“Sometimes a soul crashes into the world not to be noticed, but to be remembered.”

  The sky ruptured.

  Clouds tore open as a blazing streak of light carved through the heavens like a falling star set aflame. But this was no star. It screamed—not in fury, but in pain—as it descended in a long, trailing arc.

  The monks at the mountain temple looked up in awe and dread as the light slammed into the frozen hillside with a roar. Snow burst into the air like smoke. Ice cracked, trees bowed, and silence fell—suffocating and absolute.

  At the center of the crater, amidst steaming frost and shattered earth, lay a boy. Barefoot. Unconscious. His body curled against the cold like a wounded animal.

  His hair, impossibly white, shimmered with the dusting snow. A pair of wolf-like ears twitched faintly atop his head, as if still hearing a sound the world had long stopped making. Behind him, a long, bushy tail—just as pale—lay limp in the snow. His skin glowed faintly with residual heat, but it was the eyes that would haunt the monks for years to come.

  When they first opened… they were red. Not just red, but the kind that burned. The kind that remembered fire, even in a world of ice.

  The boy awoke to whispers in a language he did not understand. Shapes hovered above him—hooded, robed, murmuring amongst themselves. He flinched, startled, and instinctively bared his teeth. The movement sent a sharp jolt through his spine.

  He sat up too quickly. “Where…” His voice cracked, hoarse and broken. “Where am I?!”

  The monks stepped back, startled but not afraid. They spoke softly, trying to soothe him, but their words meant nothing. Their presence, their robes, their careful hands—it was all wrong. Foreign.

  Then the door slid open.

  A taller figure entered the room, older than the rest. His presence silenced the others. He stepped forward, calm and assured, and with a single raised hand, the room fell still.

  “Leave us,” the man said firmly.

  They obeyed, returning shortly with a tray—tea steaming in a clay pot, a bowl of plain white rice, and two cups.

  The boy’s stomach growled loudly.

  The old man chuckled. He sat and pushed the bowl forward. “Eat,” he said, gently.

  The boy hesitated, but hunger overpowered caution. He devoured the food like a starving wolf, coughing between gulps. The man poured tea, handed him a cup, and watched as he drank without pausing for breath.

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  Then, the old man pointed to himself. “Gekko,” he said slowly, enunciating the name.

  He gestured toward the boy.

  No response. Only silence and confusion.

  The man’s gaze softened. He studied the color of the boy’s hair, the snow still caught in it. He looked again into those brilliant red eyes—eyes too sharp, too heavy with something other. Then, thoughtfully, he reached out and touched his own head before pointing back.

  “Shiro,” he said at last. “White.”

  The boy blinked. “Shi…ro?” he echoed, testing the sound.

  The man smiled. “Shiro,” he repeated, with finality. “It suits you.”

  The boy—now called Shiro—remained at the temple. Days turned to weeks, and though he spoke little at first, he learned fast. He watched. He listened. Gekko taught him letters, then words, and slowly the language came alive in his mouth.

  Shiro’s curiosity grew like a wildfire under snow. He devoured scrolls about history and samurai, the old ways, honor, and guardianship. Gekko saw the spark and stoked it.

  “Do you want to learn to protect others?” the old monk asked one morning.

  Shiro didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  Training began before the frost lifted.

  Gekko taught him discipline. Balance. Precision. The boy's body remembered things even he didn’t—how to strike, how to dodge, how to endure pain in silence. His swordsmanship took time, but his agility came naturally. His archery required patience, but his focus sharpened like a blade honed to cut more than flesh.

  In time, he began forming a style of his own. A technique born from instinct and ferocity: a rushing thrust that pierced the air like lightning. It lacked control, but not intent. Gekko watched, impressed—and concerned.

  The boy was not just learning. He was remembering.

  One evening beneath a blooming cherry tree, Gekko sat beside him as petals drifted past.

  “You are strong,” he said quietly. “But your thoughts are not here. They wander.”

  Shiro’s red eyes stared toward the horizon. “I don’t know who I was before.”

  “Would you like to?”

  A nod.

  “Then you must seek the one who sees.” Gekko spoke of Amateru, the oracle who lived in seclusion, high in the mountains. “She may show you the past. But truth weighs heavier than steel.”

  “I’ll go.”

  The final stage of his training was survival.

  Gekko drove him into the wilds: steep paths, bitter wind, hunger, pain. He learned to find his way by starlight and gut instinct. He grew lean, sharper, quieter. The frost no longer bit. It welcomed him.

  On the day of departure, Gekko presented him with a sword: Hakumei—Twilight. A blade etched with symbols that whispered between worlds.

  “This is yours now,” the monk said. “Let it guide you.”

  The journey to the shrine was merciless.

  Shiro crossed crags and cliffs, braved frozen nights and ghostly sounds in the dark. But he never faltered. Not once. Something pulled him forward.

  The shrine, when he found it, was older than time. Inside waited a blind woman with skin like candle wax and eyes like frozen milk.

  “You have come to remember,” she said before he could speak.

  “Yes.”

  The fire flared.

  And then came visions. Not dreams—memories.

  War. Sacrifice. A name lost in snow. A world frozen by his own hand. A fall between stars.

  “You were not born here,” the oracle whispered. “But you survived. You fell with purpose.”

  “What am I now?” he asked, barely breathing.

  She smiled faintly. “What you choose to be.”

  When he stepped out of the shrine, the sky had cleared.

  The world below looked the same. But he no longer did.

  Not to himself.

  Not anymore.