CHAPTER-1 : Ashes of the Forgotten

The sky over the village of Denshiro was the color of dying embers—an angry, bruised red stretching endlessly over the mountaintops. Winds whispered low and hollow through the trees, dragging the scent of cold ash and something else… something older.

Ichigo stood alone on the ridge, his hands buried in the sleeves of his worn kimono. Below him, the valley was quiet. Too quiet. It had been like this for months—shops closing early, families whispering, swords being sharpened behind closed doors. Even laughter had begun to vanish from the streets like a forgotten language.

The old well creaked behind him, wind turning its rope in lazy spirals. He remembered standing there as a child, no older than six, when the village priest told him his father had died.

No body. No grave. Just the sound of silence. The kind that hollows a boy's chest for the rest of his life.

They said his father had been a samurai. Or maybe a ninja. No one agreed. No one told him much at all. What he remembered clearly was the smell of metal in the house—the way his mother had fallen apart piece by piece after his father's absence. Not all at once. Not dramatically. Quietly, like pages being torn from a book one at a time.

Now Ichigo was seventeen, and the weight of a name with no history clung to him like smoke.

Down the hill, the temple bell rang faintly—three soft chimes.

Evening.

He turned back toward the village, his sandals crunching through the frozen dirt path. Denshiro looked older now. Not in age, but in sorrow. Houses once bright with paper lanterns now wore the look of tombstones. Soot clung to the rooftops, and children no longer played near the river. The joy of the village had withered under something heavier than time.

The war drums of the Mongols hadn't reached this valley yet, but their shadows had. Stories passed like fire through taverns: entire border towns reduced to bones, Mongol generals who drank venom and rode on beasts twice the size of horses, and sorcerers that could twist the sky itself.

Still, none of that frightened Ichigo more than the divide growing at home.

The samurai—those sworn to nobility and code—had begun to accuse the ninja clans of betrayal. The ninja returned the suspicion, claiming the samurai were arrogant relics of a fading world. The harmony that had once balanced the two ancient orders had rotted into cold, quiet distrust.

And Ichigo stood in the middle of it.

He wasn't born to a clan. He didn't wear a crest. But every day, someone asked him which side he'd choose when war reached their doorstep.

He hated the question.

⸻

That night, dinner was silent.

His mother served miso soup with dried fish, but she barely touched hers. Ichigo sat across the table, watching her. Her eyes looked even more sunken than the week before.

"You had another dream?" he asked.

She didn't answer at first. Then she gave a faint nod.

"They're coming," she whispered.

He frowned. "The Mongols?"

She shook her head. "No. The old ones."

Ichigo paused, unsure how to respond. His mother had started speaking strangely ever since the stars shifted in early spring. Some nights, she murmured about forgotten kings and black coffins. About blood magic and ancient oaths. As if her mind was slipping into something far older than her years.

"You should rest," he said gently.

She only smiled, bitter and distant. "Rest is for those who die. And we've died once already, haven't we, Ichigo?"

⸻

Later that night, unable to sleep, Ichigo climbed onto the roof.

The stars were pale and trembling. A wind moved across the village like a sigh. Somewhere in the woods, a fox howled—long and low.

He thought of his father.

Not the face. He couldn't remember that.

But the feeling.

The way his hand must've felt holding his. The way he might have trained him in the clearing. The kind of stories he might've told. Ichigo closed his eyes and let the wind wrap around him, imagining.

And for a moment, just a heartbeat, he thought he saw someone standing at the edge of the forest.

A tall figure in armor. Watching.

But when he blinked, it was gone.

Only the trees remained.

⸻

The next morning, the messenger came.

Wrapped in royal cloth, riding a black steed dusted with snow. The seal of the palace—etched in silver on his scroll—glimmered like a star.

Ichigo opened the door just as the man dismounted.

"You are the son of Ren?" the messenger asked.

Ichigo's stomach dropped. "Yes."

The man handed him the scroll without another word. His eyes, though, lingered on Ichigo's—curious, almost… wary.

When Ichigo broke the seal and read the contents, he nearly dropped it.

A summons from the king.