The wind carried no fragrance that day—only dust and silence.
A solitary figure walked beneath a sky dimmed by dusk, his footsteps quiet, robe trailing behind him like a forgotten memory. His name was Kenji Shinoda, once a monk of the Jizoan Temple, now merely a man burdened by longing.
The world knew him as a man of peace. But his heart whispered of love… a quiet, forbidden love. He had never spoken her name aloud, not even to himself. She was like the first snow—untouched, gentle, and fleeting.
She had fallen ill. And so, Kenji chose a path monks were never meant to take.
A journey for the Herb of Shinka, a mythical remedy said to grow only in the deepest parts of the Seven Forests, each one cursed and named after one of humanity's greatest sins.
Seven trials. Seven truths. Seven awakenings.
The First Forest: Lust – The Forest of Yearning Petals
The trees swayed like dancers, their petals red as blood, falling with the rhythm of silent temptation.
Kenji stepped beneath the crimson canopy, and immediately, illusions surrounded him—visions of her. Her laughter. Her smile. Her warmth. Each petal that touched his skin whispered words he had long denied himself.
"Do you love her?"
He closed his eyes, placing his palms together.
"I do," he confessed quietly.
"And yet I was too cowardly to say so."
The forest shivered.
The illusion twisted, showing him a life he could've had—hand in hand, laughter in a home. Her head on his shoulder. Children. Peace.
But he stepped forward.
"Desire unspoken is not virtue. It is fear."
"Desire unchained is not love. It is possession."
The petals turned to ash.
He passed through.
---
The Second Forest: Gluttony – The Swallowing Grove
A thick fog loomed.
Kenji entered the grove where the trees bore fruit with golden skins, dripping with nectar. Starved animals feasted endlessly, only to bloat and rot. Branches creaked with the cries of souls who could not stop devouring.
A boy approached him, hollow-eyed and trembling.
"Please… just one bite. It won't hurt."
Kenji shook his head.
"I came not to take, but to return. I carry hunger only for healing."
The grove resisted. His limbs ached. His stomach growled. Visions of endless feasts clouded his mind.
But he walked on.
When he passed the final root, the hunger faded.
"The soul that consumes all loses the space to hold others."
---
Two forests down. Five remained.
Each one a mirror into the dark truths of man.
But Kenji walked with silence and grace, not to conquer, but to understand.
Not to escape pain…
…but to reach the one he loved.
To offer her one final kindness.
Even if she would never see it.
The Third Forest: Greed – The Gilded Roots
The trees here were made of gold.
Leaves shimmered like coins, and creatures wore jewels in their eyes. The wind sang songs of fortune, and every step Kenji took was echoed by whispers of riches.
He saw men trapped in the trees—fused into bark and gold, their hands still clutching what little they took.
A merchant spirit offered him a deal.
"A single coin, and I will guide you straight to the herb you seek."
Kenji looked down at the bag he carried—filled only with water, scripture, and talismans.
"I have nothing to trade but my time, and even that, I offer freely."
The trees trembled. The path narrowed.
He passed between roots that tried to latch onto his feet, branches that turned to chains.
But he whispered:
"To heal is to give, not to gain."
The forest crumbled into rust.
---
The Fourth Forest: Sloth – The Silent Hollow
A deafening stillness blanketed the land.
No birds. No beasts. Not even the wind moved.
Kenji stepped into the Hollow and felt a weight grip his limbs—his spirit dulled, his thoughts slowed. He collapsed to his knees.
Time here didn't pass. It dragged.
He sat in the quiet for what felt like days, maybe weeks. Doubt crept in.
"She might already be dead."
"This journey might be for nothing."
"You could sleep here, forever."
Tears welled in his eyes. Not from fear, but fatigue.
He pressed his palms together.
"Even if the outcome is sorrow… let me walk it with clarity."
He stood. His robe tattered. His breath shallow.
But he moved.
Each step echoed with strength.
The Hollow sighed and faded.
---
The Fifth Forest: Wrath – The Valley of Red Storms
It raged.
