Prologue

Author's Note: This story, though inspired by history, is a work of fiction. While the Mongol invasions of Japan serve as a foundation, many elements—events, locations, and characters—have been shaped and reimagined for the sake of storytelling. This is not a historical account, but a tale of war, fate, and the choices that define us.

"There once was a prophecy..."

The old monk's voice trembled like the wind through ancient trees, his words carried from generation to generation, whispered in the halls of temples, spoken in the dead of night as samurai sharpened their blades in silent preparation. A prophecy of war. A prophecy of reckoning.

"Foreign invaders will one day come, unrelenting as a tidal wave, seeking to claim these lands as their own."

The vision spoke of fire and steel, of ships blackening the horizon, of banners bearing symbols unknown to the people of these shores. Warriors from distant lands, their tongues foreign, their ways ruthless. Their advance would be swift, unstoppable, crushing all in their path.

"At first, the invaders will be victorious. The warriors of our land will fall, our castles will crumble, our rivers will run red with the blood of the fallen."

The samurai, bound by honor, would stand against them—and they would fall. The walls of mighty strongholds would be reduced to smoldering ruins, their banners torn and trampled beneath the hooves of enemy warhorses. Even the proudest clans would kneel before this merciless force.

"But through the ashes… through the darkness… will rise the most unlikely pair."

A shadow and a blade.

An heir and an outcast.

A warrior bound by duty and a thief bound by survival.

"Together, they will defy fate itself. Together, they will rise beyond what it means to be human. They will fight for their home, for their people… and they will behead the invaders."

But prophecy is a fickle thing. It is not a promise, nor is it a certainty. It is merely a path glimpsed through the mists of fate. Whether the path is walked… depends on those who must walk it.

Ren (Iwanai, Hokkaido, 11 years ago)

"Tell me, Ren… what do you think is the definition of honor?"

Ren sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, his small hands gripping a chipped rice bowl as he ate. The question came from his father, a man weathered by years of hardship, his hands rough from pulling fishing nets day after day. His father did not wear armor, nor did he wield a sword, but in Ren's eyes, he was still strong.

He thought for a moment, chewing slowly.

"Honor is fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves," Ren said finally.

His father's tired eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to agree—but then, his expression grew heavier, worn by years of struggle. He reached out, ruffling Ren's hair with a calloused hand.

"That's a good answer, son." His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "But let me tell you what I believe."

Ren looked up, listening.

"Honor isn't just about fighting for others—it's about surviving. No matter what it takes. A dead man can't protect anyone. Honor is making sure your family lives, making sure they never go hungry, never suffer. If you must steal, you steal. If you must run, you run. If you must kill..." His father paused, his gaze dark and unreadable. "Then you do what must be done."

He placed a firm hand on Ren's small shoulder.

"Survival is the greatest honor of all."

Ren did not understand those words then.

But he would.

Reika (Ebetsu, Hokkaido, 11 years ago)

"Tell me, Reika… what do you think is the definition of honor?"

Reika stood in the courtyard of the Shirakawa estate, gripping the wooden practice sword her father had given her. The cool breeze rustled the white banners overhead, their embroidered camellia crest swaying like ghostly petals in the wind.

Her father, Shirakawa Haruto, stood before her—tall, armored, and unwavering. His gaze was sharp, his presence heavy. She knew this was a test. Her father never asked questions without purpose.

"Honor means protecting those who cannot protect themselves," she answered, standing tall. Her voice was steady, her conviction unshaken.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, her father gave a small nod.

"A noble thought," he said. But his gaze did not soften, nor did his expression change. Instead, he stepped forward, lowering his voice. "But listen well, Reika—true honor is not just protection. It is justice."

She frowned slightly, gripping her practice sword tighter.

"To protect is not enough," he continued. "The world is filled with men who exploit the weak, who twist laws and prey upon those beneath them. If you wish to be honorable, you must not only guard the innocent—you must punish the wicked."

His hand rested on the hilt of his katana, his voice edged with steel.

"Justice is the blade that cuts through corruption. Mercy is for those who deserve it. But those who stain this world with their greed, their cruelty, their cowardice… they must be shown no leniency. That, Reika, is true honor."

She did not fully understand those words then.

But she would.

Two children, worlds apart. A thief and a warrior. A boy who lived in the shadows, and a girl raised in the light.

Both had given the same answer. However, they would come to learn that honor is not so easily defined.