Heir Of The White River

The scent of incense and fresh tatami filled the air, mingling with the faintest trace of sakura petals drifting in from the garden.

Reika sat in quiet stillness, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight despite the comfort of the cushions beneath her. The low glow of the setting sun filtered through the delicate paper walls, casting warm golden hues across the room. Shadows stretched across the polished wooden floors, the fading daylight reflecting off the intricate carvings of camellia flowers lining the support beams.

This was home.

The Shirakawa estate, nestled just beyond the outskirts of Sapporo, was one of the oldest and most revered strongholds in Hokkaido. Though smaller than the great castles of the mainland, it was a masterpiece of precision and elegance—a structure built not just for function, but for beauty.

Sliding doors framed the rooms, their painted screens depicting rivers, cranes, and endless fields of blooming cherry blossoms. The scent of cedarwood lingered from the beams above, aged yet strong, a reminder of the generations that had lived here before her.

Beyond the doors, the sound of soft footsteps echoed through the hallways.

The household was always alive with quiet movement.

Maids, dressed in pale blue and white yukata, moved with practiced grace, carrying trays of tea and warm towels for the returning warriors. Young samurai-in-training, barely older than boys, whispered in hushed voices as they polished armor outside. And somewhere deeper within the estate, her father—Shirakawa Haruto—spoke in low, serious tones with his closest retainers.

Reika exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for just a moment.

Everything felt so peaceful.

She knew better than to take that for granted.

Reika Shirakawa was the very image of elegant strength, a woman raised not only in the ways of nobility but also in the art of the sword.

The soft glow of the fading sunlight illuminated her flawless porcelain skin, untouched by scars, her features sharp yet delicate—high cheekbones, a refined jawline, full lips that rarely wavered in emotion.

Her most striking feature, however, was her heterochromatic gaze—one eye a deep, earthy brown, the other a dark, stormy blue. A contrast that made her unforgettable.

Her long, dark brown hair cascaded like silk, tied back into a warrior's ponytail, though a few loose strands framed her face. In the dimming light, her hair revealed its true hue—a rich shade of brown that shimmered like polished mahogany when touched by the sun.

She wore a fusion of noble finery and battle gear, a reminder of her dual role as both the heir of the Shirakawa Clan and one of its fiercest warriors.

The inner layer: A deep blue kimono embroidered with silver cranes and cherry blossoms, the fabric fine yet functional. The armor: A carefully fitted white-lacquered chestplate, sleek and reinforced for mobility. Arm bracers and hand guards, decorated with the white camellia crest of her family. The weapons: A katana and wakizashi, bound at her hip, their hilts wrapped in pristine white silk.

She exuded an air of quiet authority, a woman both admired and feared.

Yet, despite her perfect composure, there was a restlessness in her eyes.

A part of her that longed to escape this structured world of noble expectations.

And so, she did.

The cool evening air brushed against her skin as Reika stepped outside, the faint scent of wisteria and river mist greeting her.

The estate's inner gardens were vast, an enclosed world of twisting stone pathways, koi ponds, and towering pine trees that rustled softly in the evening wind. The carefully placed stepping stones beneath her feet were smooth and worn, leading toward the open courtyard where warriors trained beneath the fading sky.

She moved past them, toward her favorite place—the riverbank.

The Shirakawa River, as it had been called for generations, ran along the edge of their estate, its waters glistening with gold and crimson reflections from the dying sunlight. It was a quiet, unspoiled stretch of nature, where cherry blossom trees bent over the water, their pale pink petals drifting lazily downstream.

The trees were old, their branches thick and gnarled, standing as silent sentinels to the land her ancestors had sworn to protect.

The air was alive with the hum of cicadas, the soft rustling of bamboo, and the distant call of a lone hawk soaring overhead.

Reika loved this time of day.

The way the world felt caught between two states—the warmth of day slowly fading into the mystery of night. The river reflecting both the sky above and the world below, as if existing in two places at once.

She knelt at the water's edge, dipping her fingers into the cool stream, watching as the ripples distorted her reflection.

A small smile touched her lips.

This place was constant. Unchanging. Safe.

She wished she could stay here forever.

The stillness of the river was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Reika exhaled, recognizing the steady rhythm even before she turned. Her father.

Shirakawa Haruto was not a man who wasted movement. Every step was deliberate, every gesture controlled. Even now, as he approached with his arms folded behind his back, there was a commanding presence about him—like a blade kept in its sheath, but ready to strike at any moment.

His armor, though practical and worn from battle, was polished to perfection, the crest of their clan—a white camellia—emblazoned on his chestplate. His sharp eyes, dark as iron, held the weight of a man who had seen too much war, too much loss.

Reika stood, brushing stray cherry blossom petals from her sleeves.

"You're looking for me."

Her father nodded once. His expression was unreadable, but there was a heaviness to his gaze.

"Word has arrived from the mainland." His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the gravity behind it. "Tsushima and Iki have fallen."

Reika stiffened.

For a moment, the wind carried nothing but silence. Even the river, once so tranquil, suddenly felt cold and distant.

