Takashi descended down the blood-colored stairs of elder halls, radiance from his sunfire blade waning on each step further down. His cold, cumbersome night air provided an eerie counterpart to his blistering anger of moments ago. His breathing came in fitful gasps as his mind went racing back from what he no longer was able to conceal.

  The heat of his katana grip burned into his hand, but he barely noticed. His fingers clenched till the hilt creaked, and his chest heaved as one question tormented him, relentless as a razor.

  Why did I do this?

  His footsteps staggered as he reached the courtyard, the dim faraway waver of the lanterns casting shaking shadows along the pavement. The villagers' hushed murmurs, hushed and reverent before, were now booming in their absence. Everything else was the clinking of his boots against earth, and the thudding within his heart.

  He fell towards the courtyard's center, the weight of his katana pulling at his arm. He sank the sword slowly. The flame shuddered and spit before vanishing completely, with only the cold, black hilt remaining. Takashi sank to his knees, his palms trembling as they landed on his temples.

  Why did I do this? It came again in his mind, louder, more painful.

  He slammed his fist into the ground, his breathing rasping as the memories poured in.

  Why?

  He had been a boy once, although it may as well have been another existence. The elders had taken him in when his parents had been taken by war—a nameless child with no home, no family, and no destiny.

  He could still remember standing in the temple courtyard, his own small frame dwarfed by the great heights of the elders. Their robes fluttered in the breeze, their eyes hard and calculating as they looked down at him.

  "You will train," Younger Miyako had said to him, her voice icy. "You will learn discipline and strength. You will be a weapon for this village."

  There was no decision, no kindness, no laughter. His days were filled with rigid schedules, rigorous training, and the incessant clang of wooden swords.

  But above all, he recalled the silence.

  Late in the night, when village lights fluttered and windows were filled with laughter and tinkling plates, Takashi would sit alone on the temple steps. He would stand far enough away to remain behind his hands, clasped around the edge of the stone as he gazed into a world into which he could not enter.

  Fathers and sons training together in the practice yards, mothers calling their children in for dinner, brothers joking with each other as they played.

  It wasn't the training or the fighting he envied. It was the love. The warmth. The ease of it all in their smiling glances and laughter.

  But for him, such things had been forbidden, beaten out of him by years of discipline and cold authority. He wasn’t meant to laugh or cheer. He was a tool, forged to protect and to fight—nothing more. Than an weapon.

  Takashi’s hands trembled as he clenched his head tighter. His breathing grew heavier, his vision blurring as the memories shifted.

  The vision of himself as a child shattered into one of Hakari. His son, by himself in a village a great distance from home. Takashi glimpsed him through the curtain of memory—his back bent, his jaw clenched, yet his eyes betraying the pain he would not admit.

  Hakari stood at the edge of a training grounds, his eyes observing a father and son train together.

  The boy, no older than ten, swung a wooden sword with enthusiasm but little skill. His father, standing behind him, laughed as the blade slipped from his son’s grasp and clattered to the ground.

  “Not bad, but keep your grip tighter next time,” the father said, his voice filled with warmth.

  The boy laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying!”

  "I know," said the father, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "That's what matters."

  Hakari turned away from the scene, his fists clenched at his sides. The longing in his eyes was evident, but he did not utter a word. He simply kept moving, the laughter lingering behind him.

  The vision faded, and Takashi once more stood in the courtyard, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. He looked down at trembling hands, his mind echoing with the words of the elders.

  "You will become a weapon."

  But that was not the life he had envisioned for Hakari. He had promised to be better, to bring up his son with a purpose, to teach him—but he had made Hakari into what the elders had made him.

  A weapon.

  "Why?" he spoke out loud, his voice cracking. "Why did I do this? I'm no better than they were. No better."

  Takashi's rage blazed like dry grass in flames, unquenchable, consuming. His breath was in harsh gasps, his heart a mad drum in his ears. The rage, the shame, the pain of it all pressed down on him until he could no longer contain it. With a cry that tore through the silence like a knife through flesh, he leaped to his feet, his hands shaking, his eyes veiled by something deeper than wrath.

