The cool night pressed gently against the quiet village
The scent of wet earth lingered from a recent rain, mixing with the distant crackle of torches burning near the village's watchpoints. All seemed peaceful—at least on the surface.
Inside a modest wooden home nestled close to the hills, Takayama Riku sat on the floor, his back against the far wall, staring into the flickering hearth. The room around him was silent, save for the low hiss of flames chewing at old firewood.
His thoughts were far from calm.
The old woman's words still echoed in his head: "The truth lies in you."
Her eyes—clouded, wild, ancient—had seen something he hadn't. And though she vanished like mist after the raid, Riku could still feel her presence like a shadow under his skin. The world around him seemed to hum with something unseen, something waiting.
He was still trying to make sense of it when the screen door slid open.
"Riku," his father, Takayama Jirou, stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The man's presence was commanding even without his uniform—broad-shouldered, weathered by years of military campaigns, yet gentle in voice and manner with those he loved.
"Come," Jirou said.
Riku stood, quietly following his father into the courtyard behind the house. The stars above shimmered in clusters, and the moon sat low and orange on the horizon.
For a moment, they simply stood there, side by side, watching the wind rustle the trees on the hillside.
Then Jirou spoke, his voice low.
"I saw you with the old woman during the raid."
Riku turned his head, surprised. "You saw that?"
"I did. I watched you from the edge of the field. She spoke to you like she'd been waiting for you her whole life."
Riku hesitated. "She said... the truth lies in me. And something about the gods' plan being obscured."
Jirou's lips pressed into a firm line. "Then it's time."
"Time for what?"
Jirou stepped forward, kneeling before the small stone shrine at the corner of the courtyard. With a careful hand, he lit a stick of incense and placed it in the holder. Smoke rose in thin spirals.
Then he said, "There is a truth you've not yet been told. And it begins before you were born."
Riku's brow furrowed.
"I was not just a soldier," Jirou began. "I served under the royal banner of the Kingdom of Seiryuu. But more than that, I was once entrusted with a secret by a priest of the central shrine in Haranokami."
He turned his gaze toward the horizon.
"There, while defending the sacred temple from invaders, I came into possession of a prophecy. Not a scroll. Not a tale. A revelation—spoken by a dying oracle, who passed away in my arms."
Riku stepped closer.
Jirou's voice grew heavier.
"He told me of a gold—not the kind that glitters in vaults or buys power. A gold chosen by the heavens themselves. Something—or someone—that would bring balance where there was chaos, restoration where there was ruin."
Jirou paused, eyes distant.
"That gold… was you."
Riku's breath caught.
"Me?"
"I didn't know what it meant at the time," Jirou admitted. "I didn't even have a wife then. But the oracle said: 'You will father the vessel. His birth will mark the sun's retreat. His blood will carry flame—and ruin.'"
Silence settled over them.
"I left the army not because I was tired… but because I was afraid. Afraid of what would happen if the wrong people heard of this prophecy. And afraid of what you might become… or be hunted for."
Riku could hardly speak. "Then the raids—"
"They are no accident," Jirou said grimly. "There are powers in this world that know the prophecy. They hunt for signs. They strike early, destabilize regions, watch who survives."
He turned to face his son fully now, eyes sharp.
"But I watched you during that raid, Riku. I saw the fire in your eyes. You remembered something—something before this life, didn't you?"
Riku slowly nodded. "Yes. Too much."
Jirou placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"Then we can no longer wait. You must train."
"Train?"
"There is a place," Jirou said. "A hidden camp deep in the Northern Peaks. The old kingdom used to send its elite there. Not just to fight—but to endure. The instructors there were once called 'The Blades of the Balance.' They know of the prophecy. One of them even fought beside me. He owes me a favor."
Riku's hands curled into fists. "You want me to leave?"
"I want you to live," Jirou said firmly. "You can't fulfill your purpose if you die unprepared."
Riku's throat tightened.
"What if I fail?"
"Then fail," Jirou said. "But fail trying."
He stepped back, eyes proud.
"You are no longer just my son. You are the living thread of something larger than any of us. And if the gods chose you, then it's time you chose yourself in return."