"All of Tsushima?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Every last stronghold. The Jitō has called every samurai on the island to prepare. We ride for Sapporo at first light."

Reika's fingers clenched into the fabric of her sleeve.

Tsushima and Iki were the outermost islands, the first line of defense against any invasion. The Mongols had tried once before—nearly twenty years ago, in the failed invasion of Kyushu. But this…

This was different.

They weren't raiding anymore. They weren't testing Japan's defenses.

They were coming to take everything.

"And Hokkaido?" she asked.

Her father's jaw tightened. A rare flicker of emotion.

"They'll be here soon."

A chill ran through her, despite the warmth of the evening air.

She turned her gaze back toward the river, the trees, the cherry blossoms swaying in the breeze.

How much longer would any of this exist?

Reika had spent her entire life preparing for war, yet she had never truly experienced what it meant to fight for survival. Hokkaido had always been a place of strength, of honor, of warriors standing ready.

But now—they weren't ready.

The Mongols weren't like any enemy they had ever faced.

"This is no ordinary battle," she murmured, more to herself than to her father.

"No," Haruto agreed. "It is not."

For a brief moment, Reika felt the urge to stay here just a little longer. To memorize the river, the scent of cherry blossoms, the feeling of peace before the world turned to fire.

But she pushed the thought away.

There was no time for sentiment.

She turned, her resolve hardening. "What must be done?"

The Shirakawa estate was alive with frenzied movement.

The quiet halls of the evening were now filled with the clang of armor, the sharpening of blades, the murmur of voices preparing for war.

Reika strode through the halls, her expression composed, though her mind was racing.

The household retainers had already begun packing supplies for the journey—food, medicine, weaponry. Their finest horses were being prepared, the stable boys working under the dim glow of lanterns.

Her own room, normally untouched by chaos, had become a shrine to discipline.

Her katana and wakizashi lay polished on their stands, her armor set out by the maids who had served her since childhood. Even her riding cloak had been prepared, folded neatly beside a set of reinforced travel gloves.

This was not just a meeting with the Jitō.

This was a call to arms.

Reika pulled her sword belt tight, the weight of her blades grounding her in the moment. She could not afford hesitation.

She was Shirakawa Reika, heir to the White River.

And tomorrow, she would ride to war.

...

Morning came swiftly.

The sky was still streaked with the deep purples and grays of dawn as the Shirakawa warriors mounted their horses, banners raised high.

Reika's steed, a powerful black stallion named Kuroi, shifted beneath her, its breath visible in the crisp morning air. Her father rode ahead, his presence unwavering as they led their men toward Sapporo.

The journey was quiet. Too quiet.

Even the birds had fallen silent.

Then—they saw it.

In the far distance, where the endless blue of the sea met the horizon—

The ships.

A forest of masts and sails, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Reika's breath caught.

"Thousands..."

The Mongols had already made landfall overnight, burning entire cities before dawn.

And now—they were here.

Her father reined in his horse, his eyes locked on the horizon.

"They're already moving inland," he said, his voice grim.

Reika clenched the reins, her knuckles white.

She had imagined this moment a hundred times.

But now that it was here—now that she saw the enemy coming to swallow her home—

She realized war had never truly felt real until now.

Her entire life had been spent preparing for battle—training, refining her technique, mastering the blade—yet none of it had ever held the crushing weight of reality. It had always been distant, theoretical. A noble duty, an obligation.

But this?

This was not just war.

This was annihilation.

Her fixation on justice suddenly felt meaningless. What use was honor in the face of an enemy like this? Who could be punished when the punishment itself was indiscriminate death for all?

Sure, bandits had killed her mother—a senseless crime, an injustice she had carried for years. But that hatred? That grief? It was a candle compared to this wildfire.

This enemy was something different.

A swarm. A plague.

A force that evolved with every resistance, growing stronger each time, spreading further, and consuming everything. The moment one front fell, they simply came back stronger.

All of Asia was theirs.

And now?

They had set their greedy, merciless eyes on her home.

Her hands clenched into fists.

"They will not take it."

Her resolve hardened like steel beneath a hammer.

"I will never let them."

The group reached Sapporo by dawn.

The sun had barely begun to rise over the horizon, but already, the city was alive with the sound of warriors assembling.

Everywhere she looked, samurai from different clans were gathering—armor glinting in the pale morning light, swords sharpened, banners flying high. Some men stood stoic. Others muttered prayers under their breath, their hands clutching their blades as if seeking comfort from the steel.

But even with the sheer number of warriors, an undeniable tension hung in the air.

They were preparing for the greatest battle of their lives.

And they all knew it.

Reika's gaze swept across the gathering forces as she rode beside her father. Despite the murmured conversations and the countless banners displaying the crests of powerful clans, one figure stood out.

At the heart of it all stood the Jitō of Hokkaido.

Yoshinobu Yamamoto.

The fiercest samurai in the north.

Even amongst warriors, he was a legend.

She had seen him before when she was younger. She had watched him fight.

He was a man who could cleave through entire battalions with nothing but his blade and his will. A warrior whom even the Mongols feared.

Seeing him, some of the dread lifted from her chest.

If he was here—then maybe, just maybe…

They had a chance.