The sky was pale when Haruto opened his swollen eyes.
His cheeks were stiff with dried tears, his throat raw from screaming through the night. Yet he did not move. His arms were still wrapped tightly around his parents' bodies, their warmth long gone.
The battlefield was silent. The once-roaring flames of his father had dwindled to faint embers drifting in the air, carried by the morning wind. The earth was cracked and blackened, scarred by the battle that had raged here. Blood had seeped into the soil, staining it a dark, sickly brown.
Haruto buried his face into his father's chest, inhaling the faint scent of ash and sweat, pretending for just a moment that he was still alive.
"Please… wake up… please…" His voice trembled, almost soundless.
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed up the mountain path. Branches snapped, voices murmured anxiously. Then they came—the villagers.
Men, women, and children pushed through the trees, having followed the sounds of battle through the night. But as they entered the clearing, every step faltered.
The sight before them stole the air from their lungs.
Renga Kagutsuchi, the Flame of the Village, lay bloodied and broken, his arms wrapped protectively around his wife. And before them both knelt their only son, trembling, clinging, sobbing into their lifeless bodies.
The silence shattered with gasps and cries.
"No… it can't be…"
"Renga-sama…!"
"Akane too… oh merciful gods…"
Some fell to their knees instantly, hands pressed together in desperate prayer. Others stood frozen, staring in disbelief.
An elderly woman covered her mouth, tears spilling down her wrinkled cheeks. "He… he defeated it, didn't he? That monster who did this… was gone?"
A man with a scarred arm answered in a broken voice, "Aye… no demon could still stand after this. Look at the ground… he burned it to nothing. Renga-sama saved us again… but at the cost of his life."
The words spread among the villagers, heavy as stone.
"Renga-sama is dead…"
"The strongest among us…"
"What will happen to us now?"
Renga had protected them for decades. His name was spoken with reverence, his presence a shield that kept their children safe at night. To see him fallen—it broke them.
Yet even in sorrow, respect burned brighter.
At the back of the crowd, a tall figure stepped forward. The village chief—an old man with white hair tied in a knot, his face lined with decades of hardship. He leaned heavily on his wooden staff, but his voice, though hoarse, carried strength.
"Enough." His single word silenced the crowd. The chief's eyes, though wet, were steady as they gazed upon Renga's fallen body. "Do not let despair dishonor his sacrifice. He fought for us all. He gave everything so that we could see this dawn."
The villagers bowed their heads, some biting back sobs, others clutching their children closer.
The chief slowly approached Haruto. The boy was trembling violently, his small fingers digging into his father's tattered haori as though he could never let go. His eyes were wide, red and swollen, yet empty.
"Haruto…" the chief said softly, crouching beside him. His wrinkled hand rested gently on the boy's shoulder. "Child… they are gone."
"No!" Haruto's voice broke into a scream. "They're not gone! They can't be! Please, Chief… please help them!" His hands shook his mother's arm desperately. "Wake up, Mother! Father—get up! You're strong, you can't… you can't leave me!"
The villagers turned away, their hearts breaking at the sight. Mothers clutched their own children tighter, tears streaming freely.
The chief's eyes glistened, but he did not look away. "Haruto… your father and mother loved you more than their own lives. You must honor them by living on. Do not let their fire die here."
But the boy could only shake his head, screaming and sobbing, his cries echoing through the trees.
The chief rose slowly, his voice carrying over the silence. "Prepare the pyre. A flame such as his deserves to return to the sky."
At his command, the villagers moved. Wood was gathered from the forest, carefully arranged in the clearing where the battle had ended. Some wept openly as they worked, others remained silent, their grief carved into their faces. Haruto watched numbly as his parents were lifted—handled not as corpses, but as sacred treasures—and placed upon the pyre.
The boy refused to let go until the last possible moment. His fingers clung to his mother's sleeve, his knuckles white. When a villager tried to guide him back, he shook his head violently, tears falling.
"Don't take them from me… please…"
The chief placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Child… they will never leave you. Their fire lives within you. But now… we must give their bodies to the flame."
