A Day later.
The fire was gone.
Not dying. Not smoldering.
Gone. Shujinko and his mother had planned to leave the old cabin behind. They wanted to go somewhere where they could become new—and start over.
Somewhere populated, where it's easy to spot evil. Shuza had the perfect place in mind.
Shujinko stared at the blackened ring of stones where flames had once lived, where warmth had once gathered at night and laughter had once felt safe. Rain fell softly from a gray sky, soaking the ashes until they turned into dark paste. The hearth no longer smoked. It no longer remembered what it was meant to be.
Cold seeped into his boots.
They were too small.
Every step rubbed his toes raw, but he didn't complain. He hadn't complained once since they left the ruins behind. Shuza walked ahead of him, her back straight despite the way her shoulders trembled under the soaked cloak. She hadn't looked back in a long time.
The forest thinned as they walked. The mountains faded into memory. Each step away from the cabin felt like tearing a thread loose from his chest.
Shujinko clutched the wooden practice sword under his arm.
It was cracked. Burned at one end. He'd pulled it from the rubble before Shuza could stop him, coughing through smoke and ash just to save something that felt like Papa's voice still lived inside it.
The road ahead stretched endlessly.
"Are we… far?" Shujinko finally asked.
Shuza slowed, then stopped. She turned, rain streaking her face, though he couldn't tell where rain ended and tears began.
"Not far," she said gently.
That was a lie.
Tokyo lay days away on foot, and both of them knew it.
They walked anyway.
By nightfall, Shujinko's stomach ached so badly he couldn't tell if he was hungry or sick. His hands shook when he tried to drink from the stream they stopped at, water splashing onto the stones instead of his mouth.
Shuza knelt beside him, cupping his hands properly around the water.
"Slow," she said. "You'll choke."
He obeyed.
He always obeyed now.
His mother was the only thing he had left anyways.
They shared a single piece of dried bread she'd managed to salvage. Shuza tore it in half and handed him the larger piece.
Shujinko stared at it.
"That's not fair," he said quietly, pushing it back toward her with both hands. "Mama, you should take that one."
Shuza paused, a faint smile on her face. For a moment, she looked like she might disagree—but instead, she lowered herself to sit beside him.
"I already ate earlier sweetie," she lied.
Shujinko frowned. "No you didn't."
A ghost of a smile crossed her face.
"You're a very observant boy," she said, smiling. "That's a good trait. Hold onto it."
She nudged the bread back toward him. "You'll need it more than I do."
"But you're tired," he said. "I can tell."
"So are you," she replied gently. "Plus you're still growing."
He hesitated, eyes dropping to the bread. "Papa would've split it even."
Shuza's breath caught.
"Yes," she said softly, with a slight blush. "He would have."
She placed her hand over his, closing his fingers around the larger piece. "And he would've wanted you to be strong enough to survive what comes next."
Shujinko swallowed hard.
"…Okay."
He took the bread.
Shuza turned away so he wouldn't see her hands shaking.
The forest felt wrong at night. Too quiet. Not peaceful—watching. The rain stopped, leaving behind a damp chill that clung to their clothes and bones.
Shujinko hugged his knees, a wooden sword laid across his lap like a promise he didn't understand yet.
"Mom?" Shujinko asked softly, like the word might break if he said it too loud.
Shuza's hands paused. Just for a moment.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
He stared at the cold ground, toes nudging ash into little lines.
"Why… why didn't Papa's fire work?"
The question slipped out thin and shaky.
"How come he couldn't protect us?" His voice dropped. "Protect Tokochi?"
He'd been holding it in since the cabin fell quiet. Since the night stopped screaming.
Shuza didn't answer right away. She pulled him closer, tucking his head against her side.
"Fire isn't…" she began, then stopped. "It isn't something that always wins," she said gently. "Even the biggest flames can be pushed down."
Shujinko frowned, eyes stinging. "But Papa was the strongest," he said. "Everyone said he was."
She nodded, her throat tight. "He was. He really was."
"Then why…" His lip trembled. "Why did he fall?"
She closed her eyes. "Because not even the strongest win every battle," she whispered. "And because he chose to stand where it hurt the most."
Shujinko went quiet. Then, almost afraid to ask, he said, "Tokochi's okay though… right?"
Shuza swallowed.
"Tokochi is brave," she said after a moment. "He doesn't talk much, but he's strong in his own way." Her hand rested over Shujinko's small shoulder. "If anyone could keep going… it's him."
Shujinko sniffed and nodded, holding onto that like it was something solid.
For just a second, they both smiled—small, fragile smiles—remembering a time when the world had been full, and warm, and whole.
But they were interrupted.
Something rustled nearby.
Shuza's head snapped up.
"Stay behind me," she whispered.
Shujinko's heart pounded as he scrambled to his feet, gripping the wooden sword with both hands the way Papa had taught him. The bushes ahead shuddered, branches bending unnaturally.
