The snow was still falling when Shin began to walk again.
There was no urgency at first. No plan. Just movement. Standing still felt worse than facing what remained of the village.
He moved slowly between the ruined houses, stepping around debris, careful not to slip on the darkened blood mixed with snow. The silence was heavy — not the peaceful quiet of early morning, but the kind that comes after something ends the wrong way. No screams. No cries for help. Only the wind slipping through broken walls.
The first thing he felt was loss.
Not as an organized thought, but as a constant weight in his chest, something that wouldn't let the air in properly. The child inside him wanted to stop. Wanted to sit on the ground, cry again, maybe scream. Wanted to call for his mother, his siblings, even knowing there would be no answer.
The other part — older, tired, strangely calm — didn't allow it.
Not out of cruelty. Out of necessity.
He needed to leave. That much was clear. Staying meant dying. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. The cold, hunger, or the ninjas themselves would return. And next time, there would be no hiding place.
Shin passed the first familiar house. He recognized the crooked gate, the door torn from its hinges. Inside lay two bodies. He didn't stop to identify them. Not because he didn't care, but because he couldn't. Something inside him locked up every time he tried to put names to the dead.
He kept walking.
Each house told the same story. Sometimes an entire family. Sometimes someone alone, collapsed near the doorway, as if they had tried to run. In one house, he found a torn sack of rice scattered across the floor. He gathered what was still clean, wrapped it in cloth, and tucked it away.
He didn't think much about it. His hands moved almost on their own.
Money came later. Not much. A few coins hidden in small boxes, under loose planks, or inside ceramic jars. Not enough to change a life, but enough to buy time. Shin didn't know exactly how much it was worth — only that without it, he'd be worth even less.
His father's body lay near the village's northern exit.
Shin recognized it before he got close. The bow was there. Broken at one end, but still mostly intact. The quiver lay a few steps away.
Ryo was on his side, an arrow piercing his chest. There was no surprise on his face. Only exhaustion.
Shin knelt.
For a moment, everything inside him tangled. The two parts met there, unsure of what to do with each other. The child remembered his father coming home, the smell of fresh game, the steady voice. The other part understood what it meant for a man to fall without being able to protect what he loved.
The bow was always with him.
The thought came simply, almost childlike. It was always with my father.
Shin picked it up carefully. It was heavy for his arms — too heavy — but not impossible. The wood bore marks of use, of his father's hands. It wasn't just a weapon. It had been a tool. A means of sustenance.
Now, it would be survival.
He didn't cry there. He couldn't. He only closed his eyes for a few seconds, drew a deep breath, and slung the bow over his back as best he could.
Then he moved on.
The last house he entered belonged to the village chief.
It was larger than the others, but simple. Well-kept wooden floors, now covered in ash and bloodstains. Shin barely remembered the old man. Quiet. Polite. He spoke little about himself. Some said he had once been a samurai. Others said it was just talk.
In the main hall, Shin found the body.
The old man sat against the wall, holding his sword still sheathed. There were no signs of struggle inside. No deep cuts. No marks of defense.
He died before he could draw the blade.
The thought landed heavily — not as judgment, but as fact. Even someone who may have fought his entire life hadn't been given a chance. There was no honor there. Only speed. Efficiency.
The sword caught Shin's attention.
It didn't look like a common katana. The blade was curved, but wider. The hilt plain, without ornamentation. Something between a katana and a saber. He had never seen anything like it.
He picked it up.
It was far too large for him. Heavy. The sheath nearly dragged along the floor when he tried to tie it at his waist. Still, there was something about it that felt right. Not beautiful. Not special. Just solid.
Maybe it was an heirloom. Maybe it had been bought from a traveling merchant. Shin didn't know. It didn't matter.
It would serve survival as well.
Before leaving, he took a few more coins from a hidden compartment. After that, there was nothing left.
Outside, the village looked smaller.
The ruined houses. The scattered bodies. Everything that had been his life was there, frozen in time.
He wanted to bury them all. He knew he should. It was the right thing to do. But fear spoke louder.
What if they came back?
What if someone was still watching?
That choice hurt. More than he expected. Running felt wrong. Like betrayal.
But staying meant death.
Shin stopped at the edge of the village and looked back one last time. He drew a deep breath. The air burned his lungs.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, not knowing exactly to whom.
Then he turned away.
With the bow on his back, the oversized sword at his waist, and a few coins hidden beneath his clothes, he left.
There were no witnesses. No farewell.
In that moment, it meant nothing to the world. No great name was written. No force shifted sides.
But there, in blood-stained snow, something began — something the world did not yet know it would one day feel.
And Shin kept moving forward.