Our story begins in a small, humble house on a green hill overlooking the wide, blue sea.
In that quiet home lived a sixteen-year-old boy named Makama, and his elderly grandfather, Takushi.
Takushi was a man carved by time — steady, calm, and filled with a kind of wisdom that made even the wind seem to pause when he spoke. His eyes had seen far more than any ordinary person could imagine. That evening, he stood on the wooden porch, letting the sea breeze brush against his faded robe.
"Makama!" he called.
"Yeah, Grandpa!" Makama answered from inside, already halfway through tying the cloth around his waist.
"Head down to the harbor and pick up a few things from the market," Takushi said. "Don't forget the fish — and bring back some fresh carrots too."
Makama grinned.
"Got it! I'll be right back!"
He stepped outside, tightening the simple belt around his waist and adjusting the bandana he always wore on market trips. The moment he began descending the hill, a playful breeze followed him, carrying the familiar smell of saltwater and cooked rice.
Tenro's harbor was alive as always — stalls crowded with villagers, the scent of spices drifting in the air, and merchants shouting over each other to be heard.
"Cucumbers! Corn! Fresh carrots, just picked this morning!" cried the vegetable vendor.
"Hey, young man! Interested in a new scarf?" another merchant called out, waving a brightly colored cloth.
Makama shook his head politely.
"No thanks! Just grabbing groceries for my grandpa."
He reached the fish stand and began haggling playfully with the seller —
when the atmosphere suddenly shifted.
A black, filthy ship scraped against the wooden dock, dropping its ramp with a heavy clang.
Loud, vulgar laughter echoed across the harbor.
Pirates.
Dozens of them — clothes torn, skin covered in crude tattoos, the smell of alcohol dragging behind them like smoke.One of the pirates, a tall man with a patchy beard and a grin full of rotten teeth, kicked a wooden crate toward a clothing stall.
"Catch this!" he barked, laughing as the box shattered on the ground, spilling neatly folded clothes into the dirt.
"Hey! Stop that!" the merchant shouted, rushing forward to save what he could.
The pirate turned slowly, pulling out a small iron gun and pointing it at the trembling man.
"You got a problem?" he growled.
"N-no… take whatever you want…" the merchant whispered, his voice shaking.
Behind him, a small girl — no older than seven — peeked out from behind the stall. Her tiny fists were clenched, her eyes wet with fear. Then, with a sudden burst of courage, she kicked the pirate's shin.
The pirate froze.
"You little—!"
He raised his hand to strike her.
But his hand never landed.
Someone had stepped between them.
Makama.
The girl felt herself being gently lifted and placed behind the boy. Makama's stance wasn't perfect — his feet were uneven, fists a little too tight — but his eyes were steady.
"Leave her alone," he said quietly.
The pirate stared at him, stunned for a moment, then burst into mocking laughter.
"And who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Makama didn't answer.
The merchant was frozen. Villagers held their breath.
The pirate aimed the gun at Makama's chest.
Makama moved first.
He ducked under the barrel, slid forward, and struck the pirate's knee with a sharp kick — just like Takushi had taught him. Before the man could react, Makama delivered a quick punch to his chin. The pirate stumbled back, swearing.
But Makama didn't have time to celebrate.
Three more pirates rushed forward, snarling.
Makama tried to brace himself, but their sheer size and number were overwhelming. A heavy boot caught him in the ribs, another fist slammed into his back. He fell to the ground, breath knocked out of him.
The villagers watched helplessly.
A blade was raised over Makama's head.
And then —
A voice cut through the chaos like a knife.
"What's going on here?"
The pirates paused.
Takushi stood at the edge of the crowd.
He wasn't loud.
He didn't look angry.
His eyes were simply… sharp. Piercing. Focused.
The nearest pirate sneered at the old man —
and flew backward before he even realized Takushi had moved.
Gasps spread through the harbor.
In a blur too fast for most to track, Takushi struck again — an open palm to the gut of another pirate, sending him crashing into a pile of barrels.
He moved with the relaxed ease of a man sweeping dust off his porch, yet each strike carried devastating precision.
