moritsune,” he said briefly.

The name meant nothing to Akihiro, yet there was something in the way he spoke it, as if it once held weight.

“I no longer have a lord,” he continued. “I no longer have a clan. People call me a ronin. A castaway.”

He sat near Akihiro.

“You now have no one either.”

The words struck harder than a blade.

Akihiro closed his eyes. His father and mother’s faces returned in his memory, distorted by fire.

“They killed everyone,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Why? Why attack villagers?”

Daigo looked toward the small window.

“Because those in power enjoy playing with the lives of the small.”

---

In the grand residence of the Fujiwara Clan, far from the burned village, a messenger knelt in the great hall.

Before him sat the leader of the Fujiwara Clan, a daimyo named Fujiwara Naritsune, a middle-aged man in dark silk robes with sharp eyes.

“Your report,” he said coldly.

“Our forces eliminated several villages in Miura territory, my lord,” the messenger replied. “There was no significant resistance. All were cleared.”

Naritsune nodded slowly.

“And Miura?”

“No major movement yet. They appear to be gathering information.”

The man smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He rose and walked slowly toward a large window overlooking the garden.

“The Miura leader dares accuse me of plotting to betray the Shogun,” he said evenly. “As if he were pure.”

He turned, eyes gleaming.

“If he wishes to accuse, let him have reason.”

The messenger bowed lower.

“Shall we attack again, my lord?”

Naritsune paused, then chuckled softly.

“No. Now we wait.”

“Wait, my lord?”

“Yes.” He touched the hilt of his sword. “Let Miura react. Let them grow angry. Let them make a mistake.”

He looked sharply at the messenger.

“I want to see how they protect their lands when their people have already turned to ash.”

---

Inside the forest hut, Akihiro tried to sit up again.

“I want to go back,” he said quietly.

“Back where?” Daigo asked.

“To the village.”

“There’s nothing left.”

“I have to bury them.”

Daigo was silent for a long time, then gave a small nod.

“We leave tomorrow. If you can still stand.”

Akihiro clenched his fist against the mat.

“I will stand.”

Daigo studied him with an unreadable gaze.

“If you seek revenge, you must live first,” he said. “And living is harder than dying.”

Akihiro met his eyes.

“I don’t understand revenge,” he said softly. “All I know… is that I must not be weak.”

Silence hung between them.

Elsewhere, in the grand hall of the Fujiwara, the daimyo sat once more upon his seat. His smile was thin, almost invisible.

He looked at his advisers and spoke calmly.

“I wonder what those Miura fools will do now.”

Akihiro sat in front of the hut, staring at his own hands.

The stab wound scar still stretched from his abdomen to his back. The skin had hardened, but every time he drew too deep a breath, a sharp ache reminded him of the night of flames.

Daigo Moritsune sat across from him, tossing down a handful of dried straw.

“If you want to eat without stealing,” he said flatly, “you need to learn to make something people actually need.”

Akihiro looked at the straw. “Sandals?”

“Waraji,” Daigo corrected shortly. “Straw sandals. Farmers, fishermen, even low-ranking soldiers wear them. They wear out fast, so people always buy more.”

Akihiro picked up a strand of straw and tried to imitate Daigo’s hand movements. Weaving. Twisting. Pulling the knot tight.

The straw snapped in his grip.

Daigo clicked his tongue softly. “Hah. Your hands are too tense. You’re treating it like a hoe.”

“I’ve only ever held a hoe.”

Daigo snorted faintly. “How someone like you is still alive, I’ll never know.”

Akihiro exhaled through his nose and tried again. This time he relaxed his fingers, following the rhythm of Daigo’s hands.

The sun climbed slowly. Sweat dampened their foreheads.

“Why don’t you just become a farmer?” Akihiro asked suddenly.

Daigo didn’t answer right away.

“I used to be something else,” he said at last. “Now I just survive.”

“You had a lord?”

Daigo stopped weaving. His eyes drifted toward the glittering bay in the distance.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“He died.”

The answer was short, like a clean cut. There was no space for further questions.

Akihiro nodded quietly. He knew when to stop.

By noon, their first two pairs of waraji were finished. Not neat, but sturdy enough.

“We make twenty pairs,” Daigo said. “Tomorrow we go down to the town.”

“Which town?”

“Sagami.”

The name made Akihiro’s heart beat a little faster. It was the trading center of Miura territory, a place where samurai and merchants mingled.

He had never been there since birth. He had only ever been a village farmer.

---

The next day, they carried baskets filled with waraji and several dried animal hides from Daigo’s hunts, deer and rabbit skins carefully cured.

Earlier, Daigo had also taught him how to hunt.

“Don’t chase,” Daigo had said as they moved through the forest days before. “Wait.”

Akihiro stood holding a simple bow.

“What’s the difference?”

“Animals are more patient than men. If you chase, you’ll lose.”

