The Quiet Before the Storm
The Quiet Before the Storm
Tottori was the kind of town where time seemed to move a little more slowly. Compared to the bustling streets of Asakusa, where the hum of neon signs and the ceaseless chatter of city life filled the air, Tottori remained quiet, untouched by modern chaos. It was a place where the days were marked by the rhythm of cicadas in the summer and the hush of snowfall in the winter.
Here, life was peaceful and predictable.
People rose at dawn to tend to their small farms, shopkeepers opened their wooden shopfronts with the creak of old hinges, and children ran barefoot through the streets without fear. The town thrived on routine, the people bound together by a deep-rooted sense of community. In a place like this, everyone knew everyone. Strangers were rare, and secrets did not exist.
For nearly two decades, Kamishirou Daiki built a life free of antipathy.
Or so he had anticipated.
To the people of Tottori, Daiki was nothing more than Homura Daiki, your average carpenter. He spent his days in his small workshop, hands covered in sawdust as he shaped planks of wood into furniture, repaired old temple doors, or crafted intricate carvings of guardian spirits for the local shrines. His craftsmanship was well-known in the village, and his pieces were sought after by merchants even beyond the town's borders. The people sang praises of his skill and knowledge.
But more than anything, Daiki was a family man.
A devoted husband and a loving father.
For eighteen years, he convinced himself that this life was real. That the past of Asakusa, which he had buried, would never come looking for him. The past was nothing but a nightmare.
He had never been more wrong.
The rain had begun softly, tapping gently against the wooden roof of their home. It was the kind of rain that promised comfort rather than destruction, the type that lulled people into peaceful slumber.
Inside the Homura household, the scent of grilled fish and freshly cooked rice filled the air, mingling with the warm aroma of cedarwood from Daiki's workshop. Their home was small but cosy—tatami mats covered the floors, sliding shoji doors leading to different rooms, and a single low table where the family gathered for meals.
Koushirou sat cross-legged at the table, absentmindedly stirring his rice with his chopsticks. His dark hair was slightly damp from running home through the drizzle, sticking to his forehead. His mother, Aiko, moved gracefully in the small kitchen space, her hands swift and precise as she arranged bowls of soup and side dishes with quiet care.
Daiki sat across from his son, watching him in silence. He often found himself doing this—observing Koushirou as if trying to memorise every detail of his face. The sharp curve of his jawline, the slight furrow of his brows when he was lost in thought—so much of him was still boyish, but the traces of adulthood were beginning to show.
It was a habit Aiko had noticed long ago, but she never questioned it.
"You're staring again," she said, not even turning from the kitchen.
Daiki let out a soft chuckle. "Can't a father admire his son?"
Aiko placed a steaming bowl of miso soup in front of Koushirou before giving her husband a knowing look. "Not when you have that look on your face."
"What look?"
"That look that says you're thinking too much."
Koushirou scowled. "You always say that about him."
"That's because it's always true."
Daiki smiled faintly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. The truth was, he had been thinking a lot lately. About Koushirou. About the future.
No matter how much he tried to ignore it, the past had never truly left him.
And now, something in his bones told him that time was running out.
Outside, the rain intensified, drumming against the wooden veranda in steady, rhythmic beats. The paper lanterns swayed slightly from the wind slipping through the gaps in the walls, and casting flickering shadows against the shoji screens.
The room was warm, the heat from the hearth filling the space with a soothing glow.
"Daiki," Aiko murmured, breaking the silence as she settled beside him. "Is something wrong?"
He glanced at her. Even after all these years, she could read him too well.
"Nothing," he lied. He pretended that everything was fine.
She sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. "I won't press you. But if something's bothering you, don't carry it alone."
He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling the familiar scent of her. Citrus and rain.
"I know," he whispered.
But how could he tell her what was truly on his mind?
That for the past few weeks, he had felt something shifting in the air. That there had been unfamiliar faces lingering at the town's edge, just out of sight. That every instinct within him—the instincts he had long since buried—told him that their peaceful days were numbered.
