Chapter One
Death and Discovery
Inuyasha's mother was ill. At least, that was what he thought was wrong. He was too young to understand it was something far worse than the colds or sniffles he'd seen others on the estate suffer through.
She had grown frail, her strength slipping away as though the cold of the season was draining it from her. At first, she would lose her breath quickly on their walks through the estate or into the woods to gather herbs. But now, even sitting up unaided was impossible. Inuyasha had tried to help her move, but though he was strong for his age, he was still small, his arms unable to bear her weight. All he could do was fetch the items she needed, running to her side at every whispered request.
Her family—a wealthy daimyo and landowner—avoided the rooms they shared, refusing to acknowledge her presence. The servants, what few remained, stayed well away when Inuyasha was near. The whispers of "hanyou," "half-breed," and "kasu" always followed him, no matter how much his mother tried to shield him from them. He heard them all the same. His ears—those unnatural white dog ears perched atop his head—picked up every muttered insult, every contemptuous word.
His mother, Izayoi, never called him those names. She would stroke his silver hair and tell him he was special, that he belonged with her. She would tell him stories about brave warriors and kind hearts, assuring him that he was none of the hateful things they said. But her words couldn't stop the stares or the rocks thrown when no one thought he was looking.
This morning, Izayoi was asleep, her breaths shallow and rasping. Her face, usually pale, glistened with sweat. Inuyasha touched her hand, feeling the chill of her skin. He knew what that meant—another day of pain. He needed to be quick before she woke. She had told him her suffering was worse when he wasn't near to protect her from the cruelty of her family and their servants.
The house was silent in the early morning darkness. It was the perfect time to slip away unnoticed. Grabbing a small basket, Inuyasha crept into the woods, his bare feet light and swift on the damp earth. He searched for the herbs she'd taught him to find—his tiny hands brushing aside leaves and roots as he worked. He hated these trips. Every moment away from her filled him with fear. What if she needed him? What if she…
No, he couldn't think about that. Not yet.
He returned within the hour, clutching the herbs tightly. The estate was still quiet, but the air inside their room felt heavier than before. Izayoi hadn't stirred. Her breaths were softer now, almost nonexistent. Inuyasha knelt beside her, carefully crushing the herbs to prepare the medicine. He whispered to her as he worked, telling her about the woods and how quickly he'd found the plants she needed.
When the draught was ready, he touched her hand again, shaking her gently. "Mama," he called softly. She didn't move. Her skin was colder than before. His small hands began to tremble.
His mother's breaths were shallow, her face glistening with sweat. Inuyasha glanced at her, his small hand hovering over hers, hesitant to disturb her sleep. She looked so peaceful in that moment, and yet he knew—deep down—that something was wrong.
"Mama?" he whispered, nudging her gently. Her hand was cold, startlingly so. He flinched, instinctively pulling his hand back before trying again, shaking her arm a little harder. "Mama, wake up."
She didn't stir.
A knot of panic began to form in his chest. "Mama, please." His voice cracked, trembling. He shook her harder, his small frame leaning against hers in desperation. But she remained still, her chest no longer rising or falling. The truth loomed over him like a shadow he couldn't escape. Wet warmth began to stream down his cheeks as the realization hit him—she was gone.
Desperately, he crawled onto the futon beside her, clutching her lifeless form. Maybe she was just cold, he thought. Maybe if he held her close, she'd warm up. He pressed his face into her chest and stayed there, waiting for her to move, to speak, to comfort him the way she always did. But the hours stretched on, and she remained silent.
Days passed, and still, he stayed by her side. Each morning, a voice would call out from the door—"Izayoi-sama"—but no one dared enter. Not until today. The door creaked open, and he heard the murmurs of her family and servants, their tones laced with disdain.
"Such a shame," one voice said.
"What about her bastard?" another asked.
"Probably the one who killed her," someone spat.
Inuyasha tightened his hold on his mother, fresh tears spilling down his face. He wanted to yell at them, to tell them they were wrong, but his voice wouldn't come.
The footsteps drew closer, and then a sharp jab prodded his back. He flinched, curling tighter against his mother. "Let go, you little cur. She's dead, no thanks to you," a servant snapped, their voice cold and venomous.
"Leave him," another voice said, though there was no kindness in the suggestion. "He'll let go eventually."
But Inuyasha didn't let go, even as the broomstick jabbed harder against his back. When prodding didn't work, the servant resorted to hitting him, the blows landing on his shoulders, his arms, anywhere they could reach. "Let go, you stupid little bastard!" they shouted, their voice rising in frustration.