They hid behind brush for nearly an hour before a young deer stepped into a clearing.

“Draw your breath. Don’t hold it too long.”

The arrow flew. Not perfect, but true.

The deer collapsed after a few stumbling steps.

Akihiro stared at the animal with mixed feelings.

“You feel guilty?” Daigo asked.

“A little.”

“Good. The day you feel nothing when you kill is the day you become dangerous.”

Now the deer hide lay folded neatly in their basket.

The journey to Sagami took nearly half a day. The dirt road was crowded with traders, farmers, and a few mounted samurai.

The town was busier than Akihiro had imagined.

Wooden shops lined the streets. Kitchen smoke rose into the air. Voices overlapped in bargaining and laughter.

“Don’t talk too much,” Daigo whispered as they chose a corner to sell their goods. “Let the items and the price speak.”

It didn’t take long.

An old fisherman approached, inspecting their waraji.

“Sturdy,” he muttered. “How much?”

Daigo named the price.

“Thank you,” the fisherman said after paying.

Then came a farmer. Then two dock laborers. Even a low-ranking soldier bought two pairs.

The deer hide sold even faster. A cloth merchant bought it for lining armor.

Before the sun stood high overhead, almost all their goods were gone.

Akihiro stared at the small coins in their hands with an unfamiliar feeling.

“This feels… strange.”

“How so?”

“I didn’t till the land. I didn’t plant anything. But I earned money.”

Daigo shrugged. “The world is bigger than a field.”

Akihiro fell silent. His mother’s words echoed in his mind.

The world is larger than this field.

Suddenly, he noticed a group of samurai standing near a sake stall. The crest on their clothing clearly belonged to the Miura Clan.

His chest tightened.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly.

Daigo looked at him sharply. “Don’t look for trouble.”

“I just want to listen.”

Daigo didn’t answer, but his gaze showed he disliked the idea.

Akihiro moved closer slowly, pretending to examine goods at a nearby stall.

The samurai were speaking loudly enough.

“More villages burned,” one said. “This isn’t the work of ordinary bandits.”

“All in our territory,” another replied. “And no witnesses.”

“I said from the beginning, it’s the Fujiwara Clan.”

The name made Akihiro’s blood stir.

“Fujiwara Naritsune grows bolder,” the samurai continued. “Does he think we don’t notice?”

Naritsune.

Fujiwara Naritsune.

The name carved itself into Akihiro’s mind like a blade.

“I heard our daimyo has accused him of planning to betray the Shogun,” another samurai whispered.

“Yes. They say Naritsune is secretly gathering strength. Plotting against Minamoto no Sanetomo.”

“If that’s true, a great war is unavoidable.”

One of them scoffed. “I’m not worried about Fujiwara.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m worried about our own daimyo.”

They exchanged glances before one spoke softly, “Miura Yoshimura is too slow. Too cautious. Our villages burn, and we only patrol.”

The name rang clearly.

Miura Yoshimura.

“Watch your tongue,” another hissed.

“I’m only speaking the truth. The people need a decisive leader, not one who keeps waiting.”

Akihiro swallowed.

So this wasn’t random slaughter.

It was part of something larger.

He stepped back slowly and returned to Daigo.

“What did you hear?” Daigo asked without looking at him.

“Fujiwara Naritsune,” Akihiro replied quietly. “And accusations of betrayal against the Shogun.”

Daigo fell silent.

“And Miura Yoshimura is seen as weak by his own men.”

Daigo exhaled softly. “War isn’t only about power. It can also be about pride.”

They bought rice, salt, some cloth, and simple medicine before leaving town.

The road home followed a quieter forest path. Dusk began to fall, the sky turning orange.

“Do you want to kill Naritsune?” Daigo asked suddenly.

Akihiro was silent for a long time before answering.

“I just want to know why.”

“That’s a dangerous answer.”

“Why?”

“Because once you know why, you might want more than revenge.”

The evening wind grew stronger.

As they passed a narrow bend between trees, the sound of a snapping branch echoed.

Daigo stopped.

Too late.

Five men emerged from the brush. Their clothes were ragged, swords and spears in hand.

Bandits.

“Well, well,” one of them sneered. “An old man and a skinny boy. Lucky day for us.”

“We’re only small traders,” Daigo said calmly.

“Traders who just came from town,” the bandit replied. “Hand over the money.”

Daigo slowly lowered the basket.

Akihiro felt his heart pounding.

“Run if you can,” Daigo whispered without turning.

“And you?”

“Don’t ask.”

But before Daigo could move, one of the bandits lunged at Akihiro.

His sword raised high.

Akihiro froze.

He remembered the blade that had pierced his stomach.

His body was not fully healed. The wound still ached whenever he moved too quickly.

He knew he wouldn’t be fast enough.

The sword came down.

Akihiro closed his eyes.

Resigned.

The bandit shouted, his face twisted with hatred.

“Take this!”