The Day of Two Beginnings;
'The day the world turned its back on me.'
Miwa's body dragged itself through the Borderlands, each step heavier than the last. His robes were torn, his bare feet cut raw on rock and thorn… yet the scrapes and cuts were nothing compared to the weight inside him — an emptiness that made even pain feel distant.
The judgment of the gods still rang in his ears:
"Unworthy. Coward. Criminal."
He stumbled forward without looking, without aim — as though each step existed only because his body refused to collapse. He had been walking in the direction of his banishment in a straight line. Now he had arrived at a dense forest. Cold air brushed against his already aching body, yet he walked on without end or pause. Finally, he could not help but glance at his surroundings: the forest, himself, the darkening sky. It was nearly night.
"To think that one day I would end up like this… and to think that so much could happen in just one day," he muttered under his breath. He paused, staring at the sky as if all hope had left him. Then he looked down at his bloodied hands, gripped them, and pressed on.
Surprisingly, even though this forest was known as the most dangerous part of the Borderlands — a place where high criminals, punished by the heavens but given a second chance, sought refuge only to find horror — it was eerily quiet.
"My body is full of blood and scars, still bleeding… and yet no monster comes to devour me," he muttered.
It was too quiet. Only the faint sound of wind brushing through leaves, his own breath, and his footsteps filled the air. That went on for a long time…
Until a faint cry — a yelp, almost a coo of a fragile, small body — cut through the silence.
He froze, frowning, his eyes scanning the supposed wasteland, as if trying to deny the very existence of the sound.
He continued walking, but in his mind, the sound crept in.
'No… not here. Not now. Please… I've already lost enough. Don't make me hear this.'
But the cry came again.
Miwa stopped in his tracks. Another coo, closer this time, seemed just to his right.
He clenched his teeth and fists. Humans cannot ignore a sound that demands attention — the urge to uncover truth, seek answers, or gain closure is irresistible.
Determined to see if his suspicion was correct, he shoved through a patch of tall grass. The thin, pointy vines and stems tore at his already battered skin, but he ignored it until a clear path opened before him. At its end, nothing lay there. He let out a soft, defeated chuckle.
"Of course… how could I be a fool? There's no way it's what I think… perhaps even the forest has started playing tricks on me," he muttered, turning back toward the path he had made.
Then, another coo sounded. He paused midway, just before leaving the path. "This…" he whispered, and rushed in a new direction. There, bundled in a scrap of black cloth, lay an infant. Eyes shut, fists trembling, voice straining against the emptiness of the forest.
Miwa stared. His breath caught. For a single heartbeat, despair loosened its grip on him.
"…A child?" he whispered, almost forgetting how to form words. "So I was right… it really is a child."
Then his chest tightened, and the weight of failure, fall, and identity returned. His jaw tightened. He turned away.
"…It's not mine. It's not my burden,"he said, voice cracking. "I can't… I won't."
He walked on. The child opened its eyes and cried, but Miwa ignored it. He stumbled deeper into the forest, finding a large crooked tree. Collapsing at its roots, back against the bark, he shut his eyes.
The cries carried faintly on the wind. He tried to block them out, closing his eyes tighter and focusing on other sounds. He clawed for scraps of memory — a blurred face, a hand that slipped away. The harder he grasped, the faster it scattered, leaving only silence.
"…Why can't I remember?" His voice rasped, broken, almost pleading. "Was I so worthless… that even memory abandons me?"
The baby cried again. He pressed his palms to his ears. "Stop. Please… just stop."
The cries didn't relent — not for hours.
They bled into the night. Miwa sat unmoving, face buried in shadow. The forest grew colder. His body stiffened. His mind dulled.
Then… silence.
His chest eased briefly, but twisted with suspicion. 'Why did it stop?' He opened his eyes slowly, hands trembling.
"What if… something happened?"
For the first time since his fall, a sliver of fear pierced through his numbness. He forced himself up and staggered back toward the tall grass. The child was still there, alive, breathing faintly against the night air. Relief flooded him. "…You're… still here."
He didn't know why his chest felt lighter. The answer didn't matter. Without another word, he lifted the child, cradling it against his chest. The cloth was thin, inadequate against the cold, so Miwa loosened his own robe and wrapped it around the infant. "…There. That's better."
The baby quieted, warmth and breath soft against his skin. Miwa sank back against the tree, the weight of despair heavy, but subtly different — not absolute.
Then sleep came, bringing a dream. He tried again to reach memories. Blurry images swam in his mind: a figure he couldn't place, lips moving without sound, only one word — not heard, but felt.
Dawn's light cut across his face, dragging him awake. The ache returned, pressing on his chest like stone. He remembered who he was, what he'd lost. A tear slipped down his cheek.
"…Why am I still here?" he whispered to the morning air. "Why won't the world just let me end?"
Small fingers brushed his face. The infant stirred, reaching toward him. For a moment, he simply stared.
The child's innocence was unbearable. "…Why do you look at me like that?" he whispered, voice shaking. "As if I'm not broken. As if I… still matter."
He tightened his hold. Something inside him shifted — faint but undeniable. A name formed on his lips without thought: "…Wei."
The baby cooed, tugging at his robe. Miwa let out a trembling laugh, the first in who knows how long. "Yes. That's your name."
His smile lingered only briefly before fading. He looked down at the child, chest tightening. "…It doesn't mean I can keep you," he whispered. "Somebody must be looking for you. Parents… a family. Someone who can give you more than I ever could."
