In the small nation of Ryuzan, the air often carried the subtle scents of dried herbs and aged parchment, a testament to the families who dedicated themselves to the arts of healing and the written word.
Sunlight, filtered through the delicate paper windows of their ancestral homes, illuminated shelves lined with meticulously labeled vials and scrolls bound in time-worn leather.
These families were more than just respected; they were almost revered. Their knowledge, passed down through generations in hushed tones and practiced with solemn rituals, felt like a sacred trust. The very act of their study, the careful grinding of potent roots or the elegant strokes of a calligraphy brush, echoed with the weight of tradition, a quiet defiance against the relentless march of time.
Because of this enduring wisdom, a subtle air of prestige clung to Ryuzan. Messengers bearing the seals of distant kingdoms and the proud insignia of the Concordat Empire were not uncommon sights in their quiet streets, their urgent pleas a silent acknowledgment of the nation's unique gifts.
Within Ryuzan's serene borders, one could find healers whose touch was whispered to mend broken bones as seamlessly as a weaver mends torn fabric. The air in their treatment rooms hummed with a faint energy, sometimes attributed to rare minerals ground into poultices, other times to the sheer focus in the physician's eyes. Some were celebrated throughout the land, their names linked to miraculous recoveries from once-fatal plagues. Others, cloaked in an even deeper mystique, were said to understand the very currents of mana that flowed through the world.
This mana, a shimmering, almost palpable energy believed to originate from the spiritual core of all living things, was a force that certain legendary figures had learned to coax and shape. They could channel it to sharpen their senses until the rustle of leaves became a symphony, or to mend wounds with a speed that defied natural processes.
The paths of mana manipulation were diverse. Some individuals, their muscles rippling beneath taut skin, focused on channeling the energy to amplify their physical forms, moving with a speed that blurred the eye or striking with earth-shattering force. Others, with eyes that seemed to hold the calm depths of ancient forests, sought to deepen their connection with the natural world. They could sense the subtle shifts in the wind, understand the silent language of animals, and even draw strength from the very soil beneath their feet. And then there were those, the quiet scholars and meticulous researchers, who dedicated their entire existence to unraveling the intricate mysteries of this magnificent force, poring over ancient texts and conducting delicate experiments in secluded chambers, the faint glow of concentrated mana their only companion in the long hours of study.
Considering the profound impact of their unique skills, the quiet reverence afforded to the small nation of Ryuzan became entirely understandable. Their expertise was not a mere commodity; it was a vital resource in a world often fraught with peril and the limitations of mortal existence.
(Ryuzan, the Ishi Residence)
"Lady Miyama! Lady Miyama!" The frantic cry tore through the hushed stillness of the Ishi residence. The young attendant, his face flushed and sweat beading on his brow, stumbled through the polished corridors, his sandals slapping against the smooth wooden floor with each desperate stride.
In a sun-drenched chamber overlooking a meticulously manicured garden, another servant, her movements graceful and soothing, knelt beside a low divan. Her fingers, long and slender, gently massaged the delicate hand of Lady Miyama. The lady herself reclined against silk cushions, her dark hair cascading around a face of exquisite beauty, though a subtle shadow of impatience flickered in her deep-set eyes. She appeared to be in her early twenties, her elegant silk robes whispering softly with each slight movement.
The breathless attendant finally reached the doorway, panting.
"Forgive me, but Lord Ishi's reply has arrived!" He held out a sealed letter, his hand trembling slightly.
The second servant, with a practiced air of deference, took the missive and presented it delicately to her mistress. "This time," the attendant added, his voice thick with hope, "I'm certain it's good news!"
"Shush! Can't you see Lady Miyama has been waiting for the Lord's return for what feels like an eternity?" the massaging servant chided softly, her gaze still fixed on her mistress's hand.
"How utterly inconsiderate can you–" But before she could finish her reprimand, Lady Miyama offered a languid wave of her hand, her expression suggesting a weary tolerance.
"Hush now, it's alright," Lady Miyama said, her voice a silken murmur. "I understand his excitement. After all, we have all been holding our breath for my Lord's return. The worst that can happen is that his journey has been delayed once more. I refuse to nurture false hopes."
