"We will not let a young man like you not be remembered, not exist, and be forgotten. Thank you for saving everyone and freeing us in this long hell of a journey."

  On a rainy day in the woods, a small wooden house sat quietly among the trees. The wind howled through the branches, shaking loose drops of rain that splashed against the roof. Inside, a couple hurriedly prepared for a moment that would change their lives forever.

  “Quick, darling! Call the doctor! He has to come now!” the mother cried, gripping her swollen belly as waves of pain tore through her.

  The father fumbled with the old telephone in the corner. “I—I’m calling him! Just stay calm, please… hold on, hold on…”

  After a few tense rings, a calm, reassuring voice answered. “Dr. Hayashi here. What’s the emergency?”

  “It’s my wife—she’s about to give birth! Please, hurry!” the father shouted.

  “Stay calm, sir. I’m on my way. Keep her breathing steady, and don’t move her too much. Help will arrive soon.”

  The father hung up and turned to his wife, whose face was pale with exertion. “He’s coming, stay with me, okay? Just a little longer…”

  Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Rain tapped against the window, drumming a steady rhythm. Finally, a figure in a soaked coat arrived, carrying a medical kit. Dr. Hayashi wasted no time, kneeling beside the mother with professional precision.

  “Alright, ma’am. Breathe slowly. Push when I tell you. You’re going to do great,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

  Her husband held her hand tightly, whispering encouragement. “You’re strong, my love. You can do this. I’m right here.”

  Pain ripped through her, but with each command, with each push, a small, fragile sound cut through the tension—the first cry of a newborn.

  “Congratulations, ma’am!” the doctor said, holding the tiny bundle wrapped in soft cloth.

  The mother smiled faintly, voice trembling. “Hey… look, darling… it’s our son…”

  The father leaned closer, eyes shining. “You’re right, honey… he’s beautiful. Look at his little hands, his squishy cheeks…”

  The baby’s cries filled the room, a new life announcing itself. “Hey, hey… it’s all right. Ren… welcome to the world,” the father whispered, voice thick with emotion.

  Those were the first voices I remembered—the first sounds I would ever recognize. Gentle, calming, full of love.

  ---

  We weren’t rich. Our home was a modest wooden cabin in the middle of the forest, where few people ever ventured. I never asked why my parents chose this life. Perhaps it was the quiet, the solitude, or the simple beauty of being surrounded by nature. As a child, I didn’t concern myself with such matters; my days were filled with play and laughter, simple and carefree.

  My father worked outside, providing for us, while my mother maintained the home. He hunted for food, chopped wood for the cold winters, and built small wooden toys for me—miniature robots, cars, even tiny animals carved from wood. They were surprisingly intricate, some even moving when I pulled tiny strings. We had no electricity, no television, no cell phones. Only an old telephone for emergencies. Life was simple, but it was ours, and I loved it.

  ---

  When I was three years old, one sunny morning, my father left to hunt while my mother played with me inside the cabin.

  “Ren, do you know what color this is?” she asked, holding up a bright red block.

  “Red! Red!” I shouted, clapping my hands, full of energy.

  “Correct! But… wait, something’s missing.”

  “Missing?” I asked, tilting my head in confusion.

  “I think I saw something roll under the table earlier… it must be your toy.” My mother went to the kitchen and peeked underneath the table.

  “Ah, found it! I knew it was there.”

  Just then, the sound of the door opening caught my attention. “I’m back!” my father called, entering with a large boar slung over his shoulder.

  I jumped up and ran toward him. “Dad! Welcome back!”

  “Welcome back, darling… oh my, that’s a huge boar,” my mother said, her eyes wide with admiration.

  “Yeah, we’ll have a feast tonight, right Ren?” my father asked.

  “A feast?! Yay!” I squealed, hopping in excitement.

  “You spoil him too much, you know?” my mother said with a smile.

  “I know… but you know what we’ve been through, don’t you?” my father replied softly.