Finally, a particularly harsh strike forced him to release his hold, and he stumbled back, shielding himself as the blows continued. He watched helplessly as his mother's body was taken from the room, his cries ignored as they carried her away.
The broomstick swatted at him again, herding him out of the house. "Off with you now," the servant ordered, shoving him toward the edge of the property.
"Wha—" he started, but the broomstick cracked against his head before he could finish.
"You heard me. Get out, you filthy dog!"
Inuyasha fell to the ground, stunned. He stared up at the servant, tears blurring his vision. "Please…" he whispered, but his plea was met with another swing of the broom.
"Go!"
He scrambled away, retreating to the edge of the estate. From there, he watched as his mother's burial began. He tried, time and time again, to approach the grave, to see her one last time, but each attempt was met with the same cruel treatment. The servants shooed him away, their voices mocking and cruel.
"Good riddance," one said.
"At least we're free of her shame now," another muttered, loud enough for him to hear.
"She should've left that mutt to die in the woods," someone else sneered.
Inuyasha didn't respond. He couldn't. All he could do was sit at a distance, his small body trembling with grief and exhaustion, as he watched the only person who had ever loved him buried with as little ceremony as possible. The family stood around the grave, cold and impassive, ignoring his cries.
He sobbed quietly, his tears soaking the dirt beneath him, his heart breaking under the weight of a world that had never wanted him.
They were free of her now. Free of the shame she had brought them. And Inuyasha was left alone, unwanted and unloved, in a world that seemed determined to crush him.
o - o - o - o - o
Nightfall brought a biting chill, but Inuyasha couldn't resist venturing onto the estate grounds, keeping to the shadows. He crept as close as he dared to his mother's grave. He had seen others lay flowers or trinkets for their loved ones, but he had nothing to offer. When they drove him away, it had been with nothing but the clothes on his back. He hadn't even thought to grab a keepsake; fear had made him clumsy and scattered.
As he lingered near the grave, a sharp pain struck his leg. He whipped around and saw the same servant from before, pelting him with rocks.
"I told you to stay gone, you little rabid cur!" the man growled.
Startled, Inuyasha jumped back, narrowly avoiding another stone. He scrambled out of range and fled into the woods.
It wasn't the last time. Each time he tried to visit his mother's grave, the servants caught him and chased him off. They knew he was lingering at the edge of the estate, and they had assigned the meanest among them to ensure he never stepped foot near the property again. After days of being run off, battling hunger that gnawed at him like a beast, he finally gave up.
But giving up left him with another problem: he had nowhere to go. His mother's home had been his entire world. He had never even been to the small village on the western edge of the estate. His mother had always kept him close, not out of shame but out of love and caution. She would often tell him he should be proud of who he was, but she never let him wander far, always keeping him within the safety of the property and surrounding woods. Now, without her, he would soon learn why.
Desperate, Inuyasha ventured into the village. The reception he received there was worse than the treatment from his mother's family. Villagers screamed at him, threw stones, or brandished weapons, as if he were some wild animal. His mother's relatives had likely warned them of his presence, ensuring the entire village viewed him with disdain.
The village, however hostile, was his best chance for survival. He didn't know how to hunt, but he was quick on his feet and managed to snatch scraps of food before anyone caught him. He hated the idea of stealing—it felt wrong—but as his stomach churned with hunger, he rationalized: I'm not a thief… no one will feed me now that Mother is gone. What choice do I have?
One day, as he was skulking around for something to eat, a voice called out.
"Psst."
Inuyasha froze, instinctively ready to bolt.
A low chuckle followed. "Hey there, hungry boy?"
Peeking from behind a barrel, Inuyasha saw a man crouched nearby, motioning him over. He recognized him—others in the village called him the Stranger. Despite living on the village's edge, the man was a mystery even to his neighbors.
Inuyasha didn't move, wary of the trap. He'd fallen for tricks like this before and been left bruised by cruel villagers.
The man stood, brushing off his knees. "Suit yourself. But I've got a nice pot of pottage, and I don't mind sharing." He turned and began walking away, leaving Inuyasha to ponder his words.
The boy's stomach growled at the thought of warm food. His nose twitched, catching the faint smell of something roasting. Slowly, he decided to follow, keeping his distance as the man headed to a modest home on the village's outskirts.
