In the dark and serene night, while the world lay wrapped in slumber, Misaki found herself wide awake—as if the darkness itself had summoned her to walk among the stars. The chill in the wind made her shiver, but still, her steps pressed on. She had to reach The Genesis.
'Mother always spoke of Mitsuo Sensei… and of this hidden sanctuary. Could it really be him—the one I met yesterday?'
There was no room for doubt.
'He told me his name… Mitsuo. I couldn't have misheard him.'
A quiet sigh slipped from her lips.
'Alas… how foolish of me. How could I forget the name of the very teacher my mother admired above all? The name I heard repeatedly through my childhood, like a prayer. And The Genesis—I know it like the back of my hand. I walked every corridor of it as a child, always holding onto her hand, always listening to her footsteps to guide my own.'
She paused, the wind brushing against her cheeks like the memory itself.
'We cleaned its grounds together. We prayed beneath its roof. And maybe that's why… yesterday morning, I was alone.'
She tilted her face upward, as if searching for a familiar scent in the air.
'Yes… I remember now. My mother led me through The Genesis, again and again, her voice mapping out the place with care. And still… when I finally met him, I didn't recognize him!?'
Her voice trembled with regret.
'Oh, Lord Akimitsu… I came to this sacred place countless times, hoping to meet him. But when I finally stood before him… I didn't know?... Mitsuo Sensei must've thought I was arrogant, or cold. I just didn't know it was him… Oh, what a shameful mistake. I must reach The Genesis. I must apologize.'
So lost was she in her sorrow that she didn't notice the change in the air—the way the stillness twisted.
By the time she sensed something wrong, it was too late.
Without warning, a crushing blow knocked her to the ground. Pain seared through her chest. Before she could cry out, a rough hand grabbed her injured arm and twisted. A thousand sharp needles seemed to pierce through her as a scream clawed up her throat—but it never left her lips. A filthy palm slammed over her mouth, muffling her breath, stealing her air. And then a smell, sweet numbing, thick made Misaki dizzy.
She choked.
Footsteps.
Hands.
More of them. She could feel it—two, maybe three men. Lifting her, dragging her. Her cane had slipped from her fingers. Her mind blurred.
And then everything went dark…
The Genesis… so close…
But Misaki—unconscious—was taken into the night.
Kidnapped
As the bandits dragged Misaki through the choking darkness, she struggled at first—her body resisting with the last embers of strength. But then, a strange, cloying sweetness filled the air. The scent smothered her senses, turning her limbs to lead. Each step became a battle. Her mind was dulled, swallowed by the haze. With a faint, bitter sigh, she slipped into unconsciousness.
One of the bandits noticed her sudden stillness and hissed under his breath.
"What's wrong with her? Did you kill the girl?"
Another voice, quieter, replied,
"No... she's not dead. Just passed out. That herb the master gave us—worked faster than I thought."
"Cover her mouth," the first snapped.
"Not too tight, don't choke her. But if the drug wears off—tie it just in case. If she dies, the master will gut us alive. Remember—she's his prey not ours. Now move."
The air thickened with moisture as they carried her deeper. Muffled voices echoed faintly, distant and distorted like whispers in a well. The cave around them breathed with dampness, the walls slick yet strangely warm—likely from flambeaux crackling in the dark.
They laid Misaki's body gently on the clammy stone floor.
Behind her, one of the bandits muttered,
"Master... we've brought your victim."
The words sliced through the stillness like a knife. A hushed, mocking voice followed,
"Why her, though? She looks tattered almost like a beggar. What's so special about this one?"
Another replied indifferently,
"Heard she's a noble lady. Doesn't look like it—rags for robes—but who cares?"
The first snorted. "Yeah, a noble beggar. Sure."
Then a voice, deep and thunderous, rumbled from the shadows.
"Wake her."
"Yes, Master."
A female bandit stepped forward and dumped a bucket of icy water over Misaki.
She tried to gasp but failed due to the piece of rag covering her mouth shut, jerking upright with a fit of coughing. Her chest heaved. The cold stunned her senses as she tried to orient herself. Bit by bit, the details came into focus—the acrid scent of burning flambeaux, the hollow echoes of cruel voices, the rough rock beneath her hands.
She was in a cave. Surrounded by enemies.
Then came the voice that made her blood freeze.
"Look at her," a man sneered.
"Blind, young, pretty. Nobility in rags, wandering alone at night? Sounds like an opportunity to me."
His words crawled over her skin.
"A perfect chance... to indulge in certain desires."
He added with a low, revolting chuckle.
Misaki's body tensed, fists clenching. Desires. He said it like she was nothing but flesh to be taken. But she wouldn't break. Not here.
