Flames licked the heart of the Vargrim Forest, sending pillars of black smoke into the high reaches of the sky and the heavy, crowded clouds.
Beside the rising mound of fire lay an unconscious boy. Looming over him was a beast standing a meter tall, possessing four legs and a pale, unsettlingly human head. It stared at the boy with crimson-red eyes, panting in anticipation. This creature was known as a Revarg.
The beast bared its razor-sharp fangs and suddenly lunged at the boy's face, tearing into his flesh with elongated claws and crushing his skull with its stained teeth.
"I have failed... miserably..."
***
"A dream—no, merely another nightmare."
Golden threads of sunlight filtered from the sky, piercing the high clouds to overlook Vargrim, which sat at the heart of the Autumn Lands, Orival.
Takeshi awoke from his slumber after being haunted by yet another nightmare. However, one look at his cold features—which made him resemble a carved statue—was enough to know that he had long since grown accustomed to such terrors.
He adjusted his position, pushing the thin blanket aside. In his right hand, he clutched a sword resembling a katana, housed within a deep red scabbard. He stood up, revealing that he was inside a small, dilapidated hut where sunlight leaked through prominent cracks in the wooden walls.
The hut was entirely empty, save for Takeshi and a few tattered old books thrown into a distant corner. Among them, a single book with a vibrant blue cover stood out; its title was: The First Generation.
Takeshi walked toward the door, his features and physique becoming more distinct in the light. He was a youth of seventeen, though his sharp features and superior physical build suggested a man much older. His eyes were a void-like gray, filled with a mixture of resentment and despair. His hair was spiky and disheveled, having gone uncut for years.
He wore ancient, tattered gray clothes that emitted a foul stench—or rather, the scent came from the clothes themselves, for his skin was clean and pure.
He stood before the door, staring at the inscriptions and numbers he had carved previously. Specifically, five numbers ranging from 973 to 976, marking the years he had spent alone in the forest, isolated within this narrow, decaying hut.
He ran his hand over the carvings, then leaned his forehead against the door, staring downward.
"Only one month remains," he whispered. "And I will have finished my fifth year without achieving anything..."
Takeshi had spent five years—minus two weeks—in this isolation. His heart, his eyes, and even his voice trembled with a lingering despair. He felt a profound void composed of longing, hatred, and regret.
In truth, he had adapted to these negative emotions. While a single month of isolation is enough to turn a person into a complete stranger to themselves, the idea of remaining alone for five years was enough to drive anyone to absolute madness.
However, Takeshi never fully grasped the concept of his isolation, for he considered his sword to be the last member of his family—his first and final companion on his path.
Takeshi raised his hand, struck the door slowly, and then pushed it open.
"Five years of cowardice, without doing anything..."
***
He stepped out of the hut with hurried strides, overlooking the vast forest and the towering trees that hemmed him in. Beside the hut sat a massive pot placed before an extinguished fire. Although the sunlight had broken through the clouds, the forest remained dark and deeply oppressive. Without hesitation, Takeshi set off toward the west, immersing himself in the deep woods.
Minutes later, he reached a clear, shimmering lake that reflected the golden sun, radiating a sense of tranquility and comfort. In truth, this lake was the only thing that redeemed the gloom of Vargrim. Its source was a flowing waterfall of moderate height, connected to a river that carved through the entire forest, providing water for every creature living in the shadows.
Takeshi approached the lake and knelt slowly. He washed his face several times and, finally, drank. Before turning to leave, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye: a massive bull was drinking from the lake in utter peace.
The moment Takeshi saw it, he moved, vanishing from sight as he stalked the unsuspecting animal.
Swoooosh!!
The bull froze for a heartbeat, then collapsed to the ground as blood sprayed from its neck. The crimson liquid mixed with the soil and flowed toward the lake, corrupting its inviting clarity and turning the water a bright, translucent red.
The bull thrashed in place, trembling, while its wide eyes stared at Takeshi, who stood before it, clutching his blood-stained sword firmly.
"My intention was to end your life in one strike so you wouldn't suffer," Takeshi said, staring at the carcass with a deep frown. "I am sorry."
He raised his sword high and ended the bull's life with a final blow. The movements ceased; the flame of life was extinguished. Takeshi stepped forward and hoisted the bull onto his shoulder despite its staggering weight.
Deep within the dark woods, Takeshi noticed a female cow staring at him, shaking violently. Beside her was a small calf that had just witnessed the death of its father. Without waiting, once the cow realized Takeshi had seen her, she bolted, leaving her calf behind for a split second. The calf froze until its small mind grasped the danger, then it chased after its mother, driven by the instinct to survive.
Takeshi let out a faint, artificial smile as he stared at the spreading blood. It was a mask to hide his regret. He wiped the blood from his blade using the dry earth. Suddenly, he spoke in a faint voice, barely audible, closing his eyes in weary sorrow.
"Why must I remember all of this? Why do these memories haunt me so?"
The regret accumulated over the years saturated his trembling tone. What set Takeshi apart was not some supernatural physical strength, but his cursed photographic memory. it allowed him to remember every single day he had lived in meticulous detail. He remembered every nightmare, every ounce of suffering that pursued him, and the face of every living being whose blood he had spilled.
Alongside his sword, his memories were his constant, inescapable companions.
***
Takeshi returned to the hut with the bull's carcass over his shoulder, muttering to himself in a low voice.
'This is the cycle of life... kill so you aren't killed. It is not a mistake I should regret... but why does this feeling always haunt me?'
The moment he stepped in front of the hut, he dropped the carcass.
"I should roast it—"
He stopped mid-sentence. He noticed the position of the large pot had changed. As he turned toward the hut, his eyes caught the heavy indentations of human footprints in the muddy earth.
Takeshi unsheathed his sword, leveling it at the threshold of his door.
"Show yourself!" he shouted.
He felt his reaction was perhaps too hostile, especially since he hadn't encountered another human in years, which only sharpened the regret wounding his heart.
The sound of heavy, steady footsteps echoed from within the hut, followed by mocking words in a thick, irritating voice.
"Who called for me? Oh, it must be the owner of this lovely little shack!"
A tall man in his thirties emerged. His green eyes locked directly onto Takeshi. His brown hair and trimmed beard moved slightly with the creeping breeze. He wore a white robe wrapped around his body, fastened by a golden emblem resembling a bare skull.
Takeshi did not budge. He stepped forward with his blade, asking sharply:
"Who are you?"
A wide grin spread across the stranger's face. He tilted his head, pointing a finger at Takeshi.
"I am Yamikage, of the Royal Skull Gang—"
He shifted his hand, pointing toward Takeshi's sword, and continued:
"—and I have come for that piece of scrap metal!"
Yamikage raised his hand slightly toward Takeshi, and the ground suddenly buckled. Several black wooden branches erupted from the earth, hurtling toward Takeshi with lethal speed. Takeshi reacted instantly, evading most of them with supreme precision, but one grazed his cheek.
A single drop of blood fell, marking the beginning of the war.