The war had lasted so long that people had forgotten what silence sounded like.
For three years, the land burned.
Villages turned to ash.
Fields were crushed beneath marching armies.
And across the horizon—
Crimson banners.
Always crimson banners.
They stained the sky like wounds that refused to close.
On one battlefield—
Silence finally came.
But not peace.
The air was thick with smoke.
The ground was soaked—
Not with rain.
But with blood.
Broken armor lay scattered like discarded shells.
Swords half-buried in the dirt.
Bodies—
Too many bodies.
And in the middle of it all—
A sound.
Small.
Weak.
But alive.
A cry.
A baby.
Wrapped in torn cloth, barely shielding him from the cold, the child lay among the dead. His tiny hands reached upward—toward a sky he could not understand.
He cried again.
No one answered.
The wind passed.
Carrying the scent of iron.
Then—
Footsteps.
Two figures emerged through the haze.
Not soldiers.
Not warriors.
Just travelers.
The man moved first, cautious, eyes scanning the battlefield as if expecting something to rise from the dead.
The woman followed closely, her breath uneven.
"…There's nothing left," she whispered.
The man didn't respond.
His eyes had already found something else.
The sound.
He stepped forward.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Then he saw it.
"…A baby?"
The woman froze behind him.
"…What?"
He knelt.
The crying grew louder.
Up close, the child looked impossibly small.
Fragile.
Alive—
In a place where nothing else was.
The woman covered her mouth, her eyes widening.
"…Who would leave a child in a place like this…?"
No answer came.
Only the silence of the dead.
The man hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Then he reached down—
And lifted the child.
The crying stopped.
Instantly.
The baby's small fingers curled against his clothes.
Holding.
Clinging.
The man's expression shifted.
Something softened.
"…He's alone."
The woman looked around again.
At the bodies.
At the destruction.
At what remained.
"…Then he has no one left."
The wind moved again.
Colder this time.
The man stared at the child.
Long.
Quiet.
Then—
He exhaled.
"…We can't leave him here."
The woman's lips curved faintly.
Relief.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
She stepped closer, gently wrapping the baby in a cleaner cloth from her pack.
Careful.
As if the world might break him.
"…What should we name him?"
The man didn't answer immediately.
His eyes lifted—
Toward the horizon.
Where the banners still stood.
Crimson.
"…Toya."
The forest became their refuge.
Hidden from roads.
Hidden from soldiers.
Hidden from war.
Days turned into nights.
Nights into weeks.
Weeks into months.
And somehow—
Life continued.
A small home stood deep within the trees.
Simple.
Quiet.
Safe.
For the first time—
The child laughed.
Toya.
He grew.
Slowly.
Naturally.
Small steps.
Unsteady hands.
Curious eyes.
The man taught him how to hold things.
How to walk without making noise.
How to listen to the forest.
The woman told stories.
Of a time before war.
Of people who lived without fear.
Of skies that weren't filled with smoke.
Toya didn't understand those stories.
But he listened.
Every night.
And for a while—
That was enough.
But war…
Doesn't disappear.
It fades.
Like embers beneath ash.
Waiting.
One evening—
The fire crackled softly.
The man stared into it.
Quiet.
Thinking.
"…We can't stay here forever."
The woman sat beside him.
"…It's over, isn't it?"
"…That's what people are saying."
She nodded slowly.
"…Then maybe…"
A pause.
"…we can live normally."
The word felt unfamiliar.
Normal.
The man looked toward Toya.
The boy sat quietly nearby.
Watching them.
Listening.
Unaware.
"…There should be towns rebuilding."
The woman continued.
"…We can start again."
The man didn't respond immediately.
Then—
A small nod.
Decision made.
Days later—
They left the forest.
The world outside had changed.
Less smoke.
More people.
But the scars remained.
They arrived at a small town.
Nestled between hills.
Alive—
But fragile.
People rebuilding.
Homes half-repaired.
Hope—
Still uncertain.
The villagers welcomed them.
Strangers—
But not enemies.
And for the first time—
Toya had something real.
A home.
Years passed.
Not quickly.
But gently.
Toya grew.
He ran through fields.
Climbed trees.
Laughed with other children.
The river became his favorite place.
Cool water.
Endless sky.
His parents worked.
Hard.
But always smiled when they saw him.
To Toya—
The world felt safe.
Simple.
Complete.
But peace—
In a land touched by war—
Is never permanent.
It breaks.
Suddenly.
Without warning.
That night—
The sound came first.
Distant.
Then closer.
Hooves.
Fast.
Relentless.
Toya stirred in his sleep.
Then—
Screams.
His eyes snapped open.
The smell hit him next.
Smoke.
Fire.
"Toya! Wake up!"
Hands shook him.
His father.
"Stay behind us!"
Confusion.
Fear.
Outside—
Chaos.
Flames devoured homes.
Villagers ran.
Some fell.
Some didn't get back up.
Armored figures moved through the streets.
Efficient.
Merciless.
Steel flashed.
Blood followed.
His mother pulled him close.
"…What's happening?!"
His father's face was pale.
Tense.
"…The lord."
A pause.
"The town refused his taxes…"
His jaw tightened.
"…This is punishment."
Footsteps approached.
Heavy.
A group of armored samurai turned the corner.
Their eyes—
Cold.
Their blades—
Ready.
Time slowed.
"Toya—RUN!"
A shove.
The world tilted.
He fell.
The ground hit hard.
And when he looked up—
Steel.
A flash.
Red.
His parents—
Falling.
"…Toya…"
His mother's voice.
Fading.
"…run…"
Then—
Silence.
Not real silence.
But something inside him—
Breaking.
The world blurred.
Fire roared.
People screamed.
But Toya didn't move.
He couldn't.
His hands clenched.
Trembling.
Tears fell—
But he didn't notice.
Above the chaos—
Banners rose.
Crimson.
Unmoving.
Watching.
The symbol burned into his vision.
A name—
Spoken in fear.
Lord Takamori.
The ruler.
The one who ordered this.
The one who took everything.
Toya's chest tightened.
Not from fear.
Not from grief.
Something else.
Something darker.
Something that didn't fade.
Didn't break.
It grew.
Quietly.
Deep inside him.
His fingers dug into the dirt.
Trembling.
Tightening.
Until they hurt.
Until he felt something—
Anything—
And in that moment—
As the world burned around him—
A seed was planted.
Not fear.
Not despair.
Hatred.