From the shadows, Inuyasha watched as the man prepared his meal, gutting fish and tending to the fire. The process took over an hour, and all the while, the savory scent of cooking food teased Inuyasha's senses. When the meal was ready, the man filled two bowls and set one aside.
Leaning out his open door, the man called out, "Still hungry? Changed your mind?"
Inuyasha hesitated, unsure if this was another trick. But hunger clawed at his insides, and the man's voice lacked the mocking tone he was used to. Slowly, he emerged from his hiding place.
"Good lad," the man said with a warm smile, waving him inside.
Inuyasha took a hesitant step forward, his muscles tensed to flee if needed. The man's home was simple but warm, and the bowl of steaming pottage tempted him closer. He reached for it, but the man's smile faded.
"You can eat," the man said, "but dogs eat on the floor."
Confused and humiliated, Inuyasha glanced at the man, then the bowl. Slowly, he placed it on the floor and crouched down, unsure what else to do. The man's smile returned. "That's right," he said, pleased.
Torn between pride and hunger, Inuyasha swallowed his shame and ate, the warmth of the food dulling the ache in his stomach. As he ate, the man crouched beside him and patted his head.
"Good boy," he said.
Inuyasha froze at the unfamiliar gesture. It wasn't mocking—it felt… kind. For the first time since his mother's death, someone smiled at him, and though it wasn't the same, it filled a tiny part of the emptiness inside him.
When the bowl was empty, Inuyasha looked up at the man, uncertain.
"What's your name, boy?" the man asked.
"Inuyasha," he mumbled.
The man raised an eyebrow. "I'll just call you Inu. It's easier."
The name felt wrong. His mother had always told him his father had chosen it for him, and it was special. But Inuyasha didn't argue. He didn't want to upset the man who had shown him unexpected kindness.
When Inuyasha moved to leave, the man stopped him.
"Where are you going, Inu? You can stay here if you want. I'm sure you'll be of use, being a half-breed and all."
The man scratched his chin, nodding as if he'd decided something important. "Yes, we'll get along just fine."
Inuyasha's heart lifted at the prospect of a home. He followed the man as he laid out a small pallet near the door.
"You'll sleep here," the man said, gesturing. Inuyasha obeyed.
"Sit."
He sat.
"Lie down."
He lay down.
"Good boy," the man said, patting his head again.
Inuyasha felt a strange warmth at the praise, even as he knew it was wrong. He looked up at the man and asked timidly, "What's your name?"
The man smiled. "You can call me Bosu."
As the man left him to sleep, Inuyasha curled up on the pallet, holding onto the fragile hope that he had finally found a place where he belonged.
o - o - o - o - o
Many years had passed, and life had flourished for the man who called himself "Bosu." He had finally found the edge he needed, and surprisingly, it had come in the form of a small hanyou child. Who would have thought?
Bosu first heard the tale while passing through a nearby province. It was the kind of gossip that carried weight, the sort that set tongues wagging across villages. The story told of a beautiful woman—none other than a daimyo's daughter—and how a powerful dog demon, a daiyokai, had seduced her. From this union, a half-breed child was born. Yet, as quickly as the demon had come, he disappeared, leaving the woman and her child behind.
Stories of demon attacks on commoners weren't unusual, and neither were accounts of royal indiscretions. But a daiyokai willingly lowering himself to consort with a mortal woman? That was scandalous. Nobility or not, humans and demons were like oil and water—existing side by side but never truly mixing. The tale was outrageous, implausible even, but too compelling for Bosu to ignore.
Curiosity piqued, Bosu packed his meager belongings and set off for the rumored town where this strange family lived. After several days of travel, he finally caught sight of the boy—and his mother. The woman was beautiful, just as the rumors claimed, though pale and frail, her steps weighed down by illness. She tried to mask her suffering for the sake of her child, but Bosu could see through it. He had seen that kind of sickness before. The woman was dying, and her time was short.
An idea began to take shape in his mind. Bosu bided his time, watching from the shadows, waiting for the moment when the child would be left vulnerable. It came sooner than expected. When the woman passed, the boy—shunned and mistreated by everyone aside from his mother—was easy prey. Gaining his trust was effortless.
In the beginning, Bosu showered the boy, whom he called "Inu," with kindness. He fed him, clothed him, and gave him a sense of belonging. But as the years passed and the boy's loyalty solidified, Bosu shifted his approach. Kindness gave way to control, and control became subjugation.