The laughter died.
Fear replaced it.
And then — the heavy footsteps.
A shadow blocked the sunlight.
The ground trembled softly with every step.
From the ramp of the ship emerged a man so massive, the crowd seemed to shrink around him. He was easily two and a quarter meters tall, with shoulders broad enough to block the sun. His hair spilled down in wild, tangled waves, streaked with sea-salt and dirt. Across his back hung a colossal axe, its blade cracked and jagged like the teeth of some ancient beast. At his hip rested a gun far larger than any pirate should reasonably carry.
His presence alone quieted the entire harbor.
Children hid behind their parents.
Merchants froze mid-breath.
Even the wind seemed to stop out of respect — or fear.
The giant captain stepped forward, his boots sinking into the wooden planks.
His eyes scanned the scene lazily until they landed on Makama, lying bruised on the ground.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"So," the captain rumbled, his voice deep enough to vibrate in Makama's ribs, "this little boy is the one causing trouble?"
Takushi didn't flinch.
He simply positioned himself between Makama and the towering monster.
The captain tilted his head, studying the elderly man with a kind of amused curiosity.
"And who might you be, old one? A father? A teacher?"
He chuckled.
"Or just someone with a death wish?"
Takushi's expression didn't change.
He drew in a calm breath, as if preparing to teach another lesson.
"You came to the wrong village," he said softly.
A few pirates laughed.
The captain didn't.
In an instant the mood shifted — something cold and violent flickered behind the captain's eyes. He reached back, lifted the massive axe with one hand, and pointed the blade toward Takushi.
"Prove it," he said.
The villagers scattered, screams erupting in every direction.
Makama struggled to rise, but his body felt heavy — bruises burning, vision blurred. All he could see was his grandfather standing alone against the monster whose shadow swallowed half the port.
Takushi took a single step forward.
His grip tightened around the wooden staff at his side — the same staff Makama would one day hold as if it were treasure.
The captain grinned.
The clash was inevitable. The captain twirled the giant axe once, effortlessly — the air whistled from the weight of it. A faint shimmer of red-black steel reflected the dying sunlight. Not glowing, not magical — just old, scarred metal sharpened too many times by too many battles.
Takushi stepped forward, planting one foot firmly on the wooden planks. His wooden staff tapped the ground once, steady and controlled.
For a moment, everything was silent.
Then the captain charged.
Despite his enormous size, he moved with terrifying speed. The wooden dock groaned under him as he brought the axe down in a brutal diagonal strike meant to split Takushi in half.
Takushi didn't block.
He turned.
Just a soft pivot — light as a falling leaf.
The axe slammed into the ground where he had stood, splintering the boards. A shockwave rattled through the harbor.
Makama watched with wide eyes.
Grandpa had always been strong… but this was different.
This was the strength he had never shown in daily life.
The captain snarled and yanked the axe free.
"Fast old man," he muttered. "Let's see you dance again."
He swung horizontally, aiming for Takushi's ribs.
Takushi ducked under it, barely bending his knees, and tapped the captain's wrist with the tip of his staff — not a strike, just a touch.
The captain's hand jerked from the shock.
Not pain — precision.
Takushi's voice was calm.
"You swing too wide."
The captain roared, frustrated.
This time he stomped his foot and lunged, trying to catch Takushi off guard. His massive arm wrapped around to grapple him, to crush him with sheer weight.
Takushi slid aside again — but not fast enough.
A fist the size of Makama's head grazed Takushi's shoulder.
The old man staggered back slightly.
Makama's breath caught.
The captain grinned through his tangled hair.
"So you bleed after all," he said.
Then he swung again — and this time his attack was closer, tighter, more measured.
Not a wild beast anymore.
A warrior adapting.
Takushi blocked the axe handle with his staff, wood screeching against metal. The impact pushed him back several steps.
The villagers hiding behind stalls gasped.
The captain kept pressing forward, each heavy step shaking the dock.
Takushi exhaled slowly.
His eyes sharpened.
