Survivor

Ren Kisaragi ran.

His breath came fast and ragged as he tore through the crowded streets of Iwanai, feet pounding against the uneven stone pathways. The cold night air burned his lungs, but he couldn't stop. Not now.

Behind him, the sharp shhnk of steel slicing through the air sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through his veins. They were close.

"All this for a piece of bread?" he muttered under his breath, weaving past a startled fish vendor. The stolen loaf, stale at the edges but precious beyond words, was clutched tightly in his arm.

Lantern light flickered over his lean face, casting shifting shadows across sharp features. His grey eyes, restless and calculating, scanned the streets ahead, searching for the next path to escape. His dark, wavy hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead as the wind rushed past him.

Seventeen years of survival had shaped him.

And survival meant running.

The samurai chasing him didn't see him as a starving thief.

They saw prey.

And they were gaining on him.

"Stop, thief!" one of them barked.

Ren didn't turn to look—he didn't need to. He could feel them behind him, hear the sharp clatter of their armored footsteps, the rhythmic shhnk of swords sliding from their scabbards. They were trained warriors. They wouldn't tire before he did.

A flash of movement in the corner of his vision—a blade swinging low for his legs.

Ren twisted mid-step, his body moving before his mind even registered the danger. He threw himself into a side roll, barely avoiding the slash, the wind of the blade's passing sharp against his skin. His shoulder slammed into a stack of crates, knocking them over as he staggered back to his feet.

Pain pulsed through his ribs, but he forced himself forward.

The streets blurred around him—paper lanterns swaying in the wind, wooden buildings packed tight together, merchants shouting their final sales of the evening. Ren's entire world narrowed to the alleyways ahead, the paths his feet knew by heart. He wove through the crowd like a ghost, slipping between moving bodies without slowing.

But no matter how fast he was, they were still there.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

"Damn it."

Ren knew these streets better than anyone. The hidden pathways, the rooftops, the twisting alleys only a desperate thief would dare to use. But tonight, every escape route felt just a little too narrow. A little too exposed.

His eyes darted ahead. A fruit stand—crates stacked high with oranges.

A plan formed in an instant.

Without hesitation, Ren lunged forward, feigning a stumble. He crashed into the stand deliberately, sending crates toppling over. A sea of oranges spilled across the street, rolling in every direction.

The startled vendor shouted in protest, but Ren was already gone.

Behind him—a yell. A curse. A heavy thud.

One of his pursuers tripped, hitting the ground hard. A brief delay. But it was not enough.

He pushed harder.

The crowded center of Iwanai was thinning out behind him, the streets growing wider, emptier. That meant fewer obstacles. Fewer places to hide.

He needed height.

Without breaking stride, Ren leapt onto a low fence, then kicked off against the wooden wall of a nearby shop, using the momentum to pull himself onto the tiled roof.

The city opened up beneath him. Lantern-lit streets stretched into the distance, the dark sea shimmering beyond the edge of town.

Ren didn't stop to admire the view.

He kept running, his bare feet skimming across the curved rooftops, muscles burning from the climb. The city rooftops were his domain. Down below, the samurai weren't nearly as fast.

He heard the telltale sound of pursuit below—boots skidding, curses muttered.

"Where did he—?!"

Ren grinned. "Too slow."

For a moment, he thought he'd lost them.

Then—

A sharp whistling sound.

Arrows.

Time stretched thin.

Ren's instincts screamed at him to move. NOW.

He ducked—just in time.

A single arrow embedded itself in the rooftop where he had just been standing. His stomach twisted.

"They brought archers?!"

The fight had changed. He couldn't outrun arrows.

No more rooftops. No more straight paths. He needed to disappear—completely.

Ren sprinted to the nearest drop, sliding down the sloped roof and landing hard in a narrow alley. He took three quick turns in succession, darting through the maze-like backstreets.

Finally—finally—the sounds of pursuit faded.

Ren didn't stop running until the last building was behind him.

Open land stretched ahead.

The sea, dark and endless, lay beyond.

Ren's chest heaved, his ribs aching with each breath. He bent forward, hands on his knees, sucking in gulps of air. The chase had taken him farther than he'd realized. The city was behind him now, the sounds of rushing feet and angry voices dimming in the distance.

For the first time, he allowed himself a moment of relief.

"Finally lost them."

The words barely left his lips before something in the air shifted.

The wind carried a heavy, acrid scent—not the familiar brine of the ocean. Something else. Something wrong.

Smoke.

Ren's breath hitched.

His head snapped toward the shore.

And his world fell apart.

"No..."

The horizon was lit with fire.

At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no—they were there.

Ships. Lining the coast. Hundreds of them.

Their silhouettes loomed against the night sky, flickering orange with reflected firelight.