  His hands held the porcelain vase on the pedestal, its intricate beauty once sacred, senseless today. He hurled it as forcefully as he could at the stone wall. The sound was explosive. The fragments flew everywhere on the floor, glinting like the fragments of a shattered soul. But still, it was not enough.

  "Why?" His voice broke, agony raw. "WHY? WHY! WAS I BORN AS A FUCKING WEAPON?!"

  He swept up another relic—a god fashioned of old wood, a symbol of the elders' legendary sagacity—and sent it crashing to the ground. The wood splintered open, the god's face breaking to shards.

  "WHY DID I MAKE MY OWN SON TURN INTO ONE TOO?!"

  His arms swept with reckless abandon, tearing through whatever lay before him. A ritual urn, shattered beneath his heel. Scrolls of history, torn asunder, their teachings void against the havoc he had wrought. He tore through a tapestry that had once hung in solemn judgment, its threads disintegrating between his fingers like the years of his own anguish.

  Every crash, every tear, every shatter was a fleeting relief. But every destruction merely compounded the agony, deeper talons tearing deeper into his chest.

  The rage drove him until there was nothing left to demolish. Nothing left but himself.

  His strength betrayed him, his knees collapsing. He hit the floor, his hands going to his hair, fingers crumpling into it, tugging, needing to rip something—anything—out. His body convulsed, his breathing in vicious, ragged spasms, but he didn't matter. Let it destroy him. Let it overwhelm him. He was deserving of that.

  His fingers fell from his hair, shaking as they settled on the broken fragments of his katana. His hand trailed the burned metal, the mangled tip—so sharp, so perfect. So extension of his intent, his drive. Now, just another wreckage.

  "Why." His voice was harsh, a mere whisper. "Why did I do this to him."

  The words gagged him. He attempted to gasp, but the air was thick, tainted by his own guilt.

  "I—" His throat constricted, unable to contain the truth. "I made my own son as a weapon... Just like they made me one... I-i am no better than they were... I-i was... Worse... Worse than them..."

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Born as a weapon. Raised as a weapon. And now—

  Now he had done the same... to his own flesh and blood.

  His body trembled, a sob finally wrenching itself free from the depths of his soul. Tears streamed down his eyes, blurring the blood-stained earth before him. Decades—decades of never crying, never cracking, never granting himself so much as a moment's vulnerability. And yet, he cried now.

  Not for the elders. Not for the village. Not for the shattered traditions he had just destroyed.

  For Hakari.

  For the child who had never been given a choice.

  For the father who had deprived him of that choice.

  For the weight of a sin he could never take back.

  While Hakari. He'd fled, withdrawn like a wounded animal from the scorching fires of his father. Hakari’s footsteps were slow and uneven as he walked along the dirt path that wound through the outskirts of a quiet village. The cursed runes on his arms still pulsed faintly, though their glow had dimmed since the battle. His breaths came heavy, his body weary, but his mind raced with thoughts he couldn’t escape.

  The mask at his belt felt heavier now, recalling what he'd done—and what he hadn't.

  The fires continued to blaze in his mind, burning fiercely and hotly, the sunfire blade cutting through his stained power like it didn't exist at all. He feel like fighting sun itself. Thousand decade exist. Yet still burning and unyieding.

  Why? he growled, his fists in tight balls. How did he use that level of magic? The same individual who told me magic was not allowed. the same individual who never once believed in me.

  The path curved, leading him nearer to the village center. Hakari remained hidden, out of sight from the villagers that moved about their evening routines. He wasn't after them—his focus was elsewhere.

  Previous to him, in an open space just outside the village, father and son were training together.

  Hakari stopped, his gasps arrested as he watched the scene in front of him.

  His father was using a wooden sword, but his movements were slow and clumsy as he demonstrated a basic form to the boy at his side. The boy was only ten years old, but he repeated the motion of his father eagerly, if his own attacks were clumsy and inept.

