Time For Change

Ren had always been good at disappearing.

It was what had kept him and Hikaru alive for all these years—a talent honed not just by necessity, but by instinct.

To the untrained eye, it looked like magic.

To Ren, it was simple.

It was misdirection.

It was momentum.

It was knowing that a chase wasn't just about speed—it was about control.

The Mongols had been right behind him.

Through the burning wreckage of Iwanai, they had pursued him like wolves, their armored boots pounding against the scorched earth, their shouts blending with the distant cries of the dying.

They had seen him.

They had almost caught him.

But "almost" was never enough.

As he ran, his mind worked faster than his feet.

"Too many straight paths. Change direction."

He cut into an alley.

"No blind corners. If I turn here, they'll anticipate it."

Instead of disappearing behind the broken cart in the street, he leapt onto it, then upward—onto the slanted roof of a shop, grabbing the ledge with practiced ease.

The soldiers charged past below.

For a moment, Ren paused. He waited and watched to see where they would go.

Then—he moved again.

Before they even realized he was gone, he was already four buildings away.

The secret to vanishing wasn't just about hiding. It was about never being where they expected you to be.

Most men ran in straight lines. Ren ran like smoke—shifting, slipping through cracks, never still long enough to be caught.

A sprint to a rooftop. A quick drop into a shaded doorway. A step through a burning fire.

By the time the Mongols turned their heads, he no longer existed.

Present time

Now however, he sat in complete silence.

The cave was tucked into the rocky cliffs, hidden by the overgrowth of pine and brush that clung to the edges of the bluffs. The wind howled outside, but within, it was still—silent, untouched by the ongoing invasion.

The place was familiar—a second home, once.

He and Hikaru had found it years ago.

A secret place. Their refuge.

A spot where no samurai could find them. Where they could be themselves—no thieves, no outcasts. Just brothers.

Ren exhaled slowly, adjusting his position against the cold stone wall. His side still ached from the wound he'd taken, but the bleeding had stopped.

His mind, however, had not.

Hikaru was still out there.

And Ren had no idea where he was.

His eyes flickered over the small objects scattered within the cave.

Traces of his brother.

A half-built contraption rested against the far wall—a tiny wooden device with gears and springs, something Hikaru had been working on before the invasion. A failed experiment, abandoned but never thrown away.

Beside it, a small pile of coal and scraps of old paper—the remnants of Hikaru's early attempts at making ink and dyes, the ones he used to trade for food.

Even a makeshift shelf, stacked with small glass bottles of collected river water, labeled with childish handwriting.

"This one's from the mountain stream! This one's from the waterfall near the rice fields!"

Ren swallowed.

The memories felt like daggers.

Everything here was Hikaru.

And yet, Hikaru wasn't here.

His fingers clenched into fists.

"He's alive."

Ren didn't know that for certain.

But he had to believe it.

His eyes fell on a single wooden carving resting on a stone shelf near the entrance. A small bird, roughly carved, its wings barely even shaped.

Ren lifted it carefully, running his thumb over the uneven edges.

Hikaru had carved this.

For him.

"Big Brother, it's you! Because you always fly away!"

Ren let out a quiet breath.

For the first time since the invasion, his exhaustion began to fade.

Resolve settled in its place.

He would find Hikaru.

No matter what it took.

No matter who stood in his way.

Even if he had to tear through the entire enemy army, he would save his brother.

That thought burned in his mind, refusing to waver.

His fingers twitched at his sides as his gaze drifted downward, locking onto the three objects before him.

A sword. A set of armor. A mask.

The remnants of the past. The tools of his future.

As he stared at them, the memories of the night before crept in, sharp and vivid—the desperate climb to the manor, the flickering lantern light against empty halls, the distant sounds of the invaders scouring the city for any last survivors.

He had barely made it in time. He had been running for his life.

Ren had moved through the shadows, slipping between alleys, scaling rooftops, watching them from above.

They were methodical, ruthless.

Every house they entered, they left in ruins.

Every street they passed through, they cleared completely.

The only ones left alive were the ones captured.

