The Empty Path (Part 1)
The morning air carried a chill that cut through their bones. The dirt hut stood silent behind them, abandoned, its crooked shape still holding the faint warmth of Isshun's presence—a warmth now stolen.
Rūpu stood at the edge of the camp, fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. His throat burned from shouting Isshun's name until the forest swallowed it whole. Hanae lagged behind him, her voice breaking every time she tried to call, her tone breaking into sobs halfway through. Giru... he walked with his hands buried in his sleeves, lips pressed thin. Not silent because he didn't care—silent because silence was the only shield left for his emotions.
"ISSHUN!" Rūpu's voice tore through the trees again, raw and desperate. Only the crows answered.
They circled the outskirts of the city first, never daring to step fully into the walls. The city, broken and decaying, felt alive in its hunger to pull them in. The crumbling alleys whispered, the slums near the gates groaned with coughing vagrants and hollow-eyed souls—those who had lost all and lingered in the shadows like ghosts still clutching at life.
Rūpu glanced that way, toward the crooked figures huddled against the walls. His feet almost carried him closer, but Hanae grabbed his sleeve.
"Don't," she whispered, her eyes wide, fearful. "They'll see we're weak. They'll see we're... just like them. They'll eat us alive."
Rūpu tore his arm away, growling, but he didn't argue. He knew she was right. He hated that she was right.
So they turned from the city and searched the forest, weaving between tall pines and tangled roots. They called his name again, and again, voices fraying until their throats bled with silence. Each time they expected him to emerge—Isshun, stumbling out, rubbing his eyes, with that stubborn determination etched across his face. But each time, only the forest breathed back at them.
By noon, Hanae's legs buckled. She collapsed against a fallen log, burying her face in her arms. "He's gone," she whispered. "He's... he's gone, and it's my fault. I should've—"
"Stop." Rūpu snapped, though his voice shook. "Don't say that."
But the truth crawled inside him, gnawing at his heart. He had felt Isshun stirring last night, had half-opened his eyes when the firelight flickered—but he had let himself fall back into sleep. He had told himself Isshun was safe. That nothing would dare take him.
He had been wrong.
Giru stood apart, staring at the horizon as if the distance itself carried an answer. He finally spoke, his voice flat but heavy: "He's not in the woods. He's not by the walls. If he's not here, then he was taken. Or he left."
Rūpu whipped around, fire in his eyes. "Don't you dare—don't you dare say he left us!"
Giru met his gaze, unflinching. "You saw the way he carried it. His past. His silence. He never wanted to tell us. Something came for him. Or he went back to it. Either way..." He let out a slow breath. "The only road left is forward."
"Forward where?" Hanae's voice broken.
"The next town." Giru turned to them fully now, his eyes colder than his tone. "Cherry Hills. That's the only place the road leads."
The name settled like ash in the pit of Rūpu's stomach. He didn't know why, but the sound of it tasted bitter, like a wound opening.
Hanae looked between them, her lip trembling. "Cherry Hills...? Why there? Why would he—"
"Because it's tied to him." Giru's words were sharp, sure. "You felt it too, didn't you? The way he flinched when the name came up in passing. The way his silence drowned out the fire whenever his past was touched."
Rūpu's hands fell uselessly to his sides. He wanted to argue, to deny it, to say Isshun wasn't the type to just vanish. But deep inside, he knew Giru was right.
The forest seemed to grow darker as the sun began its descent. Their voices had grown hoarse, their steps heavy, their bond frayed by exhaustion and grief. But still, they moved together.
Toward Cherry Hills.
None of them said it aloud, but the truth pressed against all their chests: whatever they found there would explain why Isshun was gone. And whether they liked it or not, they had no choice but to follow the path.
The path into his pain.
The path into the ruins that had shaped him.
And maybe—the path into chains they weren't ready to see.
The Silent Graves of Cherry Hills (Part 2)
The sun dragged itself low across the horizon as the three figures trudged forward. Their shadows stretched long across the dirt road, the once-packed trade route now no more than a cracked ribbon of dust, weeds rising through its forgotten veins. None of them spoke much. Words had lost meaning the farther they got from the camp—the farther they got from Isshun.
Only the sound of their steps, uneven and weary, carried them onward.
Rūpu walked in front, his 2 swords strapped tight to his back and hip though he hated how heavy it felt now. He should've felt ready, prepared for danger, but each step closer to Cherry Hills made him feel smaller, like the weight of his blade would snap his back rather than protect his friends.