Makama could see it —
Grandpa was preparing a move he'd never taught him.
Takushi shifted his stance, grounding his weight.
He gripped his staff with both hands.
The captain raised his axe for a final crushing blow—
And Takushi moved.
A clean, perfect strike to the captain's knee.
A follow-up hit to the ribs.
A sharp sweep that forced the giant to stumble.
For the first time —
the captain's footing broke.
He didn't fall, but his grin faltered.
"You're a stubborn one, old man."
Takushi readied his staff again.
Makama whispered under his breath, barely conscious:
"Grandpa… please…"
The captain growled and reached for the massive gun at his side The captain's massive hand closed around the grip of his oversized gun.
Wood cracked beneath his boots as he lifted it, the barrel aimed straight at Takushi's chest.
Villagers hid behind overturned crates.
Mothers covered their children's eyes.
Even the pirates stood silent, waiting to see the old man crumble.
And then—
"GRANDPA, NO!"
Makama's voice tore through the harbor.
It wasn't brave.
It wasn't controlled.
It was raw, terrified — the scream of a boy who believed he was about to lose the only family he had left.
Takushi's eyes shifted for a split second at the sound of his grandson's voice.
Just one heartbeat.
But for a master…
one heartbeat was enough.
The captain pulled the trigger.
A deafening BOOM tore through the docks.
Smoke exploded from the gun's muzzle — but Takushi was no longer where the barrel pointed. In a blur of motion, faster than Makama had ever seen, the old man stepped aside, closing the distance in a single sweeping strike.
His staff whipped through the air —
a sharp, precise arc.
CRACK.
The staff slammed into the captain's wrist, knocking the massive gun high into the air. It spun, landed in the water with a heavy splash.
Before the captain could even register the loss, Takushi struck again —
a crushing blow to the ribs.
Then a downward strike across the shoulder.
Then a final push with both hands, channeling his entire weight.
The giant stumbled backward —
one step, two steps —
the dock groaned beneath him —
and then he toppled over the edge.
A massive splash swallowed him whole.
For a moment, the harbor fell into stunned silence.
Then panic erupted among the pirates.
"C-captain?!"
"He fell?!"
"Retreat! RETREAT!"
They scrambled toward their ship like rats fleeing a burning house, shoving each other aside, tripping, shouting, abandoning crates and stolen goods. A few dove into the water in desperation, swimming frantically toward the drifting vessel.
Takushi lowered his staff.
The villagers slowly rose from their hiding places, staring in disbelief.
No one spoke — not yet.
Only the sound of waves and the fading curses of the fleeing pirates broke the silence.
Makama forced himself to his feet, clutching his bruised ribs, and stumbled toward his grandfather.
Takushi finally turned his head, the tension leaving his shoulders as he exhaled quietly.
"It's alright now," he said.
Makama swallowed hard.
His heart felt like it was still racing in his throat.
But the harbor —
was saved. The villagers slowly returned to the ruined stretch of dock, gathering around Takushi and Makama with a mixture of shock and gratitude. Some whispered prayers of relief, others bowed their heads, and a few simply stared — unsure how to thank the man who had just saved them all.
Takushi didn't seem to care for the attention.
He gave a short nod to those nearby, then turned to Makama.
"Come," he said quietly. "Let's head home before the sun disappears."
Makama followed, limping slightly, still shaken by the chaos. The shouts of merchants cleaning up their stalls drifted behind them, but the harbor felt strangely peaceful now, as if a storm had passed.
As they walked up the hill, the orange glow of sunset stretched across the sky. Makama glanced at his grandfather, wondering again how someone so old could move the way he did.
"Grandpa…"
He hesitated.
"Were you always… strong like that?"
Takushi didn't answer immediately.
He let the silence linger, letting the breeze fill the space instead.
"I was many things before you were born," he finally said. "Some good, some bad. Strength alone doesn't make a man proud."
Makama looked down at the ground.
"I couldn't help," he muttered. "Even with everything you taught me… I still—"
Takushi stopped walking.
Makama nearly bumped into him.