A shape emerged.
It looked like a boar—once. Its hide was mottled black and gray, eyes glowing faintly red, steam hissing from its nostrils despite the cold. Its movements were jerky, wrong, like something pulling its strings too tightly.
Shujinko froze.
His body screamed at him to run.
The creature snorted, scraping the ground.
Shujinko remembered Papa's voice.
Feet firm. Thrust straight. Don't hesitate.
He stepped forward.
"Shujinko—!" Shuza hissed.
Too late.
He lunged, copying the Sasu exactly the way he'd practiced hundreds of times.
The wooden sword bounced harmlessly off the beast's hide.
Pain shot up his arms.
The boar shrieked and charged.
Shujinko fell backward into the mud, sword slipping from his hands. The creature loomed over him, breath hot and foul.
A flash of motion.
Shuza slammed her palm into the ground.
The earth rippled.
Stone erupted upward, throwing the beast aside with a sickening crunch. It screeched once more before collapsing, body going still as the red glow faded from its eyes.
Silence returned.
Shujinko stared at his mother.
Her knees buckled. She collapsed beside him, breathing hard, sweat beading on her brow despite the cold.
"You—" he whispered. "You did that?"
Shuza closed her eyes.
"Yes," she said softly. "A long time ago, I could do much more."
Shujinko looked at his hands.
They were trembling.
"Why couldn't I?" he asked. "Why didn't anything happen?"
Shuza studied him for a long moment.
"Because power doesn't answer fear," she said. "And it doesn't answer impatience."
She placed her hand over his chest.
"You don't have your Spirit Core awakened yet."
"What's that?"
"The part of you that listens," she replied. "To the world. To elements. To yourself."
Shujinko swallowed.
"When will it wake up?"
"When it's ready," she said. "Not before."
The answer scared him more than the beast.
Tokyo was louder than grief.
Crowds pressed in from every side, voices shouting, trains screaming, lights burning endlessly even as the sky darkened. Shujinko clung to Shuza's sleeve, overwhelmed by the sheer life of it all.
No one here knew what they'd lost.
That hurt more than he expected.
They slipped into an old residential district, far from the towers and crowds. A traditional house stood quietly at the end of the street, its walls worn but sturdy.
An elderly man opened the door before they could knock.
Grandpa Kyoto.
His hair was gray, his posture bent, but his eyes were sharp—heavy with recognition.
"You're late," he said.
Then he pulled Shuza into an embrace.
Kaori joined them moments later, her hands warm, her presence calm and terrifying all at once.
They didn't ask about Tujin or Tokochi.
They didn't need to.
That night, Shujinko lay on a futon staring at the ceiling, listening to rain tap against the roof.
Warmth surrounded him.
But the hearth was cold.
He was only five. But, he wanted to become stronger. And that's exactly what he'd do.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Shujinko trained in the mornings with Kyoto, simple stances, breathing exercises, balance drills that left his legs shaking. Kaori corrected his posture, his grip, his impatience.
Fire never came.
Earth never moved.
At night, Kyoto led Shujinko into the back room.
"You're gonna love this boy!" He said frantically. Shujinko smiled—like the little boy he is.
The room wasn't large. But it was sacred. Too sacred as his grandfather would say.
Weapons lined the walls—not gleaming, not ornate, but worn. Loved. Used. Each one carried weight beyond its steel.
Kyoto knelt before a long, narrow chest at the center of the room.
"This belonged to your father," he said, emotional.
Shujinko's breath caught.
Kyoto opened the chest.
Inside lay a sword—not large, not small. Balanced. Simple. Perfect. The hilt wrapped in dark leather, worn smooth where hands had held it thousands of times.
Not a weapon of war.
A training sword.
Crafted by the love of a father.
Kyoto lifted it with reverence and turned, holding it out.
"Your father asked me to keep this," he said. "He said… when the time comes, give it to the son who asks why before he asks how."
Shujinko stared at the sword.
"…Why me?" he whispered.
Kyoto didn't hesitate. "Because you are already asking," he said with a smile.
Shuza inhaled sharply behind them.
Shujinko reached out with trembling hands and took the sword.
It was heavier than he expected.
Not in weight—but in meaning.
He hugged it to his chest before he could stop himself.
He loved his gift. Not only because he needed a new training sword. But also because he knew the love that went into it in its creation. The love of a father. Shuza knelt beside him.
"Your father tried to leave the battlefield," she said quietly. "He wanted us to be safe."
"He knew of the dangers that surrounded metropolitan areas. That's where the monsters feasted the most. He wanted us to be as far away from that as possible."
Shujinko's hands clenched.
Shujinko stared at the sword.
Then at his hands.
Small. Weak. Trembling.
"I'll find it," he whispered. "The answer to everything."
The hearth remained cold.
But somewhere deep inside him—
Something listened.