  “Well… you’re right about that,” my mother said, placing a hand over her heart.

  “Ren, when you grow up, I’ll teach you to hunt as well,” my father said, ruffling my hair.

  “Really? But isn’t hunting dangerous?” I asked, eyes wide.

  “Well, you’re not wrong about that, but once you get used to it… it becomes fun,” he replied, a smile tugging at his lips.

  ---

  Three years later, I was six. I saw my mother in our backyard growing some plants. I approached her. "Mom? What are you planting?"

  "Oh Ren? Do you know about this flower?" She asked me while looking at the red flower.

  "No...what is that? It looks beautiful"

  "These are called higanbana, they are easy to plant you know? This plant symbolizes death, farewells, and the afterlife and since they simbolizes that, they are poisonous" my mother's voice was calm, it was like she was living in a dream.

  "Then why did you planted it in our backyard?" I said while I sat beside my mom.

  "Because I think they’re misunderstood, like people who make mistakes. They may look like a symbol of death, but they still bring color to the world, don’t they?"

  "Hey Ren! Where are you? Didn't you said that today will be your first hunting mission?" My dad shouted calling my name.

  "Oh this is bad I think dad will be angry"

  My mother laughed slightly "you may not know but your dad is a strong man"

  "Really? Well then, I'll have one fear to go hunting then!" I ran inside the house and left my mother in the backyard.

  The morning sun filtered through the trees as I packed my tiny backpack with knives, ropes, and other hunting gear.

  My mother went in the kitchen to get something.

  “Oh! Ren… you look so prepared! Are you ready for your first mission?” my father asked, a mixture of pride and amusement in his voice.

  “Yeah! But Dad, don’t forget to leave some prey for me!” I said eagerly.

  “Okay, okay… I won’t forget,” he replied, chuckling.

  My mother handed me a small bag. “Here, don’t forget to eat. You’ll need energy for the whole day.”

  “Thanks, Mom!”

  “Then… shall we go?” my father asked.

  “Come back safe, okay?” my mother called as we stepped outside.

  “For sure, Mom!” I said, tightening the straps on my backpack.

  ---

  The forest was alive with the sounds of birds and the rustle of leaves underfoot. The earthy smell of wet moss and mud filled my nose. My father led the way, teaching me to move quietly, to read the signs of animals, to track footprints and broken twigs.

  “See these tracks, Ren?” he said, kneeling beside a patch of disturbed dirt. “This boar came through here last night. The prints are fresh. Do you see the difference between the hind and front hooves?”

  I squinted, concentrating. “Yes… front are rounder, and back… sharper?”

  “Exactly! Good eye. Remember, hunting is not just about strength, it’s about observation, patience, and understanding your prey.”

  We crept through the forest, my father pointing out subtle signs I’d never noticed—the bends in branches, the faint smell of animals passing through, the trembling of leaves under unseen footsteps. He taught me how to move silently, how to breathe slowly, and how to anticipate the movements of creatures that were far faster and stronger than me.

  Hours passed as we tracked a deer, my small legs tiring but my excitement never fading. Occasionally, my father would stop and scold me gently for mistakes—stepping too loudly, misjudging a distance, or reacting too quickly. Each correction was paired with guidance, ensuring I learned rather than felt discouraged.

  “Dad, I… I almost scared it away,” I said, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  “Don’t worry, Ren. Mistakes are part of learning. The important thing is you notice and correct them. Next time, you’ll be better,” he replied with a reassuring smile.

  By the time the sun began its descent, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, we had returned with a small deer. I carried it proudly, feeling the weight of responsibility and achievement.

  ---

  “We’re back!” I called, bursting through the cabin door.

  “Welcome back, Ren! Welcome back, Dad!” my mother replied, already preparing dinner.

  “Dad taught me so much today! It was hard to remember everything… he even scolded me when I made mistakes,” I said, grinning.

