Guts' eyes were fixed ahead, scanning the open field where the long grass swayed like spectral blades, cutting just as deeply as the memories of the Band of the Falcon. The wind whispered through the stalks, carrying echoes of steel clashing and comrades' voices now silenced. It hurt, like the branded mark seared into his flesh—a reminder, a curse, ensuring he would never forget.

Yet, amid the stillness, flashes of the past intruded. Nights of unsleeping, the weight of his greatsword pressed against his back like an anchor. His gaze caught movement—a boy darting through the grass, crooked-toothed and wide-eyed, his small frame burdened with sticks for the fire crackling behind Guts in the old house. The boy rushed up, unbothered by the shadow Guts cast, and tossed the bundle proudly at his feet.

“This one’s good!” the boy exclaimed, his voice bright and eager, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

A stray. A survivor from a nearby village, now nothing but ashes after one of the countless skirmishes that scarred the land. Guts didn’t ask questions. The boy lingered like Guts did. With one stick gripped in his small hands, the boy swung it wildly, imagining a sword as he dashed around the side of the house. Guts remained, his grip tightening on the handle of the axe he’d been using to chop wood. The old house wasn’t much, but it had warmth and four walls that kept out the worst of the cold. After his battle with Zodd, you’d found him there, broken and bleeding, dragging himself away from the ruins of yet another fight he barely survived. You’d patched him up, and he stayed—longer than he meant to, longer than was safe.

He knew the risks—every time he left to hunt or gather, he expected to return to ashes, to find the boy dead, the house burned. Yet he stayed, even when the comfort gnawed at him. The door creaked open as you stepped out.

“He’s got a lot of energy,” you said, watching the boy dart around the corner.