The air was sharp with winter's bite, each gust of wind cutting like a blade. Snow drifted lazily from the darkened sky, blanketing the world in a cold, indifferent silence.
Amid this icy wasteland, a boy slumped against a frost-covered boulder, his small frame shivering violently. His clothes were little more than rags, torn and threadbare, doing nothing to protect him from the bitter chill. Long, tangled hair clung to his gaunt face, and his eyes—an intense, predatory yellow, like those of a panther—fluttered weakly. Scars crisscrossed his back, each one a brutal testament to a life of servitude and suffering.
His breaths came in shallow, icy wisps. He felt his consciousness slipping, his body shutting down as the cold sank deeper into his bones. He closed his eyes, ready to surrender to the eternal darkness.
Footsteps crunched through the snow, slow but steady. An old man, wrapped in layers of thick, weathered cloth, approached the dying boy. His eyes, tired yet still sharp with the spark of life, softened as he looked upon the frail figure. He knelt beside the boy, gently pressing two fingers to his neck, feeling the faint pulse still fighting against the cold grasp of death.
"Ah... poor child," the old man muttered, his breath misting in the frigid air. "What a cruel world we live in."
He sighed, straightening his stiff back. With a soft grunt, he lifted the boy onto his shoulders, his knees straining against the weight but his spirit unwavering.
"Don't worry, boy. I'll take you to a warm place," he whispered, trudging through the snow-covered path, each step a small defiance against the bitter winter. The boy's thin arms instinctively tightened around the old man's neck, his head resting weakly against his rescuer's shoulder. For the first time, perhaps ever, the boy felt the warmth of another person, the faint flicker of hope sparking deep within his frozen chest.
———
When the boy awoke, he felt warmth. Actual, enveloping warmth. The crackle of a fire filled his ears, the sharp, comforting smell of burning wood mingling with the faint scent of baked goods. He lay on a soft, well-worn bed, his frail body wrapped tightly in clean bandages. Blinking against the flickering firelight, he slowly turned his head.
An old man stood by the stone hearth, a wide smile splitting his weathered face as he pulled a tray of freshly baked cookies from a small iron oven. His hair, long and white, flowed down his back, and his eyes, sharp despite their age, sparkled with a kindness the boy had never known.
"Ah! You're awake!" the old man said, setting the tray down on a sturdy wooden table. "I baked some cookies. I don't really know what young uns' like these days, but I figured it's worth a try."
The boy opened his mouth, but no words came. Just a rasp of air. He reached up, his thin fingers brushing the bandages on his throat. The old man's smile faltered slightly, his eyes softening with understanding.
"Ah... you can't speak, can you?" he murmured, his face creasing with a deep, aching pity. "What a hard life you must have led."
The old man approached slowly, kneeling beside the boy's bed. He placed a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder, feeling the sharp bones beneath the bandages. His voice dropped to a solemn whisper, the crackling fire the only witness to his vow.
"Don't worry, child. From this day on, you'll live as a human—not a beast like those who wronged you. I promise."
The boy's golden eyes met the old man's steady gaze, and for the first time in his life, he felt something new—a fragile, hesitant trust.
"You need a name," the old man said suddenly, a flicker of excitement breaking through his somber expression. He stroked his long beard thoughtfully. "Those eyes of yours... sharp and fierce, like the color of a storm. Yes, I'll call you Raijin. It means 'God of Thunder.' Fitting, don't you think?"
Raijin. The word echoed in the boy's mind, a seed planted in the rich, unfamiliar soil of hope.
———
Four years passed, the boy now a young warrior in his own right. Raijin, now ten years old, stood in the training yard behind the old man's cabin, the spring air alive with the chirping of birds and the rustling of fresh green leaves. His once frail body had filled out with lean muscle, and his eyes, still sharp as a predator's, gleamed with life as he swung his wooden practice sword.
"No! More power, Raijin!" the old man shouted from the porch, leaning on his cane but still radiating a warrior's command. "That's not a swordsman's slash!"
Raijin groaned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Come on, old man! I've been at this for hours!"
The old man's wrinkled face split into a wide grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "No food for you if you don't get it right by noon."
Raijin sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Maaaan... you're relentless."
He swung his blade again, the wood whistling through the air. But then, a rustle in the bushes nearby snapped his attention away. His instincts, honed through years of hardship and training, kicked in instantly. He lowered his stance, eyes narrowing as the leaves trembled.
"...Huh? What was that?" he whispered, his grip tightening on the worn handle of his practice blade.
A low growl echoed from the shadows, sending a chill down his spine.
"Stay sharp, Raijin," the old man whispered from behind him, his own eyes fixed on the trembling underbrush. "This might be more than just a stray deer..."
End of chapter