The wooden sword cut through the air with a sharp whiff, the sound rhythmic and steady as the boy's muscles coiled and released with each practiced swing. Sweat beaded at his temples, his dark hair clinging to his forehead as he moved through the familiar motions—strike, pivot, strike again. The courtyard was quiet save for the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of cicadas, their song a constant hum in the late afternoon heat.
Again.
His grip tightened.
Again.
His breath steadied.
Again.
A voice interrupted him.
"Young master."
He didn't stop. Not until the last arc of his swing was complete, the imaginary foe in his mind cleaved in two. Only then did he lower the sword and turn, meeting the gaze of the servant standing at the edge of the courtyard. Behind her, his mother waited, her expression unreadable.
"Your presence is required," the servant said, bowing slightly.
The boy—Ren—wiped his forearm across his brow and exhaled. "What is it?"
His mother stepped forward, her kimono whispering against the gravel as she moved. There was something in her eyes—something tense, something resigned. "You are to be groomed and presented in the main hall."
Ren stiffened. "Why?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she reached out and brushed a stray leaf from his shoulder, her touch light. "Your father has arranged a meeting."
That was all she said, but it was enough. Ren's jaw clenched. He knew what this was about.
---
The servant's hands were efficient as they worked, scrubbing away the dirt and sweat, combing through his hair, dressing him in a formal kimono of deep indigo. Ren stood still, his mind elsewhere as the fabric was adjusted, the obi tied just so. His reflection in the polished bronze mirror was unfamiliar—too polished, too restrained. Like a doll being dressed for display.
"The young master looks quite handsome," the servant murmured, stepping back to admire her work.
Ren didn't respond.
When he was finally led to the main hall, the weight of expectation pressed down on him like a physical force. The doors slid open, and there, seated across from his father, was a man he didn't recognize—tall, stern-faced, with an air of quiet authority. And beside him…
A girl.
She was perhaps his age, maybe a year younger, dressed in a kimono of soft lavender, her dark hair pinned back with delicate silver ornaments. Her posture was perfect, her hands folded neatly in her lap. But it was her eyes that caught him off guard—sharp, intelligent, watching him with an intensity that made his skin prickle.
"So this is her*."*
He had heard the rumors. The daughter of the Fujiwara family, a girl of renowned beauty and poise, who had turned down suitor after suitor without so much as a second glance. And now, here she was.
Sitting in his home.
For him.
Ren's fingers twitched at his sides.
"Ren," his father's voice was firm, commanding. "This is Lord Fujiwara and his daughter, Lady Aiko. They have come to discuss an important matter."
Ren bowed, the motion stiff. "It is an honor."
The girl—Aiko—dipped her head in return, but her gaze never left him. There was something unsettling about it, as if she were peeling back his layers with just her eyes.
The fathers spoke—pleasantries, agreements, the careful dance of politics and alliances. Ren barely listened. His mind was a storm of frustration, of the same argument he had had with his father a hundred times before.
"You are the eldest. The legacy falls to you."
"I don't want it."
"It is not about what you want."
A hand touched his elbow, snapping him back to the present. His mother's voice was soft. "You and Lady Aiko may take a stroll in the garden. Get to know one another."
It wasn't a suggestion.
---
The garden was quiet, the evening air cool against Ren's skin. Aiko walked beside him, her steps measured, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then—
"You're not happy about this."
Ren glanced at her, surprised by the bluntness.
Aiko's lips quirked, just slightly. "I've seen the way you look at your sword. The way you tense when your father speaks of duty." She tilted her head. "You don't want to be here."
Ren exhaled through his nose. "And you do?"
"I didn't say that."
A breeze rustled the leaves above them. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called.
"Then why agree to this?" Ren asked.
Aiko was silent for a moment. Then, softly, "Because I saw you."
Ren frowned. "What?"
"That day in the market. When you drove off those dogs." Her fingers brushed against the sleeve of her kimono, as if recalling something.
"You didn't hesitate. You didn't do it for praise. You just… acted."
Ren remembered that day. It had been nothing. A stray pack had cornered a group of children, and he had stepped in without thinking. He hadn't even known she was there.
Aiko turned to face him fully, her gaze piercing. "You're not like the others. You don't care about status, about playing the part. You want something real."
Ren's chest tightened. She wasn't wrong. But it didn't change anything.
"It doesn't matter what I want," he said quietly.
Aiko studied him for a long moment. Then, to his surprise, she smiled—small, secretive. "We'll see."
When they returned, the fathers were still deep in discussion. Ren's stomach churned. He knew what was coming.
Sure enough, as soon as the Fujiwaras had left, his father turned to him.
"Well?"
Ren met his gaze. "I'm not interested."
His father's expression darkened. "This is not a game, Ren. This alliance would secure our family's future. You will do your duty."
The familiar anger rose in Ren's throat. "My duty? Or yours?"
"Enough!" His father's voice cracked like a whip. "You will put aside these childish fantasies of being a warrior. You are the heir to this house. Start acting like it."
Ren's hands curled into fists. "I won't."
The argument escalated, voices rising, his mother stepping in to mediate. But Ren had heard it all before. The same words, the same demands.
Without another word, he turned and walked away.
Then he ran.
---
The mountain path was steep, the rocks uneven beneath his feet, but Ren didn't slow. He ran until his lungs burned, until the anger dulled to a numb ache in his chest.
Finally, he reached his spot—a flat rock jutting out over the edge, where he could see the entire valley below. The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.
Ren sat, his wooden sword resting across his lap, and exhaled.
"Why can't they understand?"
He closed his eyes, letting the memories of his past life drift to the surface. A small apartment. A flickering screen. The hollow ache of loneliness. He had died with nothing. No one. And now, in this life, he had a family. A home. A future.
But it still felt like a cage.
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
At the edge of the rock, where there had been nothing before, a cluster of blue flowers swayed gently in the breeze. Their petals were an unnatural shade, almost glowing in the fading light.
Ren frowned. He hadn't seen them there before.
Curious, he reached out, plucking one from the stem. He hesitated, then brought it to his lips.
The moment it touched his tongue, a sharp, electric pain shot through him. His vision blurred—
—and then he saw.
Blood. So much blood. The walls of his home painted crimson. The bodies of servants strewn like broken dolls. And in the center of it all, a man—no, not a man, a thing—with eyes like slits and a grin too wide, too sharp.
In his arms, Ren's youngest sister, her small body limp.
Ren's eyes snapped open.
The flower was gone. The sky was dark.
And the scent of blood hung heavy in the air.
Without thinking, Ren was on his feet, his sword gripped tight as he tore down the mountain.
Something was wrong.
Something was very wrong*.*