The wind carried ash and silence as Takayama Riku followed his parents through the narrow mountain pass. What remained of their village—if it could still be called that—lay behind them in smoldering pieces. The rice fields were ruined. The shrine, blackened. And the dead… the dead were uncounted.
Only the living had kept moving.
His mother, Takayama Haruka, walked ahead with her scarf wrapped tightly over her mouth, but her shoulders trembled each time a crow called in the trees. She had not spoken since they left the village's edge. Takayama Jirou, his father, remained silent as well, walking with a warrior's focus, hand never far from the hilt of his old blade.
Riku brought up the rear, glancing back now and then—not for enemies, but for ghosts. He saw them everywhere: old men who once taught him fishing, young boys who practiced sword forms in the mud, women with bright laughter that echoed across the fields.
All gone.
And yet, he felt no tears in him. Only the weight of knowing he had once seen kingdoms rise and burn… and now, even this simple farming village could not escape the same fate.
They reached the river bend at twilight. An old fishing village sat just beyond the reeds, its houses built on stilts and its people cautious but not unkind. Word of the raid had reached them days ago, and the villagers offered shelter without many questions.
A hut near the outer ridge was given to them, and though it was humble, it stood, and its roof did not leak.
That night, Takayama Riku sat outside, staring into the fire pit as the stars blinked above. The scent of wet thatch and fish lingered in the air.
"Riku," came his father's voice.
Riku turned. Takayama Jirou stepped out of the hut, arms crossed over his chest. "You saw her, didn't you? The old woman."
Riku hesitated. Then nodded.
Jirou sat beside him. His face, aged by war and worry, looked even harder under the moonlight. "She's mad," he said. "Mad, and dangerous."
"I don't think she's entirely wrong," Riku murmured.
"She speaks of fates and flames," Jirou replied. "That kind of talk leads men to ruin."
"Or to truth," Riku said quietly.
There was silence between them.
Then, finally, Jirou said, "You're not like the others, Riku. I've known that since you were a child. There's weight in your gaze. And when you fight, it's not just instinct—it's memory."
Riku looked into the fire. "Because I remember more than this life."
Jirou turned to him, and Riku saw no shock in his father's eyes—only a grim acceptance.
"Then it's time we talk."
Inside the hut, the light from a single lantern flickered against the wall. Takayama Haruka was asleep in the corner, wrapped in layers of old quilts, her breath shallow but steady. The years had been kind to her heart but cruel to her body. Yet she remained strong where it counted.
Jirou poured two cups of hot barley tea and handed one to Riku.
"For most of my life," Jirou began, "I served as a blade for the Enraku Clan. We were a tributary under the Southern Kingdom—small, but proud. When I retired, it was to protect my family, not because I lost my strength."
He looked down into his cup. "But strength… even that doesn't mean safety. Especially not in these times."
"I know," Riku said. "I've lived it."
Jirou studied him for a long moment.
You stared. Your eyes were old—too old. For a time, I thought it was just a father's madness. But now... after the raid, after what you did, what I saw—"
He hesitated.
"I saw your sword arm move before your mind could catch up. You weren't fighting like a boy. You were fighting like someone who had seen war."
Riku nodded.
"In another life," he said, "I was a daimyō. I led armies. I lost them. I died in disgrace, blade buried in my own belly."
Silence followed. Not disbelief—only understanding.
"And now?"
"Now I live again. Not as a lord. Just… as Riku."
Jirou let out a long breath and sipped his tea. "Then you must choose what this life is meant to be."
"I don't know yet," Riku admitted. "But I think the madwoman does."
Jirou grunted. "Be wary. There's wisdom in madness, but not all truths are meant to be carried."
Riku stared into the flame. "I think I was meant to carry this one."
Jirou's hand reached out and rested on his son's shoulder.
"Then you won't carry it alone."
Days passed. The village settled slowly into its rhythm again. Smoke from chimneys rose peacefully. Children played by the shallow edges of the river, and the fields were tilled anew with trembling hands and cautious hope.
Riku helped where he could—repairing fishnets, reinforcing homes, sharing water from the well. But even as he worked, a shadow lingered behind his eyes.
He often saw her—the madwoman—perched near the tree line just past the cliff's edge, muttering to herself, hands drawing shapes in the dirt. Others avoided her, but Riku watched.
One morning, she turned suddenly and looked directly at him.
"You still don't believe me," she rasped.
Riku approached cautiously. "I believe you. I just don't understand you."
She laughed, a dry, cracked sound. "Then listen better."
Riku knelt in front of her. "Tell me what you see."
Her hands trembled as she reached forward, placing a wrinkled finger to his chest. "You are two lives braided as one. Fire devoured you once. Regret kept your spirit clinging to the edge. You burned with wrath not meant for men, and now you walk again."
"I didn't ask to return."
"Souls never do," she said, "but some are called."
"By who?"
"Not gods," she whispered. "They've turned their gaze. You know that. You cursed their names."
Riku's chest tightened.
"So what now?"
She looked up at the gray sky. "The truth lies in you. Beneath the bones. Beneath the blood. You must find it. You must remember."
"Remember what?"
"The day your soul shattered."
Before he could speak again, she turned from him, eyes unfocused. The conversation was over.
Riku rose and returned to the path.
At the edge of the village, Jirou waited.
"You spoke with her again."
"I had to."
Jirou nodded. "And what now?"
"I train," Riku said. "I dig. I prepare."
"For what?"
"For whatever truth lies ahead."
They walked together back toward their home.
Neither spoke, but both knew:
The fire hadn't gone out.
It had just gone deeper.