The mountain air was cold that morning, the kind of chill that clung to skin and settled deep in the bones. Mist rolled across the forest floor, weaving between the roots and rocks like restless spirits. And there—at the heart of the trees—Haruto swung his sword.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each strike carved the air with a hiss, his breath measured, deliberate. His hands were raw, callouses split open and bleeding. The wooden post he struck was already blackened from countless blows, its bark stripped away, its core scorched. Yet he did not stop.
One thousand swings… no. Two.
His father's voice still lived in his memory, guiding him in the silence.
"Steel without spirit is useless. Let the fire flow from your breath, through your muscles, into the blade."
Haruto exhaled sharply, flames licking the edge of his practice strike. For a moment, it looked as though the sword itself carried his father's will. But when the flame faded, only his trembling arms remained.
He fell to his knees, gasping. His chest burned, his vision swam. And in the quiet, when his strength broke, the grief came creeping back.
"Father… Mother…" he whispered into the cold air. His voice cracked, barely audible. "Am I doing it right? Am I really becoming someone who can protect others… or am I just… swinging at shadows?"
The silence offered no answer. Only the faint rustle of leaves. Haruto lowered his head, shoulders trembling, tears spilling silently onto the soil.
A voice called from beyond the trees.
"Haruto!"
He blinked, quickly wiping his face with his sleeve. Emerging from the mist were two children from the village—little Sora and Mio, both carrying a small basket of food. They were too young to understand grief in its full weight, yet their innocent smiles pierced through his darkness.
"Your training looks amazing!" Sora said, his eyes wide with awe. "You're already stronger than anyone in the village!"
Haruto forced a faint smile. "Not yet."
"Yes, you are!" Mio protested, puffing her cheeks. "My papa says your father was a hero… and that you will be one too. You just have to keep swinging that sword."
The words struck him harder than any demon's blow. A lump rose in his throat, but he nodded, reaching to pat Mio gently on the head.
"…Thank you."
They handed him the basket—warm rice, boiled vegetables, and miso broth. Haruto's hands trembled as he accepted it. He wanted to tell them he didn't deserve it, that their kindness was wasted on someone who still stumbled, still failed. But instead, he bowed.
Later that day, as he returned to the village carrying firewood, he found himself surrounded by familiar faces. The villagers had always treated him with a kind of cautious distance, pity hidden behind polite smiles. But now… there was something different.
The blacksmith wiped sweat from his brow and called out:
"Haruto! Your father used to chop wood like that every morning. Seeing you… it feels like he's still here."
An old woman shuffled forward, her wrinkled hands offering a pouch of rice cakes. "You must eat well, boy. A flame cannot burn if the fuel runs out."
Their words carried warmth—painful, but real. For the first time in a long while, Haruto didn't feel like a ghost walking through the ashes of his past.
And then came the village chief, an elder whose back was bent but whose eyes were sharp. He stood before Haruto, his voice steady.
"Your father was the shield of this village," he said. "We all owe our lives to him. You, Haruto… are his legacy. But you are not just his shadow. You are his flame."
The chief rested a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding. "One day, you will blaze brighter than him. Remember that."
Haruto bowed deeply, his throat too tight to answer. But in his chest, something stirred. A flicker. A spark that refused to go out.
That night, Haruto sat at the graves of his parents, the food basket emptied beside him. The stars stretched endlessly above, cold and watchful.
"I… trained harder today," he whispered, resting his hand on the gravestone. "The villagers gave me food. The children… they believe in me. They said… they said I'll be a hero."
His voice broke, and he closed his eyes. "But I'm still scared. I don't know if I can be who you wanted me to be. But I'll try. I'll keep trying, no matter how much it hurts. I swear it."
The night wind stirred, carrying the faint scent of ash and flowers. Haruto lifted his head. His eyes were red from tears, but in their depths, a fire burned steady.
The fire of someone who would not give up.
When he is returning to his home, he sense something. Bloodlust even if it's slightly but he feels it.
The usual chorus of crickets and owls had fallen silent, smothered by something. Haruto gripped his sword tightly, his knuckles white, as he stepped deeper into the valley. Other side of the village, the torchlight in his hand flickering violently as though afraid to stay lit.
The mist that always hung at the mountain's edge now clung to his ankles, thick and swirling, as though the forest itself tried to drag him back. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
His father's words echoed inside him:
"Fear is natural. What matters is what you do after."