Haruto's small body trembled. Slowly, he released his grip, his sobs breaking the still morning.
The pyre was lit.
Flames rose, gentle at first, then roaring higher as the wood caught. The fire consumed swiftly, yet with a strange beauty—embers lifted into the dawn like tiny stars, scattering into the sky. The villagers bowed low, murmuring prayers of gratitude. Some whispered Renga's name as though afraid it might vanish from the world.
The chief stood before the gathered villagers, his voice steady though his hands trembled.
"Renga Kagutsuchi, Flame of Humanity—your fire has shielded us for decades. Even in death, you showed us that no darkness can consume a soul that burns for love. Akane, the kind soul, who stood beside him through every trial—you too gave everything for your son and your people. Today, we return both of you to the heavens. May your spirits watch over us."
When the fire died down, silence lingered. Only ashes remained.
But not all had turned to dust.
Amid the grey, Renga's flame-scarred katana jutted from the ash, its steel cracked and blackened but still warm. Beside it, a singed ribbon—the one Akane had always worn in her hair—fluttered faintly in the wind.
The chief stepped forward, lifting both with reverence. He turned to Haruto, placing them carefully in his hands.
"These are not relics of sorrow," the old man said, his voice steady despite the tears on his cheeks. "They are symbols of love and courage. They shall rest in the shrine, so that none may forget."
Together, the villagers ascended the stone steps to the mountain shrine. It had stood for centuries, weathered but enduring, built to honor guardians of the valley. At its center was an altar of carved stone.
Upon it, Renga's katana was laid to rest. Around its hilt, Akane's ribbon was tied in a simple knot, fluttering like a flame in the morning breeze.
The chief raised his staff high. "Here rests the Kagutsuchi flame—protector of this valley, shield of humanity. May their fire guide us for all eternity."
The villagers bowed deeply. Some pressed their foreheads to the ground. Tears streaked faces hardened by years of hardship.
Haruto stood before the altar, his small hands trembling as they hovered over the cracked steel. His reflection, faint and broken, shone back at him in the blade.
Beside him, the chief spoke quietly so only he could hear.
"Your father's strength now lives in you. Do not let sorrow chain you, Haruto. The Kagutsuchi flame must burn on."
"I'll carry it," he whispered, his voice weak but determined. "My father's flame… it won't die here."
And in his eyes, the villagers saw it—the spark of his father's fire.
A spark that refused to die.
The villagers dispersed slowly after the enshrinement, leaving offerings of flowers and incense at the shrine. One by one, their footsteps faded down the mountain path until the clearing was quiet again.
Only Haruto remained.
He stood frozen before the altar, his fingers still pressed against the cracked hilt of his father's katana. The warmth of the steel had long since faded, but he could almost feel his father's grip lingering there, steady and unshakable. His chest ached with a hollow weight he couldn't name.
When at last he pulled his hand away, his reflection wavered in the dull steel. For the first time, he saw himself alone.
The boy descended the mountain in silence. His small house waited in the valley below, unchanged, untouched by the chaos of the night before. Yet when he slid the door open, the emptiness pressed against him like a suffocating fog.
The hearth was cold. His mother's hair ribbon was no longer resting on the wooden counter. His father's sandals no longer stood at the door. The silence of the home was not peace—it was absence.
Haruto sank onto the floorboards, burying his face in his knees. He wanted to scream, but the sound stuck in his throat. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere left to go.
That night, sleep never came.
He lay on his futon, staring at the ceiling, hearing his father's voice echo faintly in memory: "Straighten your back. Grip with purpose. Each swing carries the weight of your will."
Tears welled up again. He clenched his fists. "I'll… I'll keep going. I have to…"
The next morning, Haruto returned to the forest.
It was the same place where Renga had always trained him—the clearing surrounded by towering cedars, the air thick with earth and pine. Wooden training posts stood where they always had, scarred and battered from years of relentless practice. Simple rope snares and weighted traps, set long ago by Renga, still waited among the trees, half-hidden in the underbrush.
