(Two Years Ago)
The village was small and poor, tucked away in the shadow of the Black Fang Kingdom's border. Renji's family had little, yet somehow they always managed to share what they had.
Renji sat cross-legged on the floor of their hut, carving a wooden sword with a dull knife. His little sister, Mio, clutched the half-broken doll he had made for her weeks earlier, watching with wide, curious eyes.
Mio pouted.
"It doesn't even look like a sword."
Renji grinned, teasing.
"Of course it does. You're just blind."
Their mother chuckled from the cooking fire, stirring a thin stew. There was more water than meat in the pot, yet she hummed as if it were a feast.
"As long as you don't poke out your sister's eye, I'll allow your sword-making," she said warmly.
Renji rolled his eyes, though he secretly loved when she teased him.
Their father entered soon after, shoulders heavy from a day in the fields. His hands were cracked, his nails dirty, but he carried himself with quiet pride. He ruffled Renji's hair before sitting down with a weary sigh.
"Wooden swords, eh? Better than the real ones," his father murmured.
Renji frowned but said nothing. He wanted to be strong—strong enough to protect them. His grip tightened around the knife, carving with exaggerated focus. Shavings of wood scattered across the floor. Mio picked one up and waved it like a weapon.
"Take that! I'll defeat you!" she giggled.
"You'll need more than a broken stick to beat me, little fool." Renji laughed, pretending to parry her strike.
Outside, the wind rustled through straw roofs, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and kitchen smoke. The village may have been poor, but it was alive—children ran barefoot, dogs barked, and neighbors called greetings across narrow dirt paths.
Renji paused to look around their small hut. Despite the meager meal and tattered walls, there was warmth here. Laughter echoed like a shield against the outside world.
"Eat something before it gets cold," his mother said gently.
"I will. Just a few more cuts."
His father chuckled. "Careful, boy. Strength isn't just in the arms—it's in the mind too."
Renji nodded solemnly, not yet understanding the weight of those words. One day, he would. For now, their little hut brimmed with ordinary joy: the smell of stew, the scrape of wood against knife, the laughter of Mio, and the quiet pride of parents content with what they had.
The Next Morning
The first light of dawn spilled gold over the rooftops. Renji stirred beneath his thin blanket, nudging Mio awake.
"Mio, come on. The sunrise."
She yawned. "Already morning? I wasn't ready to leave dreamland."
Renji laughed. "You've got to see it. It's the best part of the day."
Together they stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The village stirred slowly—smoke curling from chimneys, roosters crowing, neighbors greeting one another.
Renji sprinted ahead, chasing the wind through open fields. Mio's laughter followed him.
"Wait for me, Renji!"
In the square, merchants set up their stalls. A potter worked his wheel, and a baker pulled steaming loaves from the oven. The warm, yeasty scent made Renji's stomach growl.
"Smells amazing…" he muttered.
"I'm starving," Mio groaned dramatically.
The baker, an older woman dusted in flour, noticed them staring. She smiled, tearing a loaf in half.
"You two are up early. Hungry, aren't you?"
Renji straightened, embarrassed. "N-no, we were just… looking."
Mio's wide eyes betrayed her.
The woman chuckled, handing each of them a piece. "Here. For the two fastest children in the village."
"Really? Thank you!" Mio beamed.
Renji bowed politely, just as his father had taught him. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll pay you back one day."
The baker laughed softly. "Then promise me you'll grow strong and protect this village. That's worth more than coin."
Renji clutched the bread. "I promise."
They sat by the fountain, eating as the square came alive around them.
That Evening
Smoke curled from hut chimneys, painting the twilight sky. Renji's father entered their home with weary shoulders. His mother stirred a bubbling pot of rice and herbs over the fire.
Renji sat by the doorway, clutching his wooden sword as if it were real steel. His eyes flickered with impatience.
"Mom, I'm going to training class after dinner!" he blurted.
His mother looked up sharply. "Eat first, Renji. Don't you dare run off on an empty stomach."
"I won't! I'm strong enough already."
His father chuckled, lowering himself against the wall. "Strong, huh? Then finish your bowl without leaving a grain. A warrior never wastes food."
Mio tugged at Renji's sleeve, giggling. "Bet you can't finish faster than me."
"Fine," Renji shot back, half-playful, half-annoyed. "But don't cry when I win."
Their mother shook her head but smiled faintly. She set down steaming bowls. "Eat well, Renji. And if you must go, be careful. The border grows darker at night."
Renji hesitated. His hand gripped the wooden sword tighter. "…I will. I'll be back before the stars are gone."
They ate together, the crackling fire their only light.
The Night of Flames
The moon hung pale as Renji jogged toward the training hall. His mother's words still echoed—Be careful.
The hall was little more than a thatched hut, its posts worn from years of use. Inside, children practiced under Master Daichi's stern eye.
"Late again, Renji," the old warrior said. "Wooden swords don't sharpen themselves."
Renji grinned sheepishly, dropping into his stance. The hall filled with the sound of wood striking wood.
Until the door slammed open.
A bloodied youth stumbled inside, his face ashen.
"The enemy… the enemy's here! Our village—it's burning!"
The hall froze.
Master Daichi's jaw clenched. "Everyone, stay here! Do not leave this hall—"
But Renji was already running.
His heart thundered as he climbed the hill. It's not true. It can't be true.
Then he saw it.
The village was already drowning in flames. Smoke blotted out the stars. Screams cut the air. Bodies lay strewn across the paths—neighbors, friends, faces he had seen that very morning.
Renji stumbled forward. "Mom… Dad… Mio!"
He reached his home—what remained of it. Only a skeleton of charred wood.
In the ashes, a scrap of cloth. Half-burned. The faded ribbon Mio tied around her doll.
Renji froze, chest heaving. His trembling hands lifted it.
"Mio… no… no, no, no!"
He fell to his knees, clutching the ribbon to his chest as the inferno roared around him. He clawed through wreckage with bare hands, ignoring burns and splinters.
"Mom! Dad! Mio! Please!"
But there was only silence.
At last, he pulled aside a beam. Beneath lay three burned figures, huddled together—his mother's arms wrapped around Mio, his father shielding them both even in death.
Renji collapsed beside them, tears streaming down his face. "No… please… no…"
His breaths came ragged. His body shook, not from cold, but from emptiness. He sat frozen, staring upward as if the heavens themselves had stolen his family.
By dawn, the fire had faded. The village was nothing but ruins and silence. Ash drifted like snow.
Renji remained in the center of it all, motionless.
Footsteps approached. Slow, uneven.
An old man limped into view, clothes torn, face smeared with soot. His weary eyes scanned the ruins before landing on the boy.
"…A survivor," he whispered.
He approached carefully, as though afraid the boy might shatter further if touched.
Renji didn't move. He didn't even blink. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest proved he was still alive.
The old man lowered himself slowly beside him, the weight of his grief pressing into his bones. He didn't speak further. For now, silence was the only comfort he could offer.
He approached carefully, as though afraid the boy might shatter further if touched.
Together, they sat in the ruins of a village that no longer existed—one broken boy, and one weary survivor, both carrying scars that would never truly fade.