CHAPTER 3 — MISFORTUNE
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Kyoichiiro's room was enveloped in a silence different from usual.
Not the peaceful silence—like when night fell and everyone was asleep, and he could hear the crickets from the garden through the slightly open window. Nor the tense silence—like when his father was angry at one of the servants, and everyone in the manor tried not to make a sound.
This was a heavy silence. A silence filled with restless thoughts, like water in a cauldron that boiled but never overflowed.
Kyoichiiro sat on the edge of his iron bed. His still-short legs dangled, his toes almost but not quite touching the cold stone floor. The dim candlelight from the bedside table painted a large shadow of himself on the wall—a shadow that looked like an adult, not a five-year-old child. His eyes were empty, fixed on one point in the air, not really seeing anything. His body was there, in that room, but his mind drifted far away—through the manor's stone walls, through the darkness of night, toward something he didn't know.
Five years.
He had spent five years of his life in this world. Long enough to begin forgetting—but not long enough to truly forget. Long enough to grow accustomed—but not long enough to feel at home.
He had seen many things during those five years. He had seen Claire grow from a cute toddler into a serious little girl. He had seen his father transform from a figure rarely home to one almost always present—though his presence felt like a rock in the middle of the sea: solid, but not warm. He had seen servants come and go, some married, some moved away, some died from illness or accident.
But almost all of his time, he spent inside a magnificent cage called Khaneo Manor.
He only knew the world from behind his high bedroom window, from the stories of servants who never traveled far, from the dusty, worn books in the library. He knew that out there was a city—a large city with bustling markets, towering cathedrals, and the king's magnificent palace. He knew that out there were forests—dark forests filled with monsters, with trees reaching the sky and thickets as dense as walls. He knew that out there was an ocean—a blue ocean he had never seen, with waves crashing against cliffs and great ships sailing to islands across the sea.
But he had never felt it. Never smelled the market, never heard the waves, never seen the sunrise from a hilltop.
Is this what life is? he thought, gripping the bedsheet beside him. Trapped within stone walls, surrounded by people too polite to say what they think, and too afraid to do what they want?
He looked down at his own palms—a noble child's soft hands, without calluses, without signs of hard work. His skin was clean and white, unlike the hands from his previous life, covered in small scars and burn marks.
But what was the use of smooth hands if they were never used to hold anything real?
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THE DECISION
Kyoichiiro: (Whispering to himself, his voice soft, barely audible above the night breeze) "If I truly want to understand this place... to understand how this world works, why everything is the way it is... I can't forever just observe from behind walls."
He didn't know exactly when the decision had formed. Perhaps when he saw Claire return from sword training with a tired face but eyes shining from something new she had learned. Perhaps when he heard his father tell stories of battles in his youth—about the enemies he faced, the decisions he made, the lives he saved and the lives he took. Perhaps when he read history books about kingdoms across the sea, about heroes whose names were still remembered, about adventurers who explored underground dungeons and returned with treasure and wounds that never healed.
Or perhaps the decision had been there all along—since he first realized he had been reborn, since he realized he had a second chance that few were given.
Whatever the reason, the decision was now final.
Kyoichiiro: (Whispering again, with a firmer tone) "I have to see it for myself. Feel it for myself."
He rose from the bed. His small feet touched the cold stone floor—the cold crept from his soles to his ankles, to his calves, to his knees, but he ignored it. He was used to the cold. In his previous life, he had often slept in places far colder than this.
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SLIPPING OUT
The manor's corridors, usually bustling with servants during the day, were now empty. Night had grown late—perhaps past midnight, perhaps nearing dawn. Kyoichiiro didn't know exactly, and he didn't care.
The oil lamps on the walls had been extinguished one by one, leaving the corridors in darkness only occasionally broken by starlight—light from hundreds, thousands of stars shining brightly in the sky above, enough to cast faint shadows on the stone floor.
Kyoichiiro stepped out of his room silently. No sound. He had learned from the night guards—Marcus often taught new guards the techniques of silent walking, and Kyoichiiro often listened from a distance. Now, he put it into practice.
His shadow traced along the wall, following the contours of stone and the gaps between old paintings. Over his formal clothes—a white linen shirt and black wool trousers—he wore a simple black cloak he had taken from the storage room last month, when the servants were busy preparing for the autumn festival. The cloak was too large for his body, draping almost to the floor, and its hood could cover most of his face and his conspicuous silver hair.
