Mujima's strength was completely drained. Every breath felt heavy, as if his chest were being pressed from the inside. He knew that staying there, or trying to take revenge in his current condition, would only end in a pointless death. His own body had already given its warning, the pain spread from his shoulder down to his back, like the aftermath of several attacks he only realized once the adrenaline slowly faded.
With unsteady steps, Mujima forced himself to move toward the forest. He chose a path filled with dense bushes and tightly packed trees, hoping he could disappear from the sight of anyone who might still be searching for him. Every step made his wounds sting again, the dried blood pulling at his skin whenever he moved.
Before long, he gave in to his own body. Mujima sat down, leaning against the trunk of a large tree, his back pressed against the rough, cold bark. He tried to steady his breathing, to calm his chaotic thoughts. At first, he only intended to rest for a moment, but the exhaustion was too overwhelming. His eyes closed without him realizing it.
In his sleep, formless dreams came. Fire, screams, and flashes of scorching light blended into one. There was the sound of explosions that felt unbearably close, heat that burned his skin, and the shadows of people collapsing one by one. Mujima tried to scream, but his voice was swallowed by the chaos.
"Hey… kid. Wake up."
That unfamiliar voice pulled him back to reality. Mujima jolted awake, his eyes snapping open as he gasped for air. Standing before him was a merchant in worn clothing, a large basket strapped to his back. The man's face was tense, clearly unprepared to find a small child covered in blood in the middle of the forest.
"What happened to you?" the merchant asked, his voice barely holding back panic. "You're badly hurt like this."
Mujima tried to stand, but his knees trembled. The merchant reflexively grabbed his shoulders to keep him from collapsing again.
"Listen," the merchant said in a lower but urgent voice, "you can't stay here for long. Run and get away, quickly. This place is full of Nippon right now. They're everywhere."
Mujima swallowed hard. "My parents…" he said softly, then fell silent.
The merchant stared at him for a moment longer. "Where are your parents?"
Mujima shook his head weakly. "I… don't know."
The merchant's expression changed. There was sympathy there, but also clear fear. He let out a long sigh before speaking again.
"Then listen carefully," he said. "There may still be hope. There are still the Saint Orders. If they're still standing, then Nippon may have already been driven back, as usual."
Seeing the confusion on Mujima's face, the merchant gave a small shake of his head. "A small child like you probably doesn't know much about it. The Saint Orders used to be very strong. Each of them possessed extraordinary power." He paused for a moment, his tone growing darker. "But now… everything has been reduced to rubble by a massive explosion. The heat made no sense at all. Even I don't understand what really happened."
Mujima fell silent, listening intently.
"There are other orders starting to appear now," the merchant continued, "but they're not as strong as the Saint Orders were. The world has changed, kid. So you have to be careful."
The merchant then pointed in a certain direction. "If you walk straight along the river, you'll find a city. People say that city is fairly safe. Orders are everywhere there, at the very least, it's safer than this forest."
He looked at Mujima once more, as if making sure the child truly understood. "Don't stop here. Go while you still can."
Mujima nodded slowly. Even though his body was still trembling, those words gave him one thing he hadn't had until now: direction.
The merchant crouched down beside Mujima's weak body lying beneath the tree. The child's breathing was still ragged, his chest rising and falling unevenly, while dried blood clung to his skin and clothes. The man looked at him for several seconds, as if weighing something in his heart, before finally speaking in a low but warm voice.
"I can't give you anything valuable," he said slowly. "But I still have some boiled cassava for you to eat, and a little drink."
His hand reached into the woven basket strapped to his back. From inside, he took out several pieces of boiled cassava neatly wrapped in banana leaves. At first, he intended to hand them directly to Mujima, but when he saw how badly the child's fingers were trembling, barely able to grip anything, he abandoned the idea. Carefully, the merchant placed the bundle of cassava on Mujima's stomach, making sure it wouldn't fall.
"We're fellow human beings," he continued. "It's only right that we help one another."
He then stood up slowly, pulling the basket back onto his shoulders, which looked thin and worn from the long journey. His face tightened, as if time did not allow him to linger there any longer.
"But I'm sorry," he said again, his tone shifting slightly, more hurried now. "I can't stay here too long. I have to go as well."
He raised his hand and pointed toward the dense bushes leading to a line of thick trees in the distance. "Once you start to feel a little better, walk straight in that direction. Never take the small paths."
The merchant paused for a moment, then added in a quieter but serious voice, "I'm certain there will be Nippon guarding those. They spread out along the small roads like that."
His gaze shifted to the forest surrounding them. "Don't worry. They say this forest doesn't have any dangerous wild beasts. Most of the fierce animals here have already been killed by members of the orders who came to test their strength."
Mujima, who had remained silent the whole time, finally opened his mouth. His voice was hoarse and almost inaudible.
"Then… uncle?"
The merchant turned around, and for a brief moment his face showed an expression that was hard to describe, a mix of exhaustion, resignation, and a faint, bitter smile.
"Just forget about me," he replied. "I'll take the small path."