  "No, no, like that boy," the father replied, his voice warm and patient. He shifted behind his son, adjusting the boy's hand on the sword. "See? If you grip it tighter here, you'll be able to handle it better."

  The boy nodded enthusiastically, his face shining with excitement. "Got it!"

  "Okay, try it," instructed the father, stepping back with a smile.

  The boy swung at the wooden sword again, but he still stumbled about. He lost his balance a bit and the sword staggered, and then it leapt from his hand and fell clashing to the floor.

  For a moment, Hakari braced herself, half anticipating the father to scold the boy, to bellow orders at him as Takashi had so many years.

  But the father laughed instead, a deep, rumbling sound in the quiet clearing. "Not bad, but you're thinking too much. Relax a bit."

  The boy laughed too, stroking the back of his neck as he took up the sword again. "I'll do it better next time!"

  "That's my boy I'm sure you will," said the father, ruffling the boy's hair. "But remember, it's not about doing it exactly right. It's about learning together."

  Hakari’s hands trembled as he watched them, his corrupted arm twitching with a dull ache. The scene before him was simple, almost mundane, yet it struck him with a force he hadn’t expected.

  The father and son practiced together, their movements slow and unpolished. There was no shouting, no criticism, no crushing expectations. Just laughter and warmth—a connection built on patience and understanding.

  Hakari spun away, his teeth clenched as he balled his fists at his sides.

  He struggled to shut out the tightness in his chest, the ache of jealousy and grief that writhed like a knife within him. But the memory exploded unbidden into his mind, aching and alive.

  It was years ago, in Yamaoka courtyard. Takashi stood before Hakari, his practice sword trembling in his grip. He was fourteen, his slashes more acute than they once had been but still open to merciless criticism.

  "Again!" Takashi ordered, his tone strict and merciless.

  Hakari gritted his teeth, his hand tightening on the hilt as he whirred the wooden sword. The strike was quick but ever so slightly off, his stance still not entirely acceptable.

  Takashi attacked, his own practice sword meeting Hakari's with power that sent the boy stumbling backward. "Your grip is slack. Your stance is wrong. Do it again."

  Hakari caught his balance, his temper bubbling just beneath the surface. "I am, Father."

  "Not hard enough," Takashi snarled. "If you we're out here, you'd already be dead. Again!"

  Hakari attacked again, this time with greater strength, but his rage made him berserk with his blows. Takashi swatted it aside with ease, his counterattack sending Hakari's sword flying from his hand.

  "Sloppy," Takashi told him, his voice cold. "Pick it up."

  Hakari stood there, his hands trembling at his sides. "Why does it always have to be like this?" he muttered under his breath.

  "What did you say?" Takashi bit out, his voice acidic.

  "Nothing." replied Hakari, bending his head to pick up the sword.

  "Don't explain," cut in Takashi. "Discipline alone will save your life. If you can't learn it, then you might as well waste your time."

  Hakari balled his fists on the wooden sword, knuckles white with anger.

  The memory dissipated itself, but the pain it carried along persisted. Hakari moved away from the clearing and watched as the boy once more practiced his sword swing, the father softly smiling as he corrected him.

  The vision tightened his chest pain, the gasp muffled in his throat as he turned away and left.

  Laughter went on behind him, echoing in his head as mockery of what he'd lost—and never had.

  Hakari stayed hidden in the shadows, his corrupted arm twitching as he watched the father and son continue their harmless training. The wooden sword in the boy’s hand wobbled with each clumsy strike, and the father patiently adjusted his stance, laughing softly whenever the boy stumbled.

  “Careful now,” the father said, stepping back with a grin. “You’re trying to swing too hard. Focus on control, not power okay?”

  "I'm trying to be as good like you, Father!" shouted the boy, his voice full of youthful enthusiasm.

  The father laughed, ruffling the boy's hair. "You will be. But first, you must learn how to hold the sword properly."

  The boy puffed out his chest, grasping the wooden hilt more firmly. "Okay, one more time!"

