The Weight of Blood

Chapter 2: The Weight of Blood

The weight of the invitation felt heavier than paper. 

Daiki stared at the crumpled parchment, the inked-lettered words glaring back at him. Kamishirou Koushirou—a name his son never knew, a name Daiki had buried beneath the peaceful life they led in Tottori. And yet, after eighteen years, the past has come to haunt them. 

The date stood etched at the bottom—18th of June. Three days. That was all the time he had to decide. Three days to devise a plan to protect Koushirou from the underworld Daiki had spent nearly two decades escaping.

A name like Kamishirou carried weight—power, duty, bloodshed. Daiki had spent years erasing all traces of his past, ensuring Koushirou grew up free from the legacy that had bound Daiki in blood and violence. He had carved out a life of peace and normalcy, hoping his son would never have to bear the weight of the Kamishirou name.

But now, that fragile peace was unravelling.

Steam curled from the open-air onsen, blending with the crisp morning mist that drifted over the Atami coastline. Beyond the wooden deck of the inn, the Pacific stretched endlessly, its waves lapping gently against the shore. The scent of salt and pine lingered in the air, carried by the ocean breeze that rustled the noren curtains at the entrance. It should have been a peaceful morning—a rare retreat from the world—but the letter in Daiki's hands shattered any illusion of normalcy.

Shirogane's sudden visit left a bitter aftertaste, his words striking like a hammer against stone. His words from last night still rang vividly in his ears.

"You should know the master better than anyone. Bloodshed is inevitable."

Daiki clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white.

Even after all these years, the Kamishirou Group had not forgotten. They had not forgiven.

He glanced toward the house, where the glow of lanterns cast warm patterns against the shoji doors. Inside, Aiko's gentle laughter mingled with Koushirou's voice as they spoke, unaware of the storm brewing outside.

Daiki exhaled sharply. He had no choice. He had to tell Aiko. 

Morning greeted Daiki with a ray of sunrise spilling through the wooden latticed window and the delicious smell of miso soup wafting from the common area. For a fleeting moment, he had believed it was just another nightmare. 

He sat up, rubbing his face, still groggy from the restless night. He saw the crumpled parchment on the bedside table. Reality dawned on him. His mind had raced until dawn, running in circles. He had been playing and replaying every possible outcome. Every path led to danger.

The Kamishiro clan had found them.

Daiki pushed the shoji doors aside, stepping into the dining area. The sight before him was heartbreakingly ordinary—Aiko and Koushirou sitting at the low wooden table, the morning light illuminating their faces. The servants must have come by earlier, leaving behind a full meal—grilled fish, rice, pickled vegetables, and steaming bowls of miso soup.

She poured him a cup of tea as he sat down, yawning and running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. His bed hair was protruding out at different angles. It was the familiar sight she welcomed each morning. 

"You came to bed late," 

Daiki hesitated. That unwavering, piercing stare felt like hours. Daiki had never won against Aiko in a single argument, not because she was louder or more forceful, but because she saw through him in ways no one else ever had.

Aiko knew. She always knew. 

Since the first time they met, she had been able to see right through him—past the carefully chosen words, past the walls he had built, past the silence he wrapped himself in like armour.

"There was a lot on my mind." Daiki finally admitted, his voice quieter than intended. 

"Daiki." Aiko studied him, her gaze sharp. His name on her lips was both a comfort and a warning. She wasn't going to let it go. Aiko's eyes didn't waver. She was waiting. 

Waiting for the real answer. 

And for the first time in years, Daiki wasn't sure if he could give it to her.

Daiki inhaled deeply, his grip tightening around the ceramic cup. He should tell her now before it was too late. But before he could find the words, Koushirou spoke, breaking the tension.

Daiki pulled his attention away from the dread of the underworld. 

"Father, will you come to the fireworks tonight? I heard there's a cherry blossom viewing event at Atami Water Park tomorrow." Koushirou held up a brochure he had picked up at the front desk. It was an advertisement for the cherry blossom viewing event that will be held that night. 

Daiki blinked. He was caught off guard. "Festival?"

Koushirou nodded. "It's the time of the year again. Atami Fireworks Festival. Everyone in town is going. Mother and I were planning to visit the shrine together. There'll be games and food stalls. You should come too."

A festival.

A moment of peace.

But only if it were real.

Daiki put on a fake smile and ruffled Koushirou's hair. "Why not? It's our baby Koushirou's birthday after all." 

Koushirou pouted. 

"I'm no longer a kid," he mumbled. 

Daiki let out a chuckle, but his mind was elsewhere.

 He took a bite of rice and tofu, chewing mechanically as his mind raced. Three days before the Kamishiro clan would expect his son to answer the summons.

He had to act then. 

Which means facing a past he had long abandoned. 

Nightfall descended upon Atami. 

