Chapter 7: Echos without memory

The royal Kiryuu dynasty had ruled this land for generations—rooted in the traditions of an ancient samurai clan.

The Kiryuu territory was vast and majestic. Towering mountains stood guard around it, rivers carved their way through the valleys, and a fortified town lay nestled below, protected by high stone walls and loyal warriors.

The region was known for its breathtaking landscapes and deeply rooted culture. Cherry blossom trees lined the shrines and walkways, petals drifting like whispers of the past. Secluded waterfalls flowed beside old training grounds, where the echoes of swords once sang through the wind.

A battlefield covered in smoke, with Kiryuu soldiers defending stone gates and mountain passes. Their armor gleamed under the sun, swords clashing against foreign blades.

"Many kingdoms had tried to conquer this land over the centuries—drawn by its beauty and strategic value.

But time and time again, they were met with unyielding resistance.

The warriors of the Kiryuu dynasty had defended their home with unwavering loyalty and strength, turning every invasion into a tale of failure."

Yet never once had the Kiryuu dynasty fallen.

Time and again, their warriors stood tall upon their sacred lands—banners raised high against the storm of invaders.

With unshakable resolve, they defended every river, mountain, and shrine that marked their homeland.

Upon a high ridge, a Kiryuu lord once stood—his towering presence wrapped in a black mist-like aura that pulsed with quiet menace. His eyes, glowing an unnatural blue, scanned the blood-soaked battlefield below.

And yet… he turned his back to the war.

For all their fearsome power, the Kiryuu never craved conquest.

They never marched forward to invade—only raised their blades when the land they vowed to protect was threatened.

Deep within the heart of the Kiryuu stronghold lay the Ancestral Chamber—sacred and silent. Scrolls lined the walls, each one carrying the weight of generations. Polished samurai armor stood like sentinels of history, their emblems gleaming faintly under the dim lantern light.

It was here that wisdom endured…

For even a small but powerful nation—if united in spirit and guided by the past—could stand against giants.

But now…

As the winds grow quiet and the sacred rivers run shallow,

this once-mighty land — Tenshogai Kuni — has begun to wither.

Once, legendary lords stood tall — protectors of the realms,

wielders of divine power, bound by honor and fate.

They shielded the weak, sealed the darkness, and shaped the stars above.

But time... time has stolen their strength, their presence faded into myth.

Now, only their statues remain…

Cold. Silent. Watching.

Morning sunlight filtered softly through the swaying curtains, casting warm golden hues across the modest yet elegant bedroom. The room was quiet—only the faint rustle of fabric and the distant call of birds could be heard.

On the bed, Lady Akane lay close beside Ryouma, her body partially draped under the shared blanket. Her hand rose gently to his cheek, her touch tender but uncertain. Her long crimson hair spilled across the pillow like a cascade of flame, contrasting beautifully with her noble, yet unadorned, kimono.

Her eyes, though filled with affection, shimmered with silent concern.

"Such a beautiful nation…" she whispered, her voice barely louder than the breeze. "And now, it's being drowned by political schemes and weakened soldiers…"

The soft flicker of candlelight danced gently across the shoji walls of the quiet chamber. Outside, the wind whispered like a forgotten lullaby. But within these paper-thin walls, the weight of a nation's future rested in silence.

Lady Akane sat alone in the stillness, her crimson-and-gold kimono flowing around her like water pooling at her knees. Her posture remained regal, yet her arms trembled ever so slightly as she cradled the fragile form of her newborn son.

Ryouma.

His breathing was steady—soft and innocent. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted in sleep, he looked untouched by the world's cruelties. But Akane's eyes—oh, her eyes—held a different story: sorrow etched deep within them, laced with unyielding resolve.

She leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss on the infant's forehead. For a moment, she simply held him close, as if her warmth alone could shield him from the harshness waiting outside this fleeting peace.

"I know you're still just a child," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "A tiny soul, unaware of the weight this world will someday place on your shoulders..."

Her fingers curled protectively around his small frame. The wind outside gave a brief howl—like a warning carried from distant lands.

"But someday… you'll grow stronger," she said, more firmly now—her voice shaped by years of pain and quiet dignity. "Even if you were born as an illegitimate child… it does not mean you are weak."

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, trailing down her pale cheek, vanishing into the folds of her sleeve.

"You may not have full rights to this nation," she continued, her voice quivering with emotion. "But your heart, your will… they can still protect it."

The candle's flame flickered as if stirred by her vow.

"So promise me, my child… my Ryouma…" Her voice softened again. She smiled faintly through her tears. "Become strong—strong enough to lead Tenshogai forward… even when everything seems lost."

The room stayed still, yet something in the air shifted—like destiny had paused to listen.

And in her arms, Ryouma stirred ever so slightly, his tiny fingers curling instinctively as if reaching toward the future.

The room was quiet, bathed in soft morning light. Warm rays filtered through the swaying curtains, casting a gentle glow across the wooden floor and over the bed where mother and son lay.

Lady Akane slept soundly beside her child, a faint smile resting on her lips. Her hand, relaxed and tender, lay across the arm of the small boy beside her.

Ryouma slowly opened his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment before turning his gaze to the woman beside him. His small fingers gripped the blanket, as if anchoring himself in this new reality.

"So… this is the land where I was truly born."

His thoughts echoed within. The fog of his past life still lingered, faint and distant, but the instincts he had honed remained sharp.

He glanced once more at his mother—Lady Akane—her crimson hair gently spread across the pillow, her touch soft against his arm.

"She is someone I could have never imagined having before… a mother."

"Mother… I am someone who has already died once and left everything behind in that world."

"Now, I live here. And I'll use everything I know—my skills, my will, my instincts—to make her dream come true."

His gaze turned forward, steady and clear. Something new had awakened within him.

"This warmth… this love… maybe this is what parental love really feels like."

A small, bitter laugh escaped him in thought.

"Even if I am just an illegitimate child… Heh, kind of a cruel title. But who cares?"

There, beneath the soft light and the gentle weight of his mother's arm, Ryouma's heart began to burn with purpose.

Though the memories of his past life had shattered the moment he was reborn, his soul still carried the imprints—of battles long fought, of painful choices that shaped empires, and of truths that once shook entire worlds.

To most, such stories were distant legends. Tales passed in quiet taverns, or sung in lullabies—of nameless heroes who defied gods, of blood-stained crowns, of warriors whose deaths echoed through time.

But for him, these were no mere tales.

He had lived them. He had survived them.

And though his mind could not recall the full picture, his soul remembered.

It was a strange contradiction—to hold a warrior's spirit within the fragile shell of a child. His instincts, sharp as blades, surfaced without warning: sudden awareness of danger, perfect footwork in a stumble, a calm mind where panic should live.

They were not gifts of this life, but echoes of a former one.

Yet his current body could not keep up. His tiny hands trembled even while grasping the edges of the blanket. Muscles, still soft and forming, failed to match the precision of his thoughts. Every movement felt like a lion trying to roar with the throat of a cub.

But make no mistake—he was a lion.

And even if the world only saw a child now, one day, it would hear his roar once more.

"He made a promise with nothing but instincts and broken memories .....Would you trust a feeling if your memories were gone?" Comment for your answer