My goal is not adventure, he thought, adjusting the hood, making sure no hair was visible. My goal is observation. I don't want to be recognized. I don't want their protocols and respect interfering with what I want to see. I just want to be... anyone. No one special.
With the silence he had learned from observing the night guards for months, he followed a rarely used route. Not the main corridor—too many doors that could open, too many servants who might still be awake. But the small corridors on the west wing, connecting the old kitchen to unused storage rooms.
He exited through a small door in the corner of the inner garden. That door was usually locked, but its lock had long been broken—Elara had once complained about it to Martha, and Kyoichiiro had overheard. He only needed to push with a little force, and the door opened with a soft creak.
He climbed the low stone wall surrounding the vegetable garden—a wall as high as his chest, which a child his age shouldn't have been able to climb, but with the help of protruding tree roots and some loose stones, he managed. Then, he jumped down to the other side.
The ground there was soft—perhaps because it had just been watered, or because the night dew had begun to settle. Kyoichiiro landed with his knees slightly bent, as he had seen acrobats do at the parties sometimes held at the manor, and did not fall.
No shouts. No alarm bells. Only the sound of crickets from the distant fields, and the wind blowing through the trees.
He stood there, outside the manor, for the first time in five years.
The world felt larger than he had imagined.
---
THE CITY
The city spread at the foot of the castle hill—or more precisely, at the foot of the hill where Khaneo Manor stood—was a living, breathing organism. Kyoichiiro had never seen it directly, but he had often heard stories about this city from the servants who went shopping at the market.
At night, it turned out, the city was not dead. It only slept with one eye open.
Kyoichiiro paused at the end of the path that became a cobblestone road, his eyes widening. He tried not to look like a country bumpkin visiting the city for the first time, but he couldn't hide his awe.
The light of oil lamps and torches illuminated the stone streets—not bright, not even, but enough to cast long, swaying shadows whenever the flames flickered. People gathered at taverns still open—perhaps workers just returning, perhaps sailors resting between voyages, perhaps thugs looking for trouble. Laughter, the clinking of beer mugs, arguments that occasionally rose in volume, all blended into one symphony of chaos that strangely sounded... alive.
Merchants at their late-day stalls still shouted offers for their remaining goods—somewhat hard bread, wilting vegetables, less-than-fresh fish. Some were already packing up their wares, closing their tents, and preparing to go home.
The smell of freshly baked bread—still warm, even though it was night—mixed with the smell of fried meat from the tavern across the street. The scent of sweet fruits—apples, pears, and something he didn't recognize—mixed with the unpleasant odor from the roadside drains. The smell of human sweat, the smell of lamp oil, the smell of horse manure from passing carriages. All blended into a single, distinct, foreign fragrance of the city—not pleasant, but not entirely foul either. Just... real.
A horse-drawn carriage passed with the clatter of wheels on stone—not fast, because the streets were narrow and crowded—its driver shouting for way in a hoarse, tired voice.
Alive, Kyoichiiro thought, and for a moment, his chest felt warm. This... is so alive. And bustling. And dirty. And perfect.
He descended into the main street, trying to blend in. His hood remained over his face, and he walked with his head slightly bowed—not too conspicuous, not too suspicious. But his eyes worked quickly, absorbing every detail like a sponge thirsty for water.
How people interacted: some greeted each other warmly, some only nodded coldly, some avoided each other. The type of currency used: small coins of bronze and silver-colored metal, sometimes counted carefully in the palm before being handed to merchants. The clothes they wore: some simple, made of coarse fabric and hand-stitched; others neater, with simple decorations on the collars and sleeve hems. The social hierarchy visible in how one person treated another: how a master spoke to his servant differed from how he spoke to a peer; how a wealthy merchant walked differed from how a beggar sat at the roadside.
Too... peaceful, Kyoichiiro thought, but he wasn't sure of that word. Or perhaps too... fragile. The surface is very calm. As if no threat lurks around the corner. But I know—from experience, from stories, from history books—that peace like this never lasts.
His curiosity pushed him away from the main street. He turned into a narrow alley between two stone buildings, where the lamplight was sparser and the shadows longer. The atmosphere here was different—quieter, damper, and there was a smell he hadn't encountered on the main street: a musty smell, the smell of accumulated garbage, the smell of something dead left to rot.