A branch snapped behind him. He spun, blade half-drawn—only to find nothing. His heart pounded. Sweat trickled down his temple despite the chill.
And then—he smelled it.
Metallic. Heavy. Choking.
Blood.
His chest tightened. His legs wanted to turn back, to run toward the safety of the village. But something stronger pushed him forward. His father's voice, buried deep in his memory:
"Haruto, when you feel fear… breathe. One breath at a time. Fire needs air to live."
He steadied himself.
One step. Then another and then he rushed towards the smell of blood.
The trees opened into a clearing.
And there it was.
A man's body lay broken against the rocks, his chest torn open. He wasn't from this village. Looking like a merchant. Over him crouched a creature, its hunched back rippling with sinewy muscle, its skin stretched thin and gray like rotting parchment. Its face was long, jaws too wide for its head, packed with serrated teeth that tore into flesh with wet crunches. Blood dripped from its chin as it fed, steaming in the night air.
Haruto's torch sputtered. His stomach churned. Every instinct screamed at him to turn and flee.
But the demon lifted its head.
Its eyes—two pits of glowing crimson—snapped onto him. Its tongue slid over its teeth with a wet hiss. "Another… fresh one…"
The world blurred. The torch slipped from Haruto's hand and fell into the dirt. But before it could die out, Haruto had already drawn his katana. His arms trembled, his breath shallow, but he forced the blade forward.
The demon moved first—bounding across the clearing with terrifying speed. Its claws flashed, tearing at the ground where Haruto had stood an instant before. Dirt and rock exploded upward.
Haruto rolled, his blade instinctively slashing outward. The steel kissed flesh. A shallow line burned across the demon's arm, sparks of flame flickering from the strike.
The creature shrieked, its body recoiling at the touch of fire. Its grin twisted, wide and hateful. "Good..... Brat. I'll enjoy breaking you."
Haruto's knuckles whitened on his grip. His body wanted to freeze, but training took over. He inhaled sharply.
The demon rushed towards him. The air split with its speed. Haruto barely managed to block as claws slammed into his blade, the force rattling through his bones. He staggered back, boots dragging grooves in the soil.
The demon grinned. "Weak."
Haruto roared, swinging again and again, flame sparking faintly with each strike. But the demon's claws were faster, sharper, deflecting every blow. His arms shook, his body crying out with the effort.
And yet—he refused to back down.
He remembered Mio's words. "You'll be a hero too!"
He remembered the chief's hand on his shoulder. "You are his flame."
His grip steadied. His breath deepened.
The fire stirred.
Steel clashed with claw—clang after clang. Sparks rained as Haruto staggered back under the relentless assault. Each impact rattled his bones. The ground tore open under the demon's weight, soil and stone spraying into the night.
Haruto's arms screamed, his breath ragged. The flame on his sword flickered weaker.
I can't stop now… if I run, more will die. Father… Mother… lend me your strength!
He slid low, dodging another swipe.
"Flame Arts — First Technique : Scarlet Slash."
With a roar. He slashed downward. The katana flared, fire roaring brighter—cutting across the demon's chest in a blazing line.
The monster howled, staggering, black blood hissing as it hit the dirt.
Haruto dropped to one knee, panting, chest heaving. His vision blurred, but his hands didn't release the sword. For the first time—he had stood against this demon, not as prey, but as a warrior.
The demon lunged once more, claws raised high. This time, Haruto exhaled, turning his whole body into the swing. His blade curved in a burning arc, fire swirling around him like a rising storm.
"Flame Arts — Third Technique: Flame Cyclone!"
The vortex erupted, flames spiraling outward in a blazing circle. The demon shrieked as the fire bit into its flesh, searing its arm, driving it back. The shockwave tore through the forest, scattering embers and ash into the night air.
Haruto dropped to one knee, panting, but his eyes blazed with fierce light.
The demon clutched its scorched arm, snarling. "Impossible… You—are just a boy!"
Haruto rose, his blade trembling but steady in his hands. He stepped forward, every inch of his body screaming in pain, but his heart steady.
"I'm the son of Renga Kagutsuchi and Akane Kagutsuchi," he said, voice breaking but firm. "And I will not let your darkness take anyone else."
The demon's grin faltered. For the first time, it looked at him not as prey… but as a threat.