The old man placed a gentle hand on his shoulder — firm, warm, grounding.
"You helped," Takushi said. "You stood up when no one else did. Remember that. Courage starts small."
Makama felt his chest tighten, the shame inside him easing just a little.
Takushi resumed walking, this time a bit slower to match Makama's steps.
"Besides," he added with a faint smile, "you kicked that pirate harder than I expected."
Makama let out a short, embarrassed laugh.
"Yeah… maybe."
They continued up the hill until their home came into view — the same small house overlooking the endless sea. Birds flew across the sky in a V–shape, returning to their nests as the day faded into twilight.
Takushi pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"Wash up," he said. "Dinner's will be ready."
Makama nodded and slipped his sandals off, entering the familiar warmth of home. Dinner filled the house with warmth.
The smell of seasoned rice and slow-cooked vegetables floated through the small kitchen, wrapping the room in a gentle comfort that made the chaos of the day feel like a distant dream.
Makama ate quietly at the wooden table, still replaying the scene at the harbor in his mind — the pirates, their laughter, that heavy gun pointed straight at Grandpa's heart.
Takushi sat across from him, eating slowly, as if nothing unusual had happened.
After a moment, Makama finally spoke.
"Grandpa… what would've happened if I didn't shout?"
Takushi's chopsticks paused in the air.
He didn't scold him.
He didn't lecture.
He simply answered with the same calm tone he used for the smallest lessons.
"You shouted because you were afraid to lose someone you love," he said. "There's no shame in that. Fear reminds us what matters."
Makama looked down, fingers tightening around his bowl.
"I want to be strong like you," he whispered.
Takushi gave a soft chuckle — not mocking, but warm.
"Strength isn't in the fists, Makama."
He tapped two fingers gently against his own chest.
"It starts here. In knowing what you're protecting."
Makama absorbed the words like a sponge.
He always did.
The room fell into a peaceful quiet — the soft clinks of dishes, the distant sound of waves, the gentle rhythm of home.
After they finished eating, Makama stepped outside to breathe the night air. Tenro's lights flickered down the hill, glowing like scattered fireflies. He loved this view — the shimmering sea, the calm sky, the soft murmur of the village.
For a brief moment…
everything felt safe.
"Makama," Takushi called from inside, "close the door when you're done. Night wind's getting colder."
"Okay, Grandpa."
Makama smiled faintly. After washing the dishes and locking the windows, Makama felt the weight of the long day finally settling into his limbs. His bruises ached, but the warmth of home eased the sting.
"I'm heading to bed, Grandpa," he said, rubbing his eyes.
Takushi nodded.
"Rest well. Tomorrow we train again — but not too hard. Your ribs will complain."
Makama managed a tired smile.
"Goodnight."
He stepped into the small room they shared, blew out the lantern, and crawled onto his straw mattress. The familiar creak of the wooden frame soothed him. Within moments, his breath deepened, and sleep pulled him under.
The house grew quiet.
Takushi waited until he was sure Makama had drifted off.
Only then did he kneel beside the old wooden chest tucked beneath the table. He lifted the lid gently, as if waking a memory.
Inside lay two things:
A worn compass — its metal edges scratched, its glass cracked.
And
a single photograph, folded at the corners from years of being held.
Takushi held the compass first, letting his thumb brush over the carvings on its side. The needle trembled… then stilled, pointing to a direction Takushi no longer trusted — but could never forget.
He sighed deeply.
"Your father," he whispered to himself, "always did have a wild destiny."
He unfolded the old photograph next.
Two faces smiled back at him — a younger Takushi, standing beside a tall man with sharp features and warm eyes. And behind them, a woman with long hair flowing in the wind… half-hidden, as if she never wanted her face fully captured.
Takushi's hand shook slightly.
"So much you deserve to know," he murmured, looking toward the room where Makama slept. "But not yet. Not until you're ready."
He placed the photo gently against the compass, as he had done countless nights before.
And then—
THUD.
Takushi froze.
A faint sound came from outside —
not the wind,
not an animal,
but something heavier.
THUD… THUD…
Steps.
