> Summer, Abandoned Temple, Harima Province – 1598

The cicadas had gone silent.

Miyamoto Musashi sat beneath the weathered eaves of an abandoned temple, the air thick with summer humidity. The pinewood beneath his fingers was rough, splintered by time. In his hands, the book lay still. Kokutenma.

Old Lady Gin had given it to him without a word.

He had heard the name before—Taira Ryōma... A ghost of the past, whispered among warriors. Some said he had died. Others said he had vanished, swallowed by the wars through which he carved his legend.

Musashi flipped the cover open. The ink was faded, but the words were still sharp, cutting across the page with the weight of a blade.

The past reached for him—and he fell into it.

◆◇◆

> Spring, Amabara-mura, Northern Higo Province – 1551

I couldn't breathe.

The stink of sweat, blood, and burning thatch filled my lungs, thick as mud, choking me as I held Koharu tighter against my chest. The night had been torn apart by screams—some distant, some so close they rattled inside my skull.

The fire made everything worse. It crept across the rooftops, crackling as the village we had known—the only world we had ever seen, began to collapse into embers.

"Don't look," I whispered, my voice so raw it barely left my throat.

But I was looking.

Through the broken slats of the rice storehouse, I saw her.

My mother—Taira Misaki was on her hands and knees in the dirt, her kimono torn open from the waist down.

A man loomed over her, his face carved from cruelty, his mouth twisted into a sneer of satisfaction. He wore red-lacquered armor, the chest plate polished and smooth, reflecting the hungry glow of the fires. A samurai of the Ōtomo clan. His jaw was sharp, his beard neatly trimmed, but his eyes—his eyes were the color of iron.

Cold and unfeeling.

He had already taken what he wanted. And he wasn’t finished.

Misaki’s fingers dug into the mud, her long hair falling over her face, sweat and tears streaking down her dirt-stained cheeks. But she didn’t scream. She didn’t beg.

Even in that moment—even as he forced himself into her—she looked up and met my eyes.

She knew I was watching.

She smiled.

A mother’s smile.

Not soft. Not warm. It was tired. Resigned. But it told me one thing.

You have to live.

The samurai grunted, gripping her hair, dragging her back onto him.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

Koharu trembled in my arms. But she wasn’t crying.

Her little hands—too small, too fragile for this world—pressed against my chest, against my hammering heart.

"Ryōma," she whispered, barely more than a breath.

"Do something."

My fingers clenched around the wooden handle of the hunting knife I had found under the grain sacks.

Dull, but sharp enough to kill.

I stood.

The world narrowed to a single point—then I ran.

He barely heard me coming. The knife plunged into his side, straight through the soft gap beneath his ribs.

The samurai sucked in a sharp breath, his back arching as his head snapped toward me—not in pain, not in fear, but in surprise.

I saw his eyes up close now.

They weren’t iron.

They were empty.

His mouth opened, the start of a curse forming on his lips—

I twisted the knife.

The blade carved through flesh, through the thick meat of his insides, scraping against something hard.

He choked on the blood that rose to his lips in thick, bubbling gurgles.

In the moment he faltered, my mother lunged, her nails raking across his face, clawing at his throat, her body thrashing to break free.

It was too fast.

The samurai’s hand snapped to his katana, and in a single, fluid motion

One stroke. Practiced. Effortless.

He cut her open.

I saw it all.

Her body jerked, the steel slicing through her from hip to shoulder, so clean that she didn’t even fall at first.

Her violet eyes locked onto mine—and then she crumpled.

I didn't move.

I couldn't move.

◆◇◆

The samurai staggered, clutching his side, blood spilling through his fingers. His breath hitched, but he was still standing. He turned to me, teeth bared in a snarl, knees threatening to buckle.

"Little bastard..." he coughed, spitting crimson.

His fingers wrapped around the handle of his katana.

"You should’ve—"

I moved.