Ren had no intention of being found.

His destination was the highest point in Iwanai—the great samurai manor that had once watched over the entire city.

If the invaders were clearing every home one by one, then it was only a matter of time before they reached the manor.

If he wanted anything of value, he had to get there first.

And Ren knew better than anyone where value could be found.

A lifetime spent as a thief had taught him many things—how to move unnoticed, how to slip past guards, how to take what he needed and disappear before anyone realized they had been robbed. But more than anything, it had taught him that wealth and power gathered in one place.

Not in the homes of commoners. Not in the merchant stalls that had long since been looted.

But in the manor that overlooked the city.

The samurai of Iwanai had ruled from above, their estate standing like a fortress on the highest hill, separate from the people they claimed to protect. Ren had resented them for it, for their arrogance, their certainty that they would always hold power.

And yet, tonight, he was depending on that arrogance.

If the invaders were clearing out every home, every shop, every temple, then the manor would be one of the last places they reached. Its position on the cliffs made it a difficult target—too isolated, too defensible. The invaders would have focused on the city first, breaking its spirit before claiming its throne.

But they would get there soon.

And when they did, they would strip it bare.

Whatever weapons, armor, supplies—whatever remnants of Iwanai's defenders still existed—they were there.

The climb was treacherous.

The manor had been built atop a steep incline, surrounded by thick trees and sheer drops on either side. In better times, a road wound up to the estate, but Ren avoided it—too open, too obvious.

Instead, he scaled the hillside, using the roots and jagged rocks as handholds, his muscles burning with every pull.

By the time he reached the top, his lungs ached, but he had no time to rest.

The manor loomed before him.

Even in the darkness, it was a masterpiece—a structure of wood, paper walls, and elegantly carved beams, untouched by fire.

The invaders had not reached it yet.

But they were coming.

Ren didn't know what he would find inside.

But he knew one thing:

If he wanted to stand a chance, if he wanted to fight back, if he wanted to save Hikaru—

He needed more than the clothes on his back and a single kunai.

Ren could hear them in the distance, their voices echoing as they moved through the city, drawing closer.

He had minutes—maybe less.

He slipped through the front gates, moving like a shadow.

Inside, the manor was eerily silent.

Empty.

No bodies. No signs of struggle.

The owners had gone to fight and never returned.

Ren moved through the halls, his footsteps barely making a sound against the polished wooden floors.

The air was thick with incense, the last remnants of whatever ceremony had taken place here before the fall.

Gold ornaments, scrolls, statues of gods—the kind of wealth he once dreamed of stealing—were scattered untouched.

However, none of it mattered now.

His eyes swept the room, searching for something he could use.

Then, he saw them.

A sword.

A set of armor.

And, just beyond them, a mask.

That was what had brought him to this point.

The katana lay before him, its scabbard black, painted with a swirling grey smokey pattern.

Even in the dim cave light, it was beautiful.

The handle was black as well, wrapped tightly in fine silk, the kind only the wealthiest warriors could afford.

Ren slowly reached forward, gripping the hilt.

It felt light—almost too light.

He had expected weight, resistance, something to remind him that he held a weapon made for killing.

But it was perfectly balanced.

He had never wielded a sword before.

A kunai had always been enough. Small. Easy to conceal. Meant for quick work.

But this war was different.

Ren knew it now.

A single knife would not be enough.

The invaders fought in numbers. They came in waves.

To survive them, he needed something more.

"A samurai's weapon," he thought bitterly, running a thumb along the pristine blade.

He was not a samurai.

In fact, he had spent his entire life avoiding them, stealing from them, loathing them.

And yet—

Now, one of their swords belonged to him.

Beside the katana, the armor lay neatly folded atop a low wooden stand, its dark surface catching the faint glow of lantern light.

At first, Ren barely glanced at it.

It was too beautiful.

Samurai armor was meant for war—lacquered plates, thick cords, heavy construction to withstand the brutality of battle.

This?

This looked like art.

The fabric beneath the plating was a deep black, woven with intricate silver embroidery—waves and clouds swirling together, a design fit for nobility.