He observed his surroundings more warily. The stone walls to his left and right were covered in blackish-green moss, and in several places, large cracks indicated that these buildings were old and neglected.
Kyoichiiro: (Whispering to himself) "Crowded, but behind that crowds, there are always corners like this. Places where the surface order begins to crack. Where the law doesn't apply. Where the strong prey on the weak."
He hadn't finished muttering when a voice he didn't like cut through the alley's silence.
Thug #1: (From behind, his voice deep and slightly hoarse) "Yo, kid. Alone in a dark place like this? Pretty brave."
Kyoichiiro turned slowly.
Three men stood at the end of the alley, about ten meters from where he stood. They weren't dressed in rags—not like the beggars he had seen at the roadside—but they weren't neat either. Their clothes were worn, with stains in several places that might be blood or wine. Their faces were unshaven, their hair long and tangled, and in one of their hands, a short knife glinted under the faint starlight.
Their gazes were lazy—like people who didn't need to try hard to get what they wanted. But behind that laziness, there was a cunning, hungry glint in their eyes. A glint Kyoichiiro knew well. It was the look of predators spotting easy prey.
Kyoichiiro took a deep breath. Frustration, not fear, was the first thing that rose in his chest.
Again, he thought, and he almost wanted to laugh bitterly. The same pattern. In any world, there are always scum like them. Preying on the weak, taking what isn't theirs, never thinking about the consequences of their actions.
He turned slowly—not hurriedly, not looking afraid—to face them.
Kyoichiiro: (Voice flat, neither high nor low, neither friendly nor rude) "What do you want?"
One of the men—the one who seemed the leader, with the largest body and the widest grin—sneered. The faint starlight glinted off a short knife that suddenly appeared in his hand, like magic. Or perhaps the knife had been there all along, and Kyoichiiro hadn't noticed because his eyes had been too busy scanning the environment.
Thug #1: (Sneering, pointing the knife at Kyoichiiro) "Quick on the uptake, kid. Good. Saves time." He stepped forward. One step. Two steps. Three. "Just hand over all the valuables you're carrying. Necklace, ring, coins... whatever. That cloak too—looks expensive. If you want to go home with your life still attached."
Thug #2: (From behind, chuckling) "Or maybe we'll take the kid too. A noble brat running away from home? His family will pay a fortune to get him back."
Thug #3: (Silent, only observing, perhaps the most dangerous of the three)
Kyoichiiro didn't answer immediately. He calculated the distance—about seven meters now, because the first man kept approaching. Their speed—not too fast, perhaps because they were confident, perhaps because they didn't see Kyoichiiro as a threat. The exit behind him—this alley only had one way in and out, and the three men blocked the only access to the main street.
His body was still small. Still weak. Still too light to fight one adult, let alone three. Logic spoke louder than pride.
Can't fight, he thought, his hands instinctively clenching at his sides. Can't run past them. There's only one direction... back. But behind is a dead end.
He glanced behind quickly. This alley indeed had no other branches—only high, slippery stone walls. But on the right side, about five meters from where he stood, there was a narrow gap between two buildings. Narrow enough for an adult, perhaps, but for his small body... maybe he could slip through.
No other choice.
Kyoichiiro: (Suddenly pointing at the ground behind the man, with the same flat tone, but slightly faster) "Eh... there. Behind your feet. A gold coin."
His voice was flat, almost unconvincing. Not like someone who had actually seen something, but like someone trying to divert attention. But for men whose minds were already filled with greed, even a small bait was enough.
Thug #1: (Turning half, not completely, but his eyes moved downward) "Hah?"
Thug #2: (Also turning, more eagerly) "Where?!"
All three, led by basic instinct for wealth, reflexively looked down—at least for a moment. Their bodies leaned slightly forward, their eyes searching for a gold coin they would never find.
That was the opportunity he needed.
Kyoichiiro turned and darted—not toward the main street, as they might have expected, but deeper into the alley, toward the narrow gap he had noticed earlier. His small legs ran as fast as he could—not as fast as he wanted, but fast enough to make a difference. He used his small body size to his advantage, slipping into a place they couldn't easily enter.
Thug #1: (Shouting, after realizing there was no gold coin, and that their prey had escaped) "Damn! That brat ran! After him!"
