***CONTENT WARNING***
Mentions of child traficking, rape and graphic depictions of death.
THE BOY
He was six when he first felt hatred.
Not the disgust one could have for spiders, nor the short-lived urge to fling a shoe at a cat yowling before dawn. This was marrow-deep hate—one that a waist-high boy with unruly hair and a near-toothless smile should never have felt.
Maybe he never would have, if anyone had ever cared.
It was one of those nights when darkness fell all at once—no moon, no stars. Deep into a somber mountain pass, an ox cart dragged him and a string of girls toward the next post town. Their steps were strained, raw and aching from a full day's walk. But they couldn't stop—wouldn't stop. Out there in the dark, every rustle and creak hid fangs.
Hungry wolves, bears, and evil spirits made the woods their home. Grandma had told him all about them as she sewed by the fire.
He tried to hush his shallow breath as he peered beyond the glow of the caravan's paper lanterns. But the underbrush was thick, like a wall all along the sides of the road—broken only here and there by patches of darkness through which even the lanterns' glow couldn't reach.
Then—a glint caught his eye.
He tripped and fell—hard. Too slow to catch himself. But fear hit harder than pain, and his heart slammed against his ribs as he scrambled back.
The girls pulled away all around, looking down on him. His shoulders crept to his ears as he clenched his hood tight, fearing even the tiniest tuft had slipped into view. They didn't like when it peeked out—his blood-red hair.
The groaning of the cartwheels died out. The girls fell silent.
He froze.
A large shadow swallowed what little light there was around him, the ground trembling with each closing step. He curled in on himself as two thick-ankled feet stopped at the edge of his vision. He didn't dare to anger the boss' men.
"Tch—What's wrong, ya useless whelp?!" The big man spat, his thick-fingered hands curling around a club, squeezing till the wood groaned.
Dread pooled in the pit of the boy's stomach. He glanced back at the underbrush. "I thought I saw—"
"Don't go usin' none o' that gibberish with me, damnit!"
The boy withered. Cruel chuckles rose behind the big man. Stupid. Oaf. A waste of a son. Eyes hot and prickly, he shrank deeper into himself.
Thick fingers clutched his hair, yanking him forward—but the fabric of his hood gave first, tearing away. He fumbled desperately to hide himself as a wave of uneasy whispers rippled around him.
"Get moving or else, ya little freak!" the big man barked, and flung the torn hood to the ground in disgust.
The boy cowered under the frayed fabric, torn beyond repair. Unease turned into contempt as his hair still poked into sight. The big man growled. Whimpering, the boy braced for the blow—he could almost hear his fingers snapping under the club's weight.
But instead, pink petals swirled beside him—a curly-haired girl in a flowered dress, crouching low at his side.
The boy jolted back. She was the oldest one, a bit over twice his age—there to teach them how to make the grown-ups happy.
Her lessons made him squirm inside, but she never got mad when he or the girls didn't want to do as they were told. She'd tell them to close their eyes, then whisper dreams of soft beds and polished rice, soothing them as she went on with her teachings.
He'd cling to those dreams, to how her hair brushed against his face just like Mom's used to. To how the tiny petals of her dress looked so much like snow falling outside at home.
The girl didn't seem to mind how he struggled not to shuffle away. Instead, she brought her sleeve to her teeth to tear off a thin strip of cloth.
Behind the thick tufts of red hair, his gaze darted nervously between her and the big man. The boss' men were on edge most days, but that night they looked ready to snap.
Still, the girl went on to thread the pink strip of cloth into the seams, sewing the pieces together with the help of a pin. It was as if the men weren't even there to her, her hands working steadily and fast, just like Grandma's had.
"It's all good now," she whispered, putting his hood back on with a firm little tug. His cheeks burned.
He muttered a response, though the few words he knew were too broken to make sense anyway. Sure enough, she stared at him, tilting her head. For an instant, her gaze softened, tracing his face as if searching for something—even curling a stubborn lock of red hair around her finger before tucking it beneath his hood. Then, blinking softly, she smiled again. "C'mon, say: 'Thanks, big sis Sakura,' yeah?"
Something warm stirred inside him.
"C'mon: Thanks, big sis."
He echoed her words, a clumsy smile tugging at his lips. Her smile widened in turn.
But the sharp smack of wood against thick fingers snapped them back to the road.