The outer pieces of armor were not full plates, but strategically placed blackened steel, polished to perfection.

He ran his fingers over the chest piece.

Lighter than he expected.

Most armor was built to endure direct strikes, but this was built differently.

The chest was reinforced, but without the bulky weight of a full cuirass. The forearms were protected, but not layered so thickly that they would slow movement. The shoulder guards covered him, but did not restrict his arms.

It was never meant to see battle.

It had been designed for display—a ceremonial piece, crafted to honor a long-dead ancestor, meant to be admired rather than worn.

And yet—it was perfect.

A full suit of traditional samurai armor would slow him down.

A simple thief's garb would offer no protection.

But this?

This was the balance between both worlds.

Agility without fragility. Protection without sacrifice.

A suit meant for ceremony… now repurposed for war.

Ren exhaled slowly, running a hand over the delicate embroidery one last time.

"Guess you finally get to see battle after all."

The final object lay slightly apart from the others.

A mask.

Ren had found the mask in the samurai manor, tucked away in a corner, seemingly discarded but with a peculiar presence about it.

Ren had stumbled upon it in one of the smaller rooms, deep within the manor. The space had been left undisturbed, save for the scattered bits of paper and trinkets—a place where the samurai had kept their personal belongings, perhaps their most prized possessions.

The mask itself was unsettling.

An Oni mask, crafted with sharp, angular features, it exuded an air of foreboding, as if it belonged to something dark and ancient. The black lacquered surface was smooth and cold beneath Ren's fingers, its expression twisted into a snarling grimace. He had seen masks like it in stories told to children—symbols of strength, ferocity, and death.

He didn't know why it had been left behind. Perhaps the samurai had taken it off, thinking it too ceremonial to be of use in battle. Regardless of the reason, it was now his.

A strange sense of ownership washed over him as he picked it up. He felt as though the mask had been waiting for him. A part of something much bigger than just a stolen trinket—it was a tool, a symbol, an identity.

It was fitting.

Ren was no longer the thief who scurried through alleyways, hoping to make his next meal. He wasn't even the young boy who had once dreamt of escaping a life of constant hunger and fear.

Now, with the mask in his hands, he would become something else.

Something that would strike fear into the hearts of those who dared invade his home.

This was no longer just about survival.

He lifted it, turning it over in his hands.

In the dim firelight, it almost seemed alive.

But what did it all mean? 

Ren sat in silence, staring at the three objects before him.

A katana, taken from a house of ghosts.

A suit of armor, once meant for ceremony, now repurposed for war.

A black oni mask, the face of a demon.

Individually, they were just objects—things left behind in the wake of destruction.

But together?

They would create something new.

Ren could not fight the way the samurai did. He did not have their training, their discipline, their sense of honor.

And he did not fight the way the invaders did. He would never have their numbers, their raw strength, their complete lack of mercy.

But what he could do—what he had always done—was survive.

For the first time in his life, it wasn't enough.

Hikaru was out there, scared and alone.

And the men who had stolen him away were still breathing.

Ren's fingers tightened into fists.

He had spent his entire life running. Slipping through cracks. Avoiding the eyes of men who could destroy him.

Not this time.

If the invaders thought they had conquered Iwanai, if they thought they had killed everyone who could fight back—

They were wrong.

Ren would haunt them.

He would move through their ranks like smoke, cutting them down before they even knew they were being hunted.

One by one, he would unmake them.

His hand drifted to the katana, fingers brushing over the black silk wrapping on the hilt. It was an unfamiliar weight, but that would change.

He would learn.

His other hand found the armor, its elegant craftsmanship now serving a purpose beyond vanity.

And finally, his gaze landed on the mask.

A demon's face.

A thief had no place in a war. A thief could not win against an army.

But a demon?

A demon would tear them apart.

Ren exhaled, slow and steady, before lifting the mask.

The old Ren—the one who only cared about surviving, who only fought when he had no choice—would not make it through this.

He had to become something else.

He had to become a wraith.