The first thing Rikuto remembered was the wind rolling through the rice fields, the scent of damp earth after the morning rain, and his mother’s laughter as she called him home for supper. His father, a quiet but kind man, would ruffle his hair, teasing him about his stubbornness. Their life was humble, their house a simple wooden shack with a thatched roof, but it was theirs. It was safe. It was home.


    But safety was an illusion.


    The night the slavers came, the sky was black as ink, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, as if the heavens themselves refused to witness the horror about to unfold. Rikuto awoke to screams—raw, panicked, unnatural. Fire roared somewhere beyond his window, casting flickering shadows against the paper walls. His father’s voice was sharp and desperate.


    “Hide, Rikuto! Don’t make a sound!”


    He didn’t understand. His mother was already pulling him towards a loose floorboard, her hands trembling as she pried it open.


    Then, the door shattered.


    A hulking figure stormed in, his armor glinting in the firelight. His face was hidden behind a metal mask, but his eyes—cold, empty—burned into Rikuto’s memory. His father charged, a rusted sickle clutched in his hands, but the man barely acknowledged him. The katana flashed once.


    Rikuto’s father collapsed, his head rolling to a stop at his feet.


    His mother screamed.


    A gauntleted hand grabbed her by the hair, dragging her away as she kicked and clawed. “Run, Rikuto! Run!” she sobbed, before her cries were muffled by a cruel, calloused palm.


    He did not run. He could not.


    He was frozen, a small boy standing in the ruins of his world, forced to watch as the only warmth he had ever known was snuffed out in front of him. The slavers had no need for a useless woman, but they had other uses for her first. The sounds that followed shattered something inside him. The child that had lived in that house—who had once chased dragonflies and laughed in the rain—died that night.


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    By the time the warriors were done, his mother lay still, her kimono torn, her blood soaking into the wooden floor. Her vacant eyes stared at him. Her lips, trembling with the last shreds of life, tried to form words.


    He saw them. Heard them. Felt them carve into his soul.


    "Live… my son…"


    A heavy chain slammed around his neck, yanking him forward. He fell, scraping his knees, but the iron grip that seized his arm did not let go. His cries were drowned out by the sound of burning houses, weeping women, and the slow, methodical march of the slavers as they dragged their spoils away.


    The village of Hoshimura was no more.


    <hr>


    The Slave Market of Senzō – Hell on Earth


    The air stank of sweat, blood, and piss.


    Rikuto had lost count of the days since he had been taken. The wounds on his feet had scabbed over, and the hunger gnawing at his ribs had become a dull, constant ache. He had cried at first, but after the first few beatings, he learned that tears earned him nothing but pain.


    The market was a writhing mass of suffering. Rows of men, their backs whipped raw, stood bound in iron shackles, waiting for their new masters. Women, their faces hollow, their bodies barely clothed, were displayed like cattle, their prices determined by age and beauty.


    But the children… the children were the worst.


    They clung to each other, some too young to understand what was happening, others old enough to be filled with terror. Some screamed for their mothers, but their cries were met with laughter. One boy tried to run. His captor grabbed him by the leg, swinging him into a wooden post with a sickening crunch. The crowd barely noticed.


    Rikuto was shoved onto a platform, forced to his knees.


    “He’s a strong one,” a merchant bragged, yanking his arm to display his muscle. “Good stock. Perfect for labor or training.”


    The bidding started.


    Men in fine robes murmured to each other, their faces unreadable, their eyes weighing his worth in coin. One man, clad in black armor with the sigil of a coiling serpent on his chest, stepped forward.


    “We’ll take him,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.


    Rikuto was sold.


    The Shikkoku Clan had just bought themselves a new dog.


    <hr>


    Dreams of the Dying


    Even years later, he still heard her voice.


    "Live… my son…"


    The words whispered to him in the darkness, a reminder, a curse.


    But Rikuto did not live. He survived.


    And one day, they would all pay.