And the shore—it was crawling with them.

Foreign soldiers.

They poured onto the land like locusts, armored figures moving in unrelenting waves.

Ren hadn't noticed before—he'd been too busy running. Too focused on his own survival.

But now that he had stopped—now that he was seeing the full picture—

The streets were already burning.

People ran through the streets. Screaming.

Steel met flesh. The sound was unmistakable.

Swords flashed in through firelight.

Unfamiliar voices shouted commands in a language Ren didn't understand.

This wasn't some skirmish. This wasn't an attack.

This was a full-scale invasion.

Move. Move. MOVE.

Ren's legs barely felt connected to his body as he spun on his heels and ran.

His home, where Hikaru, his younger brother was all alone. He had to get to him. Now.

The city rushed past him in a blur as he sprinted back toward the burning streets of Iwanai. Screams filled the air—piercing, raw, and animalistic. His mind told him to stop, to think, to breathe, but there was no time.

If he hesitated, his brother would die.

He shoved past fleeing townspeople, his bare feet slapping against the dirt, the soles already scraped and raw from his escape earlier. He barely felt the pain. Panic drowned everything else.

All around him, people ran—merchants, mothers clutching their children, fishermen who had long since abandoned their trade to simply survive.

Not everyone was lucky enough to escape.

Ren saw the first one just as he turned a corner.

A man on his knees, begging. His hands trembled as he lifted them toward the foreigner standing over him. The invader was a towering figure of leather and iron, a long curved blade rested in his hand.

The sword fell.

Ren didn't see where it landed. He turned away before he could.

Keep moving. Keep your head down. Don't stop.

He forced himself into the shadows of a side street, pressing his back against the charred wood of a burning building. The heat licked at his skin, but he couldn't risk moving yet.

From his hiding spot, he watched the samurai fight.

At first, a flicker of hope sparked in his chest. The samurai were warriors—trained, disciplined, and fearless. Surely they could hold the line.

But as the battle raged before him, that hope turned to dust.

The invaders didn't fight like the samurai.

There was no honor, no dueling, no discipline. There was only brutality. Massive numbers. Relentless swarming. Ruthless efficiency.

Ren watched as one samurai, a man in pristine armor, cut down three invaders in a single, fluid motion. A moment later, an arrow sank into his neck. Then another. Then another.

He collapsed before he even had a chance to scream.

Another warrior stood his ground, blocking and parrying in a perfect display of technique. It didn't matter. A second warrior speared him through the ribs while a third crushed his skull with a war hammer.

Ren's stomach twisted.

"They're not fighting. They're slaughtering."

A woman's scream split the air. Ren forced himself not to look.

His hands trembled against the burning wall behind him. The acrid scent of charred wood, blood, and burning flesh filled his nose. It was suffocating.

They didn't just kill. They also destroyed. They were burning everything.

This wasn't just a battle. It was the end of Iwanai.

Ren swallowed down the rising bile in his throat and forced himself forward.

He darted between alleyways, hugging the darkness, avoiding open spaces.

The city was unrecognizable. The rooftops he had danced across hours ago were now collapsing in bursts of heat and flame. The market streets he had weaved through were nothing but corpses and broken stalls.

He moved slowly, his every breath controlled, every footstep placed with precision.

At one point, he slipped into the wreckage of a collapsed home, using the crumbling beams as cover.

From behind the broken wood, he saw a group of invaders dragging a samurai from the wreckage of his burning estate. The man was still alive, his armor scorched, his leg mangled beneath fallen debris.

He lifted his sword with shaking hands.

They just laughed at him.

One stepped forward. He didn't carry a sword. He carried a rope, most likely that mean they were also taking people to become slaves.

Ren turned away.

"Keep moving."

His hands clenched into fists as he slipped through the ruins of Iwanai, creeping through the labyrinth of destruction.

Just a little farther.

Ren's home was just ahead.

Through the thick smoke, he saw the familiar rooftop, the small wooden door he had patched up just last week.

"Hikaru..."

But before he could reach it, he froze.

A shadow moved in the corner of his vision.

He turned but he was too late.

A hand seized the back of his yukata and yanked him off his feet.

Ren crashed onto the ground, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Stars burst in his vision as his head smacked against the dirt.

He barely had time to react before a heavy boot slammed down onto his chest, pinning him in place.

His vision snapped upward.

A man stood over him. Massive and armored. His scarred face twisted in amusement. He held a curved blade—a scimitar—dripping with fresh blood.

The man said something in a language Ren didn't understand.

"Mön ene byatskhan khün khen be?"

Ren didn't need to understand.

He knew what came next.

He thrashed, trying to break free, but the boot crushed down harder, pressing the air from his lungs.

