Chapter- 5 The Three Pillars

  SCENE- 1

  Silence.

  The world stood still.

  Limbs dropped before bodies even realized they'd been severed.

  One hundred and fifty elite samurai—men forged in war, honed in brutality—now collapsed like brittle leaves in a quiet breeze.

  Their eyes never even saw the blade that ended them.

  

  Raiken stood at the center. His sword gleamed clean. Not a single drop of blood dared touch it.

  His eyes didn’t burn with rage. They were cold. Controlled. Final.

  

  The villagers didn’t scream.They watched—silent, trembling—not out of fear... but reverence.

  As if nature itself had bent to let them witness something once thought buried.

  

  A single man. One swing. One breath. One instant.

  And one hundred and fifty fell.

  

  This... was the power once wielded by the Pillars of Sihara.

  They were not warriors.They were forces of nature.

  And now—One had returned.

  

  Ayame exhaled softly. Her eyes didn’t blink. Her lips curved slightly—nostalgic and heavy.

  "I’ve raised a monster, haven’t I…"

  Raiken slowly walked to the dead after before whom the family was crying

  Raiken’s voice finally broke the silence.

  “Cut him down. He doesn’t deserve to hang.”

  SCENE- 2 Kaito Rengetsu’s Fortress

  A storm lashed against black stone walls. Inside, Kaito stood shirtless, training in the courtyard, blood on his fists.

  A soldier ran in, out of breath.

  

  Soldier:“My Lord... a squad. 150 men. Wiped out near the outskirts.”

  “Witnesses say... it wasn’t human. Just one man.”

  Kaito paused. The rain hit harder.Then—he laughed.

  A deep, satisfied laugh. The kind you hear from a man who wanted the devil to return.

  

  Kaito:“He’s back. That fool.”

  He looked at the sky, as if speaking to an old rival. “Took you long enough, Wolf.”

  Then he turned away, grinning.

  

  “Let’s see how many more I have to kill before you finally take me seriously.”

  SCENE- 3 Flashback: When the World Was Still Beautiful

  There was a time when the word Sihara wasn’t whispered in fear.A time when its people didn't bow to flags or swords, but to the morning sun and the mountain winds.

  That was when they stood —Three boys. Not born as warriors. But shaped by pain, by fire, by choice.

  They were known later as the Three Pillars of Sihara, the legends who held a kingdom together by will alone.But back then, they were just—

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Daizo, Garou, and Raiken.

  Sihara wasn’t built by rulers — it was shaped by time.

  Mountains stood like sleeping gods.The Aozora Temple clung to a cliff, so high even birds hesitated. Its bells rang not for religion, but for remembrance. Every morning, the villagers would bow once toward the temple — to remember peace, to thank the land.

  The rivers ran cold and silver, threading through forests older than memory.There was a lake — Ishigami Lake — where mist never cleared, and legends said the lake could hear your sorrow if you spoke to it at dawn.Fishermen swore they heard it reply.

  And at the heart of it all stood Kifune Palace, carved into the base of a waterfall, its stone halls echoing with poetry and laughter. No royal banners. Just prayers tied to cherry trees and wind chimes that sang with every breeze.

  In the fields, people harvested indigo grain, a crop so rare that its dust turned the skies deep blue during season change.To see it was to believe in magic.That was Sihara — a kingdom in balance with itself.

  Until it was taken.

  He was born with a silver cup in his

  hand.

  Daizo of the Takemura Clan.A name that made men kneel.A name that stained his tongue.

  He was trained to be a commander — read the art of war before he could read poetry.But the boy had questions. Dangerous ones.

  

  “Why does nobility mean sitting on people’s backs?”“Why do they call it loyalty when it’s just silence?”

  When he was twelve, he spat on his family crest.Walked out of the mansion barefoot.Left behind the silk, the servants, the status.

  The nobles called it betrayal.But the people saw a prince become human.

  He swore never to use his family name again.But the sword he carried still had the Takemura steel. And when he swung it — the world listened.

  No one knew his real name. Not even Daizo.

  They called him Garou the Owl, because he only moved at night.He spoke little, smiled less, but when he laughed — you’d remember it for days.

  His past was carved into his back.

  He had no story, only fragments:

  

  
• 
  
    His mother, stabbed for speaking back to a samurai.
  
    


  
• 
  
    His siblings, chained and dragged to the slave camps near the Northern Dust Mines.
  
    


  
• 
  
    Himself, hiding in the floorboards, biting down on his tongue to keep from screaming.
  
    


  

  When he escaped, he didn’t cry. He didn’t pray.He picked up a rusted blade and ran until his feet bled black.

  Years passed. He grew faster than most, silent as the grave.Until he met Daizo and Raiken, he didn’t speak for an entire year.

  But when he stood beside them…He finally had something to protect.

  He came with the storm.

  Found by villagers near the Frostfall Cliffs, clutching a wooden stick and snarling at a bear twice his size.

  He had no name. No memory. Just… rage.Not anger — something deeper. Like his soul had been screaming for years without words.

  The villagers feared him.But Ayame, the herbalist, took him in. She raised him on rice and river fish.Taught him to control his breath. To swing slower. To sleep.

  He didn’t care about the past.He only cared about the now. The people who smiled at him.The warmth of fire. The sound of rain on thatched roofs.

  And when he met Daizo and Owl —It was like fire found its flame.

  They trained together in the mountain forests.Challenged each other. Bled together. Laughed together.

  The trio became shadows in the wind — protecting villages from rogue soldiers, catching thieves, escorting priests through bandit territory.

  They asked for no reward.And yet, the people left offerings at shrines, hoping the "Three Ghosts of Sihara" would protect them another day.

  They weren’t warriors.They were guardians.

  Then came the invasion.

  A foreign Shogunate from the east. Bigger armies. Darker flags.They didn't ask to rule — they just took.

  Villages burned. Shrines looted. The cherry trees turned black with ash.And the boys?

  They fought.

  They fought harder than anyone.Daizo led the resistance. Owl hunted enemy scouts at night.Raiken shattered entire formations with pure force.

  But in the end, strength wasn't enough.The pillars stood… but the ground beneath them collapsed.

  Daizo was offered a deal — serve silently and protect what’s left.He chose silence.

  Owl vanished after the last battle.Rumors said he lived in the mountains, alone.

  And Raiken — the fire — simply disappeared.

  Now, Owl stood on a ruined rooftop, watching smoke rise from what used to be a shrine.

  He remembered the sounds of children laughing here.Now, only the wind mourned.

  

  “We promised to protect this place. And now, I kill quietly in alleys while Daizo pretends not to see. Wolf… where the hell have you been? Can I even see into your eyes now”

  He looked toward the horizon, where clouds rumbled.Thunder.

  A small smile crept onto his lips.The kind that knew pain. The kind that knew fate was moving again.

  

  “But finally, You're back, huh… you reckless idiot.”