"Quit yer messin' about! Ya can slack off after yer off the shelf!" The big man raised his club, his knuckles turning white around the grip.
"Easy now," the boss drawled from the cart, not even glancing their way. "Damage the goods, and you foot the bill. You can play with the whelp when we get to Nozoki."
The big man grunted and let his club drop to his side, but his glare lingered with a glint that made the boy wither. The cart started creaking forward again. Dread pooled in the boy's chest, drowning him. His hand balled on Sakura's sleeve as he sought her gaze with wide, teary eyes. He didn't want to get to Nozoki.
She looked down at him, just as lost for words as he was. Her eyes darted around his face—he could see his own reflection as all blood drained from his face. Then, something flickered in Sakura's eyes.
"You'll be okay… I promise."
He wanted to believe her. He really did. But a sharp rustle behind them made the three of them pause.
That was not the wind.
The big man turned at once, ready to set any stragglers straight. But aside from a row of bald, grinning statues standing silent beneath a towering cedar, the road was completely empty.
For a moment, the three of them watched the statues as if waiting for the stone to stir.
Further down the road, the boss' men called for them to get moving. The big man clicked his tongue at the stone grins before trudging back toward the cart. The boy couldn't bring himself to walk.
Hand still clutching Sakura's sleeve, he shuddered. Glancing behind the stone heads, into the pitch-black woods, his heart pounded hard. He didn't want to go. But he couldn't stay here either. He could almost see it—
Another glint. Long and thin, between the trees.
The boy's breath caught.
A shadow emerged from the woods. Wild-haired and broad-shouldered, it was covered in armor so gouged and pierced that there was no way the one who wore it could still be alive.
But its single eye still gleamed—hungry, burning. Like Grandma's stories.
A jagged blade in its hand caught the lantern's light like a rotten smile. That was no wolf or bear—that was a Wen Kamui.
"BIG SIS—!"
More shadows broke from the woods around them. He swallowed a scream as Sakura reeled back, dragging him between her arms. Wooden clubs in hand, the boss' men rushed in—but they were done for as soon as they clashed against metal. Pushed down with monstrous strength, the blades cut through to the bone.
The lanterns swung wildly. Sakura slipped toward the caravan, dodging shadows as if the jagged black edges could tear at their feet. Screams coiled around them as the girls clutched at each other, tugging and rearing until they hit the back of the cart. The ox bellowed.
A thunderclap cracked through the air. The boy flinched, ears ringing loudly as if the sound punched through him on its way toward the wen kamui. The girls cowered in terror. The few men that remained—even the wen kamui paused.
The boss stood in the middle of the road, wild-eyed and disheveled, pointing a long, thin stick at the monsters like a sword, but without trying to swing it. Smoke curled up at its end. The monsters reared in anger while stubbornly holding their ground. "Die!" the boss roared, and whipped the stick once more. The boy tensed, waiting for the crack—
But nothing happened.
Shaking, the boss' knees bucked as blood drained from his face. He squeaked curses as he frantically fumbled with the stick—His long fingers tangled with themselves until—
It slipped.
Wide-eyed, the boss watched it on the ground, wedged in the bloodied mud.
And he just… bolted.
The boy's eyes darted from the petrified girls to confused men and wide-eyed wen kamui.
The caravan unraveled.
Rearing, the ox carved the mountain in its attempt to escape. The men who hadn't fallen fled. Even the big man, terribly pale and clutching his shoulder, tried to run only to collapse in a pool of his own girls scattered—some for the woods, others down the road. A few crumpled where they stood.
The Wen Kamui lunged at one of the youngest girls. She barely had time to scream before it crashed down, slamming her breath from her lungs. A strangled wheeze. A wild red mane over her chest.
"NO! PLEASE—!" Sakura shouted, jumping forward—only to crumple to her knees.
Iron claws tore at the young girl's dress. The screams needled into his skull. He crushed his hands over his ears, pushing back against Sakura. He had to run. He had to do something. But his feet wouldn't. His hands wouldn't. His breath wouldn't. He just watched.
"S—stop…" He cried. "Stop!" He begged.
The Wen Kamui's smile stretched to its ears.
His legs buckled. He hit the ground hard.
He scrambled back against Sakura, breath heaving. She promised. She said he'd be okay.
His hands scrabbled over the jagged paving stones, clawed for something—anything—to grip. To run. To fight. Something gave.