Silence fell between them. The incense continued to burn.
Takayama Riku looked up at the moon, its pale face full and knowing. The path ahead was suddenly far larger than he'd imagined.
But for the first time… it didn't feel like a curse.
It felt like truth.
The next morning came quietly.
Gray clouds had gathered above the village, hinting at rain. A soft wind swept through the fields, carrying with it the scent of wet grass and distant blossoms. Yet inside the Takayama home, tension brewed heavier than the sky.
Riku sat alone in the family's modest main room, legs crossed, back straight. His father's words still echoed from the night before, now carved into his chest like ancient scripture.
"You are the living thread of something larger than any of us."
He hadn't slept. Not because he was afraid—but because something inside him refused to rest. As if a flame had been rekindled in his soul, one that wouldn't go out, no matter how much he tried to smother it.
Footsteps approached.
"Riku," his mother's voice came gently. Takayama Haruka stepped into the room, her expression carefully composed, though her eyes betrayed her.
"I heard," she said.
Riku stood slowly. "Father told you?"
Haruka nodded. "He told me everything. About the prophecy. About your departure."
She tried to smile, but it flickered and failed.
"You were just a boy," she said, voice trembling, "when we moved to this quiet village. I wanted you to grow up away from the blood, the blades, the fire… I wanted to protect you from your father's world. From what he feared would one day come."
"I know," Riku whispered.
"I taught you to fish, to plant rice, to mend nets. I thought… if I raised you gently, maybe the gods would forget. Maybe they'd choose someone else."
Haruka stepped closer, reaching to brush a hand through his dark hair. "But they never forget. Do they?"
"No," Riku said quietly.
She swallowed hard. "Will I ever see you again?"
"You will," he promised. "But I don't know when."
Haruka leaned forward and hugged him fiercely, whispering words in his ear he couldn't fully catch—soft prayers, old lullabies, pleas to the gods she no longer trusted.
When she finally pulled back, her hand slipped into her robe. She retrieved a small cloth bundle, neatly tied.
"This was your grandfather's," she said. "A family charm. He carried it through the War of Seven Heavens. It's nothing grand—just folded paper and cedar bark—but it always brought him home."
Riku accepted the bundle and bowed. "Thank you."
Just then, the screen behind him creaked open.
Takayama Jirou entered, dressed in an old traveling coat. His face was stone.
"It's time," he said.
Haruka stepped aside reluctantly, wiping her eyes. "Go. Be the man they fear… and the one we love."
Riku turned toward his father and followed him out the house. The sun peeked through clouds for the first time that morning, scattering gold across the earth. A good omen—or perhaps a reminder of the gold that had cursed him from birth.
They walked in silence for nearly an hour, up a winding path that led through the forest toward the mountain roads. Birds chirped faintly above. The world still felt too calm for what was to come.
Finally, they reached a small outpost—little more than a shrine and a horse tied beneath a pine tree. A man in dark armor waited there, arms crossed.
"Is this him?" the man asked.
Jirou nodded. "My son. Takayama Riku."
The man stepped forward, his eyes sharp and unreadable. His armor bore no crest, but his presence reeked of battle experience.
"I am Captain Masanori. You'll be under my care during your first season of training."
Riku bowed. "Understood."
Masanori's gaze lingered. "You don't look like much."
"I'm not," Riku replied, "but I won't stay that way."
A faint smile curved the captain's lips. "Good answer."
Jirou pulled something from beneath his robe—a sealed scroll, wrapped in white ribbon.
"This was given to me by the oracle," he said, handing it to Riku. "I never opened it. I thought I'd protect you by keeping it hidden."
Riku accepted it slowly, feeling the weight of it in his hands.
"It's yours now. Whatever is written inside… it's part of your path."
Riku nodded. "I'll read it when I'm ready."
Jirou stepped forward and, for the first time in years, embraced his son tightly.
"You are my legacy," he said. "But more than that… you are your own."
"I'll make you proud."
"You already have."
With that, Riku climbed onto the horse behind Masanori. The captain offered no further words—just a sharp whistle to his beast, and the two rode off into the wilderness beyond the village.
Jirou watched them until they disappeared into the trees.