Early in their relationship, Bosu had sought out a priest to craft a special collar for the boy. "Every dog needs a leash," Bosu told himself. The priest obliged, creating an enchanted collar that could subjugate its wearer with a single incantation. Bosu placed it around Inu's neck one day, patting his head as he fastened it. "Good boy," he said with a smile. From that moment on, the collar became a cornerstone of Inu's training.
Over time, Bosu's power grew. Through cunning, manipulation, and the ruthless use of his "dog," Bosu became one of the most feared and respected men in the province. Whispers of his mysterious enforcer spread like wildfire. Rivals spoke in hushed tones of Bosu's "dog," claiming he unleashed it on anyone who crossed him. Yet no one had ever seen the creature with their own eyes. That was because Bosu left no witnesses.
And today was one such day—a day when Bosu would call upon his most prized tool to ensure his dominance remained unchallenged.
o - o - o - o - o
A young lord had recently been named daimyo of the province, inheriting lands where Bosu had quietly grown his syndicate into an empire. Bosu didn't officially own the land he occupied, but the locals treated him as a lord in his own right. Whether by fear or greed, they turned a blind eye to his transgressions and offered him tribute—food, gold, services—anything he demanded. Bosu was comfortable. He had no intention of leaving.
The new daimyo, however, had other plans. Young, naive, and arrogant, the lord sought to assert his claim. He announced plans to evict the locals and build a fortress on the very land Bosu had claimed for himself. Bosu had heard of the lord's ambitions through his network of spies and informants, and it became clear that the boy was foolish enough to believe that titles alone conferred power.
At first, the daimyo refused to meet with Bosu. "I do not negotiate with peasants," he had declared, dismissing Bosu as little more than a petty criminal. But after persistent warnings from his advisors, he relented, believing that a meeting would humble this upstart and cement his authority. Bosu, on the other hand, viewed the meeting as an opportunity to make a statement—a final, brutal statement.
The two men met on neutral ground, in a clearing just outside the town. The young lord arrived flanked by a small entourage of samurai and servants, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. It was meant to intimidate, but Bosu barely acknowledged the display. He sat calmly on a makeshift throne, flanked by two of his own men, his composure radiating quiet menace.
Bosu offered his terms, as he had before, in a tone that was both polite and dripping with condescension. "Leave the locals be. Take your fortress plans elsewhere. This land is spoken for, and its people are under my protection."
The young daimyo's lip curled in disdain. "Your protection?" he spat. "You're a criminal—a peasant pretending to be a lord. You will vacate this land by week's end, or I will remove you myself. Are you threatening me, peasant?"
Bosu sighed, the kind of sigh a weary parent might give an unruly child. "As I said before, I do not make idle threats."
The lord sneered, emboldened by the small army at his back. He gestured to his soldiers, clearly confident in their superiority. Bosu's lips curled into a smile.
"Very well," he said, leaning back in his seat. He whistled, a sharp, piercing note that cut through the tense air.
From the shadows of the surrounding trees, a figure emerged. He moved with the grace of a predator, his silver hair catching the light like a blade. Inu stepped silently to his master's side, his amber eyes cold and unfeeling, as though nothing in this world could faze him.
The young lord's bravado faltered. He stumbled back, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the figure before him. "What—what is this? A demon?" he stammered, his voice cracking.
Bosu ignored the question, leaning forward to whisper something in Inu's ear. The hanyou gave a barely perceptible nod before turning his attention to the daimyo. He stepped forward with measured, deliberate strides, his expression betraying no emotion.
The samurai moved to intercept him, but Inu was faster—much faster. In an instant, he was among them, his claws a blur of motion. The first samurai fell, his throat torn open before he could even draw his sword. Another lunged, but Inu sidestepped effortlessly, grabbing the man by the arm and snapping it as though it were a twig before finishing him with a single, brutal slash. Blood sprayed across the clearing as screams erupted, but the fight was over almost as quickly as it had begun.
The daimyo, now trembling, tried to flee, but Inu was upon him in an instant. He grabbed the young lord by the neck and lifted him off the ground as though he weighed nothing. The man choked and clawed at Inu's hand, but his struggles were futile. With a flick of his wrist, Inu threw him to the ground. The last thing the young lord saw was the flash of claws descending toward him.
When it was done, Inu returned to Bosu, blood dripping from his hands and staining his silver hair. He knelt before his master, head bowed in submission.
Bosu reached out and stroked Inu's blood-soaked head like a favored pet. "Good boy," he said with a smile.
The clearing was silent except for the faint rustle of the wind. Bosu rose from his seat, surveying the carnage with satisfaction. There would be no more questions about who controlled this land.