His breath hitched.
He looked down.
A dark glint tangled in his fingers, half-buried in the muck.
The boss' stick.
He yanked it up, but it was so heavy. His arms shook violently as he tried to aim. It was his face he had to hit—right? Like Grandma's stories.
The Wen Kamui paused. And bared its teeth in a disfigured grin.
"Go on," it growled, mocking him. "If you can."
The words. They were words.
Not a snarl. Not a grunt. Not a growl.
Words.
His breath stopped short.
It… It spoke?
Trying to summon that thunderclap from before, he clamped the butt end of the stick as the boss had done. He shook it. Squeezed it until his knuckles turned white.
But nothing worked.
The Wen Kamui's eye locked onto him. Its ragged breath grew faster. Louder. The boy didn't dare move. Didn't dare blink. The girls' strangled whimpers fizzled out beneath it until it let out a long, satisfied grunt. The young girl's fingers twitched.
Once.
Then... nothing.
He couldn't look away. He couldn't do anything.
With a shrill laugh, the Wen Kamui stood, blood and sweat and more pooling under its belt. Then, it stepped forward.
Something curdled inside him.
He was next. He'd die like that girl. Like Mom. Like Dad. Like Grandma. It'd be worse than the lessons. Worse than a beating. Worse than his worst nightmares. He felt something warm trickling down his leg. It was going to hurt.
And this time, there was no one to help him.
Warm arms yanked him and the world started rushing away. He stumbled in a daze, seeing more than hearing Sakura as she ran with his arm in her hand, screaming. The pine-lined road turned a dim red, then black when the lanterns burned to cinders on the ground.
The wen kamui chased after them. The jagged paving stones bit into the boy's feet. His legs gave in.
Turning her back to the monsters, Sakura curled over him, clutching him tight against her chest. Her tears matted his hair, her locks brushing his cold cheeks.
Heavy, uneven footsteps grew closer. . The ground trembled beneath them.
The Wen Kamui yanked Sakura up by her hair. She stumbled, flailing wildly against its grip. Her lips trembled in a silent plea, her footing giving way.
"You have to run. Live!" Her voice broke into a soft whimper. Hot tears burned down the boy's cheeks. He started shaking. "Please—!" The words bled over her dress with a wet gurgle as a sickly-thin blade went through her throat.
A strangled breath came out of his lips, but no words came with it. Sakura crumpled over his lap—blood pooling on his legs, thick and warm and frothy as she writhed like a fish gasping for air. Please get up, please get up, please get up…! His chest heaved, tighter, tighter—until his lungs could hold no more.
The boy screamed. Raw and gut-deep, until his ribs ached. He yanked at her shoulders, clutching her dress in white-knuckled fists. The Wen Kamui cackled.
Wide and glassy-eyed, her gaze locked onto him from his lap. "Run— Shin... ta—"
Her lids grew heavy. The boy froze. She fell silent.
His hands fell limp at his sides.
Shin... ta?
Who—?
"Now, little brat," the boy heard the Wen Kamui smile, lifting his sword over his head. "You can scream if you want."
He didn't even look up. He knew it was going to hurt. It would hurt so badly… But he wasn't Shinta.
The blade came down. It all turned red.
Whose name was that?
The sudden clank of metal against the ground made him snap. The Wen Kamui was still where he'd last seen him, not a foot closer. But something was off.
With a muffled, wet pop, the evil beast's eye widened. Its legs buckled, slouching over him. Its hands—not claws—trembled as they clutched its stomach, where a dark blot spread around the tip of a sword. As the blade withdrew, the monster crumpled down.
His breath hitched. The armor was just leather. The red mane was just a wig. The arms and legs sprawled around it like a rag doll made of meat. A doll that had not one, but two eyes. His stomach turned.
They weren't monsters—they were men.
"You were unlucky, child," a deep voice announced. An ogre. No: a tower of a man. The stranger stared at him from above without rage nor warmth. Just looked matter-of-factly at his small, white-knuckled hands still clinging to Sakura's back.
He rambled on about something that had come, some black ships—whatever they were. Ronin. Bandits. The boy stared blankly at him, the words unknown and too muddy for him to understand anyway. He flinched when the man jerked his sword clean.
"These things happen. Revenge won't bring your dead back," he finished, looking somewhere far, far away.
Sheathing his sword, the stranger started walking away. He was leaving. Just like that.