Aiko was strong. Stronger than most women he had ever known. He had known this since he first saw her at the town's local martial arts hall. He had been commissioned to make a Buddhist statue by the master of the martial arts hall, and she had been the daughter of the said master. After all these years, she had built this life with him, just as he had. He did not want to be the one to shatter it.
So he said nothing. But deep down, he already knew. The past was coming for them. And there was no way to stop it.
"Say, isn't tomorrow our dear Koushirou's eighteenth birthday?" Daiki changed the topic. "Our Koushirou is finally eighteen! Let's have a big celebration tomorrow."
Aiko lighted up. She clapped her hands together. "Yes, we should! Oh, what should we do for our birthday darling? There's so much to do!"
Koushirou sighed. He had gotten used to his parents' protectiveness. His father was oddly conscious of his safety; Koushirou never understood why. He recalled one incident when he was in tenth grade.
He had secretly skipped school because he hated the arithmetic test prepared by his least favourite teacher. Along with a new friend he made on the streets, he entered the pleasure district. Koushirou lost track of time while he was having fun. By the time he realised, it had passed curfew. His father went to the police and requested a search party. Koushirou was horrified at his father's drastic measures.
Koushirou received questionable stares and grumpy responses from the neighbourhood after the fiasco. They even wondered if Daiki needed help. From then on, Koushirou learnt his lesson. He needed to be by his family's side to prevent such disasters from occurring again. After all, it caused inconvenience to the neighbourhood.
The family of three decided to celebrate Koushirou's eighteenth birthday with a family vacation. Their destination was Atami Hot Springs. Located in the heart of Shizuoka Prefecture, Atami Hot Springs was a coastal retreat renowned for its soothing onsen, ocean views, and rich culture. Nestled between lush hills and Sagami Bay, it blended traditional ryokan inns with modern resorts, its streets filled with rising steam and the scent of grilled seafood. The mineral-rich waters promised relaxation, while nearby beaches, shrines, and lively markets made it the perfect getaway.
It was a rare luxury for their mediocre family, but Daiki had insisted.
"It's a special occasion," he had said, tousling Koushirou's hair. "You only turn eighteen once."
Aiko had been delighted by the idea, immediately throwing herself into preparations. She had made a list of things to pack, rhapsodised about the local seafood, and even started planning matching yukatas for the three of them.
Koushirou, for his part, had no complaints. He had never been far beyond Tottori, and the idea of soaking in a hot spring under the open sky was something he wouldn't mind experiencing. He was looking forward to their first family trip.
The plan was set. They would leave at dawn, take the train to Atami, and spend the weekend relaxing as a family.
The morning of their departure arrived with the soft glow of dawn peeking over the horizon. Mist clung to the mountain ridges surrounding Tottori, and the scent of damp earth lingered in the cool air. Aiko occupied herself packing their belongings, ensuring that extra towels, yukata, and Koushirou's favourite snacks were tucked neatly into their travel bags. Daiki double-checked their train tickets, his fingers lingering over the edges of the paper as if holding onto something unseen.
Their journey to Atami Hot Springs took them through a changing landscape, one that gradually shed the rustic charm of Tottori and embraced the lively coastal scenery of Shizuoka Prefecture. As the train sped along the robust metal tracks, the rolling green fields gave way to distant glimpses of Sagami Bay, where the ocean stretched out like a vast, endless sheet of blue silk. Fishing villages lined the coastline, their small wooden boats bobbing in the waves, and terraced tea plantations dotted the hills in neat, curving rows.
Atami itself was a town of contrasts—a place where history and modernity coexisted in seamless harmony. Though known as one of Japan's premier hot spring destinations, its roots ran deeper than mere tourism. Atami had been a retreat for samurai, poets, and emperors alike, a sanctuary where weary souls sought rejuvenation in its geothermal waters.
As the Homura family stepped off the train, they were immediately greeted by the warm, mineral-rich air that permeated the town. Steam curled from cracks in the pavement, rising like ghostly tendrils from the natural hot springs beneath. The streets buzzed with the gentle hum of activity—travellers with overnight bags slung over their shoulders, elderly locals shuffling to market, and vendors calling out their wares.
