CHAPTER 32-A Promise Made

Forty years ago, in the nation of Sirocaan, peace prevailed across its three villages—until war cast its shadow, bringing famine and despair.

In the village of Yamahana, hunger gnawed at its people. Food was scarce, and what little remained was beyond the reach of the poor. Finding work was nearly impossible, and desperation clung to the streets like an unshakable curse.

A small boy, Little John, wandered those streets, his clothes in tatters, his stomach hollow with hunger. Eyes followed him, but no kindness met his gaze—only cold, cutting words.

"Street dog."

"Lowlife."

"Good-for-nothing."

John endured, waiting patiently, hoping for a sliver of mercy. But when the pain in his stomach became unbearable, He seized an opportunity. His hands trembled as he reached for the loaf. He knew stealing was wrong his mother always told him that. But his stomach ached, and he could barely stand. No one would help him. No one ever did. If he didn't take this now, would he ever get another chance? His small hand darting forward, snatching a piece of bread from a shop.

"Oi, you street rat! Get back here!" The shopkeeper's furious voice rang out.

John ran. His little legs burned, his heart pounded against his ribs, but he didn't stop. He weaved through the alleyways, pushing forward until he found a quiet valley. There, gasping for air, he spotted a discarded bottle with a few precious drops of water. Thirst clawed at his throat. Without hesitation, he snatched the bottle and ran home.

His home—a hollow shell of a house. No furniture, no warmth, just four walls and a fire pit. No futons to sleep on, only the bare ground.

John rushed into the room where his mother lay, curled under a torn blanket. Her face was pale, her body weak from fever. She didn't stir when he called her.

"Mama… mama, I brought you food. And water. Please wake up."

With great effort, his mother opened her eyes, her lips trembling as she whispered, "Thank you… John."

She took the bread in her frail hands but hesitated. "John… where did you get this?"

John hesitated. "I… I stole it from the market. But, mama, I didn't steal the water. I promise."

A soft smile touched her lips. She set the bread aside and lifted the bottle, drinking the last few drops. Then she closed her eyes, her exhaustion pulling her back under.

John's heart pounded in fear. "Mama! Why aren't you eating?"

Her voice, barely above a whisper, held a warmth that broke him. "John… you thought of me. Even when we have nothing, you still thought of me… But stealing… stealing is wrong. Those people work hard for what they have. Taking from them… it's taking their hard work. I drank the water because you said you didn't steal it. But if I eat this bread, it would mean I approve of what you did."

Tears welled in John's eyes. "Mama… please. Just this once. Please eat. You need to be strong."

 "Why, Mama? Why won't you eat?" His hands clenched into fists. He wanted to scream. She was dying, and yet she still cared about right and wrong? Wasn't survival more important? What good were morals if they let people starve?"

She reached out, brushing the tears from his cheeks. "Little John…" Her voice wavered. "You… are the best thing that ever happened to me."

Her words shattered him. "Mama… mama!"

"John… don't regret a single second of your life. Live for yourself. This world is cruel, filled with suffering… but never steal, my son."

John clutched her hand tightly. "I promise, Mama! I'll never steal again!"

A weak smile graced her lips as her hand slipped from his grasp, falling lifelessly to the floor. Her breath ceased.

"Mama?" His voice trembled. "Mama! MAMA!"

He shook her, desperate, but she never woke up.

Tears streamed down his face as his cries turned into a wail, raw and broken. "MAMA! PLEASE! DON'T LEAVE ME! MAMAAAAA!"

Then the door creaked open.

His father, Yoshi, staggered in, reeking of alcohol, an unfamiliar woman supporting his drunken steps.

"Papa! Mama isn't waking up! She isn't breathing! Please… do something!"

Yoshi lumbered forward, kneeling beside her. He pressed a rough hand to her wrist, then let it drop with a scoff. "She's dead, brat. Quit crying. Go find some work and earn us some food."

The woman beside him frowned. "Dear… he's just a child. Where would he even find work?"

Yoshi swayed on his feet. "I don't care. If he wants to stay, he'll earn his keep."

Suddenly, a loud pounding shook the door. Yoshi flinched, panic flashing in his bleary eyes.

"Who the hell is knocking like that?! You'll break the damn door!"

When he peered through a crack, his drunken haze vanished. Village guards stood at the threshold.

"Open up! Yoshi, you're wanted for theft! You stole from your workplace and spent it all at the brothel."

Yoshi cursed under his breath. Without hesitation, he grabbed John and fled through the back door.

The night swallowed them as they ran. John, still numb with grief, barely registered where they were going. They reached the coastal outskirts of Kaminosato, where Yoshi finally stopped, shoving John down onto the dirt.

A man walked along the road, noticing the child. As he approached, concern in his eyes, Yoshi sprang from the shadows—his hands wrapping around the man's throat, strangling him until the life drained from his body.

John wanted to move, to scream, but his body was frozen. His father's hands tightened around the man's throat, and the stranger's struggling slowed. Was this what survival meant? mother had told me never to steal, but this… this was worse. And yet, father acted as if it were nothing. Was this the world I had to live in?

John watched in silent horror as his father rifled through the dead man's pockets, pulling out money.

Panting, Yoshi turned to him. "I'm doing this for you, John. Remember that."

Later, Yoshi took the stolen money to buy food. But it wasn't enough. He resorted to theft once more, grabbing a large loaf of bread and running, leaving John behind.

John, too small to keep up, was caught by the shopkeeper and beaten bloody.

Hours later, battered and aching, he limped through an alley. A voice called out to him.

"John."

He turned. Yoshi stood there, waiting.

"You did good, kid. You distracted them so I could get away. Here." He broke off a tiny piece of bread, tossing it to John. "A treat."

John took the scrap and murmured, "Thank you."

Yoshi smirked. "See? I'm doing this all for you."

John sat far away, eating his meager portion in silence. Tears slipped down his cheeks. "Mama…"

Rage built within him, hot and unforgiving. His hands clenched into fists.

"If you had been a better man… if you hadn't wasted everything on alcohol and women… Mama would still be alive."

His gaze fell upon a knife lying in the dirt.

Gripping the handle, he rose, stepping toward his father, who lay passed out in filth.

his thoughts " my fingers tightening around the cold handle of the knife. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. The smell of alcohol and filth clung to him as he lay in the garbage, snoring like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't abandoned me. Like he hadn't let my mother die. Like he hadn't just watched me get beaten while he ran away with stolen bread.

"I'm doing this for you, John."

Lies. All of it. Every single word that left his mouth.

I wanted to believe him once. I wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a reason for everything he did. But now I see it. He wasn't doing this for me. He was doing it for himself.

Mama… if he had been different, if he had worked hard instead of wasting everything on drinking and women… would you still be here?"

"No. No more excuses."

He clenched the knife tighter.

"Don't put this guilt on me, you bastard."

With all his strength, He drove the blade into his chest.

With one swift motion, the blade plunged into Yoshi's chest.

His father gasped, eyes widening in shock, struggling for breath as his life drained away. After a while he stopped moving.

John stood there, blood coating his hands, staining his tattered shirt.

Turning away, he whispered, "I will live for myself. I will do what I please… but I will never steal again."