**📜 "The Four Lights of the Old Kingdom"
A Folk Tale Told for a Thousand Years**
Children, listen closely.
For before our world became ordinary,
before people forgot the whisper of magic,
there was a kingdom older than time itself.
It was called Dine Stater,
the First Great Land beneath the heavens.
In this kingdom lived a wise emperor, Kaien,
whose eyes held the warmth of the rising sun.
Beside him sat his gentle queen, Yunae,
whose voice was soft enough to calm even storms.
But the most wondrous thing of all
was not the emperor,
nor the queen,
nor the glittering palaces of crystal stone.
It was their four children,
born under sacred lights,
each carrying a piece of the world's magic.
And so our story begins…
They say Arashiro arrived the moment
the first ray of sun touched the sleeping world.
As the queen held him,
the morning sky blushed gold,
and the air grew warm
as if greeting an old friend.
Arashiro grew into a tall, noble child,
with hair dark as night,
yet lit with streaks of morning gold.
His eyes glowed amber like the newborn sun.
And oh, children—his magic!
Arashiro carried the Light of Beginnings.
Wherever he walked, flowers awakened.
Wherever he touched, warmth returned.
He could call the winds of morning
and chase away shadows without fear.
The people loved him dearly,
and whispered:
> "The prince is dawn itself.
With him, every day begins again."
Mizushiro came into the world
on a night wrapped in silver fog.
The mist thickened like a soft blanket
around the palace,
and the moon shone dimly,
as if bowing its head for her arrival.
She grew into a serene, graceful girl,
with long dark hair flowing like a river
and eyes pale as morning dew.
Her magic was the Power of Water and Hidden Paths.
She could quiet storms with a gentle hum.
She could call mist to hide a village
from approaching danger.
She could hear the "currents of the heart,"
and soothe anger with just her presence.
The people spoke kindly of her:
> "Princess Mizushiro walks like falling snow—
silent, soft, and full of secret wisdom."
Ryushiro was born on a night
when warm southern winds roared through the kingdom,
carrying sparks that danced like red fireflies.
The moment he cried,
every torch in Dine Stater flared bright,
as if welcoming their new master.
Ryushiro grew into a bright-hearted boy
with hair streaked in ember-red
and eyes like molten gold.
His magic was the Fire of the Heart.
He could kindle flames in the coldest winter.
He could warm all who were afraid or lonely.
He could summon emberwinds
that carried messages across lands.
And oh, how bravely he burned—
never to harm,
but always to protect.
The warriors said:
> "Where Ryushiro stands,
fear has no place to hide."
Last came Yunashiro,
born in the gentle hour
when day sighs into night.
The sky glowed purple and gold,
and a hush fell across the world
as she entered it.
She grew into a quiet, lovely child
with hair of moon-silver
and eyes soft as twilight.
Her magic was Dreamlight and Shadows of Peace.
She could calm nightmares with a whisper.
She could make small illusions
that comforted weeping children.
She guided lost travelers
with starlight that only she could summon.
And spirits of the old world
came only to her,
bowing in gentle respect.
The villagers murmured:
> "Princess Yunashiro carries
the dream of evening inside her."
👑 The Four Realms of the World
When Emperor Kaien grew older
and his steps became slow,
he called his children together
and spoke with love:
> "My four lights,
you were born from the world's breath itself.
I shall not give my kingdom to one,
but divide it into four realms—
one for each of your hearts."
And so he did.
To Arashiro, the Realm of Dawn
To Mizushiro, the Realm of Mist
To Ryushiro, the Realm of Ember
To Yunashiro, the Realm of Twilight
The four children bowed,
promising to protect the world
and keep magic alive.
For a while,
the world was perfect.
---
🌬 But then, children… the tale darkens
No one knows what happened next.
Some say the realms quarreled.
Some say a great darkness rose.
Some say the heavens reclaimed their gift.
All we know is this:
The four realms vanished.
The four children disappeared.
And the world forgot magic.
People now say
magic is just a story.
Just imagination.
Just a fairy tale.
But the old songs still whisper:
> "The children of light never truly left.
Their descendants walk the modern world,
hidden among ordinary people…
waiting for the day their magic awakens again."
The fire crackled softly in the old wooden house as the storyteller — a thin, elderly man with silver hair tied behind his back — finished the tale of the ancient kingdom.
His voice faded like the last note of a lullaby.
For a moment, all was quiet except the sound of rain tapping gently against the roof.
Two small children sat before him, cross-legged on the woven mat.
Their eyes were wide as full moons, sparkling with excitement and wonder.
The younger one, a boy with fluffy black hair, leaned forward until his nose almost touched the old man's knee.
"Grandpa!" he burst out.