Yet, despite the carefully cultivated air of tranquility and disinterest that veiled her features, it was she who harbored the most fervent anticipation for Lord Ishi's arrival.
Oh, how I long for his presence!
She thought, her inner turmoil a stark contrast to her outward composure.
He has neglected me these past years, leaving me to languish without the attention I so richly deserve. Poor, forsaken woman that I am! Yearning to be indulged and spoiled with the most tender affections from my husband! When he finally graces us with his presence, I shall certainly make him atone for these lonely years!
Unspoken, yet palpable, was the collective yearning for the Lord's return that permeated the room. His prolonged absence had created a subtle unease within the household. The lower staff whispered anxieties about their future earnings, while Lady Miyama privately worried about the dwindling sparkle of her prized jewels, gifts she associated with his favor.
Every eye in the chamber was now fixed on Lady Miyama, their expressions a mixture of hope and trepidation as they awaited the opening of the letter, desperate for any news that might alleviate their unspoken worries.
"AHH!?"
The sound that escaped Lady Miyama's lips was a delicate gasp, yet it carried a sharp intensity that sliced through the quiet tension, loud enough to ripple through the entire house.
Her eyes, wide with disbelief and a dawning horror, stared fixedly at the parchment in her trembling hand.
A flurry of hushed footsteps echoed in the corridor as servants rushed towards the chamber, their faces etched with concern.
They found their mistress slumped against the silken cushions, her complexion ashen, having succumbed to the shock. Behind her, the fateful letter lay discarded on a heap of exquisitely embroidered fabrics, the stark black ink of its message a cruel contrast to the delicate weave.
The words, clearly penned, delivered a devastating blow: LORD AYATO ISHI HAS PASSED AWAY FOLLOWING AN ATTACK BY BANDITS ON HIS JOURNEY HOME.
In that frozen moment, the air in the room seemed to thicken, and every breath caught in their throats.
....
"I still can't quite believe that Lord Ishi is truly gone," one of the older serving women murmured, her voice heavy with a mixture of sadness and apprehension as she meticulously folded a silk robe, the fine fabric feeling strangely lifeless in her hands.
"Yes…" another servant sighed, his gaze distant as he straightened a row of lacquered boxes.
"I don't know what I'm going to do now. It's not easy to find well-compensated work in a small country like ours."
A palpable sense of uncertainty hung in the air, thick with unspoken fears about the future.
"Without the fortune of being born into a prominent family, simply affording to live becomes an insurmountable challenge… ahh…" Both of them released weary sighs, the weight of their precarious situation pressing down on them.
"I am so terribly sorry for all this… this upheaval…" A soft voice, barely above a whisper, drifted from the shadows of a nearby alcove. A figure, so slender and still that it could have been mistaken for a phantom clinging to the dimness, slowly emerged.
"AHH!"
Both servants recoiled, their eyes widening in shock. They had been so engrossed in their somber conversation that they hadn't registered the presence of a third person until the delicate figure stepped fully into the soft light filtering through a nearby window.
They quickly realized it was a young man, his features possessing a delicate, almost ethereal beauty.
"Young Master Ishi! We didn't… we didn't notice you there. You gave us quite a fright," they both murmured, their initial shock giving way to a subdued respect as they recognized Lady Miyama's son.
Ishi Shiro was a youth of seventeen, a figure of quiet intrigue within the small circles of Ryuzan's elite. He was known for his sharp intellect in matters of medicine, a talent that seemed to bloom effortlessly, and for his unexpectedly passionate appreciation for poetry, his verses often carrying a melancholic beauty that belied his young age. Yet, a peculiar air of mystery surrounded him.
His father had always been strangely reluctant to present him to Ryuzan's society, keeping him shielded from public view. Even more perplexing was the unsettling revelation that, upon his death, Lord Ishi had left his only son utterly without inheritance, a stark and unsettling omission that hung heavy in the already grief-laden atmosphere of the Ishi residence.
"Now that my father has passed away," Ishi Shiro murmured, his voice soft yet carrying a note of quiet resolve, "many things will undoubtedly change…"
The implications of his words hung in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the uncertain future that now stretched before them all.