Another voice, colder and sharper, sliced in:
"Do we get a taste too? She's... ripe."
Laughter followed. Someone licked their lips.
"Patience,"
The first muttered.
"We'll all get our share. Don't worry."
Then—swish. A blade sliced the air.
Misaki's breath caught.
A shuriken.
She knew that sound. Uncle Chimon. Uncle Aito. She had grown up hearing it—a whistle of death. The moment before silence or screaming.
Then—impact. Flesh tore. Someone screamed.
More cries followed—raw, animal, choking on agony.
Misaki flinched but stayed still. Something warm splattered across her face—droplets that struck like sudden rain. She recoiled at the touch, her breath hitching. The sharp tang of iron filled the air, unmistakable and thick. Blood. Her heart thundered. But she didn't move. She couldn't.
Then... silence.
A silence so sudden it felt unnatural. As if even the cave held its breath.
No more voices. No laughter. Just that awful, waiting quiet.
And then—nothing.
Then it happened—a glint of silver cleaved through the still air. A slender blade, wickedly curved on all four edges, carved through three throats in a single, fluid arc. Blood fanned out like ink in water, a grotesque bloom against the quiet. The weapon spun back with deadly grace, a boomerang of steel returning to the hand of its master—fingers steady, practiced, merciless.
He opened his eyes—cold and unreadable—and raised his right hand with the slightest flick. From the shadows, a tall figure emerged. His black warrior's hanfu enveloped him like a living shroud, darkness wrapped in form. At first glance, he could be mistaken for a raven made flesh—majestic and ominous. Ruby-like eyes glimmered beneath the flickering flambeaux, glowing with a heat like a dormant volcano—silent, yet promising ruin. His face, sharply defined and hauntingly beautiful, bore the weight of sorrows that stretched across lifetimes. One could stare for hours and still fail to guess what he was thinking.
"I truly loathe excessive stupidity,"
he murmured, as another bandit stepped forward and offered him a cloth. He wiped the blood from his blade with slow, deliberate motions.
"And nothing disgusts me more,"
he continued,
"than fools who pretend not to be."
His voice was soft—yet it cracked the air like a whip.
"Dispose of these three immediately,"
he ordered without looking back.
"Cut the bodies. Feed them to my dogs. The poor creatures have been gnawing dry bread for days."
The remaining bandits scrambled, dragging the corpses away like discarded meat.
Misaki remained motionless.
Though blind, she sensed everything—the scuffling boots, the sickening squelch of dragged bodies, the stench of blood mingling with wet moss and burning oil. Her breath stayed shallow, her posture still. She tilted her head slightly, listening.
Alert.
No one questioned the command. His word was law. The dead were gone within seconds, their absence heavier than their presence.
And yet Misaki did not move. Though her unseeing eyes could not witness the carnage, she could feel the shift in the air—the weight of violence, the tremble of fear curling under the skin like frost.
Then, the man approached.
He knelt before her, sliding the blade into a weathered sheath. He moved with disturbing elegance—like a nobleman settling into a familiar chair. There was no trace of urgency. No hint of the bloodshed that had just painted the stone behind him.
To say Misaki felt no fear would be a lie.
But she buried it—deep.
She would not let them take that from her.
He spoke, calm and deliberate.
"Do you recognize me?"
His tone carried the lilting mockery of polite cruelty.
"Ah, of course not. I wasn't in the main field that day. Even if I had been... it wouldn't have mattered. You wouldn't have seen me anyway. Just like now."
He paused. Then his voice dipped—meaner, colder.
"If I had been there, your noble kindness wouldn't have let me live long enough to speak today, would it?"
He gave a humorless chuckle, sharp as glass.
"What was your name again?"
Misaki said nothing.
"No matter,"
he said with a sigh, as if he were the patient one here.
"You're Yajima blood, aren't you? They say your father's the wealthiest merchant in the region. How ironic. A blind good for nothing daughter of such privilege, wandering the night like a beggar."
He leaned in closer, his breath thick with arrogance.
"Well... your journey doesn't interest me. Your misfortune does."
He stood again, voice rising into a theatrical mockery as he gestured around the cave—flames dancing on wet stone, casting molten shadows on the walls.
"See this place?" he asked, then smirked at his own irony. "Ah—right. My apologies. You can't. Let me describe it then. We live in filth. Forgotten. The rot. The shadows. This cave is our cradle. Winter gnaws at our bones."
He bent closer, voice turning low and venomous.
"But we'd like to be rich."
Then his tone dropped—flat, final.
"So... give us what you have."
And in that breathless moment, even the flames seemed to pause.