"So those four prince and princess… they're not gone? They're alive somewhere?"
The older child, a little girl with two uneven braids, clutched her blanket and whispered urgently:
"Are they in Japan now? In the real world? Can we meet them? Can we see their magic?"
Their voices were like chirping birds, tumbling over each other with breathless excitement.
Their cheeks glowed red from the warmth of the fire — and from the hope that heroes still existed.
The old man chuckled softly.
His wrinkles deepened into kind folds, and he tapped his pipe gently against the wooden floor.
"Children… children…" he said in a voice as soft as falling snow.
"Legends are strange things. They never truly disappear."
Before the children could speak again, the door slid open.
A woman stepped in — their mother.
Her hair was tied loosely, rain droplets clinging to the ends.
She wiped her hands on her apron and smiled.
"What are you telling them this time, Father?" she asked with a playful sigh.
"The old stories," he replied.
"About the Four Lights of Dine Stater."
The children immediately turned to their mother, eyes sparkling like tiny stars.
"Mama! Mama! Grandpa says they might still be alive!"
"He said their descendants might be here! In Japan! Now!"
The two small bodies bounced with excitement, hands waving, voices tumbling into each other.
Their mother knelt beside them, placing a warm hand on each of their heads.
Her smile was gentle — the kind that carried both love and mystery.
"I don't know, my darlings," she said softly.
"Maybe magic still exists.
Maybe it doesn't."
She looked toward the window, where the rain softened the shadows of the world outside.
"Who knows," she whispered, brushing the girl's braid with her finger,
"Maybe magic is all around us…
quiet, hidden…
so familiar that we don't even realize it anymore."
Then she pulled them close, her voice lowering to a secret hush:
"And maybe… just maybe…
those children of the ancient kingdom walk among us even now.
But you would never recognize them —
because true magic hides in ordinary faces."
The two children gasped, eyes shining brighter than the fire.
"We'll find them, Mama!"
"We'll look everywhere!"
The mother laughed gently.
"Well then," she said, ruffling their hair,
"Make sure you look carefully.
Magic never appears to those who look with only their eyes.
It comes to those who look with their hearts."
As the fire crackled and the rain whispered,
the legend of the Four Lights settled deep into the children's dreams —
and the world outside felt just a little more magical.
The two children who had been whispering moments ago were Sarang and Siro, a pair of inseparable siblings living deep in the quiet mountains of Nara.
Their lives had never been easy, but this past year had been the hardest of all.
Their father — a soldier who had once lifted them high into the sky with strong arms and warm laughter — had been martyred in the war.
His photo, framed by incense and white flowers, watched over them from a small wooden shrine near the door.
Since then, their mother worked harder than ever, stretching every coin to feed her two precious children.
And their grandfather, old and gentle, told them stories to keep their hearts from breaking.
The four of them lived in a small wooden house in a remote village where the roads were narrow, the nights were quiet, and the mountains whispered ancient secrets.
That night, the air was cool, and the house creaked softly with the wind.
Sarang and Siro lay together under a single futon, their tiny bodies curled against the cold.
Sarang, the elder sister, stared up at the dim ceiling and whispered,
"Siro… one day we will really find magic, you know.
I… I just feel it."
Her voice trembled slightly,
not from fear,
but from hope.
Siro turned toward her, his eyes shining like small stars.
"I think so too, Sister!
I think magic power exists!
Maybe it's hiding somewhere, waiting for us!"
The siblings whispered like this for a long time —
sharing dreams,
imagining glowing lights,
wondering if the world still held secrets from the ancient stories their grandfather told.
Their voices drifted through the night like soft fireflies.
Enough talking! Go to sleep!"
A while later, the sliding door opened with a sudden swish.
Their mother stood there, hair loose around her shoulders, her face tired but loving.
"Sarang… Siro…
how many times do I have to tell you?
It's late.
You have school tomorrow.
Go to sleep."
The two siblings froze under the blanket,
then peeked out with guilty little faces.
"Sorry, Mama…"
"We'll sleep now…"
Their mother sighed —
not angry,
just exhausted from the long day.
She tucked the blanket snug around them,
patted their heads gently,
and blew out the small candle by their bedside.
Darkness settled around them.
"Goodnight, my babies.
Sleep well.
Dream of good things."
She slid the door shut with a soft thump.
Sarang reached out and held Siro's small hand.
Her voice was barely a breath.
"Siro… one day… we'll find magic.
I just know it."
Siro squeezed her fingers tightly.
"Yes.
We'll find it together."
Within minutes,
their breaths softened
and they slipped into sleep…
Two small souls dreaming of a world long forgotten,
while outside,
deep in the forest of Nara,
a faint and ancient light
stirred for the first time in a thousand years.