But it was too late. Kyoichiiro was already inside that narrow gap—too narrow for an adult's broad shoulders. He crawled, sometimes on his knees, sometimes creeping, past piles of garbage and filth that had accumulated there. The smell here was worse than the previous alley, but he had no time to think about that.
After several turns—the gap turned out not to be straight, it twisted like intestines—and after making sure no one was following—the thugs' footsteps were fading, perhaps because they had given up—he finally stopped.
His breath came in gasps. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from adrenaline.
He emerged at the end of a different alley—not far from where he had entered, but far enough for the thugs to have lost his trail. Calmly—or at least trying to appear calm—he adjusted his hood, which had nearly fallen off, then walked back toward the main street, as if nothing had happened.
Kyoichiiro: (To himself, as his steps steadied) A small threat. Disorganized. Unprofessional. Just thugs who saw an opportunity. But it's a good reminder. The peace on the surface is fragile. Very fragile. Something is wrong with this peaceful picture, and I need to find out what.
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APPLES AND RETURN
His stomach growled. Perhaps from running, or perhaps because he hadn't eaten dinner—he had been too busy planning his escape to eat.
Nearby, an old fruit merchant was closing up his stall. A pile of fresh red apples—which hours ago might still have been glossy and appealing—now looked slightly wilted, but still appetizing.
Kyoichiiro approached.
Kyoichiiro: (Flat voice) "Three apples. How much?"
Fruit Merchant: (Turning, a little surprised to see a child alone at night) "Hmm? Oh, boy, you're alone? Don't walk around at night, it's dangerous. Here are the apples—three pieces, five copper coins."
Kyoichiiro pulled out some small coins from his cloak pocket—money he had taken from the storage room, which wouldn't be too noticeable if it went missing. He counted them in his palm, then handed them over.
He bit into one of the apples as he walked. Its sweet and sour taste was refreshing—and for a moment, he almost forgot that he had just been threatened, that he was in a foreign city at night, that he should already be in his bed.
Kyoichiiro: (To himself, chewing) I can't stay out too long. My absence will surely be noticed soon. The servants will check my room—maybe at dawn, to wake me and Claire. If they don't find me there, there will be an uproar. And that uproar will only prevent me from sneaking out again in the future.
He turned, leaving the fading bustle of the night market behind, and walked back toward the hill where the manor stood.
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CARNAGE
As he climbed the path toward the castle hill—or more precisely, toward Khaneo Manor on the hill—a strangeness immediately struck him.
The usual chorus of night crickets—which he had heard when he descended earlier—was gone. An unnatural silence. No wind. No animal sounds. Even the leaves on the trees along the path didn't move, as if time itself had stopped.
Then, he saw it.
The small back gate he had used to leave—was wide open. Not half open, not a little, but wide, like a giant gaping mouth. Beside that gate, there were usually always two guards. Marcus was very disciplined about that—the manor's back door had to be guarded at all times, day and night.
Now, both guards lay on the ground.
Not moving.
Under the faint starlight—the only light source this night, because there was no moon—Kyoichiiro saw a dark liquid pooling around their bodies, seeping into the stony ground. Blood.
The apple in his hand—only half-eaten—fell. It rolled softly on the stony path before stopping near some bushes.
Kyoichiiro: (His voice trembling, but he tried to control it) "What... what happened here?"
He ran closer, crouching beside one of the guards—whose chest was still moving up and down, but very slowly. Still alive, but dying.
The guard opened his eyes with great effort. One eye was already swollen shut, covered in blood. His other eye—weak, nearly gone—saw the small silhouette in a black cloak before him.
Guard: (His voice hoarse, like someone losing blood) "Young... master?! You... you're here? Quickly... quickly run... inside... they... they already..."
Kyoichiiro: (Cutting in, his voice firm despite his trembling hands) "Who attacked? How many? When?"
Guard: (Coughing—blood came from his mouth, running down his chin, falling to the ground) "A horde... demons... monsters... don't know how many... they came suddenly... no warning... already inside... inside..."
The world around Kyoichiiro seemed to stop spinning.
Demons. Monsters. A horde. Those words spun in his head like spinning knives—sharp, dangerous, unstoppable.
Claire. Father. The servants. Everyone inside.
No. Not too late. Not yet.
