Soul of a Samurai

A sharp, numbing pain flooded every inch of Kyojin's body as he slowly regained consciousness. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but as they fluttered open, he was blinded by the brightness of the sky above.

The sun was high.

The storm of fire and destruction had long since faded, leaving behind a chilling silence.

Snow was falling again. Soft, pure, untouched.

The world, despite its devastation, looked peaceful.

But Kyojin knew the truth.

This was not peace.

This was emptiness.

—

Slowly, painfully, he tried to move.

His body refused at first. Every muscle screamed. Every joint burned. His vision blurred, his breath shallow.

His wooden sword—once a tool of his training, now a weapon of devastation—lay just within reach.

He forced himself forward, his fingers wrapping weakly around the hilt. Using it as support, he pulled himself up.

His legs shook. His head spun.

He felt broken.

But he had to move.

He had to find her.

—

Step by step, he walked through the ruins of the marketplace.

The air was thick with the scent of ash and blood.

Corpses littered the ground, half-buried under snow. Some of the dead were burned beyond recognition. Others had been cut down, their lifeless faces frozen in expressions of terror.

Kyojin ignored them.

He kept walking.

His sword dragged against the cracked earth, leaving a faint trail in the freshly fallen snow.

Then—

He saw her.

—

His breath caught in his throat.

His mother's body lay just as he had last seen it.

Still.

Motionless.

A pool of dried blood stained the snow beneath her.

Her once warm, gentle hands lay limp at her sides. The eyes that had always looked at him with love and kindness were now closed forever.

Kyojin fell to his knees beside her.

He reached out with trembling fingers, touching her face.

Cold.

She was so, so cold.

Something inside him shattered.

Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision as they fell onto her lifeless body.

For the first time since his rebirth—

Kyojin cried.

Not the quiet sobs of a child seeking comfort.

Not the controlled tears of someone holding back their pain.

But the raw, uncontrollable cries of a boy who had lost everything.

His chest heaved. His body shook. He gritted his teeth, pressing his forehead against his mother's still heart.

He cried for hours.

The snowfall grew heavier, covering the bodies, the blood, the wreckage—trying to erase the horrors that had unfolded.

But no amount of snow could erase this pain.

Nothing ever would.

—

At some point, exhaustion overtook him.

The weight of his grief, his injuries, his rage—it all pulled him under.

His breathing slowed. His body slumped.

And in the embrace of winter's quiet, with the last remnants of his warmth fading—

Kyojin fell asleep beside his mother's corpse.