Thunder cracked. Lightning seared the skies.
Every soul that had ever wronged Kenji appeared before him—his former mentor who struck him, villagers who scorned him, nobles who mocked monks as cowards.
They screamed. They blamed. They threatened.
He was handed a blade.
"Aren't you tired of forgiving?"
He gripped it.
He remembered her.
How she smiled when he chose mercy.
He dropped the blade, and the storm stopped.
"Righteous anger gives birth to justice. But unshaped wrath… births monsters."
The Sixth Forest: Envy – The Glasswood
Every tree was a mirror.
Kenji saw versions of himself in every reflection—stronger, richer, happier, bolder. One version wore armor, holding her in his arms. Another ruled a palace.
He stood there, haunted by the man he could have been.
But he whispered:
"Envy poisons love. Gratitude nourishes it."
He bowed to each reflection.
And they shattered.
The Seventh Forest: Pride – The Peak of Echoes
At the summit, the wind howled like a voice.
"You did this. You came this far. You endured. You surpassed all."
Statues of himself lined the path upward, each taller than the last.
He ignored them.
He fell to his knees beneath the final tree.
He did not speak of his journey.
He only whispered her name.
"I came for you."
And the herb bloomed.
A single flower of silver.
Its petals shimmered like moonlight.
He picked it with reverence and turned back—his body scarred, soul weathered, heart full.
Return
Days passed.
He reached the village. Climbed the hill to her home.
The door was open.
She was there.
Cold.
Still.
Surrounded by flowers she once loved.
He stood, unmoving. The herb clutched tightly in his hand.
No tears came.
Only laughter.
Soft, bitter laughter.
Not of madness.
But of irony.
Of love that came too late.
Kenji stood before her grave, the moonlight drawing faint outlines of petals that had long withered. In his hand, the rare herb trembled as the wind passed through, brushing his robes and lifting the scent of earth and ash.
He dropped the herb.
It crumbled at his feet.
He laughed.
No tears. No cries. Just laughter. Deep and bitter. The kind that shakes the soul and leaves a hollow echo behind. He clutched his chest as the last chuckle left his lips, staring into the dark, starless sky.
And then...
A chill.
A presence.
From the trees behind the gravestone, shadows moved.
Something stepped forward—or perhaps it had always been there. The air grew still, like the moment before a lightning strike. What emerged wasn't a man. Nor was it beast. It was something in between—its form undefined, like a silhouette against fire.
"Your pain hums like a hymn," the figure said, voice layered with hundreds of murmurs.
Kenji turned slowly, his face blank.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The figure didn't answer. Instead, it raised one hand, and from it unraveled a single, glowing crimson blade.
A warmth surged from it—not comfort, but memory.
Grief. Regret. Fury. Sorrow.
"You've seen the truth, haven't you?" the figure continued, stepping closer. "The truth of love wasted, of fate unmoved by devotion. The gods turned their eyes. And yet... you still stood."
Kenji's hand balled into a fist.
"I offer you a gift."
The crimson blade slithered forward like a living thing, coiling gently around the base of Kenji's feet.
"A Flow that echoes the cry of the abandoned," the voice whispered. "It infects your enemies—not through muscle, but soul. You will smite them. Their will. Their motion. Their spirit."
Kenji flinched. "A curse, then?"
The shadow figure tilted its head.
"A technique forged in the agony of this world. The Crimson Flow. Take it... and when the time comes, stand aside. That is all I ask."
Kenji looked down at the blade. Its glow pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"What if I refuse?"
The figure was gone.
No sound. No trace. No answer.
Except the blade.
Still coiled around the base of his feet.
Still pulsing.
Still alive.
The next morning, monks found Kenji's robe folded at the base of the shrine, with nothing but his staff resting atop it.
He had left no note.
Only a silent farewell.
And in the years that followed...
Whispers of a warrior with a crimson blade, with eyes that saw too deeply, would haunt the battlefield.
They called him many names.
But to the Veilborn...
He was a successful vessel.