At every turn, Atami offered a feast for the senses. The salty breeze from the ocean mixed with the earthy scent of sulphur from the hot springs. Street stalls sold freshly grilled squid on skewers, their aroma blending with the sweetness of castella cakes being prepared by an old confectioner near the station. Further down the road, a vendor at an open-air stand poured bubbling hot spring eggs into small bowls, the soft yolks gleaming in the afternoon light.
The Homura family's destination was Fujisawa Ryokan, a traditional inn tucked away in the forested hills overlooking the bay. In contrast to the imposing contemporary hotels close to the shore, Fujisawa Ryokan has managed to retain the elegance of the Edo period, providing a stay brimming with vintage charm. The inn's entrance was marked by a wooden torii gate, its weathered beams entwined with wisteria vines. A stone path, meticulously arranged, led them past a serene koi pond, where vibrant orange and white fish glided beneath the water's surface.
As they stepped inside, they were greeted by the soft rustle of kimono fabric as a hostess bowed deeply.
"Welcome to Fujisawa Ryokan," she said, her voice gentle yet practised. "We have been expecting you."
The interior of the inn exuded tranquillity. Shoji doors lined the hallways, their paper panels glowing softly with the golden light of hanging lanterns. The scent of tatami mats and hinoki wood filled the air, mingling with the faint fragrance of incense drifting from the alcove, where a single scroll painting and a vase of fresh chrysanthemums had been carefully arranged.
Their room overlooked a private courtyard garden, where maple trees stood in quiet elegance, their leaves tinged with the first hints of red. Beyond the garden, a natural outdoor hot spring bath awaited them—an open-air hot spring built into the rocky hillside, where steam rose in delicate wisps against the crisp evening air.
Later that night, as Daiki sank into the hot spring's warmth, he felt the heat seep into his weary bones, easing a tension he hadn't realised he had been carrying. Aiko reclined beside him, her shoulders relaxed, her eyes reflecting the gentle flicker of lantern light. Koushirou, though initially reluctant, had given into the allure of the steaming water, leaning back against the smooth stones with a sigh of contentment.
For a fleeting moment, the world felt far away. The past, the future—none of it mattered.
But Daiki knew better than to believe in illusions.
As he closed his eyes, the steady sound of ocean waves reached his ears—a soft yet persistent reminder that no matter how still the water seemed on the surface, there were always unseen currents beneath.
And soon, those currents would bring something back to shore. Fate, as it often did, had other plans.
A knock came that evening.
It was soft but deliberate, barely audible over the patter of rain against the wooden veranda. The sound of distant thunder rumbled low in the mountains, rolling through the valley like a slumbering beast stirring in its rest. The night air carried the scent of wet earth and the faintest whisper of citrus, a reminder of the storm that had passed through earlier.
A visitor at this hour was unusual.
In Atami, people respected one another's privacy. Neighbours rarely knocked after dark unless there was an emergency. Even then, they would have called out first, their voices familiar and warm.
This knock was neither.
It was measured. Intentional.
Slowly, Daiki set down the book he was reading. A book he had put aside for months since he had been commissioned a new carving for the town hall. He rose from the couch; every movement was deliberate and controlled.
He stepped into the inn. The glow from the paper lanterns bathed them in soft, golden light. The low murmur of their conversation drifted through the air, unbothered, untouched by the presence outside their home.
For a moment, Daiki hesitated.
Then, with a quiet inhale, he slid the wooden door open.
A figure stood in the doorway.
Cloaked in a dark, rain-drenched kimono, the visitor's hood was drawn low, casting a shadow over their face. But even in the dim light, Daiki recognised the way they stood—too still, too unperturbed. Not rigid like a soldier. Not relaxed like a traveller. Something in between, something honed from years of living in the places society refused to acknowledge. It reminded him of the life he had lived in Asakusa.
A ghost from his past.
The visitor lifted their head slightly; the lantern light revealed sharp, familiar features. A strong jawline and piercing, storm-grey eyes gleamed beneath the hood. His lips curled into the barest hint of a smirk.
"It's been a long time, Daiki."
The voice was smooth, even. Unchanged.
Daiki exhaled slowly, gripping the wooden frame to steady himself. His voice was dry.