Mujima lifted his head slightly, his brows weakly furrowing. Curiosity and confusion surfaced in his eyes. The merchant caught that look, as if he knew what the child wanted to ask, and spoke again without being prompted.
"I have to survive by trading alongside Nippon," he said. "That's the only way I can stay alive."
He let out a long sigh. "Usually, when I shout 'sake, sake,' they come over with laughter and smiles that look friendly. I'm not betraying our people just because I trade with the enemy. I just want to live… and support the family I still have."
His eyes stared blankly ahead, as if imagining something far away. "Even if it means putting my own life on the line."
Mujima listened from close by with a calm gaze. There was no anger, no rejectio, only a heavy silence. The sharp look he once had while living in the countryside now felt stiffer, more mature than his age.
In his mind, Mujima knew well that trading with Nippon was the same as feeding a wild beast, creatures that could pounce at any moment without warning. Yet at the same time, he began to realize something else: everyone carried their own burdens.
Some bore them with swords, some with words, and others with endurance. Problems, no matter how small or how great, were not always faced by running or fighting. There were people who endured by accepting, by being patient, by choosing to live even if it meant walking along the edge of a cliff. For them, problems were not merely obstacles, but trials, or opportunities to grow stronger.
Mujima finally spoke a single sentence, his voice weak but sincere.
"Thank… you… for helping me… uncle."
The merchant fell silent for a moment. In his heart, Mujima looked like his own son. And for a father, or for anyone still sane, seeing an injured child and leaving him like that was something he could not accept.
Without saying anything more, he adjusted the basket on his shoulders, then turned around and stepped toward the small path he had warned Mujima to avoid.
The merchant looked at Mujima for a few moments, then gave a small smile, a smile that no longer held panic, but relief. It was as if he wanted to remember the child's face before truly leaving.
"Thank you as well for listening to me," he said softly. "May I know your name, kid?"
Mujima gave a small nod. "My name is Mujima, Uncle."
The smile on the merchant's face widened, this time more sincere. "If that's the case, then I hope we can meet again in peaceful days." He let out a light sigh. "Once again, thank you in advance."
Mujima returned it with a thin smile. His voice was almost a whisper as he said, "A good person doesn't need to say thank you too often."
The merchant let out a short, quiet laugh, as if that simple sentence had touched something in his heart. Without saying anything else, he turned and walked away, moving through another stretch of bushes, the direction he had pointed out earlier, as if from the very beginning he had been following Mujima's tracks until he found the child lying there.
Mujima's eyes followed his steps. The merchant's shoulders grew farther away, smaller and smaller, until they finally disappeared behind the dense trees.
For a moment, Mujima remained silent. His gaze dropped to the banana leaves resting on his stomach, where the boiled cassava was neatly wrapped. Yet his thoughts did not stop there. He glanced again toward the bushes the merchant had pointed out earlier.
Without much deliberation, he decided to move. He knew his body had rested enough. His next destination was clear: the city the merchant had mentioned.
With great effort, Mujima lifted his legs. His thighs and knees trembled violently. The wounds hidden beneath his clothes were pulled by the sudden movement, triggering a sharp sting that made his jaw tighten. His hands trembled as well, but that did not stop him. He moved from one tree to another, gripping the sturdy trunks to keep his balance.
He had not touched the boiled cassava at all. Not because he was not hungry, but because something felt more urgent: finding a place that was truly safe to rest.
After walking far enough from the place where he had awakened earlier, his ears caught another sound. The murmur of a river's current striking against rocks became clear, followed by a soft humming, the voice of a woman.
Curiosity drove Mujima to carefully part the bushes. There, on the clear riverbank, stood a woman washing her face. Water flowed between her fingers, reflecting a gentle light.
She wore fully covering black clothing, as well as long, dark hair. But that was not what drew Mujima's attention the most. Beside the woman lay a sword. Its shape was like a dagger, but longer, resembling a small katana, similar to the sword now sheathed at Mujima's own waist.
As Mujima tried to observe more closely, the surrounding bushes shifted slightly. That small sound was enough to make the woman react. In one swift motion, she grabbed her sword and pointed it toward the place where Mujima was hiding.
"Come out," she said firmly, without shouting. "I know you're there."
Mujima was startled. From her manner of speech and appearance, he realized the woman was not Nippon. But whether she was an enemy or not, he could not yet be sure. Holding his breath, he stepped out from behind the bushes, both of his swords already in his hands, one in his left, one in his right, ready if he had to defend himself.
The woman froze for a moment. Her eyes widened, not in threat, but in shock. Standing before her was not a soldier, but a child, his body covered in wounds, his clothes smeared with dried blood. The marks of sharp weapon cuts were clearly visible, wounds far too distinctive to be mistaken. They were unmistakably the work of Nippon.
Mujima remained standing stiffly, waiting to see whether the woman would attack or lower her sword. But before any decision could be made, his body suddenly lost its strength. His vision wavered, the light around him fading.
The world before his eyes blurred, then went dark.
Mujima's body fell to the ground without a sound. Not because of an attack, but because his body had endured hunger and wounds for far too long without any intake since earlier.