Behind him, Hanae clutched the frayed edges of her cloak. She'd always carried herself with some mixture of defiance and dignity, chin high, words sharp. But now her face seemed hollowed, her steps hesitant, as though each moment dragged her deeper into a pit. The memory of Isshun's absence gnawed her alive.
And Giru trailed slightly apart, neither at their side nor too far behind, his eyes fixed on the distance as if he were already watching the ruined town. He said little, but inside, his heart felt like a hollow drum. He hated himself for how easily he could imagine Isshun walking toward his past alone. He hated that the thought made sense.
The air thickened as they drew near. The land itself seemed cursed with silence. The trees that lined the path grew twisted, roots crawling over one another like veins starved of blood. The closer they got, the less birds sang. Even the wind held its breath, as though afraid to disturb the slumber of the ruined city ahead.
At last, as the last line of pines broke, they saw it.
Cherry Hills.
What remained of it.
Stone walls half-crumbled into heaps, wooden gates shattered into splinters, and rooftops collapsed in on themselves like broken ribs. The streets—what little of them were visible from the outskirts—were blanketed in weeds and vines, nature clawing its way back into dominion. The place reeked of abandonment, of a memory that refused to fade, and yet lingered like an open wound.
Hanae stopped dead in her tracks. Her hand went to her mouth, not to stifle a scream, but to hold down the nausea twisting in her stomach. "It's... it's worse than I thought..."
Rūpu turned his head slightly, eyes narrow. "You've heard of this place before?"
She hesitated. Her fingers trembled. "Rumors. Whispers in the palace. They always said Cherry Hills was cursed. That those who entered never came back out. That... that it was where oni blood and human blood broke apart, once and for all."
Rūpu spat to the dirt, though the sound carried no strength. "Curses. Legends. Same garbage that ruined you. Same garbage that probably ruined Isshun."
But he couldn't deny what his eyes saw. The place looked cursed. Not by gods or ghosts—by memory itself.
They took another step, and another, their feet crunching over the brittle grass at the town's outskirts. The first ruined houses rose before them, hollow skeletons of a life long gone. Shattered pottery lay in heaps at the doorsteps, as if the people had dropped their lives mid-movement. Faded kimonos clung to laundry lines, rotted away to threads, swaying in the stale air.
It wasn't just abandoned. It was paused. A town frozen in the exact moment it had died.
Rūpu stopped, his heart hammering against his ribs. "This place... it feels like..." He swallowed. "...like walking into a graveyard."
"No," Giru said softly, his voice low as the dead air. "Worse. Graveyards are where the dead rest. This place is where they never could."
They pressed further in. Each step grew heavier, each ruined corner revealing more of the life that once pulsed here: a broken toy doll missing an arm, a rusted cooking pot filled with dust, a shrine collapsed under its own weight, offerings of stone and bone scattered across the dirt.
And then, the silence cracked.
The wind shifted, and with it came a faint, hollow sound—a creak, long and strained, like wood bending under a weight it could not bear. The three froze. Their eyes darted to a broken gate where the sound echoed.
Hanae's grip on her cloak tightened. "Did you hear—"
"Yes," Rūpu hissed. He drew his blade, the steel whispering against its sheath.
But nothing moved. The gate creaked again, then fell silent. Only the ghost of the sound remained.
Their breaths grew shallow.
Finally, Giru spoke, his voice tight, almost a whisper. "Isshun came here. I can feel it."
The others turned to him.
"I can feel it," he repeated, pressing a hand to his stomach. "The way the air tastes. The way it digs into me. His burden is here. His memory... this town... it's where he's been dragged."
Hanae's lips trembled. She lowered her gaze to the dirt, a tear sliding free despite her attempt to hold strong. "We're too late, aren't we?"
Rūpu clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. "No. We're not too late. We can't be."
His words sounded strong, but inside, his gut twisted with doubt. The ruins spoke louder than his courage. Every broken wall whispered Isshun's name, every cracked tile screamed the truth: that this was a place no one should have returned to. And yet Isshun had been forced back, chained again to the ashes of his bloodline.
The three moved deeper into Cherry Hills, swallowed by the desolation. And though the sun still clung weakly to the horizon, the town seemed to trap them in dusk, as if light itself refused to linger here.