Winter's chill settled in, carried by the ocean breeze. Above, the night sky shimmered with golden sparks, each firework blooming like a fleeting flower against the darkness. A crimson burst followed, then a streak of blue, their reflections rippling across the waters of Sagami Bay. The crowd erupted in cheers as another explosion painted the sky in hues of violet and gold.

The air was thick with the scent of grilled seafood and the sugary aroma of candied fruit, mingling with the laughter of festival-goers. Lanterns swayed gently along the stalls, casting warm, flickering light over rows of festival games and trinkets. The periodic pounding of taiko drums resounded through the streets, a steady pulse beneath the revelry.

The streets of Atami were filled with laughter and light. Lanterns strung across the wooden beams illuminated against the starry night, sending warm glows over the bustling festival stalls. The scent of grilled seafood, sweet taiyaki, and fresh takoyaki permeated the air, mingling with the distant saltiness of the ocean breeze.

Koushirou strode ahead, with hints of excitement and anticipation evident in his steps. His eyes darted at stalls after stalls along the streets, taking in the fascinating sight of the festival. He was intrigued by the rows of street foods, handmade trinkets, and game booths. 

"Father, this way!" Koushirou called over his shoulder.

Daiki followed fondly, his palms warmly tucked into the pockets of his yukata sleeves. He scanned the crowd. 

They wouldn't be among the visitors here, would they?

His instincts remained sharp despite the festive atmosphere. The Kamishirou group wouldn't make their move here—not in a public space—but that didn't mean they weren't watching.

Aiko walked along next to him, her unyielding scrutiny fixed on him. "Are you really here? Your mind seemed to be wandering somewhere else."

Daiki gave her a weak smile.

Aiko was not convinced. "You don't have to pretend everything is okay. I know something has been at the back of your mind, eating at you. I won't press for answers, but I hope you'll trust us. We're family, and we'll always be by your side."

Daiki's hardened expression turned meek.

"Yes, you're right. he agreed. 

They reached a shooting game booth. Koushirou, immediately was attracted to the prizes displayed on the racks. He browsed through the stall, noting the prizes of stuffed animals, toy swords, and novelty trinkets. His gaze, however, caught on to something different. His eyes locked on the metallic folding fan. 

It rested among the prizes, half-open, its black lacquered frame gleaming under the paper lanterns. The design was simple yet striking—delicate cherry blossoms painted in a deep, almost blood-red hue, scattered across the ivory surface like petals caught in the wind. Unlike the usual bright red or gold charms, this one is adorned with words of discipline and freedom. Something about it stirred a strange feeling in his chest.

Before he even realised it, his fingers had tightened around the toy rifle. The festival sounds faded, drowned beneath the distant echoes of something he couldn't name. Something within him was calling him to the metal piece.

He wanted that fan.

"That's an unusual choice," Aiko remarked lightly.

The vendor chuckled, adjusting his glasses. "Ah, that one. Most kids would go for toys or sweets. You're an interesting one, lad." 

Koushirou blinked, pulled from his daze. "Huh? Yeah, I guess..." His voice trailed off as he shook his head. Why did he feel drawn to it?

The vendor leaned in, his voice was dropping to a whisper. "Let me tell you something interesting. It's not just for show. This was left behind thirty years ago. A man with old ties to the gambling syndicates of Edo—won it but never claimed it. Said it wasn't his fate to keep it."

Koushirou shivered. Chills crept up his spine. He doesn't know why, but the weight of that charm—it feels familiar. It was almost like it was waiting for him.

"What do you mean?" Koushirou asked.

The vendor chuckled. He glanced past Koushirou, his gaze flickering toward Daiki for a moment before returning to his customer. "Nothing, nothing. Just an old design you don't see much these days. Do you want it? You'll have to hit three in a row."

The vendor tightened Koushirou's grip on the rifle. He wasn't sure why, but the way the vendor spoke, the way his eyes had lingered, felt something was not right. There was an unspoken weight in the air, an expectancy that made his pulse quicken. Yet, the urge to win that fan burnt stronger than his unease.

Koushirou closed his eyes, pushing away the nagging feeling. It's nothing. Just a festival booth. Just an old fan. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, and waved away the slight warnings in his head.

He raised the rifle, focusing on the stacked targets ahead.

Daiki frowned from afar. He felt his stomach tighten. 

That fan. That symbol. Was it just a coincidence? Or that Koushirou's inner instincts had begun to move? This wasn't right.

He hoped it wasn't the latter. 

It wasn't just Koushirou who had caught the vendor's attention. This damn old man knew who they were. 

Koushirou fired the first bullet. It barely reached the target. He had never held a rifle before. It was hard to pull it off with a toy gun. 

"Not as easy as it looks, huh? Why don't you ask your father for help?" The vendor looked behind Koushirou, where Daiki stood.

Koushirou turned around, an expression of pleading surfacing on his pale features. 