But elsewhere, in the cold black heart of the bandit chief, something darker began to burn.
The man's gaze dropped, slow and deliberate. He studied her wrists, then her ankles, and finally her face. A quiet disgust crept into his expression.
"Why did you tie her like that?"
he asked, voice low and even.
One of the men hesitated.
"She resisted. Fiercely."
He gave a faint, humorless smile and turned his attention back to Misaki.
"Still clinging to bad habits, are you?"
His tone was calm, almost familiar. But the calmness was strained—like silk stretched thin over a blade.
"Seventeen years ago, everything was stolen away from me. Do you know what I had left?"
His hand twitched slightly at his side.
"Nothing. My parents. My sister. My grandparents. All gone. The ground soaked in blood, the ground stained red. And at the center of it all—your voice. That one cry."
His eyes lingered on her, filled not with fury but with something worse—memory.
"And now you return."
His head tilted slightly.
"Did she teach you her tricks too, your mother? The way you vanish like smoke, slipping through shadows as if you spawned from them?"
He gave a dry laugh.
"Yesterday my men were gasping for air, chasing you. And yet here you are, caught. I suppose even wind has its limits."
He stepped forward, crouching.
Misaki couldn't do much but whimper.
"Ah. Your mouth."
Reaching out, he pulled the cloth from her lips.
"Better. Can you speak now?"
She didn't answer.
He waited. Nothing.
Her silence unsettled him. There was no fear in her face, no desperation. Just a quiet presence—unshaken and whole.
He felt his patience wane.
"You can't speak?"
he said, voice tightening.
"Or won't?"
His smile twisted.
"I'm the fool, it seems."
Still, she said nothing.
The stillness between them grew heavier. For all his planning, all his waiting, this wasn't how it was meant to go. He had imagined screams, pleading, apologies. Not this calm. Not this silence that mirrored back his rage and made it feel small.
"Don't you want to live?" he asked.
Nothing.
He turned sharply, face hardening.
"I see how it is. I'll hand you over to the men outside. Let them take your purity. That should draw a sound from you."
He turned away.
And then—
Her voice rose behind him. Quiet. Even. Clear.
"As you can see from my clothes, I have nothing of value. Only my life. If you want to take it, I won't resist. Perhaps you believe you're entitled to it."
He froze.
"But no one,"
she continued,
"no one has the right to violate me. Not while I breathe. My mother taught me how to fight, even when bound."
She paused, letting the words settle.
"And if you were watching closely… you already know—I am not afraid to die."
He turned back toward her. For the first time, something inside him faltered.
He stepped forward suddenly and grabbed her wrist.
She winced—not at his touch, but from pain.
He looked down.
Her wound had reopened beneath his grip. Blood welled to the surface, hot against his skin.
He stared at the red seeping from her arm.
The cloth of her sleeve had fallen back. Under the firelight, he could see the truth:
Small hands. Old cuts. Burns. Bruises layered across her skin like a history never written. Some wounds healing, some still raw.
His fingers uncurled without meaning to.
He had done this.
His gaze dropped further. Her legs bore the same signs—telltale marks of suffering, too exact, too recent.
Without turning, he called over his shoulder:
"You two. Come here."
Two of the women from the group stepped forward.
"Take her inside. Check her wounds. Be careful."
His voice was tight, clipped. As if trying to prove to himself that there was still some line he hadn't crossed.
They approached Misaki with tentative hands and helped her stand. She rose steadily. Without complaint. Without fear.
And as they led her deeper into the cave, the torches along the walls flickered.
The shadows moved like old ghosts.
And the man stood there alone—facing the memory of something he could neither undo nor forget.
The chief bandit looked down at his hand, still warm with Misaki's blood. A few drops had hit the earth, dark and quiet, like small red flowers blooming in the dirt.
He stood frozen.
For years, he had spilled blood without hesitation. He had torn through villages, crushed lives, and chased revenge with a steady hand and an empty heart. Blood was just part of the job—expected, familiar.
But this was different.
These few drops from a blind, wounded girl—this blood felt heavier. It didn't wash off. It stayed.
And then the truth hit him:
He wasn't the one who had broken her.
The world had done that long before he ever laid a hand on her.
Seventeen years he had waited for this moment. He had imagined her kneeling before him, afraid and pleading. He had planned to take his time, to make her feel every wound. He thought her suffering would finally bring him peace.
But now that he had her...
There was nothing left to destroy.
She had already been dying—slowly, quietly—cut down each day by a world that had never given her a chance. The scars on her skin told that story better than any scream could.
If he killed her now, it wouldn't be justice.
It wouldn't even be revenge.
