Two Years Later
The seasons had turned twice since that night in the valley—the night Haruto first struck down a demon alone. The boy who collapsed in exhaustion beneath the stars was not the same as the young man who now walked through the village streets.
Seventeen now, Haruto stood taller, his frame honed by endless training. His hands bore calluses thick as armor, and thin scars traced across his arms where fire and steel had kissed him too harshly. Yet there was strength in those hands, not only from fighting, but from work—carrying stones for the masons, tilling fields for farmers, hauling lumber for the blacksmith.
The villagers often joked, "Haruto has become everyone's right hand." But behind the humor was gratitude.
Children ran up to him wherever he went, tugging at his sleeves, begging him to show them the "flame sword." Though he never summoned more than a faint flicker for their amusement, their cheers always warmed him. Once, their gazes had been filled with pity—now, with admiration.
The grief that once drowned him still lingered, like an ember in the ashes. But where once it consumed him, now it fueled him. His parents' absence no longer crushed him into silence—it pushed him forward.
In past two years. Haruto trained without pause.
In the blistering heat of summer, he practiced under the open sky until his body was slick with sweat and the earth beneath him burned with his flames. When fatigue threatened to break him, he remembered his father's words: "Fire does not ask the world for permission to burn—it simply does."
During the monsoon, when rain fell in sheets so heavy the world blurred into gray, he stood beneath the storm. His blade cut through the downpour, fire hissing and steaming but never dying. Villagers whispered that the valley itself glowed faintly red some nights, as though fire and rain were locked in eternal battle.
In winter, when the mountains froze and his breath turned to mist, Haruto trained barefoot in the snow. The cold gnawed at his bones, but each swing of the sword pulled heat from his spirit, flames burning brighter against the white. He carved paths of melted earth through the frost until his arms shook too violently to lift his blade.
And in spring, when blossoms returned, he trained among falling petals, his movements growing smoother, more refined—like flame itself had begun to dance through him.
No matter the season, his resolve did not falter.
Life wasn't only training.
Haruto grew closer to the villagers. He helped rebuild homes after storms, repaired fences torn down by wild beasts, and chopped firewood each morning for the elders.
"Your father used to do this too," an old woman often said, her voice trembling with both sorrow and joy.
When harvest came, he carried baskets heavy with rice, sweat streaming down his brow. The farmers laughed, clapping him on the back. "Renga's boy is worth three men!"
At festivals, though still shy, Haruto began to smile more. Children dragged him into games, and the laughter of the villagers wrapped around him like a blanket he once thought lost forever.
The grief was still there, always, but he was no longer alone in bearing it.
Present —The Chief's Summons
One evening, as crimson light painted the sky, the village chief summoned him.
The elder sat beneath the old cedar tree, his cane resting at his side. His back was more bent than before, yet his eyes—sharp and steady—studied Haruto with care.
"You've grown," the chief said at last. His voice carried both pride and gravity. "Your father would be proud."
Haruto bowed lightly, unsure. He doesn't often call me like this. Did I do something wrong?
The chief studied him in silence for a long moment. Then, instead of answering Haruto's unspoken worry, he asked,
"You've heard of the Demon Hunter Order, haven't you?"
Haruto's chest tightened. His fingers curled slightly at his side.
Of course… He remembered his mother's voice, soft but firm, the night she told him about his father's path.
He nodded slowly. "Yes. A little. Mother once told me… the Demon Hunter Order exists to fight demons. And… that Father was once among them."
The chief's expression darkened, but there was no surprise. He let the silence stretch, letting Haruto's words hang in the cold evening air. Then he spoke again.
"Then you also understand what that means. Those who join them… do not live easy lives. Most never return to their homes. But without them, the rest of us would already be ash beneath demon claws."
Haruto's throat tightened. He lowered his gaze.
Father walked that path. Mother knew it. They still chose to fight. They carried it until it cost them everything. Do I… have that same strength?
The elder's voice broke into his thoughts, firmer now.
"In one month's time, the Order will hold their entrance trials. I believe you should go, Haruto. You have your father's fire in you, but more than that—you've shown us your own will. If you continue training here, you'll only protect this village. But if you join them… you'll be protecting countless others."
Haruto's hands clenched into fists. He looked away toward the dark line of the forest. The weight of the chief's words pressed on him like stone.