Kyoichiiro: (Standing, his voice flat but full of pressure) "I'm going in. You, try to get up—find help. Go to the city. Anywhere. Hurry."
He didn't wait for an answer. His small body had already shot through the gate, into the manor grounds.
---
HELL INSIDE
The sight that greeted him was a living nightmare.
The manor's main door—the large carved wooden door usually guarded by four men—had been forced open. One of its leaves hung askew on its broken hinges, like a broken arm. At the threshold, bodies lay—servants' torn uniforms, soldiers' blood-soaked uniforms.
Kyoichiiro passed them. He couldn't stop. Couldn't help. Couldn't cry. He had to keep running.
The magnificent marble corridor—usually gleaming clean, usually reflecting candlelight beautifully—was now covered in blood. Pools of blood on the floor, splatters on the walls, traces of hands that had tried to crawl—perhaps seeking help, perhaps trying to escape. Expensive paintings had fallen from the walls, beautiful vases lay shattered, their shards scattered on the floor mixed with blood and torn fabric.
The metallic scent of blood and swirling dust replaced the manor's usual fragrant perfume—flowers from the garden, candles from the living room, spices from the kitchen. Now, there was only one smell: the smell of death.
Too late? Kyoichiiro thought, his chest feeling like it had been struck by a hammer. Not necessarily. Claire might still be hiding. Father might still be fighting. The servants might still be in hiding.
He ran up the grand stairs toward the floor where the family rooms were. The marble staircase he passed every day—which he usually counted the steps of (twenty-seven)—now felt like climbing a mountain. His small feet felt heavy, his chest tight, but he didn't stop.
Shouts from all directions. The clang of metal—perhaps sword meeting sword, or sword meeting claw. The roar of inhuman monsters—not the voice of wild beasts he knew, but the voice of something darker, more evil, more ancient.
Kyoichiiro didn't know where to go. The sounds came from all directions—from the left, from the right, from ahead, from behind. Loud. Confusing. Impossible to follow.
Suddenly—
BOOOOM!
A loud explosion shook the corridor ahead. A powerful shockwave pushed Kyoichiiro until he fell—his small body thrown backward, hitting the stone wall beside him. Pain in his back—sharp, stabbing—made him groan softly. Dust and stone fragments flew through the air, filling his still-small lungs, making him cough.
As he lifted his head, coughing, trying to clear his eyes of dust, he saw that the left wall of the corridor had collapsed. Not just cracked, but destroyed—large chunks of stone scattered on the floor, some as big as his body. Beyond the rubble, a view opened into the room beside it—a room he had never entered, but recognized from its decorations.
His mother's dressing room.
And from behind the thick curtain of dust, a scream rang out.
Woman's Voice: (Choked, full of fear, but still strong—not yet extinguished) "HELP—!!"
That... that voice...
Kyoichiiro's heart seemed to stop beating.
Mother.
---
UNAVOIDABLE DEATH
Kyoichiiro scrambled to his feet—his legs unsteady, his back aching, his head spinning—but he didn't care. His fear was swallowed by a stronger, more primal instinct, one he couldn't explain in words. He charged through the hole in the wall, climbing over the pile of stones still hot from the explosion, and leaped into the room.
The room—his mother's dressing room, usually fragrant with fresh flowers on the vanity and perfume in the wardrobe—was in ruins. The large mirror on the wall was shattered into pieces, its shards scattered on the floor like dangerous snow. Furniture—wooden chairs, wardrobes, the vanity—were scattered, some destroyed, some overturned. The silk fabrics that usually hung neatly were now torn and trampled.
And in the center of the room, on the cold stone floor, lay the figure he had known for the past five years as "Mother."
A young woman with bluish-white hair—the same as Kyoichiiro's—which usually fell long over her pillow, now soaked in blood. Her face—usually soft, usually smiling every time she saw Kyoichiiro—was now as pale as paper. Paler. Paler than the sheets on her bed.
A long sword—not an ordinary sword, a sword with strange engravings on its blade that seemed to glint under the candlelight still burning in the corner of the room—was embedded in her stomach. Right in the center. Right where the heart would be.
No, the heart wasn't in the stomach. But that wound—that deep, gaping wound, from which blood continued to flow even though she had tried to press it with her weak hands—was enough to kill anyone.
