The River of Rebirth
A river flowed through an unknowable land—a place where direction, time, and reason dissolved into nothingness.
Darkness consumed the surroundings, and a dense fog murmured forgotten names, each one etched in sorrow and regret.
The wind howled with the breath of those long gone.
The current flowed in both directions, a paradox of existence and oblivion.
Black lotuses bloomed like soot-dusted specters upon the ashen waters, each petal a symbol of life lost.
Souls trudged across the spectral current, faces etched with dread and uncertainty, their steps burdened with the weight of unfinished karma.
The Guardians of the Underworld stood sentinel—colossal beings as tall as ancient trees, their bodies forged of shadowed stone and whispering wind.
In one gnarled hand, each held a luminous sphere, a fragment of divine authority, and with unflinching judgment, they herded wandering spirits toward their fates.
Among them, the unworthy were dragged into the vortex—an accursed whirlpool in the river's heart that devoured those denied the right to reincarnate.
But amid the silence of duty, a ripple in fate appeared.
A soul floated above the land. An infant—fragile in form but radiating a presence that made the river churn in defiance. Draped in a white shawl, the child emitted no cry, no breath, only stillness.
One of the guardians approached, cradling the infant in his vast arm. His hollow eyes—eternal voids devoid of memory or meaning—blinked slowly, betraying a flicker of curiosity.
The river's chill, meant to strip every soul of its former self, did not so much as graze the infant's presence.
The Guardian's breath hitched—a reflex he had not known for eons.
The child's features were unnatural. One eye gleamed pure white, the other a searing crimson that pulsed like a divine wound.
In his tiny fists, he held emblems of duality: a flawless white lotus in one hand and a red eye embedded in the other palm, open and unblinking.
When their gazes met, the Guardian flinched—his ancient soul felt cleaved in two, as if judged by something greater than divine law.
The child did not weep, did not move, yet his silent stare pierced the void.
Wading into the river, the Guardian lowered the child into the current. The water, dark and hungry, lapped at his knees. But instead of sinking or floating, the child rose—hovering above the water as though the laws of death bowed before him.
A shudder rippled through the silent ranks of the dead.
The Guardian stepped back. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"You… are going to become a great calamity."
___________
Far from the mystic river, nestled in a wasteland untouched by mercy, stood a withering village—so small, it might vanish from maps if they dared remember it at all. The ground was cracked and infertile, a skeletal remnant of a land that had forgotten how to live.
The sky hung heavy with unnatural mist despite the peak of summer, clouds swirling like bruises across the heavens. The air was thick with the scent of ash and wet decay. Crooked houses—mere shacks made of dried husks and rotting timber—leaned wearily into one another, as if sharing their grief.
Kaien rustled through a pile of dented metal bowls and empty dishes, brittle from years of use and hunger. His ribs pressed against parchment-thin skin, and his cracked lips curled into a faint smile.
"I'm heading to the market," he said.
From the ragged mattress behind him, a frail hand caught his wrist—bone-thin, translucent as rice paper. His mother, Umi, lay swathed in tattered cloth, her breath shallow, her body barely more than a silhouette of life.
"Don't… go," she whispered, her voice more air than sound.
It wasn't a command. It was fear.
Kaien knelt beside her, brushing her hand with gentleness that came from habit and heartache. "I'll be fine. You know I'm strong," he said, smiling despite the pain it caused his face.
He rose, covering the broken door behind him with rotting wood as he stepped into the road.
The streets were lined with villagers dressed in garments dulled by time and dirt, their feet bare and cracked, their eyes sunken.
Kaien looked no different in condition, yet every gaze he met twisted with fear, mistrust, and thinly veiled hatred.
It was because of how he carried himself.
White cloth was wrapped around both of his hands and over his right eye, as though hiding some forbidden truth.
He walked past the crowd like a phantom—unwanted, unwelcome.
In the village square, beneath the withered branches of a dying tree, Kaien sat and set down a battered tin bowl. From within his pocket, he pulled a small wooden flute—carved and worn, riddled with holes—and began to play.
A soft, haunting melody floated through the market. Heads turned instinctively. The discord of misery faltered as the notes threaded into the air like whispered memory.
For a fleeting moment, pain softened, and the cruel hunger in their bellies dulled.
But peace never lasted here.
A sharp kick sent Kaien tumbling, his elbow scraping against the gravel. A group of boys sneered down at him, their faces twisted in mock cruelty.
"You ungrateful bastard," one hissed. "Because of you, your father died. And you still dare show your face?"
The others laughed, stomping him into the dirt. Kaien curled inward, clutching the flute like a lifeline as his body writhed in pain. He made no sound, only squeezed his eyes shut.
No one intervened.
They never did.
But then came the scream—shrieking, blood-chilling.
The sea beyond the horizon had turned. Its waters darkened into pitch, frothing with death. From its depths emerged the dead—twisted corpses with hollow eyes and twitching limbs, their bodies in grotesque disarray. Some dragged entrails behind them. Others moved with broken spines and shattered jaws.
A tide of rot had come.
The soil itself blackened beneath their steps, their numbers rising like a swarm. The villagers ran, their cries echoing through the streets as the undead devoured all in their path.
Kaien's eyes snapped wide.
The boys who beat him scattered in terror.
He struggled to stand, fire burning through his right leg—it was broken. But adrenaline, fear, and desperation pulled him upright. He snatched his bowl and staggered toward home.
He fell more times than he could count, pushed aside by fleeing bodies. But each time, he rose again—bleeding, limping, but relentless.
He burst through the door. "Mom!" he gasped, breath ragged.
Umi lay where he'd left her, eyes distant but alive.
Kaien placed a stolen piece of bread in her hand. "We have to go."
From the side of the room, he dragged out an old wooden cart with a broken wheel—his family's one prized possession. Tying a bundle of dry corn at his waist, he turned—
And froze.
His mother had folded the only blanket around her into a neat square. Her lower half—gone. Severed years ago by illness, or perhaps fate.
But she smiled.
That terrible, beautiful smile.
"No," he whispered. "I'm not leaving you."
He rushed to her, pain flaring with each step, and gently held her hand.
"Mom, please… we can go together…"
Umi's frail fingers brushed his hair. Her eyes—dry, resolute—gazed into his soul.
"This is fate, Kai."
She pulled him close, cradling him one last time.
"I've been a burden to you for too long. Each night, I prayed for the gods to take me, so you could be free." Her voice cracked, but her resolve held. "Now it's your turn to live. To leave this cursed place and see the world."
Tears fell freely from Kaien's eyes, silent and hot. "But I need you… I can't…"
She kissed his forehead, hands trembling. "We're sorry. For giving you a life like this. For not protecting you better."
He shook his head violently. "No… if I hadn't been born this way—"
"Stop."
Her voice was steel.
"You are our son, Kaien. No matter how you were born. We loved you. We always loved you."
Her hand clenched his, fierce and strong despite her weakness.
"Listen to me. Survive. No matter what you face—never bow your head again."
With her last strength, she shoved him gently away.
"Now run."