Jin sat quietly in the grand dining hall, the early sunlight spilling through tall, latticed windows, catching the dust in motes that floated lazily in the beams. The long tables had been pushed aside, benches lined shoulder to shoulder, and a wooden platform stood at the front, awaiting the speaker. Rows of children sat stiffly, some fidgeting, others staring at the floor, whispering nervously. Jin's mind wandered, caught between hope and melancholy. Perhaps life could be better here. Perhaps his mother could find peace without constant strife, and maybe—if fate allowed—his father might feel pride in having done something right.
An old monk stepped onto the platform. Bald, straight-backed, and robed in flowing saffron, he regarded the children with piercing, calm eyes. "Hello, newcomers," he began. "Welcome to our city of Buddha. You may wonder why you are here, why you were chosen. This city was built with the blessings of Buddha, many years ago, to serve as a sanctuary and a place of learning."
The hall grew silent. Children leaned forward, eyes wide, the weight of curiosity and fear mingling in the air. The monk's voice deepened. "Society has deemed you unworthy, yet we offer you a second chance. Here, we will shape you. You will become stronger, prepared to defend those who once condemned you. We take in those who are overlooked, the ones who are unwanted. We defend them as if they were our own."
Jin frowned, feeling the heaviness of his own thoughts. Could he ever protect those he loved? Could he even trust himself to do it?
The monk's tone softened. "Do not feel unwanted. We want you here. We welcome spirited younglings seeking a second chance with Buddha. Who among you has a question?"
For a long moment, silence held the room. Then Jin's voice rose, firm despite a quiver. "Who are you? What are we doing here? And why do you benefit from keeping us here?"
The monk studied him, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. "It is not we who benefit. We only wish to give you a better life. And you, young man, your name?"
"My name is Jin Nakamura," he said.
The monk nodded slowly. "Ah… the child whose father sent him here, believing you a bad omen. Perhaps he was not of sound mind. We took you in to spare you a harsher fate. We live simply, devoted to protecting those we care for."
His gaze drifted over the other children—each reacting differently. Some whispered questions to each other, some twisted their hands nervously, one small boy pressed himself against the wall, scanning the room as though danger lurked. "Two hundred years ago, our ancestors were united with our brethren, believing in inner faith over material things. One day, a man arrived, teaching that a great evil was coming. We were told to change our ways, to prepare ourselves. Our brethren rejected this teaching, saying we were lost. We persevered, knowing one day this knowledge would be needed. Today we thrive while they remain blind to what we have preserved. We follow the true path of Buddha. Everyone deserves a second chance, and you, Jin, need one. Starting in two days, you will be guided to your new homes and begin your training. You will learn to harness the power within you. I hope you understand."
The monk stepped down, leaving Jin to ponder. Around him, children whispered and speculated. Jin's thoughts drifted immediately to Bao, to his mother Sagaki, even to his father, whose faults weighed heavily on his heart. Perhaps he had been chosen to protect them, even if his father didn't deserve it. And yet… he still loved him.
Meanwhile, Sagaki pressed through the forest, night falling around her as thick, grim trees leaned inward, blotting out the last traces of light. The cold bit at her skin, her thin clothes offering little protection. Her blanket, worn and frayed, provided almost no warmth. Every snap of a branch and rustle of leaves sent shivers down her spine. She scanned the forest floor for footprints or snapped branches, signs of the group she pursued, but the growing gloom swallowed every clue.
Her teeth chattered as she stumbled through the underbrush, seeking a hollow log or small cave, anything to shield her from the dark. She found herself on a narrow roadway by a winding stream, where a slipshod cart rattled to a stop. Two swaybacked horses groaned, a wizened old man tugged on the reins, and beside him stood a tired woman and two dirty-faced children.
"Please?" Sagaki's voice shook. "Can I stay with you a while and warm up?"
The man glanced at his wife, then nodded. "Climb in the back with the children. We'll be home soon enough. You look like you need a rest."
"Thank you," she breathed, climbing onto the cart and smiling at the staring children. She hugged her blanket tight as the cart rattled forward.
Movement at the edge of her vision made her pause. The trees shifted unnaturally, as if something translucent followed them. Sagaki hugged the blanket tighter, eyes closing, forcing herself to push away dark thoughts. I will get my son back. We will be a family again. I have to stay strong.
Bao struggled to stay upright in the dim light of the Outcast settlement. His head throbbed beneath the tight bandage, and every sound—the rustle of straw, the low murmurs of other children, the flickering of lamps—seemed magnified. He crept toward the circle of children gathered in the hut's center, heart hammering. Each child was alive with small, telling quirks: a freckled boy fidgeted with a string tied around his wrist, a girl with a braid drummed softly on the floor, another small boy leaned against a post, eyes scanning the shadows for unseen threats, and a quiet girl whispered reassurance to a younger child clinging to her sleeve.
The tall, dark-haired man in the center fixed his gaze on Bao. "Young man," he said, voice gravelly yet steady, "you have awakened. Come, join us. I was about to tell these younglings about our past."
Bao moved forward, each step weighted with pain and confusion. Why am I here? Can I trust them? Where is Jin? His fear pressed down on him, and yet the faint warmth of hope stirred in his chest.
"Our story began two hundred years ago," the man said, voice solemn. "Our ancestors were once united. Division came through the teachings of a newcomer who claimed Buddha sent him to show us the path. Some believed him. Others, like us, chose a different way. We became outcasts to preserve the light, to survive, to protect one another. That is why we take in those like you. Here, under this roof, we hope to rebuild what was lost, a family united under the true law of Buddha."
Bao looked at the children around him again, their quirks, their whispers, their watchful eyes. They were cautious but alive, each carrying their own story, and he realized that perhaps he could survive here. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might even find Jin.