Attacker: (Standing beside his mother, a large man in dark armor that didn't glint—as if it absorbed light, not reflected it—and a helmet covering his entire face except for a narrow slit for his eyes) "Oh? A new sprout. Still very young and fresh."
Beside the man, a creature—similar to a wolf, but not like any wolf he knew. Its skin wasn't fur, but stone—black, cracked stone, with red light glowing in its cracks. Its eyes were red—bright red, like two coals—and drool dripped from its mouth full of sharp teeth.
That wasn't a wolf. That was a monster. A demon. One of the horde the guard had mentioned.
Kyoichiiro didn't hear the man's words. Didn't see the monster. All his attention—all his awareness—was focused on the figure on the floor.
"Mother…!"
His voice broke. Not like usual—usually flat, usually controlled—but this time it broke. Like glass falling to a stone floor. Tears—which he had thought had dried up in his rationality, which he had held back even on lonely nights when he often dreamed of Cellia and Hiyori—poured out uncontrollably.
Deep pain. A loss he knew too well from his previous life. A pain that had never truly gone away, only slept somewhere inside his chest, waiting to wake again. A pain that hit him with full force, making his knees weak, making his breath catch.
He could still feel it. He could still lose.
Kyoichiiro ran and knelt beside his mother. His hands—small, never having held a real sword—reached for his mother's blood-soaked hands. His hands were too small to grasp tightly. Too small to hold anything.
Mother: (Opening her eyes with great effort—her light blue eyes, exactly like his, now dim, nearly gone) "Kyoichiiro... you're... you're here..."
Her breath came in ragged gasps. Each word was a struggle. Each syllable felt like a terribly heavy burden.
Kyoichiiro: (Tears falling on his cheeks, falling onto his mother's hands, clearing a little of the bloodstains) "Mother... don't speak... I'll find help... I'll—"
Mother: (Shaking her head slowly—any movement seemed painful) "Thank you... for being willing to come... into this world... Mother... was so happy... every time she saw you... smile..."
Her weak hand—cold, no longer warm as usual—tried to lift. She touched Kyoichiiro's wet cheek.
Mother: "Please... don't let yourself... drown in darkness... don't become like..."
She paused. Her eyes closed for a moment. Her chest rose—once, twice—but its fall was very slow.
Mother: "Because... Mother loves you... so... so much…"
Her voice grew fainter. Almost like wind. Like a whisper.
Mother: (Only a lip movement—no sound came out, but Kyoichiiro could read her lips) "Thank you... for keeping... all of Mother's promises…"
A faint smile—full of peace, full of sorrow, full of love that never ran out—graced her lips. The same smile as when she looked at Kyoichiiro when he was a baby. The same smile as when she held Kyoichiiro on her lap and read him storybooks.
Then, her breath stopped.
The light in her eyes went out.
Her hand on Kyoichiiro's cheek fell—falling to the cold stone floor, with a soft plop that sounded terribly loud in Kyoichiiro's ears.
Her weak embrace—her last—finally slackened.
Kyoichiiro: (Silent, not crying—unable to cry anymore—only holding his mother's growing cold body)
His small body shook violently. Tremors he couldn't control. Tremors spreading from his chest to his arms, to his hands, to his fingers still tightly gripping his mother's hand.
Why? he thought, and the bitterness—the bitterness he had buried, buried under rationality and logic—now exploded like a volcano. Why does the world always do this? Every time there's someone... someone close... someone I love... they're always taken. Always. Without fail.
He lifted his head. His mother's face—calm, peaceful—was now covered in shadow.
Is this a curse? Is my very existence a curse to those around me?
His tears fell—one by one, falling onto his mother's face, clearing a little of the dust and blood on her cheeks.
Kyoichiiro: (Whispering, his voice hoarse, barely audible) "I'm sorry... I'm a useless child. When you needed me, I could do nothing. I'm not like Claire. I'm not strong. I'm weak. I'm only... I can only watch."
The memory of his own death in his past life—loneliness, incomprehension, sudden pain then disappearance—merged with the grief of the present. Two layers of sadness. Two layers of loss. Two layers of death.
Kyoichiiro: (His voice changing—becoming colder, sharper, but not a shout—only a whisper full of hatred he couldn't direct) "Fate... is always like this. Always taking. Always killing a part of me."
