The wealthy Shimizu family resided in a sprawling traditional Japanese mansion, surrounded by hectares of rice paddies in Shizuoka, Japan.
On a cold winter night—the 17th of January, 2025—as was tradition, the family gathered in the Shimizu Mansion to honor the memory of a fallen hero.
Itsuki Shimizu, the modern-day legend, had been taken from them ten years prior, assassinated on this very date in 2019. Yet, his legacy lived on in the hearts of those who loved him.
Outside, a mild blizzard swept across the empty paddies, leaving them dry and silent, as if the world itself paused to remember. Luxury cars rolled up the driveway one by one. First arrived Guren, Itsuki's eldest younger sister, followed closely by her children. Soon after, Raika and Mari, the other younger sisters, arrived with their own families. Finally, their mother and father stepped inside, the warmth of the mansion greeting them like an embrace against the cold.
Inside, the family gathered near the grand fireplace. Sweaters wrapped around them, cups of steaming tea and coffee warming their hands, chocolates and pastries scattered across the polished wooden table. The flickering firelight danced across their faces, revealing both sorrow and the pride of remembering a man who had changed the world.
Before his death, Itsuki had left behind three children: a daughter and two sons. His eldest, Daria—affectionately called Dahlia—was known for her charisma and gift for storytelling. She had always been entrusted with the task of recounting her father's incredible life and legacy to the family.
"Good evening, Mother, Aunt Guren, Raika, Mari, Grandma, Grandpa," Daria greeted, her voice a delicate balance of joy and sorrow. She carried the weight of memory in her eyes, knowing tonight she would once again tell the story of the father who had changed the world.
Daria Shimizu ,was a thirteen year old daughter of Itsuki, standing at the delicate threshold between childhood and youth. Her dark hair fell softly past her shoulders, often slightly messy as if shaped by the wind rather than careful grooming. Her eyes were large and expressive—deep brown, bright with curiosity—and they seemed to shimmer whenever she spoke about something she loved.
Her face held a natural prettiness, not the refined beauty of wealthiness, but the gentle warmth of someone who smiled easily. When she laughed, her whole expression changed; her eyes curved like crescent moons, and a quiet dimple appeared on one cheek.
But what truly set her apart was her voice.
She was an emotional storyteller. When she spoke, she didn't just describe events—she felt them. Her brows would knit together in sorrow when telling a tragic tale, her hands moving animatedly as if trying to paint the scene in the air. Sometimes her voice trembled at the saddest parts, and sometimes her eyes glossed over as though she were living the story herself.
People often found themselves drawn in without realizing it. Even adults would fall silent when she spoke, captivated not by dramatic flair, but by sincerity. She told stories the way she lived—open-hearted, unguarded, and deeply human.
Her father had shared everything with her—every adventure, every struggle, every impossible moment—through bedtime stories when she was just five. Even as a little girl, she had hung on to his every word, feeling as if she were stepping into the world alongside him. At that time, her two younger brothers were still infants, leaving Daria as the one who shared those quiet, precious moments with their father.
Daria had never doubted him. She believed every fantastical tale, even though to others on Earth, such stories would seem impossible, absurd even. But to her, they were real—and so was her love for her father. His stories became a part of her, inseparable from the man who told them.
After his death, the truth of the world hit her early, sharper than most children ever experience. By the age of seven, she had already begun to understand the emptiness and cruelty that lingered in society, yet she carried her father's memory like a light in the darkness. In her heart, he never truly left—they lived together in her mind, in her stories, and in every choice she made.
Daria remembered that day with crystal clarity, the memory sharp as ice. Just hours before the world took her father from her, he had left for a press conference in Tokyo, speaking about his work and his vision for a better world.
She remembered his smile, warm and reassuring, as he bent down to her level and whispered his farewell.
He had no idea that it would be the last time she would see him alive. That hug, that glance, that fleeting moment of laughter—they were frozen in her memory, a treasure and a wound all at once.
Now, in the present, with the soft crackle of the fireplace and the aroma of tea and chocolate filling the Shimizu Mansion, Daria took a deep breath. Her eyes scanned the gathered family, the flickering candlelight reflecting in their tear-brimmed eyes.
She straightened her posture, lifted her chin, and began her storytelling, her voice steady yet laced with the raw emotion of memory and loss...
Chapter 2 is the beginning of Daria's storytelling...