  “Hey! I told you not to tell her!” my father said, pretending to be angry, though his eyes twinkled.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “I see what this is about… darling, I thought you promised to go easy on Ren,” my mother said, smiling mischievously, holding a knife with mock menace.

  “Uh… I know you’re strong, but you don’t have to be so mad,” my father said, laughing nervously.

  “Well, dinner is almost ready. Get yourselves some plates… and darling, you can only eat the fat of the boar,” my mother said sternly.

  “What?! But I hate that part!” my father exclaimed.

  “This is your punishment for breaking your promise. Learn your lesson,” she said, shaking the knife playfully.

  I laughed, watching the warm scene unfold as the sun dipped below the horizon. The sky outside glowed with streaks of red and orange, reflecting off the cabin’s wooden walls, making everything feel cozy and eternal.

  As we sat down to eat, my father passed me a small portion of fat. “Here… don’t waste it.”

  I took a bite reluctantly, making a face. “It’s… not so bad,” I admitted.

  “See? Everything can be enjoyed if you approach it the right way,” my father said.

  My mother smiled, her eyes softening. “You two are learning more than just hunting. You’re learning about patience, respect, and responsibility. That’s far more important than the food on your plate.”

  We laughed together, sharing stories of the day, the mistakes, the lessons, and the joy of being together. The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the cabin with warmth. Outside, the forest whispered under the night sky, but inside, our small home was a haven—a world of love, laughter, and the promise of tomorrow.

  And as I drifted to sleep that night, I held the warmth of my parents’ voices in my heart. I didn’t know it yet, but those gentle words, those small lessons in the woods, would shape me into something greater than I could ever imagine.

  The warmth and laughter of our family dinner had barely faded when an abrupt, we heard a low growling on the other side of the door. My mother did not feel very well, she looks scared but knew what was coming. My father as well, he looks frightened but keep a strong act. "Don't make a sound" my father said.

  He grabbed a knife that was on the table and went closer to the door. Suddenly the roar became louder, now my parents were sure what it is. They became acting weird like something is going to end. It was not trying to break the door.

  “Ren, go toward the backdoor… now!” my mother said, her voice trembling with panic.

  “Wait… what’s going on? Is something wrong? Why is someone saying that you have to pay them?” I asked, my voice small, filled with fear and confusion.

  “This… this is a grown-up problem, sweetheart. We will solve it, but right now, you need to escape before they get inside,” my mother said firmly, guiding me toward the back.

  “Did you guys… did you do something wrong?” I asked, tears threatening to spill. My hands were trembling, my chest tightening with fear.

  They both stayed silent for a moment. Then my father knelt down to my level. His eyes were firm, serious, yet full of sorrow.

  “Ren… you’re my son. I know… no, I am sure… you will grow into a strong man. Not just a man… a strong Yomu Executioner” he said, his voice heavy, his tone carrying something I had never heard before.

  “Dad… wait… what are you saying?” I whispered, confused and scared.

  “So… as your father, it’s my duty to protect our family. I’m sorry for this past years, for lying to you. I’m also sorry that this… this may be the last time we speak,” he said, his voice breaking slightly.

  My mother grabbed my shoulders gently but firmly. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were glistening with tears. “Ren… you are our boy. We brought you into this world, we raised you, and it is our responsibility as parents to sacrifice everything, even if it means facing the worst-case scenario.”

  Before I could respond, the front door slammed violently. A terrifying crack split the air as it was kicked in, splintering the wood into jagged fragments. I didn't have the time to look.

  “HURRY UP, REN! ESCAPE THROUGH THE BACKDOOR!” my mother shouted, panic-stricken.

  I didn’t argue. I didn’t look back. My feet moved on instinct, carrying me toward the back door as fast as I could. I could hear the chaos behind me: shouts, the sound of bodies colliding, the sickening wet sound of blood being spilled. My heart pounded as I ran, every footfall on the wet forest floor echoing like a drumbeat of fear.

