Chapter 2

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.”

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