"…Shirogane."
The name tasted bitter in his mouth. A relic from a life he no longer claimed. The death bringer from the forgotten past.
From inside, Aiko's voice drifted toward him, gentle and curious.
"Daiki? Who is it?"
He hesitated for only a heartbeat before replying.
"Just an old acquaintance," he said evenly. "I'll be back soon."
Sliding the door shut behind him, Daiki stepped into the doorway.
The night air was thick with the scent of rain and cedar. The wind had settled into a gentle breeze, rustling the leaves of the house and making the paper lanterns sway. Beyond the lantern's glow, darkness stretched endlessly, the narrow streets of Atami swallowed in shadow.
Shirogane watched him with unreadable eyes.
"I was hoping never to see you again," Daiki admitted, voice quiet but firm. "If you've come for me, you're wasting your time. That life is over."
"Is it?" Shirogane tilted his head, observing him with the sharp, calculating gaze of a predator sizing up its prey.
Something cold twisted in Daiki's chest. A chill crept down his spine, the instincts he had long buried stirring beneath the surface.
Had it all been for nought?
Daiki had worked persistently, extremely so, to erase the past—to bury Kamishiro Daiki and to completely become Homura Daiki. He desired a simple life as a carpenter of Tottori as well as a loving husband and father.
"What do you want?" Daiki asked, with a subtle hint of resentment in his words.
Shirogane had a hardened expression, void of emotions and feelings. He remained silent for a long moment. Then, he finally spoke.
"I'm not here for you."
The words were crude yet foreboding. They hit like a blade impaling his ribs. Daiki felt his erratic breath in his lungs.
Daiki realised.
Shirogane was not here for him.
He was here for Koushirou.
Within Daiki, a long-dormant impulse rose, clawing its way to the surface. He clenched his fingers into fists, his whole body stiffening as if he were getting geared up for battle.
"Leave." he demanded.
Shirogane did not move.
Shirogane whispered, "You've done well, hiding all these years." "But you weren't expecting them to simply forget about you, were you?"
Daiki said nothing. A gust of wind sent rainwater dripping from the roof, splashing against the wooden porch. Daiki forced himself to breathe, to think.
Shirogane reached to the hems of his sleeve. He pulled out a folded piece of parchment. It was thick, expensive, and corners were adorned with the crest of the Asakusa Group.
"I was told to deliver this."
Daiki hesitated before snatching the loathsome parchment from Shirogane's hands. He hastily unravelled the piece of parchment. He widened his eyes as he read the big lettering on the top.
An invitation.
It read:
To the Esteemed Kamishirou Koushirou,
We are honoured to formally invite you to the Kamishiro Group's Annual Assembly, a highly significant event where duty, tradition, and ancestry are respected.
Your presence is not only expected but compulsory, as this occasion marks an important moment in your rightful place within the Kamishiro legacy. The assembly will be held at the Asakusa Mansion, on the 18th of June, 20X7.
We trust you will honour this summons with due respect. Further details shall be disclosed upon your arrival.
Welcome home.
Respectfully,
Kamishirou Genichirou
Kamishirou Group Representative.
Daiki's stomach turned to lead. They knew. They knew who he was. The paper crumpled in Daiki's grasp.
Eighteen years.
Eighteen years of careful lies, of meticulous planning, of ensuring that Koushirou would never know the name Kamishirou. He had raised his son far from the reach of his old life, in a town where blood feuds and underground power struggles did not exist.
And yet, the past had found them.
"I won't allow Asakusa Group to take him," Daiki said with gritted teeth. His voice was dark and unwavering. He vowed to protect his beloved son.
Shirogane remained impassive. "Then, you better be prepared. You should know the master better than anyone. Bloodshed is inevitable."
A moment of silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken history. Then, without another word, Shirogane turned and vanished into the darkness. Daiki remained motionless, the invitation trembling in his grasp.
Inside, the warmth of his home beckoned—Aiko's laughter, Koushirou's carefree voice.
They were still unaware. Still safe.
For now.
Daiki knew better than to hope it would last.
The past had finally caught up with them.
And this time, it would not be ignored.