  When I finally reached the clearing beyond the cabin, I stopped for a brief moment, gasping for air. Silence stretched across the night. Confusion gripped me—no one seemed to be chasing me. My eyes instinctively darted back toward the cabin.

  What I saw froze me in place. Flames devoured the wooden walls, bright orange and red illuminating the forest with terrifying intensity. Smoke coiled upward, choking the air, carrying the acrid scent of burning wood and earth. I could see figures moving inside the glow of the fire, but I didn’t recognize the shapes. My mind screamed to run, yet a small part of me wanted to help, to understand… but fear held me back.

  Not far off, sirens wailed, and the sounds of engines approached quickly. Emergency crews had arrived earlier than I had expected. Water sprayed over the flames, hissing as it met the fire, bringing it under control. Relief washed over me briefly, but it was fleeting. I couldn’t let anyone know who I was. Not yet. I couldn’t risk being seen as their son.

  With that thought, I melted back into the shadowed forest. The trees, the darkness, the familiar smell of moss and earth—it all reminded me of the lessons my father had taught me. Hunt or survive, read nature’s signals, and trust instincts. Though that day had begun with simple hunting lessons, it now felt like it had lasted an eternity.

  As I ventured deeper, my foot brushed against something hard. Looking down, I saw an axe partially buried in the mud. Its handle was familiar—well-worn with scratches and splinters. I picked it up, and the weight felt natural in my hands.

  “This is… Dad’s missing axe? It’s still sharp… no wonder he was upset when he lost it,” I murmured, testing a swing. It felt light, balanced, ready for work.

  Every step I took deeper into the forest reminded me of the days spent learning from my father—the sounds of snapping branches, the scent of wet pine, the feeling of cool moss underfoot. Each memory became a guide, a way to navigate the darkness and uncertainty surrounding me.

  But the forest’s calm was fleeting. A low, guttural growl rose from behind a thick cluster of trees. I froze, every hair on my body standing on end. My breath caught.

  “Who’s there?” I called, my voice shaking despite my effort to be brave. Silence answered me first, then another growl—closer this time, tinged with malice.

  I gripped the axe tighter. “Stay calm… just stay calm,” I whispered to myself, recalling my father’s words: Read the environment. Don’t panic. The moment you freeze, the prey—or predator—will know.

  The growl came again, now unmistakably near. My eyes scanned the shadows between the trees. A pair of glowing eyes reflected back at me from the darkness, low and menacing. My pulse quickened.

  I remembered the lessons of stealth and patience. I crouched behind a large tree, keeping the axe ready. My small legs felt tense, ready to spring or swing if necessary.

  “Ren… think… watch its movement… wait for the right moment,” I muttered to myself. The animal, or whatever it was, circled slowly, testing, sniffing the ground. I stayed still, my chest tight, heart pounding in my ears.

  Suddenly, it leapt forward—faster than I anticipated. I swung the axe instinctively, aiming to defend myself. The sound of impact echoed in the forest, a loud crack that made me flinch. Whatever it was, it stumbled back, growling furiously.

  I realized then that survival was more than just strength; it was instinct, courage, and presence of mind. My father had drilled this into me with every hunting trip, every step I had taken in the forest. And now, I understood the weight of it.

  I backed away slowly, keeping the axe in front of me, ready for another strike. The creature hesitated, then disappeared into the shadows, leaving only the faint rustle of leaves. I exhaled deeply, feeling the adrenaline slowly drain from my body.

  The fire from the cabin still burned faintly in the distance, casting flickering light through the trees. I didn’t know what had become of my parents. My chest tightened again as grief and fear battled for dominance in my heart. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t look back.

  I moved farther into the forest, guided by instinct and the memory of every lesson my father had taught me. Each step became deliberate, careful—my eyes scanning for danger, my ears listening to every shift in the wind or sound of wildlife.