Together, yet hollow. Searching, yet afraid.
And all the while, Isshun's absence grew heavier, pressing against their hearts until silence itself became unbearable.
Still, they pressed on.
Because friendship, however fragile, was the only torch they had left in the ruins of Cherry Hills.
The Blizzard's Chains (Part 3)
The ruins of Cherry Hills swallowed sound, but not the ache that clung to the air. Rūpu, Hanae, and Giru stumbled through the cracked streets, eyes scanning, hearts pounding, until they found him.
Isshun.
He was sitting against a collapsed shrine, snow clinging to his shoulders, his hands trembling against his knees. For once, the kid who had always held the pieces of their trio together—the one who smiled when they couldn't, who steadied them when they faltered—was breaking. Tears traced down his cheeks, raw and unrestrained, glinting under the ghostly moonlight.
Rūpu's breath caught. His stomach ached so deeply it nearly split him in half. Hanae's lips parted, the name trembling in her throat. Giru froze, his smirk—the shield he always wore—falling away.
None of them had ever seen Isshun like this. He was supposed to be their anchor. Their unshakable friend. And now he was the one sinking, gasping for air, drowning.
But before they could move, before they could kneel by him, a voice like a jagged blade cut through the cold.
"Leave."
The snow thickened in an instant, the flakes swelling into a sudden storm, a blizzard conjured as though by the will of the figure who stepped from the shadows.
Isshun's father Kaguri Yakamune.
His figure was broad, scarred, towering. The ragged green kimono clung to his frame, battered from years of labor and violence. Across his back, a sword rested, its hilt frayed but dangerous all the same. When he drew it, the steel screamed, a sound colder than the storm around them. He leveled it at the three children.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was not a question—it was a threat, each syllable dripping with venom.
Rūpu's heart twisted. He could feel it radiating from this person, the rot of cruelty, the weight of power that had crushed Isshun his whole life. Every muscle in his body screamed to strike, to protect—but his limbs refused to move. Something about the figures presence paralyzed him.
Isshun scrambled to his feet, his face wet with tears. His stomach heaved as he shouted, voice breaking, "Stop, Father! Don't hurt them!"
The figure turned his gaze on his son, and the storm seemed to swell with it. His eyes were cold, dead, yet sharp enough to split the child open with a glance. He didn't answer. He stepped forward instead, and his fist lashed out.
The crack of knuckles against flesh echoed through the blizzard. Isshun staggered back, clutching his face. Another blow came, then another, until he crumpled to his knees. Blood touched the snow.
"You think you can run again?" his father snarled, voice like chains rattling. "You think you can defy me? You're nothing but labor. A failure of a son. A fat, ugly disgrace."
The sword's tip pressed against Isshun's shoulder, forcing him lower, like a beast shoved to its knees.
"If you run again, I will kill you myself. Do you hear me?"
Isshun's breaths came in panicked bursts. His body trembled, yet he forced himself to nod, to choke out the words. "Y-yes... Father..."
The father's gaze shifted, narrowing on the others. "Tell your filthy friends to leave. They're not welcome here. They're nothing. They're weak. They'll die if they stay."
For a moment, Isshun's lips didn't move. His eyes darted toward Rūpu, Hanae, Giru—pleading silently, screaming in the language of tears that he couldn't disobey. That if he said the truth, he'd be broken further.
And then his voice came, sharp as the storm, words that cut deeper than the sword at his throat.
"Leave. Go. Don't... don't come back for me. I'm not worth it."
The words froze them to their cores.
Rūpu felt the floor of his stomach give way. Hanae's tears burned hot against the blizzard. Giru clenched his fists so tightly the skin split.
But none of them spoke. None of them could.
Isshun's father stood over him, blade gleaming, storm howling, and all they could do was pretend to leave. Pretend to obey. Pretend to abandon their friend.
For the first time, the trio who had sworn to never let go... had to walk away.
But their silence wasn't surrender. Their retreat wasn't acceptance. Beneath the weight of despair, their hearts swore one thing in unison:
We will come back for you.
Even if it meant tearing the blizzard apart with their bare hands.
Blood in the Blizzard (Part 4)
The night in Cherry Hills did not end with silence. It ended with screams.
Snow howled through the broken streets, blinding swirls of white that mixed with red. Rūpu, Hanae, and Giru had not truly left. They had never intended to. While Isshun's father barked commands into the storm, convinced his authority was absolute, the three scaled the ruined shrine, clinging to cracked tiles slick with frost. Their breaths misted, their hearts thundered, their blood boiled.