He reached for his emergency kunai.

But before he could pull it free—

A sound like thunder cracked through the air.

The building beside them collapsed.

A wall of fire and splintered wood cut off his only escape route.

He was trapped.

And he was out of time.

The sick man grinned then he lifted his blade—

At the same time, Ren drew his kunai.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

The world around him blurred, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The invaders blade was falling, the gleaming edge arcing through the fire-lit air toward his throat.

And then—

Everything slowed.

Ren had felt this before. A strange stillness. A moment where everything seemed to stretch, lengthen, expand. The flickering flames of the burning house beside them moved sluggishly, the man's twisted grin frozen in time. The distant screams of the dying became nothing but echoes in his ears.

His mind was… shifting. Processing things faster than his body could keep up with.

A single moment became an eternity.

He saw the man's stance—weight pressing down on his front foot, sword swinging with full force. 

Ren moved.

His fingers tightened around his only weapon—a single kunai, hidden within his sleeve.

With a choked breath, he jammed it downward.

The blade sank into the nearest foot.

The reaction was instant—the invader howled in pain, his grip on the sword faltering. Ren barely had time to yank his head to the side as the blade whistled past his ear, so close he felt the wind of its passing.

The invader stumbled, loosening his hold on Ren's chest allowing Ren to tear himself free from his grasp.

His body twisted and he rolled away, the heat of the nearby flames scorching his skin as he scrambled to his feet.

The man ripped the kunai from his foot, blood dripping onto the dirt. His face contorted in rage.

Ren backed away, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

He had never fought like this before.

He had thrown punches in street fights. He had tackled other thieves over scraps of food. But this?

This was different.

This was death.

The invader was a trained warrior. A killer.

Ren was just a thief.

He wanted to run.

He prayed for a samurai to come save him.

But no one was coming.

He was alone.

The invaders stance shifted—and then he charged.

Ren barely had time to react.

He ducked. Twisted. Dodged.

The sword's edge flashed past him again, slicing through empty air where his head had been a heartbeat before.

The enemy moved fast, but Ren was faster.

His body, honed from years of running, climbing, escaping, moved with desperate precision. His feet barely touched the ground as he dodged, weaving, heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst.

But dodging wasn't winning.

And Ren had no idea how to win.

His hands trembled as he grabbed the kunai from the ground.

He had stabbed the invader in the foot before—but that hadn't been the same. That had been instinct, survival.

To kill was different.

He lunged again—Ren barely leapt away in time.

"I don't want to kill him."

The thought screamed through his head, over and over.

"I don't want to do this."

He wouldn't stop.

"Someone stop him."

But there was no one left.

The samurai were dead.

There was only Ren and the merciless killer who stood before him.

The invader swung again. This time, Ren was too slow.

The blade tore into his side.

A flash of pain—white-hot, searing. Ren gasped, stumbling. Blood soaked his yukata, the fabric darkening instantly. His vision blurred.

The invader stepped forward for the finishing blow.

And Ren knew.

This was it.

He had one chance.

His fingers tightened around the kunai.

He lunged.

The blade plunged into the invaders throat.

Ren barely realized what he had done until he felt the warmth of blood spilling over his hands.

The enemies eyes widened in shock. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came—only a horrible, wet gurgling sound.

Ren's breath caught.

He wanted to let go. To step back.

But his hand wouldn't move.

The man grasped at his throat, his body spasming, struggling. He was dying.

Ren felt every twitch, every jerk of muscle.

Then—stillness.

His weight collapsed against him.

Ren staggered back as the body fell, hitting the dirt with a dull thud.

Silence.

Ren's chest heaved. His hands—stained red—began to tremble.

His stomach twisted violently. He barely had time to turn to the side before he vomited onto the ground.

His vision blurred. His breaths came short and ragged.

"I killed him."

He had never taken a life before.

And now—he had.

He wanted to cry. To scream. To run.

But he couldn't.

Because the noise of the fight had drawn more footsteps.

More of them were coming.

Ren's body moved on instinct, he had to run.

He reached his home breathless and bleeding, his vision spinning.

The small wooden door stood slightly ajar.

He staggered inside.

However, to his horror it was empty.

His chest tightened.

"Hikaru?" His voice cracked, raw and desperate.

Silence.

The room was intact—there had been no struggle. No blood.

But Hikaru was gone.

Ren's hands gripped the doorway so hard his knuckles turned white. His legs shook.

Then a memory flashed in his mind.

"Ren, promise me something."

His mother's voice—soft, warm. A voice he could barely remember anymore.

He had been six years old, his tiny hands clinging to hers as she knelt before him.

"No matter what happens," she whispered, her fingers brushing against his cheek. "You must protect your brother."

And now he had failed to keep his promise.