The dim light of the moon filtered through the cracked windows of the abandoned temple, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay, a feeling of oppression that weighed down on Yamino's chest. He knelt in the center of an intricate circle of symbols etched into the cold stone floor. The patterns twisted around him, ominous and alive, each glyph seeming to pulse with a dark energy he couldn't comprehend. His heart pounded, each beat a reminder of the helplessness he felt.
His uncle stood over him, tall and imposing, his figure casting a long shadow. A knife glinted in the pale light, its blade sharp enough to cut through the silence like a razor through fabric. Yamino's throat went dry as the blade hovered, poised to end it all.
"Do you understand, boy?" his uncle's voice broke through the tension, sharp and cold. "This is for the greater good. Your life… it was never yours to keep."
Yamino's gaze lifted to meet his uncle's, though his body was rooted in place by the invisible chains of fear and confusion. "You stole everything from me," he said, his voice trembling, not from fear, but from the weight of years of pain. "My parents, my future, my dignity. And now my life? For what? Some delusional belief?"
His uncle sneered. "You wouldn't understand. Sacrifices must be made for power—true power. This ritual will ensure our family's legacy. Your parents were too weak to see it."
"Don't you dare talk about them!" Yamino shouted, his voice breaking as the memories of his parents flashed through his mind. The warmth of their love, their protection, their support—it all felt like a distant, fading dream. "They were better than you'll ever be."
The older man's grip on the knife tightened, his face hardening. "Your defiance changes nothing," he spat, his tone growing darker. "You were always insignificant, a pawn in a much larger game."
As the blade drew closer to his chest, Yamino closed his eyes, his life flashing before him in a torrent of fragmented memories. He remembered the day his life was shattered, the day he learned of his parents' death.
---
Flashback: The Day Everything Changed
The memory was as sharp as a jagged blade. Yamino, only sixteen at the time, had been sitting in his high school classroom, the day's lesson drifting by like a distant hum. His mind wandered, as it often did—lost in thoughts of escape, of a world that seemed far too cruel for someone like him.
Then the call came.
The school office called him down to the principal's office. As he walked down the hallway, an icy sense of dread crawled up his spine, a gut instinct telling him that something was horribly wrong. When he arrived, his uncle stood waiting, his face a mask of cold indifference.
"Yamino," his uncle said, his voice oddly distant, as if he were speaking from far away. "There's been an accident. Your parents… they didn't survive."
The world stopped. Yamino's knees buckled, his mind struggling to grasp the impossible. His parents were dead? How? Why?
"They were in a plane crash," his uncle continued, his voice hollow. "There's nothing left of them. You're an orphan now. And there's nothing left for you in this world."
Yamino barely heard the rest of his uncle's words. The world spun around him, the colors blending into a blur. His parents—gone. His life had been ripped apart in an instant, leaving him in an abyss of grief and confusion.
---
Flashback: The Fall into Darkness
The days that followed were a blur of cold indifference. His uncle had taken everything from him: the family fortune, the rights to his parents' inheritance, and even his dignity. Yamino was left with nothing—no home, no safety net, no one to turn to.
Without his parents, he became an easy target for the cruel whims of others. School bullies turned their attention to him, mocking him for being weak, for being a mere shadow of the boy he used to be. They took pleasure in breaking him down, stripping away whatever little pride he had left.
To survive, he took up part-time jobs—working long hours in menial, soul-crushing tasks just to make ends meet. He barely had time to eat or sleep, and when he did, the dreams were always the same. His parents' faces, smiling at him, urging him to stay strong. But in the waking world, strength was a luxury he could no longer afford.
He spent his days lost in a fog of exhaustion, clinging to the faintest glimmers of hope that appeared whenever he escaped into the worlds of novels, anime, and games. Those stories—of heroes overcoming the odds, of the weak rising up against insurmountable odds—became his refuge. They were the only things that made him feel alive again, even if it was just for a fleeting moment.
But reality never gave him respite.
---
Present: The Ritual
As the knife descended, Yamino's mind drifted back to the present—the cold, the pain, the bitter taste of betrayal. He could feel the pressure of his uncle's intentions, the weight of the knife hovering over his chest, and for a moment, all his pain—every scar, every tear, every bruise—surged within him. It was the culmination of a lifetime of suffering, of loss, of having nothing.
He felt a flicker of something deep within—a spark that had been buried under years of torment, a glimmer of power that had always been there, just waiting to be unleashed. This was not the end. It couldn't be. Something in him stirred—an ancient force, a forgotten part of himself that yearned to rise.
He was not just a pawn. He was more.
The symbols on the ground began to glow faintly, a pulse of energy that resonated with the deep well of emotion inside him. The air grew heavy, thick with a presence that Yamino couldn't explain. The knife descended further, and just as the blade was about to pierce his skin, the power within him ignited.
A blinding light erupted from the circle, engulfing him in its glow. His uncle stumbled backward, eyes wide with shock and fear. The air around Yamino crackled with energy, the ground shaking as if the very fabric of reality was being torn apart.
Yamino's body felt weightless, his mind slipping into the light, consumed by an overwhelming force. The pain, the suffering, the betrayal—all of it was swallowed by the brilliance that surrounded him. For the first time in his life, he felt free.
.
.
.
.
The sound of hammer against steel rang out in rhythmic beats, echoing through the quiet mountain village of Nirasaki. The scent of hot metal and burning coal hung in the air like a familiar perfume, mixing with the earthy fragrance of pine trees and rain-soaked soil. Yamino stood at the forge, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening on his brow as he carefully shaped a length of iron into a horseshoe.