The demon lunged, shadows tearing through the earth in its wake. Haruto sidestepped, his blade flashing in a fiery arc.
"Flame Arts — Third Technique: Flame Cyclone!"
His body spun, katana whirling with a blazing vortex. Fire surged outward, a storm of crimson flame forcing the demon back. Its skin blistered, its howl split the valley.
But Haruto staggered. The cyclone faded. His strength was waning fast. The demon sneered, charging again.
"Too weak!" it screeched, claws raised to tear him apart.
Haruto planted his feet, heart pounding. No… not weak. Not anymore. His flames flared, not wide and wild like before, but drawn in tight—compressed, focused. The fire coiled along his blade, spiraling like a burning drill. The ground cracked beneath him as his stance lowered.
He exhaled.
His eyes sharpened.
For the first time—his spirit and fire moved as one.
"Flame Arts…" His voice trembled, then roared.
"Fourth Technique — Blazing Spiral Slash!"
He dashed forward with explosive speed. The air shattered around him, a comet streaking across the battlefield. The spiraling flames wrapped his blade in molten fury, a concentrated inferno that pierced the night.
The demon's claws descended—too slow.
Haruto's strike drilled through its guard, flames screeching as they cut upward in a spiral arc. The katana carved clean through its neck. For a heartbeat, the world froze. Then—
The demon's head spun away, its body collapsing into ash. Its final shriek was devoured by the blaze.
Silence fell.
Haruto stumbled, his katana slipping from his hand as he dropped to his knees. His chest heaved, every muscle screaming in exhaustion. The fire around him flickered, then faded into drifting embers.
For a moment, he thought he might collapse beside the ashes.
But then—he laughed. Weak, breathless, yet filled with triumph.
"I… I did it." His fists clenched, trembling but raised high toward the sky. Tears streamed down his soot-streaked face as he cried out, voice echoing through the valley.
"Father… Mother… I did it! I defeated this demon—alone!"
He fell back onto the scorched earth, staring up at the rising moon, a tired smile breaking across his face. The flames of despair that had haunted him were gone—replaced by the first sparks of something greater.
His fist fell. His body grew heavy, his eyelids like stone. Consciousness slipped.
And in that haze—he thought he saw them.
Akane, standing with her warm smile. Renga, arms folded, his eyes proud and fiery as ever. Both of them watching him, like flames that would never fade.
"Father… Mother…"
His vision dimmed further. But just before the darkness claimed him, another sight appeared—
The silhouette of the village chief, rushing to him, his old face lit by a rare, gentle smile.
Then everything went black.
Morning
Haruto stirred. His body ached everywhere, wrapped tightly in fresh bandages. The air smelled faintly of herbs and wood. He blinked, realizing—this was not his home.
He sat up slowly, eyes widening as he looked around. The warm interior, the carved shelves, the faint incense burning—he was inside the village chief's house.
His gaze fell on the corner of the room. There, resting neatly, was his katana. Cleaned, polished, set with care.
Haruto's throat tightened. He reached for it, fingers wrapping around the familiar hilt. The moment he touched it, strength returned to his heart.
He stepped outside.
The morning sun bathed the village in soft gold. And waiting for him—were the villagers. Men, women, elders, children—faces bright with relief, admiration, and pride.
The moment they saw him, voices rose.
"Young Haruto!"
"He defeated the demon!"
"Just like his father!"
Children ran to him first, their eyes wide with excitement.
"You're amazing, Haruto!"
"You'll be a hero like Renga-sama!"
"You protected us!"
Haruto's breath caught. For the first time since his parents' death, he didn't feel only the weight of grief. He felt warmth—like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
The village chief approached, his steps slow but steady. His hand rested firmly on Haruto's shoulder. His voice was deep, yet kind.
"You carry your father's fire well, boy. And tonight… you showed us all that his legacy lives on. You are not alone in this fight."
Haruto's eyes burned, tears threatening again—but this time, they were not only of sorrow. He bowed deeply, gripping his katana tight.
"I swear… I'll keep protecting everyone. Until no darkness remains."
The villagers cheered, their voices rising like a chorus of hope. Children laughed, elders nodded, and for the first time—the grief-stricken boy stood not in despair, but in the light of a new beginning.
The warmth of their faith surrounded him.
The flame of his family… had truly become his own.
To be Continued....