He did not cry.
But in his chest, an old prayer repeated, wordless and wild, to gods he neither trusted nor dared to hate.
> "Even when you forget who you are, the blood remembers." — Old Northern Proverb
The road bent like a serpent between the hills.
Trees grew taller here—older, perhaps untouched by war or weather. Mist hovered close to the soil, and the smell of damp moss and mountain air filled Riku's nose as the horse climbed the winding path. Masanori hadn't spoken since they left. He didn't need to.
Silence was a language every soldier understood.
At dusk, they arrived at the edge of a cliff plateau, and Riku caught his first glimpse of the training grounds.
It wasn't what he expected.
No towering fortress. No temple-styled academy. Just rows of tents in a tight crescent, a ring of stone platforms spaced out in concentric circles, and a single shrine surrounded by lanterns that glowed faintly in the growing dark.
Dozens of young men and women were already gathered, many older than Riku. Some practiced with wooden weapons. Others meditated in silence. A few simply rested, wrapped in bandages and bruises.
"This is where warriors are made," Masanori said, finally breaking the silence. "And broken."
Riku dismounted.
"Follow me."
They walked past the other recruits, drawing curious glances. Riku ignored them. He was used to being watched—but now, for the first time, he didn't flinch beneath it.
Masanori led him to a narrow tent near the edge of the grounds. Inside were only two bedrolls, a water jug, and a small fire pit.
"You'll share this space with another trainee once they arrive. Until then, get used to cold floors and long days."
Riku nodded.
"There's food at the main circle before sundown. Training starts tomorrow. Don't be late."
With that, Masanori turned and left without ceremony.
Riku dropped his small pack beside the mat and sat.
The mountain wind whistled outside, but inside the tent was quiet. Still. A little too still.
His fingers curled around the scroll his father had given him. He hadn't read it yet.
Now felt… right.
With slow, deliberate care, he undid the ribbon and unrolled the parchment. The handwriting was old, precise, as if scribed by a priest or a scholar in a temple.
> He who bears the ember of judgment shall walk twice through the gate of life.
He shall fall once by oath, once by blade, and once by truth.
And if he rises thrice, the light will kneel to him, and the stars shall burn again.
Riku blinked.
The words seemed to hum softly, even after he stopped reading.
It wasn't just poetry. It was a key. A puzzle. A command.
He set the scroll down slowly and pressed his palm to the floor, steadying his breath.
A flicker passed through him.
A tremor—not of the body, but of memory.
He saw flashes.
A broken sword.
A shrine bathed in rain.
Blood spilled beneath a violet moon.
His hands clenched. His vision blurred.
And somewhere deep within, a voice—his voice—whispered:
"You watched, Amaterasu. You watched and did nothing."
He gasped, grabbing at his chest.
The ache wasn't pain. Not fear.
It was memory clawing its way back through a sealed door.
A moment later, it vanished—like a tide receding, leaving only the damp truth behind.
"I've died before…" Riku whispered. "I've lived before…"
The realization didn't crush him.
It calmed him.
As if knowing made this place make sense.
As if the strange old woman in the village hadn't been mad at all.
He stepped out of the tent, scroll still in hand, and gazed out over the camp.
Stars had begun to prick the sky above the mountains. The firelight below flickered against stone and steel.
From a distance, he watched the shrine—small, silent, glowing faintly.
Something drew him to it.
Not the gods. Not fate.
Something else.
Something older than either.
He walked.
---
At the shrine, incense sticks were lit, placed in simple holders carved from bone and ashwood. A figure sat cross-legged in prayer.
It was Masanori.
He didn't turn.
"Lost, or curious?" the captain asked.
Riku knelt beside him.
"Neither. Just… remembering."
"Already?" Masanori opened one eye. "Good. That puts you ahead of the others."
Riku hesitated.
"Do you believe in prophecy?"
"I believe in purpose," Masanori replied. "Whether it's written in the stars or the scars you carry, it doesn't matter. All that matters is if you live up to it."
"Do you think I can?"
Masanori turned to him now, fully.
"You asked the wrong man. I don't make predictions."
"Then what do you make?"
He smiled faintly.
"Warriors."