  Hours passed, or perhaps minutes—it was impossible to tell. Time itself felt suspended in the forest. The smell of damp earth, the crackling of distant embers, and the sound of my own breathing filled the night. My small hands still gripped the axe, feeling the rough wood and cold metal as an anchor to reality.

  Eventually, I came across a small clearing where the moonlight spilled through the trees, illuminating the ground with a silver glow. I knelt and took a moment to rest, my back against a tree, trying to steady my racing heart. Tears streamed down my face, not just from fear, but from the sudden realization that my life had changed forever.

  Yet amidst the fear, a small, stubborn spark ignited inside me. I was alone—but not helpless. My parents had raised me to survive, to think, to fight if necessary. And even though I didn’t fully understand the reasons behind that night, I knew I had to keep going.

  From the edge of the clearing, I spotted movement. It was subtle—a shadow shifting between the trees. My grip on the axe tightened. My instincts told me this was no ordinary animal. The low growl returned, this time even closer.

  I inhaled deeply, readying myself for whatever came next. This was the beginning—not just of the night, but of the journey that would shape me into the Kishinhito my father had foretold. I was terrified, yes, but also strangely alive.

  The silhouette of the creature emerged slowly from the shadows, each step deliberate, making the earth tremble beneath its weight. My heart pounded violently in my chest as the moonlight caught its outline. My breath caught in my throat.

  It was a giant wild boar—massive, with bristled black fur, tusks curved like sickles, and eyes glowing faintly with feral intelligence. My legs froze, my small hands trembling around the axe. The creature snorted, stamping its hooves against the earth, shaking the leaves in warning.

  I could feel every lesson my father had taught me rushing back, as if he were whispering in my ear: Observe. Anticipate. Move with patience. Strike with purpose.

  I crouched low, steadying my breath, feeling the grip of the axe as an extension of my arm. Slowly, I stepped sideways, careful not to reveal my presence. The boar snorted again, sniffing the air, its eyes scanning, testing for fear.

  “Ren, always watch the wind direction. Prey—or predator—can smell fear.”

  I shifted my stance slightly, keeping the wind at my back. I could hear its heavy breathing, the pounding of its hooves, the faint rustle of leaves as it circled.

  Suddenly, it charged, tusks aimed directly at me. I leaped to the side, narrowly avoiding the deadly impact. The ground trembled as it passed, splintering branches and digging into the soft earth. My heart raced, but I reminded myself: Strength alone is not enough. You need technique.

  I swung the axe, aiming for its shoulder as it turned back. The boar blocked my strike with a tusk, and the force rattled through my arms. I stumbled slightly, but quickly regained my balance.

  “Keep your center of gravity low. Don’t overcommit.”

  The boar charged again, faster this time. I sidestepped and delivered a precise swing, cutting into its thick hide. Blood sprayed across the forest floor, but the creature did not falter—it roared, a deep, terrifying sound that made the trees shiver.

  “Aim for the weak points. Eyes, neck, joints.”

  I leaped backward, dodging another charge. I focused, remembered every teaching: anticipate its moves, watch the wind, read the environment. I baited it toward a narrow clearing, where I could control its movement.

  “Use your surroundings. Force the prey into disadvantage.”

  The boar charged again, tusks lowered. I sidestepped, grabbed a nearby branch, and swung with all my strength, striking its leg. It stumbled, tripping slightly, giving me an opening.

  “Now! Strike the vital point!”

  I lunged forward with the axe, channeling all my focus, all my fear, all my training. The axe found its mark at the base of its neck. The boar let out a final, ear-splitting roar before collapsing. Its massive body thudded against the forest floor, leaving a deep dent in the earth.

  I stood there, chest heaving, sweat and blood mixing on my small hands. My legs trembled, but I felt… alive. For the first time, I truly understood what my father had meant. Survival required courage, precision, and calm focus.

  That night, under the pale moonlight, I realized I could survive. Alone, in the wilderness, with only the lessons my parents had instilled in me, I could face anything.