There was no thought, no hesitation—only instinct.

My grip tightened. The knife tore free from his ribs. And this time, I didn’t stop.

I drove it into his throat.

His eyes bulged, his lips stretching wide in a soundless scream.

His blood was everywhere.

Hot, wet, it sprayed over my face, into my mouth, into my eyes, into my hair.

He grabbed at my arms, his fingers digging into me so hard I thought my bones would break.

But he was already dying.

His grip weakened. His legs collapsed.

I was still stabbing him when he hit the ground.

His body twitched beneath me, his mouth opening and closing—trying to say something, trying to hold onto life, trying to curse me.

I stabbed him again.

And again.

And again.

The knife broke off inside his throat.

I don't remember stopping.

I don't remember when I started screaming.

I only remember Koharu’s small hands pulling at me, her voice calling my name, over and over and over again.

"Ryōma..."

"Nii-sama!"

"We have to run!!!"

I looked up and saw the fires had spread.

The village was collapsing, nothing left but flames and corpses and the stench of blood.

I turned back to my mother.

Her body lay in the dirt, her hair tangled in the mud, her blood soaking into the earth.

She wasn’t smiling anymore.

She wasn’t anything anymore.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

Then I grabbed Koharu’s hand.

And we ran.

◆◇◆

The fire was behind us, but the stench of burning flesh still choked my lungs.

My breath came ragged, every step a searing ache—but I couldn't stop. I pulled Koharu with me, her small hand gripping mine as if her life depended on it.

We ran south, deeper into the wooded hills, our bare feet slamming against damp earth and hidden thorns. The mountains loomed ahead.

We had to reach them.

I knew that. Even at nine years old, I understood war. The Ōtomo of Bungo had been expanding their control in Higo for over a year. They came from the northeast, tearing through land that once belonged to the Kikuchi. If we went north, we would be found and slaughtered.

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If we went south—maybe, just maybe—we could disappear.

But it wasn’t enough to just know where to run. I had to outrun what was behind me.

The memory of my knife sinking into flesh burned through my mind.

I could still feel it. The warmth. The way the samurai had choked on his own blood, the way his body had spasmed beneath my grip.

My mother’s eyes.

Her smile.

I glanced down as I ran, the flickering moonlight revealing the dark stains smeared across my fingers. Not just his blood—Her blood was on my hands too...

I stumbled.

A sound wrenched from my throat—half a sob, half something else.

Don't stop, I told myself. Keep running.

But then Koharu’s small body swayed against my pull.

She barely made a sound when she collapsed.

Her fingers slipped from mine.

I turned just in time to see her collapse, face-first into the dirt.

For a moment, I only stood there, breathing hard, the world tilting around me. My pulse slammed against my skull, my stomach twisting—

Then bile rose in my throat.

I lurched forward, retching. The taste burned, scorching my throat as my body convulsed. My legs shook, my skin clammy with sweat. The stench of death clung to me, thick and inescapable.

I wiped my mouth, panting, tears blurring my vision as I looked down at Koharu. She was on her knees, her small body still, her eyes lifted toward the dark sky.

She spoke.

"Mother is gone."

I stared at her noticing that her voice was not sad. Not afraid.

Just…certain.

My stomach twisted again, but this time, it wasn’t from nausea.

The way she sat there, her hands resting limply on her lap, the dull glow of the moon reflecting in her wide brown eyes—it wasn’t the look of a six-year-old.

It was something older. Deeper. Knowing.

It unsettled me.

I wanted to tell her she was wrong, but we both knew she wasn’t.

I swallowed. Forced myself to kneel beside her, pulling her against me. I held her tight, letting my body shake, letting the tears fall.

"I’m sorry," I whispered. "I couldn’t save her."

I waited for Koharu to cry. She didn’t.

She just let me hold her, her small hands clutching my tattered kimono.

Something felt different in me.

Like my body was… changing.