When they dropped from above—blades drawn, spirits blazing—they thought they had the advantage. But the figure, hardened by years of cruelty and sharpened by hate, moved like a predator. His sword snapped from its sheath with a roar of steel, and his arm cut through their ambush like swatting insects. The strength of an adult, scarred and merciless, shattered their strike before it began.
The clash echoed through the shrine. Steel on steel, screams in the snow, Isshun's cries trapped in the center of it all.
And then—horror.
His father grabbed him, wrenching Isshun forward with brutal hands, pressing him between himself and the others like a living shield. The childs body shook, his eyes wide with terror, his breath ragged.
Rūpu froze. His stomach heaved, his eyes burning. For once the high-spirited kid, the optimist who had always found a joke even in despair, stood transformed. His fists trembled with fury. His teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. His voice came low, trembling with rage.
"Put him down."
The blizzard screamed, filling the silence after his words.
Isshun's father smirked, sweat glistening on his scarred face. He didn't stop. He dragged his son back, forcing a blade into his trembling hands.
"Kill them," he growled. "Kill your friends, kid. Or I'll spill their blood myself."
Isshun's throat closed. His hands shook violently around the hilt of the dagger he took from It's sheaf. His eyes darted between Rūpu, Hanae, Giru—his family of choice—and the shadow of his father looming over him.
"Fight!"
The word cracked through him like a whip. And Isshun obeyed.
The kid who had always reached for others now swung his blade against them, his every strike trembling with guilt, his every step echoing chains. Rūpu caught his blade, sparks hissing. Hanae parried, her arms weak with sorrow. Giru struck back, his teeth bared, but every blow felt like betrayal.
Behind them, Isshun's father sat against the shattered shrine wall, laughing. His voice was harsh and jagged, the laugh of a father who had traded humanity for domination.
"Look at you, child! Finally useful. Finally mine!"
Rūpu's heart ached with every clash against Isshun's trembling blade. He could see the tears on his friend's face even through the storm. Could hear the pain in every ragged breath. This wasn't Isshun. This wasn't his fault. This was chains forged in words sharper than any sword.
But the fight dragged on, their bonds twisting, breaking, tearing under the weight of cruelty.
And then—death brushed close.
The father emerged once more, an extra blade now with him, twin blades flashing red in the blizzard's dim light. His footsteps were near silent, his smirk wide. While Rūpu turned to deflect Isshun's weakened strike, the father slipped behind him, blades poised.
The steel carved through snow, through flesh.
Rūpu gasped, pain splitting his body as one blade cut deep across his torso, the world slowing as blood sprayed against the storm. His eyes widened, the fire in them flickering. For a moment, the storm itself seemed to mourn as he staggered, his knees giving way.
"No!" Hanae's scream ripped the air, her voice breaking into pieces.
Giru's rage boiled over, his fists trembling, his spit hitting the snow as he yelled at Isshun: "You weak fool! You chose his fear over us! We cared for you—your friends! And you let this happen!"
Isshun's heart shattered. The words cut deeper than his father's fists ever had. His body shook, his tears burned his face, his blade slipped from his hands.
Rūpu's blood stained the snow as Hanae dragged him back, Giru forcing them into retreat. The storm swallowed their panicking words, the shrine collapsing into chaos.
And Isshun... Isshun stood frozen.
His father's laughter thundered behind him. "See, kid? You don't need friends. You need me. And me alone."
Isshun turned. Slowly. His body was broken, his spirit shattered, but something deeper stirred.
A scream tore from his throat. He raised the dagger he had always carried his whole life—not against his friends, not against himself—but against the monster who had stolen his life.
The blade ripped across his father's throat. Blood fountained against the snow, crimson staining white. His father's laughter choked, cut into a gargle. His body collapsed, steam rising as his blood froze against the blizzard's breath.
Silence.
Isshun's body shook. His stomach heaved. His tears blurred the corpse at his feet. And then—slowly—he turned the blade inward, pressing the cold steel to his own throat. Blaming himself for everything and for taking anothers life...
His hand trembled. His breath came shallow. No more fear. No more chains. No more despair. The blade edged closer. The blizzard screamed.
And the screen cut to black?!...
TO BE CONTINUED... IN VOLUME: 2!...