The earth crunched beneath bare feet.
A boy carried a sack of rotten potatoes on his back. He couldn't have been older than fourteen, but in his eyes lived an ancient shadow—like time had passed twice through him. The sun beat down mercilessly over the dry fields of Tsuyoi, a village wrinkled by misery and forgotten by the gods, lost on the fringes of the Hokori Kingdom.
The boy's name was Donyoku.
With hands covered in dirt and a shirt torn from work, he walked along the dusty path. His eyes—somewhere between amber and honey—flickered with a quiet determination, like embers that hadn't fully caught fire. He had grown up in poverty, but his spirit refused to be dragged down by it.
"You're late," said a voice from the shadow of a twisted tree.
Chisiki sat on a rock, a book open on his knees. His messy dark hair fell over his face, and his blue eyes shone like reflections of the sky trapped in a bottomless well.
"Not all of us get the luxury of reading in the shade, sir," Donyoku replied, dropping the sack with a thud.
Chisiki smirked.
"And not everyone volunteers to help old man Tamezo with his rotting crops."
"Not everyone, no. Just heroes—or idiots."
They both laughed.
In that corner of the world, where hope seemed dried out, laughter was a form of resistance.
They knew the Kingdom of Hokori wasn't built to protect them. While nobles toasted with golden goblets, they drank murky water and bled for stale bread. But at least, they had each other.
"Any news from the kingdom?" Donyoku asked, sitting beside his friend.
Chisiki closed the book slowly. His expression darkened.
"They executed a mother and her daughter in the western district. Accused them of stealing bread."
"Bread?"
"A crust, really. It wasn't even whole. Someone threw it on the ground… and that was enough."
Donyoku clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
"This kingdom is sick. We can't keep swallowing this rot."
"I know."
"We're going to change it, Chisiki. I don't know how… but one day we'll be up there. We'll bring justice."
"We will," Chisiki said. "Not like them. We'll build something new. Something worthy."
Their eyes met like two swords sealing a vow.
The sky stretched above them, vast as their dreams—but just as indifferent as the kingdom that crushed them.
---
That afternoon, commotion near the communal well pulled them out of their quiet.
"What's going on?" Donyoku shouted, pushing through the crowd.
A royal guard was mercilessly beating a young man who could barely stand. His face was soaked in blood, and an old woman cried on her knees.
"He's my grandson! He just tried to fill the jug before his turn!"
The soldier spat.
"Insolent peasants! Even the water belongs to the kingdom!"
"Stop!" Chisiki shouted, stepping forward.
The guard turned, smirking.
"And what are you? Another worm with fancy words?"
"I'm someone who's not afraid anymore."
The soldier raised his baton—but Donyoku was already there, grabbing his arm. His eyes burned like live coals.
"Raise your hand again… and you'll lose it."
The air tensed. Another guard approached and whispered in the first one's ear:
"Leave it. That kid… they say he's Yukishima blood. We don't want trouble."
The soldier scoffed and walked away.
The crowd didn't cheer. But in their eyes, a spark of hope flickered for the first time.
---
That night, on the hill overlooking the village, Donyoku lay in the dry grass, watching the stars.
"Do you think we can actually change anything?"
"If we don't try, no one will," Chisiki replied.
"I want a world where a mother doesn't die for stale bread. Where children don't cry from hunger."
"Then we'll build it."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
And beneath that vast sky, the first seed of rebellion was planted. One that would turn them into heroes.
Or monsters.
---
At dawn, the air in Tsuyoi smelled of iron, dirt, and fear.
Donyoku awoke to hurried footsteps outside his hut. The roof creaked with the wind, and light cut through the cracks like thin blades. He peeked out.
"What's happening?" he asked a neighbor.
"They're coming from the capital! A royal squad!"
Donyoku's heart sank.
---
In the plaza, soldiers in black armor marked with the chained falcon emblem formed a wall. Atop a dark horse, a man commanded silence with presence alone.
Kenshiro Gai. The King of War.
He dismounted with brutal grace. His gaze was soul-dead ice. Every step he took felt like a sentence.
"By royal decree," he said, "this village has been chosen for the Shinkon Evaluation."
A silence crueler than any scream.
The Shinkon. The True Soul. Only a few ever awakened that spark. And when they did… the kingdom turned them into weapons.
The soldiers began separating the youth.
"Not my daughter!" a woman cried.
"Let her go!" Donyoku shouted. But Chisiki held him back.