My senses were sharpening. The ache in my limbs—it should’ve been worse. The way I moved—it was smoother, lighter. The images in my head—horrific, unbearable, yet I processed them too clearly.

What is this?

I didn’t understand it. But something was happening inside me.

And then—

"Hey, you!!" A voice, demanding and too close.

Koharu tensed.

Her small hand curled around my sleeve, her lips barely moving. "We’re not alone."

I turned my head so fast my vision blurred.

A man was running toward us.

His silhouette was sharp against the moonlight—his armor dark, tattered, his stance wide and ready. A samurai.

Not Ōtomo.

I saw a crest unknown to me stitched into his chest plate.

I didn’t think, I just grabbed Koharu’s hand and ran.

The samurai shouted, but I didn’t stop.

The trees blurred past us, my heart hammering against my ribs. I ran like I was still running from the fire, from the screams, from the blood.

But as I moved, something felt off.

The samurai wasn’t following.

I didn’t slow down. Not until my feet splashed into cold water.

Water!

The breath was ripped from my lungs as I collapsed onto the riverbank, Koharu falling beside me. My arms were trembling. My chest was heaving.

I pressed my forehead into the damp ground, panting, too exhausted to move.

Koharu barely made a sound.

We couldn’t keep running like this.

We had nothing. No food. No weapons. No place to go.

Her expression didn’t change, but her gaze drifted upstream, toward the smoke curling into the first hints of dawn.

Then, softly, she spoke:

"We're not the only ones running."

I followed her gaze. A campfire flickered in the distance, just beyond the trees, hidden in the hills.

My fingers curled into the dirt. If there were people, there was a chance—food, shelter, a path forward.

Or a quick death.

I had no weapon. No way to fight.

I should have been afraid. But I wasn’t.

I was angry.

My mother was dead. My village, gone. The blade I used to kill—left behind, buried in a samurai’s throat.

I had nothing. Nothing but Koharu.

I wouldn’t lose her too.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up and reached for her hand. "We’ll go slow. Stay low. If they’re dangerous, we—"

A sound—too close. A single footstep in the silence.

Koharu’s head turned, her brown eyes lifting toward the trees.

Again, we weren’t alone.

I pivoted, my body moving before my mind could keep up. My breath caught in my throat.

A samurai—the one from before.

And he wasn’t alone.

Standing beside him, half-hidden in the fading shadows, was a boy.

He looked about my age—maybe a year or two older—but there was no hesitation in his stance, no fear in his expression. His eyes, steel-gray and sharp, met mine without wavering.

"You’re not one of us," he said finally, his voice unreadable.

The samurai stepped forward, his battle-worn armor shifting with the movement. He was older, maybe in his forties, his face lined with exhaustion, yet his stance remained strong. The way he carried himself—steady, practiced, ready for anything—told me he had seen too many battles to flinch at the sight of a blood-soaked child.

But his eyes softened just slightly when they settled on me.

"You're from that village—"

His voice was rough, but not harsh.

I swallowed, my throat raw. I didn’t answer. Koharu didn’t either.

The samurai exhaled slowly, then turned his gaze toward the east, toward the faint glow of dawn creeping over the treetops.

"Amabara-mura is gone," he said at last.

I felt the words sink into me like a knife. As if I hadn’t already known. As if the fire still burning behind my ribs needed someone else to confirm it.

"We tried to reach it before the Ōtomo forces arrived," the samurai continued. "My men and I rode through the night, but by the time we saw the smoke—"

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

"We saw you," he added after a pause. "Running. I called out, but you didn’t stop. You are both very fortunate to be alive."

I wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a warning.

The samurai studied me for another long moment before inclining his head slightly.

"I am Kikuchi Masanari," he said. "Retainer of the Kikuchi Clan."

The name hit me like a cold wind.

Kikuchi.

I had heard it before, from travelers and merchants, from whispers at the village shrine. A fallen clan. A shattered name. They had ruled Higo once, long before the Ōtomo had divided it like scavengers.