  Before the boy might hit once more, a low, friendly call came from an adjacent dwelling. "It's already late. Go inside!"

  The boy's focus moved to regard a woman, standing in her doorway, a dusting of flour on the apron in front of her. Her eyes sparkled in welcome, with a barely perceived tone of jest.

  The father laughed, and his hands on his hips pronounced, "Your mother's on the ball. Let's quit for tonight.

  The boy pouted, dragging his sword across the ground. "But I don't wanna quit! It's just getting exciting!"

  The father laughed again, stooping down to his son's height. "We'll do it again tomorrow. Training's always more exciting when you're not tired isnt it?"

  "Promise?" the boy questioned, with big eyes.

  "Promise," the father said, holding out his pinky.

  Hakari’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as the scene unfolded before him. His corrupted runes burned faintly, their glow flickering against the growing darkness. If Father had been like that. if training had been like that.

  Maybe he would not have hated it. Maybe he would not have resented the wooden sword that was always too heavy, the shouting that echoed hours after training ended. Maybe he would have found training enjoyable instead of dreading it.

  The son and father entered, leaving behind the sound of their laughter hanging like a ghost. But for Hakari, the father and boy's laughter turned sour, curdling into something more unpleasant as a memory he had striven to bury resurfaced.

  It was dusk in Yamaoka, the courtyard painted in deep oranges and purples. Hakari, then fourteen, stood in the dirt with his practice sword trembling in his hands. Takashi loomed over him, his own weapon raised, his face hard as stone.

  “You’re rushing your strikes again. Think before you attack! Don't attack like some crazed brute,” Takashi snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Do it properly or don’t do it at all.”

  Hakari's fists closed around the wooden hilt as he tried again, all his strength going into the swing. His foot slipped, the blade at the wrong angle, and Takashi knocked it aside with a leisurely gesture.

  "Wrong once more!" Takashi barked, knocking the boy's sword out of his grasp so that it clanged against the deck. "Pick. it up."

  Hakari knelt to retrieve the sword, his temper just below boiling point. "I'm trying, Father," he muttered.

  "Trying is not good enough!" Takashi yelled. "People outside didnt give you an second and straight trying kill you!"

  "Takashi."

  Soft, with a faint shake, the voice sliced through tension like a soft breeze. The son and father turned to see Mizuki in the corner of the yard, her silver hair glinting in the waning light. Her hands were folded over her apron, her face carved but peaceful.

  "It's already late," she breathed, her voice trembling. "Let him rest."

  Takashi whirled around, his eyes flashing. "He doesn't need rest. He needs discipline. If I let him give up now, he'll never learn."

  "Takashi," Mizuki said again, stepping closer. "He's just a boy. He's exhausted. Pushing him like this you—"

  "Mind your own business!" Takashi thundered, his voice ringing.

  Mizuki flinched, her hands trembling as she took a step back. Her pale face was etched with something that Hakari, even as a boy, recognized immediately.

  Fear.

  She didn’t argue further. She simply nodded and walked back toward the house, her steps slow and hesitant.

  Hakari watched her go, his heart sinking as he turned back to his father. But Takashi’s expression hadn’t softened.

  “Pick up the sword,” Takashi said coldly.

  Hakari obeyed, his movements slow and robotic. But as he gripped the wooden hilt, he didn’t look at his father. His eyes were fixed on the doorway where his mother had disappeared, the sting of her retreat burning more deeply than his father’s words.

  The memory faded, but the ache in Hakari’s chest remained.

  He clenched his fists, his corrupted arm twinging as the subtle sting of the runes ran through it. The mask at his belt felt heavier, a living entity to be nourished with the rage that seethed within him.

  The village son and the father were gone now, their voices traded for the gentle whisper of the wind. But Hakari was still able to hear them, their laughter echoing inside his head, replaced by the cold silence of his childhood.

  He turned and departed, his boots ringing out on the ground road. The mask pulsed dully against his side, but Hakari did not perceive it. His thoughts were back in the past, with the boy he once was—and the man he was now.

  If only things were otherwise. It will be different.