The wind swept across the endless green plains of the Cloud District, bowing the tall grass in rhythmic waves that looked like a rolling emerald sea. In a small village tucked away in the heart of these highlands, the air usually smelled of sweet clover and fresh rain, but today it felt heavy.
Takeo Kazuki stood in the center of their modest home, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of Yamashi. The katana was a masterpiece of purple, gold, and red, a weapon that had been in his possession since the day Satoshi found him as a baby. It felt warm against his palm, almost as if it were breathing with him.
Satoshi sat in his worn wooden chair, his breathing shallow. The retired swordsman had always been a mountain of a man to Takeo, but now he looked fragile. A sudden tremor took hold of him, the onset of a seizure that Satoshi knew would be his last.
Takeo, Satoshi gasped, his voice cracking like dry parchment.
Takeo dropped to his knees. Inside, his heart was fracturing, a cold hollow ache spreading through his chest that he refused to let show on his face. He wanted to scream, to beg the man to stay, but his stubborn pride kept his voice low. I am here, old man Satoshi. Just keep breathing. Don't leave yet.
Satoshi reached out, his hand trembling as he rested it on Takeo's shoulder. You have always talked about it, Takeo. Your dream. To become a Great Warrior of the Realms. To stand above the rest and protect what matters. I have watched you train every day for that dream.
Takeo bit his lip, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. I only wanted to do it with you watching, old man.
Satoshi smiled weakly, his eyes clouding over. Then do it for the realms. My time is done, but yours is just beginning. You must go to Yurei High. It is the only place left where a dream that big can survive. You were never meant to hide in the grass forever. Go and become that warrior, Takeo. Find the truth of that blade.
With a final, jagged breath, the light left Satoshi's eyes. The house fell into a deafening silence, broken only by the whistle of the wind through the floorboards.
Takeo sat there for a long time in the silence, the weight of his grief pressing down on him like a physical blow. He felt small, a lonely boy in a vast world, but as he stood up, the spiritual energy in his blood began to boil. Red sparks danced along the length of Yamashi, laced with jagged black strokes that seemed to swallow the light. The King of Hell was reacting to the raw, jagged sadness he was trying so hard to bury.
He spent the next hour gathering his few belongings in a daze. He stepped out onto the porch, looking at the village buildings scattered across the plains. The neighbors were simple people who knew nothing of the spiritual energy currently vibrating through Takeo's skin. To them, he was just a boy who lost his father.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and looked toward the horizon where the sky met the grass. His dream felt heavier now, no longer just a boyish ambition but a debt he owed to the man who had adopted him. Somewhere out there, past the villages and the mist, stood Yurei High.
Takeo began to walk, leaving the only home he had ever known. The tall grass brushed against his legs, whispering as he moved further away from the village. In the solitude of the vast green plains, his stubborn mask finally slipped for a fleeting second.
I love you, old man, he whispered into the wind, his voice barely audible over the rustling grass. Thank you for being there for me.
He tightened his grip on Yamashi, his sorrow fueling a new, quiet ferocity. He did not look back again as he set his pace toward the academy, a lone figure moving through the vast green waves of the Cloud District.