And yet the Kikuchi—the remnants that the Ōtomo ransacked my village looking for stood before me.

My hands curled into fists.

Masanari turned slightly, gesturing to the boy beside him—the one who had been watching me in silence all this time.

"This is Kikuchi Harutora-sama," he said. "He is our rightful lord."

Lord of the Kikuchi? What this kid?!

I stiffened slightly, my eyes locking with his once again.

He didn't look at me with pity. Only recognition.

"You ran south," Lord Harutora said finally.

I swallowed, my throat raw. "Yes."

He studied me for a moment, unreadable. Then, with a slow nod—"You made the right choice."

It wasn’t praise. It wasn’t approval.

It was just a fact.

Kikuchi Masanari shifted his stance slightly, his gaze dropping to my clothes. The blood had dried, crusted dark against my sleeves and hands. I could still feel it beneath my nails.

"You're covered in blood," Masanari said, his voice quieter this time. "Are you injured?"

For the first time, there was a hint of concern in his voice. Not as a warrior, but as a man who had seen too many die.

I didn’t answer right away. I forced myself to glance down again, to check.

My body still ached, my muscles screamed with exhaustion—but I wasn’t hurt.

"It’s not mine," I muttered.

Masanari hesitated. I saw the moment doubt flickered across his face.

Koharu didn’t hesitate. She tilted her head slightly, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet unnervingly certain.

"It wasn’t a fair fight," she said, her fingers tightening around my sleeve. "The samurai didn’t even see him coming."

The night air pressed heavy around us.

Lord Harutora’s expression didn’t shift. His gaze remained locked onto mine. "You?"

I met his gaze and let the silence stretch. I could have lied. I could have said nothing.

But I didn’t.

"Yeah," I said, my voice steady. "I killed the samurai that defiled and killed my mother right in front of me. I put my knife in his throat but he deserved worse."

Masanari inhaled through his nose, his brow creasing slightly.

Lord Harutora exhaled, slow and measured.

Then, finally—"Hmph. Took you long enough to answer."

I shifted my stance, just slightly. Not enough to be aggressive. Just enough to feel the ground firm beneath me.

Something about this kid pisses me off.

Masanari sighed. "You should know better than to taunt a boy covered in blood, my lord."

"If he flinches at words, he won’t last against steel," Harutora said simply. Then, with a slow exhale—"Hah... You must be exhausted."

I swallowed hard, jaw clenching. I didn’t want to show weakness. But the truth was, my legs ached, my breath still ragged from running. The weight of everything—blood, death, fire—sat heavy on my shoulders.

Still, I didn’t let my knees buckle.

Not in front of him.

"Rest first. We’ll talk later."

I didn’t move right away. I didn’t know if I could trust them.

But Koharu—Koharu was already moving.

She reached for my wrist—not pulling, just holding. A small, steady warmth against my skin.

I exhaled—"Tch." I clicked my tongue, rolling my shoulders. "Alright, alright. But if there’s no food, you owe me."

Koharu blinked up at me, tilting her head slightly. "I don’t have anything to owe you with."

I let out a slow breath, rubbing the dried blood on my sleeve. "Then you better find something."

Her grip didn’t loosen. I turned, pulling her forward.

Toward the firelight. Toward the Kikuchi. Toward whatever came next.

The weight of blood still clung to me, the scent of smoke thick in my lungs. My body ached, my mind screamed at me to stop, to sleep, to grieve—

Dawn stretched ahead, endless and uncertain. The past was still burning behind me.

And the path forward had only just begun.

◆◇◆

> Summer, Abandoned Temple, Harima Province – 1598

Musashi’s thumb hovered over the next page, but he didn’t turn it.

The night air was thick, the weight of the past pressing against his shoulders.

He exhaled slow, "This is how it started?"

The cicadas had gone silent again.