  ---

  The following days marked the start of a new life. The cabin was gone, the forest scarred by fire and chaos. Yet the wilderness became my home, my sanctuary, and my training ground. Each day tested my skill, patience, and endurance. Streams became my water supply, abandoned burrows and tree hollows became shelter, and every animal I hunted was a lesson in both survival and strategy.

  I sharpened the axe, carved simple tools from stone, and strengthened my body through constant exertion. The lessons from my father echoed every day: Observe. Adapt. Survive.

  ---

  The first year was the hardest. Hunger clawed at me, the nights were cold and long, and the loneliness weighed heavily. I often found myself talking to the wind, imagining my parents’ voices guiding me. Every night, I whispered a promise to myself: I will survive. I will grow stronger. I will honor my parents.

  By the second year, I had adapted to the forest. My senses sharpened. I could hear the faintest rustle of leaves, smell the movement of animals before I even saw them, and sense danger through subtle changes in the wind. I became a student of the forest, learning its rhythms, predicting its dangers, and turning its challenges into training.

  I built small traps for small animals, learning to anticipate their behavior. I moved with precision, crouching low, blending into shadows. Each successful hunt reinforced my skills, each mistake taught me humility and caution.

  ---

  By the third year, I began exploring deeper into the forest. I knew which rivers were safe, which areas held predators, and where to find the hidden edible plants my mother had once taught me to recognize. I crafted a hidden camp inside a hollowed tree, a secret base where no one could find me.

  The fourth year brought new threats. Wolves patrolled the forest, rival scavengers sought food, and storms battered the land. But by now, I had learned to fight and flee with strategy. I had learned to read the signs of nature—how the clouds foreshadowed a storm, how broken branches indicated predators, and how the behavior of smaller animals signaled danger or safety.

  I hunted larger prey, gaining skill, strength, and confidence. Each kill reminded me of the lessons my father had drilled into me: Know your prey. Know your environment. Know yourself.

  ---

  By the fifth year, my abilities had grown beyond simple survival. I moved through the forest like a shadow, unseen, unheard, but fully aware of every movement around me. I had begun creating rudimentary weapons and tools—sharpened sticks, traps, and makeshift armor from the bones of animals I had hunted. My strength, speed, and senses had all grown sharper.

  Yet it was not just the body that had grown. My mind had sharpened as well. I could plan, anticipate, and manipulate my surroundings. I had become self-reliant in every sense, shaped by isolation, necessity, and the echo of parental guidance.

  ---

  The sixth year was a turning point. By now, the forest was no longer a place of terror, but a kingdom I understood and navigated with ease. I had become adept at hunting, fighting, and surviving against both animals and natural threats. Each night, by the fire, I reflected on what I had learned—the pain of loss, the thrill of triumph, and the enduring wisdom of my parents.

  I had survived everything nature had thrown at me. I had become fast, strong, precise, and cunning. My body was lean and muscular, my senses heightened, my mind sharp as a blade. I had survived not merely by luck, but through skill, instinct, and determination.

  ---

  I stood one evening on a ridge, the forest stretching endlessly beneath me. Moonlight painted the treetops in silver, and the night carried the faint echoes of past dangers. My axe rested on my shoulder, a constant companion, a tool that had been sharpened by necessity and experience.

  For six years, I had lived alone, surviving against all odds, mastering the wilderness. I had become the Kishinhito my father had foretold—a strong, capable, and resilient being. The lessons of the past, the terror of that night, and the echo of my parents’ guidance had forged me into someone more than a child—they had made me a survivor.

  And though I was alone, I was not helpless. The forest had become my teacher, the animals my challenge, and the wind my constant companion. I was ready for whatever would come next—because I had learned to endure, adapt, and overcome.

  Six years had passed since the fire that took my home. The forest had become my entire world. Every sound, every shadow, every gust of wind was meaningful. My senses were honed; my body lean and precise. Survival was second nature now.