Slow.
Measured.
Moving along the edge of the house.
Takushi's eyes sharpened.
He closed the chest without a sound, slid it back under the table, and reached for his wooden staff.
Another noise —
a whisper of metal,
the scraping of boots against stone.
Takushi stepped toward the door.
Outside, shadows were gathering.
Too many.
Far too many.
And then—
CRASH!
The front door burst open. Pirates surrounded Takushi from every direction, forming a rough circle of blades and drunken rage. Their shadows danced wildly in the moonlight as they closed in on the old man.
Takushi held a simple wooden staff — nothing special, nothing ancient. Just the stick he used for training, the one always leaning by the door.
It was enough.
They charged.
Takushi stepped into them like a quiet wave breaking over rocks.
One strike to the temple — a pirate fell.
A sweep behind the knee — another crashed into the dirt.
A sharp jab to the throat — a third crumpled, gasping for breath.
But even for him… even for his experience…
there were too many.
A blade sliced across his arm.
Another club hit his back.
Takushi gritted his teeth, refusing to let the pain slow him.
A shadow loomed.
The captain.
His massive figure stepped through the broken frame, towering above the pirates who parted for him like frightened children. His presence alone made the air feel heavier — darker.
Takushi, bleeding, panting, and surrounded, tightened his grip on his wooden staff.
Captain Brutax smirked.
"Well, well…" he growled, voice dripping with cruel amusement. "Still alive, old man?"
Takushi raised his staff, refusing to back down.
The captain didn't wait.
He lunged.
A monstrous punch shot forward — Takushi blocked with his staff, but the impact was too strong this time. The old man was hurled backward, boots digging trenches in the dirt before he stopped himself.
Pirates swarmed him instantly.
Takushi swung — one fell.
He spun — another collapsed.
He elbowed a third, cracked a fourth across the jaw—
But his movements were slower now.
His wounds bled.
His breath trembled.
There were simply too many.
A blade tore across his side.
A club smashed into his shoulder.
A pirate kicked his knee, buckling it.
Takushi fell to one knee, staff digging into the ground to keep him upright.
Brutax approached, each step shaking the earth.
"Thought you could take on my men?" the captain sneered. "You're strong… but time has already defeated you."
He grabbed Takushi by the collar and hauled him upward like a ragdoll. Takushi tried to strike again — but Brutax caught the staff with one hand.
A pause.
A cruel grin.
"I'll take this," he said.
He ripped the wooden staff from Takushi's grip.
Takushi coughed, blood at the corner of his mouth, still trying to reach for it.
Brutax leaned in close.
"Your little toy is mine now, old man."
And then — without hesitation — he flung Takushi to the ground.
The old man crashed onto the dirt, body twisting, breath leaving him in a painful wheeze. His fingers twitched, trying to move… but they couldn't.
Pirates laughed.
Brutax held the staff over his shoulder like stolen loot.
He turned to leave. Inside the house, Makama's eyes snapped open.
His heart pounded.
He smelled smoke.
Felt the cold wind.
He heard voices — footsteps — laughter.
He stumbled out of his room, confused and terrified, broken door hanging from one hinge.
And then he saw it.
The destroyed home.
The pirates.
The captain walking away with the staff.
And Takushi—
Lying in the dirt.
Barely breathing.
Makama's blood froze.
"No…"
He ran.
"GRANDPA!"
The pirates turned — but before they could grab Makama, a swirl of black fog brushed past them. A faint, unnatural ripple of darkness swept the ground, and—
They vanished.
As if swallowed by the night.
Makama didn't understand it. He didn't even fully see it. He only saw a figure far behind the captain… briefly… a silhouette with one glowing eye.
And then it was gone.
Makama dropped to his knees beside Takushi.
"Grandpa— Grandpa, stay with me!"
Takushi's trembling hand reached up… barely…
And touched Makama's wrist. Takushi's breathing was thin… fragile… like a candle fighting against a storm.
Makama knelt beside him, hands shaking so hard he could barely lift his grandfather's head.
