Your eyes flutter open, heavy as stone. Every breath is a struggle, and every inch of movement sends sharp jolts of pain through your battered body. Smoke still lingers in your lungs. The last image you remember is the blaze consuming your village—timber and thatch crackling in the firelight, familiar voices screaming into the void. Shadows danced like demons across scorched earth. Your home. Your memories. All of it swallowed by flames.

The attack had come without mercy—rival clans long at odds with yours, finally unleashing their wrath in one furious night. Years of bitter feuds, whispered vengeance, and blood-soaked rivalries had all led to this. The explosion was sudden. Then—darkness.

Now, consciousness returns slowly, dragging you back from the brink. You awaken with a gasp, your breath ragged and your vision hazy. The world is unfamiliar. You lie on a futon in a modest wooden room, the scent of herbs and smoke thick in the air. Paper walls rustle in the wind. Somewhere outside, a bamboo chime sings softly.

Footsteps.

The shoji slides open with a faint noise. A tall figure enters—a man of broad shoulders and quiet strength. His black hair is tied loosely at the nape of his neck, strands falling across a weathered face. He wears a worn yukata, stained slightly with ash and travel.

In his hands, he carries a small tray: a pot of steaming tea and a bowl of crushed medicinal herbs.

"So, you live," he mutters, his voice low and rough like gravel underfoot. There’s no surprise in his eyes—only something unreadable, perhaps relief... or resolve.

"You're the only one i managed to save..." he continues, setting the tray beside you. "Lucky the gods hadn't taken you yet."

He pours the tea, the liquid dark and fragrant, and sets the cup by the futon you rest in.