It should have felt familiar. But without his father's steady presence, the clearing felt alien—like a stage missing its master.
Haruto stood there for a long time, the breeze whispering through the leaves. Then, with trembling hands, he picked up his practice sword. His real katana, the one Renga had given him, was tied carefully across his back.
"Thousand swings…" he whispered, echoing his father's morning ritual. "Always… a thousand."
He raised the wooden blade and brought it down. The strike echoed through the forest.
One.
Again.
Two.
Again.
By the time he reached fifty, sweat dripped from his brow. At two hundred, his arms trembled. At four hundred, his shoulders burned. He bit his lip until it bled, his mind filled with the memory of his father's voice correcting his stance.
"Straighten your wrist."
"Breathe with the strike."
"Flame is will made motion."
But when he turned to look for his father's approving nod, there was nothing. Only empty air.
Haruto choked back a sob and raised the blade again.
When the thousandth strike fell, he collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, tears dripping into the soil.
"Father… I did it…" His voice cracked. "But it doesn't matter without you here…"
The forest gave no answer.
Days blurred into nights, and nights back into days.
Haruto rose with the dawn and trained until his body gave out. He practiced sword swings until his hands blistered and bled. He ran through the woods, dodging the traps his father had once set, tumbling, stumbling, rising again. Sometimes he triggered them deliberately, forcing himself to endure the strikes and bruises, whispering through clenched teeth, "Pain makes you stronger."
At night, he sat alone by the cold hearth. He would place his mother's ribbon on the table and his father's broken sandals beside it, speaking to them as though they could still hear.
"Today… I managed two hundred swings before falling. Tomorrow, I'll do more."
"Father, I fought the training dummy until my sword cracked. Mother, I didn't cry that time."
But sometimes—when the silence grew too heavy—he wept into the fabric, clutching it to his chest.
After speaking into the silence of the empty house, Haruto lay down beside the cold hearth. His mother's ribbon rested near his cheek, and his father's sandals stood in the corner where he had placed them.
The boy stared into the darkness, his chest heavy and tight.
"What's the point…" he whispered, his voice raw. "Even if I swing a thousand times… even if I train every day… they won't come back."
His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. The ache in his body from the day's training was nothing compared to the gnawing emptiness inside.
For the first time since the burial, the thought slipped unbidden into his mind—What if I just stopped?
Stopped training.
Stopped fighting.
Stopped living.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking into the futon. He pressed his hands against his ears, as if to block out the echoes of his father's voice in memory, the warmth of his mother's laughter.
"I can't… I can't do this alone…" His voice broke, swallowed by the silence. "I'm not strong like you, Father… I'm not gentle like you, Mother…"
The boy curled in on himself, trembling, his small frame shaking with sobs. Hours passed this way, until exhaustion dragged him into a restless sleep.
And in that sleep, the dreams came.
He saw the flames of that night again—his father standing tall, his mother in his arms. He reached out to them, but they faded into ash, leaving him alone in the burning field.
Haruto woke with a cry, drenched in sweat, clutching the katana by his side as though it were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
The first light of dawn crept through the shutters, painting the floorboards in pale gold. His eyes, red and swollen, drifted to the ribbon and sandals once more.
"…I have to…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "If I give up… then everything they fought for means nothing."
He staggered to his feet, body trembling, and walked toward the forest again.
Weeks passed.
The villagers brought food now and then, urging him to rest, but Haruto always refused. His body grew leaner, tougher, his strikes sharper. But his heart carried the weight of grief like a shadow chained to his soul.
One evening, as twilight bled across the treetops, Haruto stood in the clearing with his real katana in hand. His arms trembled, not from weakness, but from the memory of the night he had last drawn it.
He closed his eyes. In the darkness, he saw his father's final stand, the flames erupting in a phoenix's wings. He saw his mother's smile, soft and unyielding even as her life slipped away.
He raised the blade. His breath steadied.
"Father… Mother… watch me."
The katana swept down, fire sparking faintly across the steel.
And though the flames ignite, the spark was real.
To be continued.....