It was lonely on the hill top. There was a large crowd of people gathered, but that didn't make it any less lonely.

The priest was reciting something from a book. The actual words were lost on the teenage boy standing amongst the front row of mourners. His attention was focused solely on the small grave before him. It was hard to believe that this was all that was left of her.

He hadn't realized the service was over until the people around him began to move away. Stepping forward, he stood before the grave and placed the white flower he'd been holding onto the freshly dug earth.

There were the usual formalities that came after a funeral. Guests who remained behind to talk to the deceased's family. And, being the only family of the deceased, it was his duty to talk to them. One by one, they eventually left, and the boy was alone in the house. After sitting in silence for a while, he got up and opened a set of draws. He took out a single candle in a holder and lit the wick.

Walking slowly, he made his way to her room. His steps were light, hardly making a sound. It still felt like trespassing into another person's private space; even though that person would never set foot in this room again.

The boy moved over to where the bed lay. He reached down and flipped over a floor mat, revealing a trap door underneath. Through said door, a set of stairs led down into a basement. The candle in his hand was the only source of light in the room, but this was not a problem since he already knew what lay before him.

It was a fairly large flat wooden chest, laid at the end of the room, with a simple wall hanging above it. The hanging was covered in writing and was clearly very old, but it had been kept in good condition, as had the chest. Several candles lay around the box. The teen lit these with his own light.

Placing his hands on the sides of the lid, he pushed it back to reveal a set of folded clothing lying on top of a sheathed katana. Gingerly taking the outfit out of the box, he began to remove his clothes and replace them with what he had just uncovered. A pair of black pants adorned his legs. On his upper body he wore a short, sleeveless white kimono shirt with black edging and a high wing collar. The shirt was tied with a broad gray belt. Black wristbands covered his forearms and simple laceless black shoes were on his feet. He took a small gray band and tied his shoulder-length hair in a short topknot at the back of his head.

Kneeling down before the chest again, the boy prepared to take out the final part of his new identity. He slid his hands underneath the handle and blade of the sword, and lifted it up. As he did so, he saw something he hadn't noticed. At the back of the chest was a piece of rolled-up paper tied with a black ribbon. Laying the sword on the floor beside him, he picked up the paper.

It must've been from her. Perhaps she'd written a message saying goodbye, knowing that she might not be able to do so herself. He took a small breath, preparing to receive her final words to him, and untied the ribbon.

On the paper, there was a single word written;

Continue

The boy sat there, looking at the one-word message. Somehow those eight letters took his mind out of the fog that had been clouding it, and brought everything into a sharp painful focus. His mother was dead, and his life was no longer his own. He looked up at the hanging above the chest. The words written there spelled out the code by which he would live the rest of his life.

The code of Bushido.

(A.N. – That's quite possibly the most serious thing I've ever written. This was just the short introduction chapter, letting you know that Bushido's just getting started in the hero business. But if he was hoping to get eased into it, he's got a nasty surprise heading his way. Find out what exactly in the following chapter.)