Chapter 7: Tragedy
The morning sky was gray — not with storm clouds, but with mourning. Gage Village stood still, cloaked in silence. Shops were closed. Fields were untended. No laughter echoed through the streets. Today was not a day for living. It was a day for remembering.
Beneath the old hill tree — the one where children once played, where laughter had once bounced like wind through the leaves — stood seven wooden coffins. Small. Far too small.
Villagers gathered with eyes red and shoulders heavy. The names of the five missing children had been carved carefully into the coffins, their bodies now returned from the cursed forest. Alongside them were two makeshift coffins for the fallen villagers who had perished fighting the beast — not warriors, just people who refused to watch helplessly.
Kaze stood in the front, Atlas beside him. Neither spoke.
Mrs. Larkin led the ceremony. Her voice cracked, but she held steady, carrying the grief of the entire village in her trembling hands.
"These were our children," she said. "Our future. Taken by cruelty. But we will not forget them."
One by one, parents were invited forward to say their goodbyes.
A mother placed a small scarf into her daughter's coffin. A father kissed the forehead of his son, now cold and still. Another woman wept openly, collapsing to her knees when she saw the bloodstained toy tucked between the child's hands — the one with "I miss Momma" carved into the wood.
No one moved to help her. Not because they didn't care, but because they understood. Some pain had to break you.
Kaze's fists clenched. He had seen the children's bodies. Burned. Torn. Twisted by magic that should never have existed. Even now, he could see their faces when he closed his eyes.
Atlas placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. But his own face was pale, eyes unfocused.
When the final words were said and the coffins lowered, the villagers joined in a solemn chant — one taught for moments like this. A song of peace, and of letting go.
The dirt hit wood like drumbeats to a funeral march.
⸻
That evening, the village burned lanterns in the trees. Small flames floated into the sky, carrying wishes and prayers for the departed. The children's names were whispered by each villager, ensuring they would not be forgotten.
Kaze and Atlas stood alone on the outskirts of the village, watching the lights ascend.
"Why did it have to happen?" Kaze asked quietly. "Why couldn't we save them?"
Atlas didn't answer immediately. His voice was low when it came. "We did what we could. But sometimes, it's not enough."
Kaze turned away, tears he hadn't allowed during the funeral finally slipping down his cheeks. "I hate that answer."
"I do too."
Later that night, while most of the village finally found restless sleep, Kaze sat alone outside the old training grounds. The stars were blurred by grief. He hadn't cried again — not because he didn't want to, but because he was empty.
He heard it: deliberate footsteps.
His body tensed. He stood and turned sharply, wind gathering subtly around his feet, instinct already kicking in.
From the shadows stepped a figure — tall, wrapped in black, bandages covering his eyes and mouth. A boy. Older. Calm. At his hip hung a single, scarred knife.
"Who the hell are you?" Kaze snapped, wind howling around his arms now.
The figure didn't speak. He merely tilted his head and walked a few steps closer.
Kaze moved fast — grief sharpening his instincts. A blast of wind ripped forward, but the stranger ducked effortlessly. He spun low and slid forward. In one motion, the butt of his knife struck Kaze in the gut, winding him, then swept his leg. Kaze hit the ground hard, coughing.
Before he could rise, the knife's point was resting against his throat. Not piercing — but a warning.
"…I'm not your enemy," the stranger finally said, voice muffled but clear through the bandages.
Kaze glared up at him, chest heaving. "You don't show up at a village that just buried seven people and act like a ghost."
The stranger pulled the knife away and took a step back, giving Kaze space to rise.
"I heard what happened here," he said. "I came to see if you were still alive."
Kaze stood, brushing dirt off his clothes. "You know me?"
"I've heard your name. The wind mage from Gage Village. The boy who survived the storm."
"…And you are?"
The stranger hesitated, then spoke the name like it still hurt to say. "Kazuki."
Kaze narrowed his eyes. He wasn't sure if he trusted him — could trust him. But one thing was clear: the boy wasn't normal. The fight hadn't even been close. His senses, his blade — he moved like a ghost in flesh.
"I don't care about the village's pity," Kazuki added. "I've seen monsters like the one you killed. I've seen worse. And if you think this ends here, you're wrong."
He tapped the knife at his side. "People like the one who made that beast? They don't stop. They move. They spread."
Kaze stared at him, still uncertain, but no longer ready to fight. "…Then why help?"
Kazuki didn't answer immediately. He finally said, "I don't fight for peace or justice. I fight for her."
He touched the handle of his knife. "For Mimi."
And just like that, he turned and walked away, fading into the night toward the heart of the village.
Kaze watched him go, confused, wary — but somewhere, a seed of understanding had been planted.