"Is trust something that's given, or earned?"
Trust is nothing more than a luxury — one we cannot afford in a world like this.
When you bare your back without caution or doubt to someone you believe is your ally, someone dear to your heart, and you let down your guard for their sake — know that you stand on the edge of danger, before the abyss of disappointment and the shards of broken faith.
Time unmasks intentions, drops the veils, and reveals true faces — separating sheep from wolves, and flocks of wool from flocks of blood.
The world offers no guarantees for your choices; wisdom lies in staying aware of your surroundings.
Trust is a precious gift — one that might be granted to those who earn it through their deeds, or to those who simply steal your heart with a smile hiding bitter deceit.
Caution does not negate kindness; it shields the soul from the harsh blows of betrayal.
---
[Year 984]
On that pitch-black night, when the clouds had smothered the glow of a full moon, deep within a vast forest known as The Great Pinewood Forest, nestled in the heart of Autumnland, Orival—
The stench of rotten blood filled the air, rising from torn corpses, bloodstained clothes, and strands of hair scattered by the trees. Men, women, the old and the young — whoever did this had no trace of humanity left in their dead heart.
Through the still silence of that somber atmosphere, footsteps pressed into the muddy ground, their sound drowned beneath rolling thunder. A young man cloaked in black walked steadily, never pausing.
A faint gust swept his hood aside, revealing a face in his twenties — black hair, eyes of the same color, but empty, lifeless. His expression carried deep sorrow and bitterness.
As the rain began to fall, he reached a high cliff overlooking faint lights below — flickering like fireflies, scattered like a flock of crows. That was the village of Tisalia.
He stood by the edge, staring down, furrowing his brows and clenching his fist; life flickered back into his eyes, burning with anger and hatred.
He took a deep breath to calm himself, then muttered in a faint voice barely above a whisper:
"It's already been six years…"
A sudden rustle from the bushes behind him cut his words short. He turned sharply, hand diving into his cloak, pulling out a bloodstained sword.
"Who's there?"
A moment of silence — then an old man stumbled out, trembling, a hunting rifle shaking in his hands. His voice cracked with fear as he shouted,
"I thought you were a Revarge beast! Who are you?!"
The young man lowered his guard slightly, his gaze steady.
"Do you know someone named Rinzako?"
Soon after, several ragged men emerged, clutching their rusty rifles and aiming them at him.
"Huh? Did he just say Rinzako?"
"Who here knows that idiot?"
"Meeting that monster is suicide!"
Whispers broke among their dry, quivering lips. The old man gathered what little courage he had, relying on their numbers.
"A–Answer me, damn you! Who the hell are you?!"
The young man stepped forward, each footfall echoing power. The old man stumbled back, hitting a tree and pointing his rifle straight at the youth's head.
"You asked for my name…" the young man said quietly. "I'm Takishi."
The moment the name left his lips, eyes widened in horror. The old man pulled the trigger. The gunshot roared through the forest — smoke rose, and the echo of the bullet faded into the night.
---
Darkness faded. The sun climbed high, piercing through the trees, chasing the shadows away.
Takishi's eyes fluttered open slowly as beams of light slipped through the cracks of an old wooden cabin.
"Just a dream… another nightmare."
To his right lay an old sword with a red sheath. In a dim corner, a pile of torn books gathered dust — except one. A blue-covered book, untouched by time, its title engraved in golden letters: The First Generation of Aura.
Exhausted, Takishi stood up, gripping his sword, and approached the door carved with the numbers "973" through "976" — the years he had spent beneath this very roof.
He placed his hand on the markings, lowering his gaze as he muttered,
"Only two months left before I finish my fourth year in this cabin…"
He clenched his teeth, slammed his fist against the door, then sighed deeply.
"I still haven't moved forward. I haven't tried to reach any of my goals. I've spent these years alone — afraid of people."
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"
He struck the door again and again, then stopped, surrendering to his bleak reality. The door creaked open with a sharp, weary sound, welcoming a new day.
Outside lay a small clearing surrounded by towering pine trees — a campfire pit, a large pot beside it, and forest paths stretching in all four directions.
Takishi stepped into the shadows of the forest. After a few minutes, he reached a vast, clear lake. The water shimmered like glass — stones and weeds swayed beneath the surface, sunlight dancing across them like strands of silver. The sound of flowing water filled the air with serenity. This beauty alone redeemed the forest's gloom.
At the far end, a small waterfall poured gently into the lake — the source of the great Bull River, a stream that wound through the entire dark forest. It was said the river got its name from the many bulls that once claimed its banks, making it perilous for both beasts and men to approach.
Takishi knelt, cupping his hands into the cool water. Ripples spread outward. He washed his face several times, then scooped a handful to drink.
As he stood, refreshed, his eyes caught a large bull drinking on the other side of the lake. The creature hadn't noticed him.
"These bulls don't usually come this close… I'm sorry—"
Before the bull could finish quenching its thirst, its knees buckled, collapsing to the ground. Blood poured from its neck, mixing with the soil, bleeding into the lake until the water turned crimson.
"I'm sorry… I meant to end it in one strike so you wouldn't suffer."
Takishi stood beside the dying beast, sword dripping red. His brows furrowed as he watched the bull's final, trembling breaths.
Swish!
One clean swing — and the bull's head was severed, the air slicing with a sharp gust as droplets of blood scattered through the air.
The head hit the water, floating away like a small cloud fleeing from a storm.
"Blood… it brings back too many memories."
He wiped his sword in the dirt, then slid it smoothly into its sheath. His hand no longer trembled — it had grown numb to killing, even if his heart hadn't.
The forest fell silent once more. Takishi closed his eyes, exhaling deeply.
"Why? Why do I have to remember every life I've taken? Every pain I've felt? Every nightmare that haunts me—"
"Why?! Why?! Why?! Why—"
A sudden crack echoed — a branch snapping behind a tree. Takishi turned slowly, pain still clouding his eyes, his hand gripping his sword's hilt.
From the shadows, a female bull emerged, panting heavily, a small calf trembling beside her. The moment she saw him, she bolted, leaving the calf frozen in fear — until instinct drove it to flee after her.
Takishi knelt beside the dead bull, placed his hand on its stomach, and smiled faintly — a smile of sorrow.
"Another memory carved into me for the rest of my life… Damn this wilderness."
Years of solitude, isolation, and killing had carved regret deep into Takishi's heart.
What made it worse was his perfect memory — one that could never erase a single thing. He could not forget the pain, the loss, the nightmares, or the faces of those he'd slain.
Moments later, he returned to his cabin carrying the bull's carcass — a feat his lean yet powerful frame made possible. He dropped the body beside the campfire and glanced at the pot.
"I forgot to bring it to the lake to fill it—"
He froze. His eyes widened. The pot lay toppled on the ground, footprints leading toward the cabin.
Drawing his sword, he shouted, voice shaking between anger and caution:
"Come out right now! I know you're inside!"
The forest was still — the intruder hadn't fled.
Then, heavy steps creaked across the weak wooden floorboards, followed by low, muffled laughter.
A man in his thirties stepped out of the cabin's shadow. A wide grin split his wrinkled face; his hair and beard were a dull brown, his green eyes glinting with malice. He wore a long, tattered white robe marked with a small skull insignia on his chest.
Takishi stepped back, breathing heavily.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
The man raised his hand slowly, pointing at Takishi's sword glimmering under the morning sun. His grin widened.
"That'll be the last name you hear in your life! I'm Yamikaji of the Skull King Gang — and I came for that piece of scrap metal you're holding."