  The sun sank low, sending golden streaks through the canopy. I crouched near a clearing, eyes locked on a deer grazing. Its ears twitched, nostrils flaring. I slowed my breath, remembering my father’s words: Observe. Predict. Strike decisively. Never hesitate.

  I shifted silently behind a fallen log, inching closer. The deer lifted its head, sniffing the air. I froze, then lunged. Spear struck chest. The deer cried, stumbled, then fell. I knelt beside it, exhaling slowly. Hands moved with practiced efficiency—skinning, butchering, portioning meat for cooking, preserving the hide. Every motion precise, honed by six years alone.

  I gathered dry branches, leaves, and twigs. Striking flint stones, a small flame flickered. Stones formed a circle, and I arranged a pit for the fire. I cut the meat into strips, skewered them, and held them over the flames. Smoke curled upward, blending with the earthy forest scent. I rotated the skewers, adjusting for even cooking, listening to the forest around me. An owl hooted, a twig snapped, leaves rustled. Nothing escaped me.

  The first bite was warm, smoky, satisfying. My teeth chewed slowly. Six years of solitude, hunger, and practice had led to this moment.

  Then came the growl. Low, guttural, primal. My body stiffened. The wind shifted—danger was near.

  From the shadows, the first Yomurei emerged. Its body was massive, twisted, with jagged claws and glowing red eyes. It leapt toward me with terrifying speed.

  Instinct took over. I ducked low, rolling aside, and the creature slammed into the tree where I had been moments before. Its claws ripped bark, leaving deep grooves. I sprang up, spear in hand, analyzing it. Weak points… legs are slower… head telegraphs its movements…

  The Yomurei lunged again. I sidestepped, pivoted, and jabbed the spear into its side. It shrieked, staggered, swiping with massive claws. I dodged under the swing, remembered my father’s warning: Use their momentum against them.

  I grabbed a nearby branch, swinging it like a lever, catching the Yomurei’s leg and tripping it. It roared, thrashing, exposing its neck. I drove the spear down with all my strength, twisting to maximize the strike. The creature let out a final scream before collapsing, lifeless. My chest heaved, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing.

  I wiped sweat and grime from my brow. Focus. Never drop your guard.

  A deeper growl rumbled from behind me. I spun just in time to see a second, larger Yomurei, charging at full speed. Its claws gouged the earth, eyes locked on me.

  I dodged to the side, barely avoiding its first strike. The ground trembled under its weight. I grasped my spear tighter, eyes scanning. Attack angle… momentum… target weak points…

  It leapt, jaw snapping, claws slashing. I rolled under its swing, spears thrust at its exposed side. Sparks flew as claw met spear shaft. The creature roared, recovering mid-air, aiming a deadly strike at my head. I dove sideways, landing on all fours, spear ready for a counter.

  The Yomurei’s tail lashed, knocking leaves and dirt into my face. I blocked with the spear, pivoting and slashing at its leg. It staggered but kept advancing. Every movement was calculated: I dodged, jabbed, blocked, and aimed for its vulnerable spots.

  Then—an almost silent, blinding motion. A streak of silver cut through the air. The Yomurei shrieked, split in two, falling in pieces.

  I froze, chest heaving, spear still in hand. The figure stood silently, blade glinting in the firelight. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

  I didn’t speak. My mind raced. Alive… not dead… safe… for now… observe.

  The forest was quiet again. The fire flickered, shadows stretching across the clearing. The Yomurei were gone. And for the first time in six years, I was not alone.

  "Hey kid, what are you doing in this dangerous forest? This forest has many Yomurei lurking around this night you, I'm surprised that you can kill one with that axe." The man that saved me said.

  "What...is this...?" I remembered what my father told me. "I know… no, I am sure… you will grow into a strong man. Not just a man… a strong Yomu Executioner". "Is this what he meant by Yomu Executioner? This guy...is one of them?" I speak in my mind trying to process what happened.