The Order… to fight as Father did… To leave the village, the people who've become my family… Can I?
His heart thudded painfully. He thought of Sora and Mio, their innocent smiles when they brought him food. The blacksmith's rough encouragement. The old woman's rice cakes. The villagers who had once pitied him, now placing their quiet hopes upon his shoulders.
And then—his parents' graves. His mother's last smile. His father's blazing eyes.
Haruto exhaled slowly, steadying his breath the way he had learned. The fire within him stirred.
"…If this is the path to protect them… to carry their will… then I'll go."
The chief's stern face softened with rare warmth. His hand rested heavy but reassuring on Haruto's shoulder.
"Good. Then go with our blessing. Your flame is not only your father's—it is yours. And we will all stand behind it."
Haruto bowed deeply, though his thoughts still swirled with fear and determination alike.
The Order… the trials… This is no longer just about surviving. This is about becoming the shield Father once was. The flame Mother believed in. I can't fail.
News of the chief's words spread through the village like wind through dry grass. And everywhere Haruto went, voices rose.
The blacksmith clapped him on the back with arms like tree trunks. "If you go, you'll forge a legend hotter than your father's!"
The old woman pressed rice cakes into his hands, her eyes glistening. "Take these when you leave, boy. A flame cannot burn if it has no fuel."
The children—Sora, Mio, and others—surrounded him, their little hands tugging at his sleeves.
"Haruto-nii, you have to go!"
"You'll be the strongest!"
"You'll protect everyone!"
Haruto's chest tightened. He wanted to tell them he wasn't strong enough, that he still feared the darkness in the forests. But when he looked into their bright eyes, hope shining like morning sun, the words withered.
The villagers, who once pitied him, now believed in him. And belief was heavier than any blade.
On the night before his departure, Haruto climbed the hill where his parents rested. The stars stretched endlessly above, just as they had the night he buried them.
He knelt, placing fresh flowers at the graves. His voice trembled, but he spoke firmly.
"Father. Mother. Two years have passed. I trained like you would have wanted. I fought. I grew. I laughed again."
Tears pricked his eyes. "But tomorrow… I have to leave. The chief told me about the Order. About Father's past. About what it means to carry this flame."
His hand tightened around the hilt of his katana. "I don't know if I'm ready. But I'll try. I'll try until I burn out completely. Because your fire… is my fire now."
The wind stirred, carrying petals from the cherry trees nearby. For a heartbeat, Haruto imagined the warmth of Akane's hand, the firm weight of Renga's palm on his shoulder. He bowed low, forehead against the stone.
"I'll make you proud."
Before dawn, Haruto climbed the narrow path to the village shrine. The small building stood quiet, its wooden beams worn by time but lovingly maintained by villagers. Inside, on a raised dais, lay his father's katana—its sheath blackened from countless battles, a crimson ribbon tied carefully near the hilt. Akane's ribbon. His mother's touch.
Haruto approached with reverence, kneeling before the weapon. His reflection flickered faintly in the steel, blurred by tears.
"Father. Mother. I'll walk the path you both showed me. I'll carry it forward."
He lingered there, hand resting lightly on the ribbon—Mother's ribbon, a reminder of warmth and sacrifice—then withdrew. His own battered katana waited at his side, the one he had trained with for years.
Next day. The entire village gathered to see him off. Farmers, children, elders—faces lined with pride, sorrow, and hope.
The chief stood at the front, leaning on his cane. His voice carried across the crowd.
"Today, Haruto walks the path his father once walked. But he does not walk it alone. Our prayers, our hopes, our faith go with him. He is not only his father's flame. He is ours."
The villagers cheered, some weeping openly. Children waved, shouting his name. Haruto bowed deeply, his chest burning with emotions too vast for words.
As he straightened, he looked toward the horizon—the mountains that once seemed like walls now stood as a gateway. Beyond them lay the Order, the trials, the true battlefield against the darkness.
He tightened his grip on the katana. His parents' flame burned within him. The villagers' hopes surrounded him. His own resolve hardened like steel.
One step forward. Then another.
The path stretched into the unknown. But Haruto did not falter.
His journey—no, his war—had only just begun.
"As the sun rose, painting the sky in fire, Haruto Kagutsuchi stepped into the unknown. The boy was gone. In his place walked a flame that would one day set the world ablaze."
To Be Continued...