"Father! Help me, please?" he begged. His eyes were bright with expectation and excitement, unaware of the storm brewing. 

Koushirou's words hit harder than they should have. Daiki hesitated, catching his breath. It was such an innocent request. A plea from an oblivious Koushirou. Just a son asking his father for help. It was nothing more than a crude game. 

However, Daiki felt otherwise.

His gaze shifted to the vendor, sharp and obscure. The vendor's eyes carried a scent of familiarity—an unspoken recognition that lingered like a ghost of the past. The way he had spoken earlier, the deliberate choice of words, the way his gaze lingered too long on Daiki... it wasn't a chance. 

It confirmed Daiki's suspicions. 

This man knew who he was.

He had been too careless. 

Was this a test? A warning? A message from the Kamishirou Group?

The fan sat among the prizes, precariously tilted at the edge of the rack, waiting to be claimed. As the vendor had said, the fan was not just for show. Daiki recognised the crest adorned on the fan. One that had been carried by men who swore by the Omerta code—to those who swore allegiance to the underworld.

Daiki turned his gaze away. 

No, not now. Not never. 

Aiko shifted beside him, discerning Daiki's uneasiness. Her fingers brushed against his wrist, grounding him. She didn't speak, but her message was clear.

What's wrong? 

Daiki shook his head. Focus. Koushirou was looking at him. Waiting. For a second, he had considered rejecting Koushirou's request. This wasn't like any other request Koushirou had begged. In fact, he could have pulled Koushirou away, come up with an excuse, let the festival wash away this strange encounter. But then... what? It wouldn't erase what was happening. It wouldn't erase the call of blood that seemed to stir within his son.

And worst of all—it would confirm the truth. 

Instead, he took a step forward. 

"You seemed quite eager tonight." Daiki chuckled. His voice was steady, ridding himself of the internal struggle that has been eating at him. "Let me show you."

Koushirou grinned, handing Daiki the wooden rifle. 

Daiki measured the weight of the rifle in his hands. It was light. A child's plaything. The kind he should never have to hold it again. The familiar texture of the grip, the precise alignment of the barrel, the quiet calculation of wind and distance—it all returned too easily. Too naturally.

It was something ingrained in him. Something he could never forget.

Daiki aimed the shot and exhaled. He had the eyes of a veteran sniper. Pulling the trigger, the cork bullet landed swiftly on the first target. The target wobbled and fell.

Koushirou was impressed. " Whoa!"

Daiki didn't react. He was already rewinding the barrel. 

The second target fell quicker than the first. 

The festival noises blurred into a dull hum. For a moment, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat.

Koushirou never knew his father was this good at shooting games. He made a mental note to invite his father out for more shooting games in the future.

This wasn't about him. It wasn't about proving anything. Daiki turned to his son. He put the rifle back in his son's hands. 

"You try," he said.

Koushirou blinked in surprise. "But - " 

"You have to do it, if you want the fan." Daiki said.

Koushirou appeared mature compared to his peers, but Daiki knew his son inside out. Sometimes, he would display acts of childishness due to his loneliness. He was always so busy with his workshop, and Aiko was occupied running the restaurant. They did not have the time for Koushirou. Koushirou grew up surrounded by neighbours and peers. He was often shrouded by strangers. Koushirou's sense of danger was lower than an average person.

At on point, he once considered teaching Koushirou self-defense. It was evident that his son's trusting nature unsettled him—an innocence that welcomed strangers without a hint of suspicion. Though Koushirou's features were sharpening with age—his refined jawline and angular cheekbones beginning to surface as he slowly blossomed into adulthood—his childishness remained stubbornly intact.

Koushirou hesitated, but the challenge in his father's voice was undeniable. Something about the air felt heavier. Different.

He swallowed, gripping the rifle, his fingers pressing into the wood. His heartbeat was suddenly too loud in his ears. It was just a game. Just a simple target. But as he lifted the rifle, aligning his shot, a strange sense of déjà vu settled in.

He exhaled.

Pulled the trigger.

The final target toppled over.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, the vendor let out a deep chuckle. "Impressive."

Koushirou beamed, turning to Daiki. "We did it!"

But Daiki wasn't smiling. He was watching the vendor, whose smirk hadn't faded. The old man reached beneath the counter, retrieving the fan. He held it for a moment, fingers tracing the edge of the lacquered frame, before placing it in Koushirou's outstretched hands.

"Fitting," the vendor murmured. "It seems fate has a sense of humour after all."

Koushirou blinked, tilting his head. He didn't quite understand what the vendor meant. "Huh?"

Daiki stepped forward, his voice low and cold. "Who sent you?"

The vendor simply smiled. "Enjoy the festival, Esteemed Lord Kamishirou."

Daiki's blood ran cold.

It wasn't over. Not by a long shot. Daiki knew—this was only the beginning.