"If you do anything now, they'll kill you!"
In the open field, those selected stood before a black stone. Its polished surface looked like it held an abyss, and its core pulsed like a stopped heart.
"Touch it. If you have a soul, it will respond."
Some caused nothing. Others, just a flicker. A twelve-year-old girl made the stone burn blue.
"Take her."
Her mother screamed. A fist silenced her.
Donyoku couldn't take it.
"ENOUGH!!" he roared, charging forward. A soldier raised his spear, but the moment he touched Donyoku, a dark red energy burst from the boy and flung him to the ground.
The stone trembled. It didn't glow—it darkened, as if even light fled from it.
Kenshiro eyed him with interest.
"Interesting. You're not one of them… but not entirely human either."
"What… what did you say?"
"Leave him," he ordered. "Sometimes, the deadliest poison is born in the most forgotten corners."
---
That night, by the fire, the friends sat in silence.
"What did that man mean?" Donyoku asked.
"I don't know… but we'll find out."
"I want to be strong, Chisiki. Strong enough to protect everyone. Even if… I'm not like the others."
"Then you will be. Even if you're like no one else."
And in the firelight, they sealed their fate.
A promise made of rage, tenderness… and something they didn't yet know how to name.
That same night – on the western hillside of Tsuyoi, near the forest
The crunch of dry branches under heavy boots was the first thing they heard.
Donyoku and Chisiki, still sitting by the dying fire, turned at the same time. A figure was approaching with steady steps, cloaked in a long mantle that dragged dust and leaves behind it. His face was lined with wrinkles like cracks of time, and his gray hair hung down to his shoulders. His gaze held a calm that didn't come from peace, but from the habit of surviving chaos.
"Who—?" Donyoku started, rising to his feet.
But Chisiki already knew. It took him a second, as if his mind couldn't match the man to the memory.
"Reiji... Mikazuki?"
The man nodded with a slight tilt of his head.
"Hello, Chisiki. Time has changed you... but your eyes are still your father's."
The name struck like a cold wind. Chisiki looked down, as if the fire's heat had suddenly scorched his soul.
"I thought you were dead."
"Sometimes, I was," Reiji replied with a tired smile. "But duty has a way of dragging us back from the brink."
"Why are you here?" Donyoku asked, his voice guarded.
Reiji slowly sat by the fire, each movement deliberate, almost ceremonial.
"Because if I didn't come... others would. And not all of them want your power to grow without corruption."
"You're talking about the Shinkon?" Chisiki narrowed his eyes.
"Exactly. The Shinkon is a reflection... but it's also a trap. The more you awaken it, the easier it becomes for the soul to shatter—or worse, to forget why it ever wanted to awaken."
Donyoku clenched his fists. The memory of the guard flying through the air still pulsed in his bones.
"And what do you know about that?"
"Enough." Reiji turned his gaze to the stars. "Your father and I... we made mistakes. We were part of something bigger than ourselves, and in the process, we lost pieces of who we were. I won't let you repeat that."
Chisiki looked up. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Were you with him... at the end?"
"No," Reiji said honestly. "I didn't have the courage. But I swore that if you lived, I'd help you find your path... without walking into the same ruin we did."
The silence grew thick. Even the wind seemed unsure whether to blow.
"Then what do you want from us?" Donyoku asked.
Reiji looked at him with unwavering eyes. There was no judgment—only resolve.
"I want to guide you. Not for me, not for your past... but because the Kingdom is changing. And soon, pain won't be the exception—it'll be the rule. If you're not ready... the Shinkon will consume you."
"And if we don't want to follow you?" Donyoku asked, the fire still in his voice.
"Then I'll watch you fall. Like I've watched so many others. But if you do choose to follow me, I won't promise glory... only truth. And maybe a little freedom."
Chisiki met his eyes. He understood. No more words were needed.
"We accept," he said, speaking for both of them.
Donyoku nodded, still hesitant—but not in denial.
Reiji slowly stood, extending his hand toward the fire. A small flame rose on its own, floating like a golden firefly. Then it split in two.
"Your souls are different. But if you can remain true... the world may witness something it hasn't seen in centuries."
The two boys watched the flames. They didn't burn—but they illuminated.
"And if we can't resist?" Chisiki asked.
Reiji didn't answer right away. Then he said:
"Then you'll destroy everything. Even yourselves."
And the night closed in around them, heavy with promise—and warning.