The baby blinked up at him, cooing softly, as if mocking his words. Miwa tore a strip from his robe, fashioned a crude sling, and tied the child close. Every movement was slow, deliberate — like handling glass.
The warmth startled him — every shallow breath, every twitch of tiny fingers, a reminder this was no mere bundle of cloth, but a living weight.
"He needs food. Shelter. Care. He'll die in hours if I leave him."
So he walked, step after step, deeper into the cursed Borderlands. The truth dawned: this place offered no mercy. Beasts roamed — not of nature, but twisted, feral things whose existence stank of hatred.
Miwa clenched his fists. 'Fool. Did you think banishment was grace? They only gave you the privilege of rotting slowly.'
But when he felt Wei stir, the thought shattered. He looked down at the tiny hand resting against his chest. "…If I fall, he falls too," he whispered hoarsely. "And that… I cannot allow."
He forced himself onward. A different path, by dusk, the jagged treeline revealed faint lights of a settlement. Miwa's pace quickened — a town, food, shelter, perhaps even answers.
But the moment he stepped through its worn gates, every gaze felt like a knife. Whispers rose:
"The outcast…"
"Keep away."
"Monster."
He drew his cloak tighter, shielding the baby. The murmur followed like a tide. He bowed to a weary inn clerk polishing a mug. "…Could you please… give us just a little food? Just enough for today. I'll work for it. I'll scrub floors, mend walls — anything—"
The clerk's lip curled. He slammed the mug onto the counter. "Get out."
"…I can—"
"Out!" The man's voice cracked like a whip. "We don't serve your kind. Outcast filth!"
Gasps, then mutters. Someone spat on the ground. Miwa flinched. The baby stirred, whining. He bowed lower, shielding Wei. "Please…I beg you. Just… not for me. For him."
Recognition lit the clerk's face, followed by disgust. He hurled a half-stale loaf at Miwa's chest.
"Criminal! Be gone before I gut you!"
The loaf fell. Miwa bent, gathering it, tucking it into the sling. Outside, worse awaited: children jeered, hurling stones. Women joined, tossing fruit and roots. Words stung as much as weapons:
"Eat like the dog you are!"
"Parasite!"
"You should've rotted where you fell!"
Miwa froze as a turnip bounced wide. Another piece struck his chest, soft, deliberate. One woman's hand trembled as she lifted a root — a tear slipped down her cheek. For a moment, he almost believed some kindness existed — but the fury was real.
He bent down, gathering the fruit carefully into the sling. 'Even mercy… comes wrapped in hate.' He walked on, until the town vanished behind him.
Beyond the shadow, he stopped, arms trembling. "…This isn't your burden," he whispered. "Someone else will care for you. Someone better. Someone… not me."
He placed the baby on the grass. For a long moment, he stared. Then he turned, walked. One step — the baby whimpered. Another — the cry rose. A third — it became a wail.
Miwa halted, fists trembling. 'Don't turn back. Don't. If you care… just let go.'
Then the last sob finally broke him. He spun, fell to his knees, scooped the child into his arms, clutching tight. "Why… why won't you let me go?" His voice shook, half sob, half laugh.
Wei quieted, and Miwa pressed his forehead to the child's. "…Then I'll endure. If not for me — then for you."
By the river, he found salvation — clear water beneath the moonlight. He drank, cupped his hands for the baby. Wei gurgled, lips pressing to his palm. He crushed fruit on stone, feeding small portions. "…Slowly now. You're stronger than me already, aren't you?" Wei cooed; Miwa smiled faintly.
Night came. Miwa leaned against a tree, cloak wrapped tight, eyes lifted to stars. Memories ached, but beneath grew something new.
"They called me a coward. An outcast. Perhaps they were right," he whispered. "But you… you will live. Even if I must crawl through this cursed land on broken knees — you will live." His arms tightened, resolute.
For the first time since his fall, Miwa closed his eyes not in despair, but in fragile defiance. The baby's soft breathing lulled him. Hope stirred.
Dawn broke. The baby stirred. Peace seemed possible — fleeting.
Beyond the cursed forests, another dawn rose — bright, loud, destined to be remembered.
The great capital of Vallhiarta roared. Bells tolled, echoes racing across gilded spires. Priests in white and gold chanted promises of a new era. Flowers rained from balconies; incense thickened the air, masking steel and sweat.
At the heart of the capital, in the sanctum none dared enter, a child was born.
His cry pierced all who heard. Midwives froze. Priests fell silent. Even the King lowered his head, powerless.
The child's hair caught light, each strand flaring as though fire lived within it. Eyes opened — dawn itself seemed to stare back.
Then the world answered.
The Supreme God intoned, voice like thunder wrapped in silk: "Shirasu, child of light. Heir of my will."
The high priestess lifted the boy for all to see. Nobles fell to their knees. People screamed his name like a tidal wave. Trumpets blared, drums thundered. The boy basked in the golden glow.
Even the King whispered: "The god's son… our dawn."
On the same day Miwa clutched a nameless abandoned child by a forgotten river, the Supreme God named another as his heir.
One found hope in silence and exile. The other, exalted as destiny incarnate.
The sun burned brighter than it should, and the morning star's fall split the sky. To the priests and nobles, a sign of blessing.
But others whispered: Why would a star fall, if not to mark the beginning of a tragedy?
Two children. Two fates. One hailed as light, the other hidden in shadow.
And above them both, the morning star burned — a sign, a warning, a promise.