He lifted his face. Tears still flowed—couldn't stop—but his eyes... his eyes now shone with a different light. Not the light of sadness. Not the light of despair.
The light of resolve. A burning light. A light that would not go out even if the whole world tried to extinguish it.
Kyoichiiro: (Whispering, but loud—like an oath spoken before a god that might not exist) "One day... I will kill fate itself. I will crush this capricious destiny. Until it stops. Until it can take no more."
Gently—very gently—he kissed his mother's cold cheek.
Kyoichiiro: "Thank you... for being the best mother to me. Rest well."
Then, with a firm movement—one that required all the courage he possessed—he released his embrace.
---
FUTILE RESISTANCE
His eyes shifted.
A short sword lay near the feet of a dead servant—a young male servant, who might have tried to protect his mother, or might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Kyoichiiro picked it up.
The sword was heavy for his still-small hands—heavier than the wooden sword he usually used for training. Its blade wasn't very long, but it was enough to stab. Its hilt was made of wood wrapped in leather, somewhat worn from frequent use.
He stood.
His body was small. Covered in his mother's blood—blood no longer warm, already beginning to congeal on his clothes. His face was still wet with tears. But his posture was straight. Not bent. Not trembling. Straight as a pillar.
Attacker: (Laughing—a loud laugh, echoing in the ruined room) "Interesting! Very interesting!" He slapped his thigh—the sound of metal hitting metal. "A little boy who just lost his mother, wants to play with a sword? Wants to kill us? Come on, show us!"
Kyoichiiro didn't answer.
He lunged.
Not with perfect technique—his legs were still too short, his arms still too weak, his body still too light. But he lunged with everything he had. All his anger. All his sadness. All the resolve he couldn't express in words.
His sword swung at the man.
Clang!
Easily—very easily—his attack was parried. The short sword nearly flew from his grip. A strong vibration traveled from the blade to the hilt, from the hilt to his hand, from his hand to his entire body.
Attacker: (Laughing again, louder) "Weak! Futile! You're just a child! What can you do to us?"
From the side—without warning—the stone wolf monster moved.
Not attacking with claws. Not biting. It only charged—charging with its hard, stone-like shoulder, covered in cracked black stone, straight into Kyoichiiro's body.
Thud!
The sound of a heavy impact. Too heavy.
Kyoichiiro was thrown backward—like a rag doll thrown by a child—hitting the remaining intact wall of the room. His head hit stone. His back hit stone. His shoulder hit stone.
It felt like every bone in his body was cracked. Or perhaps shattered. He didn't know. What he knew was the pain—sharp pain, spreading from his back through his entire body—and the cold—cold from the stone, cold from the floor, cold from the air he was finding increasingly difficult to breathe.
He fell to the floor. Sat down. Couldn't stand. Coughing. And a spatter of blood—fresh red—came from his mouth.
Kyoichiiro: (Choking, trying to stand but unable) "This... is nothing... compared to... compared to..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Perhaps because he didn't know how to finish it.
He tried to stand again. His legs were limp. Like they had no bones. Like only two pieces of meat hanging from his waist.
His vision began to blur. The candle flames in the corner of the room—which had been burning brightly—now looked like tiny flickering dots. The man's laughter, the monster's growls, the sound of his own breath—all grew distant. Faint. Far away.
Damn...
His consciousness began to fade. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision—like a black curtain slowly closing.
Cellia… he thought, and his sister's face appeared in his mind—her face wet with tears, screaming "Brother!" over his dying body. I'm sorry. Your brother failed again.
On the verge of unconsciousness—between awake and not, between life and death—he heard hurried footsteps. Many footsteps. And another voice. A foreign voice, yet also familiar.
Soldier #1: (From somewhere far away, or close—he could no longer tell) "Here! There's a survivor! Someone's still alive!"
Soldier #2: (Closer, clearer) "That's... that's the boy! The second son of the Khaneo family! Quick—get him out of here! The manor is no longer safe! The monsters have entered the east wing!"
Kyoichiiro felt himself being lifted—gently, not like the earlier throw—and carried. Not by soft hands like his mother's, but by rough, calloused hands that had held a sword thousands of times.
His last vision—before darkness completely enveloped his consciousness—was the ruined ceiling of the room, with large cracks gaping like wounds, and his mother's shadow lying motionless on the floor.
Then, everything went black.