It would just be cruel.
That thought lodged in his chest like a splinter. No matter how he turned it, he couldn't get it out.
He had wanted to see her break in front of him.
But she had broken long ago—and somehow, she was still standing. Quiet. Unafraid.
And that strength—the quiet kind—was heavier than he knew how to bear.
Fate, he thought. What a bitter thing.
Had fate punished her? Him? Or both?
Were they enemies? Or were they just two broken people on different paths that led to the same place?
He didn't know.
He only knew that something inside him had changed. Something old had died. Or something new had came alive.
Maybe both.
And as he stared at the blood on his hand, he asked himself the one question he couldn't answer:
Had he lost himself?
Or had he finally found what little was left of his humanity?
The chief bandit let out a long, tired sigh and closed his eyes.
And just like that, the memory came rushing back.
He remembered the way Misaki's small, wounded hand trembled in his.
Her blood, warm and startling, had soaked through his fingers and stained the ground beneath them.
He remembered the sound she made—soft and barely there—
a quiet gasp, too faint to cry, too raw to hide.
More images followed.
The scars on her feet.
The bruises and cuts along her arms and legs.
And then… her face.
Her eyes, blind but open, glistened as if tears were waiting but never allowed to fall.
No fear.
No begging.
Just quiet acceptance, like someone who'd learned that pain was normal.
He opened his eyes again, but the weight in his chest hadn't gone away.
"Bring a clean cloth and the mortar," he said.
"And some fresh healing grass… turmeric too."
The two women with him nodded quickly and left.
When they returned, Misaki came with them. She walked in silence, guided gently.
She didn't say a word.
"Master," one of the women said quietly, "her body's covered in scars. And… there's a new wound. Near her chest."
The chief didn't reply right away. He only started grinding the herbs with slow, steady movements.
The sound filled the space between them.
Then he spoke, voice low.
"Where were you going, alone, on a night like this? Don't you know there are worse things than wild animals out here?"
Misaki didn't answer.
She sat quietly, listening.
He paused his hands.
"I brought you here to kill you,"
he said, calmly, almost like stating a fact.
The silence deepened.
"But… how do you kill someone who's already been dead inside— been dying
bit by bit, breath by breath—before you ever found them?"
He looked down at the cloth in his hands.
"If you've sinned in my story, then I've sinned in yours.
If justice is real, we both deserve to be punished.
But if forgiveness matters… then maybe we both deserve a little of that too."
He looked at her again.
"You forgave me, didn't you? Before I ever earned it."
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"I would've ended up a bandit no matter what.
Even if my loved ones had survived. That was my path.
But you… if your mother had lived, you'd never have seen any of this."
He lowered his voice.
"The truth is… this wasn't just between you and me. It's as if someone else had already unraveled our fates before we even had a chance to resist."
Then he carefully placed the wrapped paste in Misaki's hand.
"Put this on your wounds," he said. "Especially the one on your chest."
He stood slowly, then turned to his men.
"Make sure she gets where she was going.
No harm. No delay. Escort her safely."
Misaki stood, bowing slightly. It wasn't deep, but it carried quiet grace.
"Thank you… for forgiving me," she said gently.
"And I'm sorry.
If I knew my cry would bring so much death—even to bandits—
I would've swallowed it.
I would've let my voice break before letting that sound out."
She turned to leave. But his voice stopped her.
"Girl," he called out. "If anyone ever lays a hand on you again, tell them you're my sister."
He hesitated.
"You don't even know my name," he said.
"It's Yuto. Remember that."
Misaki gave a small nod. A soft smile flickered across her lips.
Four bandits stepped forward to guide her.
She didn't use her wind steps this time.
Her mother had only taught her how to use it for herself—not how to share it.
And this time…
she didn't mind walking slowly.
Each step felt heavy.
Not because she was weak—
but because she'd been carrying her life alone for seventeen years.
'Mother', she thought,
'you taught me how to walk in the dark… but you never said what to do with the hunger, the pain, or the sorrow.
Maybe you knew I'd face this alone someday.'
She was so deep in thought, she didn't notice what was happening around her.
Didn't see the quiet exchange of looks between the men.
Didn't feel the shift in the air as they crossed into unfamiliar territory—
a wild place, near Lord Akimitsu's sacred mountain.
And then—
it happened.
Rough hands. Cold voices. Sudden, sharp betrayal.
Misaki didn't fight.
She didn't scream.
She didn't even try to run.
She just closed her eyes.
And as tears slid down her face,
one name escaped through the hand that tried to silence her.
Soft.
Certain.
Sacred.
"Lord Akimitsu…"
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To be continued...