"Too wide on the left edge," a deep voice called out.
Yamino looked up to see his father standing nearby, arms crossed, eyes sharp despite the weariness in his posture. The older man was a towering figure, his hands calloused and scarred from decades of smithing. He wasn't one for many words, but when he spoke, Yamino always listened.
"Got it," Yamino muttered, making the necessary adjustment. He lowered the iron back onto the anvil and continued, striking with precision, channeling all his focus into each swing.
This was his life now—simple, steady, and peaceful. He was twenty years old, and for the past year and a half, he had lived and worked alongside his father in the smithy tucked at the edge of their village. The villagers called upon them for everything from shoeing horses to repairing farming tools, and occasionally crafting weapons or ornamental pieces.
There was no magic here. No rituals. No looming threats or curses. Just fire, iron, and the slow rhythm of creation.
To anyone else, it might have seemed dull. But to Yamino, it was healing.
He didn't remember much about how he'd arrived in this world. There were flashes—images of pain, betrayal, light. But none of it was concrete. What he did remember was waking up in this world as a child, clutching a strange pendant and staring up at the mountain sky while his father knelt beside him.
From that day on, he was Yamino Sura, the blacksmith's only son.
---
The village was small but lively. Children ran through the winding dirt paths playing with sticks. Elderly couples tended to their gardens or shared stories by the well. Farmers came and went, exchanging gossip about weather patterns and harvest yields. Life here moved slowly, like the gentle current of the nearby river.
And Yamino had found peace in that.
He would rise before dawn, clean the forge, help his father prepare the materials, and then spend the day working the metal. In the evenings, he might go fishing by the river or sit on the porch with his father, sipping tea and watching the stars emerge. Sometimes he'd sketch new blade designs in a notebook, just for fun.
But this peace hadn't come easily. There were still scars. Deep ones.
---
Three Years Ago — The City
Before returning to the village, Yamino had spent three years in the city pursuing a degree in materials engineering—a scholarship kid with ambition and a quiet, determined nature. The city was overwhelming at first—loud, crowded, relentless. But he adapted. He studied hard, made a few friends, and even fell in love.
Her name was Mira. She was vibrant, intelligent, and had a laugh that made the world seem brighter. They met during their second semester and quickly grew close. Study sessions turned into long walks, and eventually, the walks turned into sleepovers and whispered promises.
Yamino had truly believed he was happy.
Until that day.
It was supposed to be a study session—just the two of them at her place. He arrived earlier than planned, flowers in hand, hoping to surprise her. But what he found instead was her body tangled with someone else's. A classmate. Someone he knew.
For a moment, the world stopped. The sound died. His breath caught in his throat. He stood frozen in the doorway, the flowers trembling in his hand.
Then Mira saw him. Her expression—wide-eyed shock and guilt—was burned into his memory. The excuses came pouring out, empty words meant to soothe or justify. He didn't stay to listen.
He walked.
And walked.
And walked.
He didn't stop until the sun had set and the city lights flickered on like a million judging eyes.
---
The months that followed were the darkest of his life. He stopped attending classes. He stopped talking to friends. He ate once a day, if that. His apartment was a mess of clutter and silence. Depression clung to him like a shadow, wrapping around his ribs, choking the life out of him. He'd wake up and wonder why he had to. He'd fall asleep praying not to.
His phone rang once every few weeks—always his father. Yamino never answered. Until the day after graduation.
He sat alone in his empty apartment, degree in hand, unsure what to do with it. The future felt like a cruel joke.
Then, the phone rang again.
This time, he answered.
"Come home," his father said, voice steady but tired. "Enough is enough."
Yamino packed his things and returned to the village.
---
Back to the Present
It was in the quiet rhythm of the forge that Yamino began to breathe again.
His father didn't speak of the city. He didn't ask questions. He simply handed Yamino a hammer and told him to hold it right. From there, the lessons began. Technique, patience, temperature control, listening to the metal.
"Blacksmithing isn't about strength," his father had said once. "It's about attention. About respect. You don't force the metal. You guide it."
The more Yamino worked, the lighter he felt. Each weapon he crafted, each tool he shaped, felt like a step out of the darkness.
He still thought of Mira sometimes. The pain wasn't as sharp anymore—just a dull ache in a distant room. He never reached out. Never looked back. Some scars were best left alone.
Instead, he looked forward. He took pride in the life he'd rebuilt, one horseshoe, one blade, one forge fire at a time.
---
Evening in the Village
The day drew to a close with a cooling breeze. The forge was silent, the embers slowly dying as the sun dipped behind the mountains. Yamino sat on a wooden bench outside the smithy, shirt stained with soot and sweat. His father sat beside him, silently sharpening a small blade with a whetstone.
The sky turned orange, then purple, then indigo.
"You've gotten better," his father said without looking up.
"Still not as fast as you."
"Speed comes last. Precision comes first."
Yamino chuckled. That was his father's version of a compliment.
They sat in silence, watching the stars appear.
"Ever think about leaving again?" his father asked quietly.
Yamino didn't answer right away. He looked up at the sky, thinking of the city, of his past life, of Mira, of the betrayal. Then he thought of this village, of the forge, of the peace he'd found.
"No," he said at last. "I think I'm exactly where I need to be."
His father nodded, as if he'd been waiting for that answer.
That night, Yamino stood alone behind the smithy, staring at the old mountain trail that disappeared into the forest. He didn't know what the future held—whether peace would last or if fate had more trials in store. But for now, he was content.
He was Yamino Sura. A blacksmith's son. A man who had been broken and reforged.
And just like the blades he now crafted, he was stronger at the broken points.