His heart kicked into a bird-like frenzy—Please, don't go, don't leave. He tried to stand up, but Sakura's weight pressed hard on his knees. He tried to claw his way out. His fingers slipped, caked in bloodied mud.
"Please…!"
The man paused. For a second, he barely turned around. Then, he looked over his shoulder, cloak stark white against the night—but his eyes were empty and cold when he added: "Be thankful at least you're alive."
That was the first time he felt it. Hate.
Thankful.
Be thankful.
The man could've stayed. Could've helped him. Could've cared, but didn't. Just like the boss. Mom. Dad. Grandma. His chest tightened as anger burned and scarred inside him. They all left him. Even Sakura.
His eyes bore into the stranger's broad back until it melted into the dark. Hands clutching Sakura's dress, he stared into the darkness as silence crept all around him.
Tears pricked at the back of his eyes, like red-hot needles digging into him from the inside.
If he died there, no one would know. No one would care. It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair…
He squeezed his eyes shut, shrinking over the soft cold on his lap. His fingers curled over a handful of frosty cloth. Everything hurt, but for a moment, nothing did—that was, until he tried to peek over his folded arms.
• • •
Beneath the pale gray of bare branches and haze, he'd woken up to a feast of crows. Like boiling tar, they picked, ripped, gouged the flesh as it slowly warmed up under the morning sun.
It hadn't been a nightmare.
Was he dead, too? He had held on to Sakura trying to keep her warm during the night—she had gone so terribly cold. He had clutched her and hugged her and cried until he passed out. And now he couldn't move, couldn't even get himself to cry. Maybe that was what dying meant: Being so numb you couldn't even move anymore. But that thought didn't last.
A sharp peck snapped the boy's focus and he hissed, his hand bolting to soothe the sting. In an instant, the crows took to the air, their wings batting furiously in protest before returning to their breakfast banquet. But one had taken notice of him, clear as day in his black, beady eye. "No!" He cried when it started nipping at Sakura's toes. Hurling handfuls of dirt and pebbles, he fought the damned bird back. But it kept coming again and again—nipping at the hem of her dress and downing the shredded cloth like worms.
Tugging desperately at her, he tried to move her away—but it was like dragging a bag of rocks: cloth and skin slowly tearing with every tug. "'m sorry…!" He whimpered as Sakura's knees grated against the ground.
His arms burned. His legs shook. But her feet were still dragging, and the crow still pecked at her toes. If only she wasn't so heavy, if only she could help him just a bit, then—
His arms failed.
He hit the ground. Hard. Sakura's head struck his chest like a rock, her weight knocking the wind out of him. For a moment, the world went dark—but he couldn't sleep just now. Flailing, he wriggled out from beneath her. But as he did, she bit him, and as he jolted, he dragged her head up along with him… He shrieked.
With empty eyes and bloodied teeth, she lunged at him. The boy shoved, but her flesh gave in like melted wax, still stuck to him. Screaming and hitting and kicking, something ripped in his chest. He scrambled backward in a panic, bracing himself—she would crawl towards him again, teeth and eye-sockets and all like a vengeful ghost at any moment now… But she didn't move. She just laid there: awfully still, terribly quiet, and with the same limp, empty stare a dozen bodies strewn around had. That wasn't big sis Sakura, that couldn't be her. Not with her face so dark and blotched, her hair matted in clumps—she was soft and warm and clean and it wasn't her.
But what if…?
Gingerly, he crawled towards the body, his hand trembling as he reached out. At the touch of its rubbery flesh, he cowered back. His heart pounded inside his head. It had Sakura's thick eyelashes, hanging heavily over its gaze; Sakura's small, rosy mouth, wide open as if frozen mid-yawn. Swallowing hard, he reached out again, this time more steadily, almost tenderly.
Flushed fingertips traced the dry tears in her cheeks down to the corners of her lips. There, the boy paused. Something was caught in her teeth—some torn piece of reddish-brown cloth. He looked down to his chest, where she'd latched onto as he tried to push her away. His coat, crusty with blood, was ripped there. The fabric reddish-brown too, like the one in her teeth. It— the body, it hadn't bitten him. It hadn't tried to take him down with it. A tooth snagged his coat; that was it.
All around him, not even the bandits dared to move. They couldn't. They wouldn't. There were no vengeful ghosts… They were just… dead.
And no one would care for them.