"Grandpa— Grandpa, please— stay with me. I'll call for help— someone— anyone—"
Takushi's fingers tightened weakly around Makama's wrist.
"Listen… to me," he whispered.
Makama swallowed hard, tears already blurring his vision.
Takushi reached slowly into the torn inner pocket of his robe… and pulled out the old compass.
Its cracked glass caught the moonlight.
He placed it in Makama's hand — not forcefully, but with purpose.
Takushi: "Take this… Makama…"
Makama shook his head. "No, Grandpa— don't talk like that— please—"
Takushi's voice grew softer, fading.
"Inside… there's… something you'll understand… one day…"
Makama opened the compass shakily —
but not fully.
Just enough to see a glimpse of paper… a corner of a folded photograph.
But in his panic, he didn't notice what was on it.
He only clutched it tightly.
"Grandpa, please— please don't leave me— I still need you—"
Takushi smiled faintly — the same warm, steady smile he'd given Makama since childhood.
"You've always been stronger than you think," he whispered.
"And brave… even when you were terrified."
Makama's tears fell onto Takushi's chest.
Takushi lifted his trembling hand, brushing Makama's cheek.
"There's a place… I promised to take you…"
His breath hitched.
"You must go there… without me."
Makama shook his head violently. "No— we'll go together— you said— you said—!"
Takushi's fingers curled weakly into Makama's shirt.
"Then… make me a promise…"
Makama couldn't speak. He could barely breathe.
"Promise me… you'll live your life forward. Not backward."
His eyes softened.
"Protect the people who cannot protect themselves… like you did today."
Makama's voice broke.
"I… I promise…"
Takushi exhaled slowly — the longest breath of his life.
"Good… boy…"
His hand slipped from Makama's cheek.
His chest rose…
fell…
and did not rise again.
The night became unbearably quiet.
Makama remained there, holding his grandfather's body, forehead pressed against the old man's robe, sobbing until his voice failed and only shaking remained.
He clutched the compass to his chest as if it were the last piece of his soul.
The sea wind passed over the hill — gentle, respectful, as if even nature bowed in silence. The next morning, the sun rose slowly over The hills,
its light softer than usual —
as if the world itself understood loss.
Makama stood alone outside the house.
His eyes were swollen, his hands still trembling.
Beside him lay the tools he had gathered at dawn:
a shovel, a handful of stones, and a piece of driftwood for a marker.
He dug in silence.
Each scoop of earth felt heavier than the last.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
This was the last thing he could do for the man who had raised him, taught him, protected him… loved him.
When the grave was deep enough, Makama gently lowered Takushi inside, arranging the old man's robe so it rested smoothly over his chest. His throat tightened painfully.
He whispered:
"I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to save you."
Then he covered the grave, slowly, respectfully,
until the fresh mound of earth stood where the man he loved now rested.
Makama placed stones on top, one by one —
just like Takushi had taught him when they buried animals around the farm.
It was tradition.
And Makama held onto it now like a lifeline.
At the head of the grave, he pressed the driftwood marker into the ground.
With his pocketknife, he carved a single word:
GRANDPA
Nothing fancy.
Just the truth.
Makama knelt beside the grave.
The wind brushed his hair.
The compass around his neck clinked softly against his chest.
He placed a hand on the stones.
Makama (voice breaking): "I'll keep your promise… I swear I will.
I'll learn who I am.
I'll find where the compass leads.
And I'll protect people the way you protected me."
He wiped a tear with the back of his hand, but more fell instantly.
Makama: "I'll go to that place you wanted to show me.
Even if I have to do it alone."
He stood slowly, the breeze lifting his bandana.
His eyes hardened — grief turning into purpose.
Makama: "…But first…"
He looked down the hill, toward the ruined harbor, where the pirates had fled with Takushi's staff.
A spark ignited in his chest.
Makama (quiet, resolute): "I'm getting Grandpa's staff back."
He tightened the straps of his small travel bundle, adjusted the compass on his neck, and took a step forward.
The boy who walked down that hill
was not the same boy who had walked up it the night before.
He didn't look back.