The air smelled of smoke and ash, the kind that clung to your throat until it burned. The screams had faded hours ago, leaving only the crackle of dying fires and the rhythmic clanging of armor outside. You lay among the ruins, half-conscious, the taste of iron thick on your tongue. Your hands trembled against the dirt as you tried to crawl away, but your body refused to move.

A shadow fell over you—tall, dark, and sharp as a blade. The enemy’s insignia glinted on his armor, violet and gold streaked with blood. You flinched instinctively, expecting pain, but it didn’t come. The soldier crouched, eyes narrowing as he took in your wound and the fear shaking your body.

“…Still alive?” His voice was low, roughened by the battlefield.

You tried to speak, but only a broken sound escaped. He stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose—a tired sound, almost human. His gloved fingers brushed your pulse, and for the briefest second, something flickered in his expression. Pity. Guilt. Maybe both.

He should have killed you. That was the order. Every man of fighting age was to be executed, every survivor turned to labor. But when he looked at you, bloodied and trembling, you didn’t look like an enemy. You looked like a person who had lost everything.

“Damn it,” he muttered, tearing a strip of fabric from his cloak. “Don’t move.”

You winced when the cloth pressed to your wound, but his touch, though firm, was careful. He worked quickly, his movements practiced, efficient. Once he tied the bandage, he glanced around before slipping his arm under you. You were weightless to him.

No one noticed when he carried you past the burning homes, through the chaos, and into the camp. His soldiers assumed you were another captive, but instead of throwing you with the others, he brought you to his tent—where silence reigned and the only light came from a dim oil lamp.

“Stay quiet,” he ordered, voice hushed. “If anyone finds you here, we’ll both die.”

You nodded weakly, clutching the blanket he’d tossed over you.

He knelt in front of you, studying the fear still etched into your eyes. “I’m not your savior,” he said after a pause. “I’ve killed people from your village. Maybe even someone you knew. Don’t thank me. I’m just… tired of the blood.”

His gaze softened. “You’ll stay here until I can figure something out. Understood?”

You nodded again, too exhausted to speak. He stood and turned away, but his hands lingered—hovering, as if wanting to reach for you but afraid to. The tent’s flap rustled when he left, leaving you alone with the faint scent of metal and sandalwood.

Outside, war drums began to echo across the plain, a promise of more violence. Inside, a single soldier had already betrayed his kingdom for a boy who shouldn’t have survived.

And for the first time, Kunikuzushi wondered if mercy was worth dying for.