"Some trees give shade. Others give truth. And truth is the heavier burden. -Ishido
The dojo grounds were unusually quiet.
No clang of wooden swords. No bursts of laughter from the sparring yards. Ishido had given the boys no schedule, no demands — only meditation. It's as if Ishido knew what the boys were thinking.
Kamui sat on the porch, his elbows on his knees, eyes staring at the mountains. As he was surrounded by the other students
It had been six days since they first touched the Tree of Echoes.
Six days since the visions.
And not one of them had spoken a word about it.
Even Arma, the one who always cracked jokes in the most serious moments, had been withdrawn. He sat cross-legged beneath the plum tree, chewing idly on dried apricots, occasionally glancing up toward the distant peaks. The other students normally joked with him about his diet but he just brushed it off.
Kamui could feel it in the air: dread with no name.
Meanwhile, Argon dreamed about it again. As if the Tree talked to him directly.
The vision was more vivid than before.
He stood on a battlefield that looked both ancient and unfamiliar. Blood stained the stone tiles beneath him. A foreign wind howled. In his hand, he held a sword—longer than he had ever trained with, and yet it felt like it had always been there.
Across from him stood the same figure.
Faceless. But the air around the man rippled with sorrow.
The two clashed.
Steel screamed against steel. Sparks flew. Argon's legs buckled. The shadowed figure whispered something—but it was drowned out by the roar of his heartbeat. He was bleeding. Not just from his side this time, but from his palms, his back, his eyes.
Then, the voice of the Tree returned. Clearer now:
"You must learn to bleed for those who can't. That is your test. Fight for your life, don't let someone control it for you. You are not a nobleman, you are a saviour."
He collapsed in the dream.
And woke in a cold sweat.
The next morning, the boys sat at the low table. A modest breakfast of rice, miso, and pickled vegetables.
No one said anything at first.
Kamui finally broke the silence.
"We should talk about it."
Arma looked up.
"About the Tree?"
Kamui nodded.
Argon hesitated, chopsticks suspended over his bowl.
"I dreamed again. Same battlefield. Same man. I think it's me. Or someone I'll become."
Arma's eyes flickered with something he rarely showed—concern.
Kamui leaned in.
"The Tree showed me something, too. Flames. A mountain collapsing. People I've never met are crying out my name, many of them, as if it's an entire army.. And at the centre… me, walking away from everything. But I was not alone; there were you two, but others as well."
No one touched their food for a long while.
That evening, Argon returned to the estate.
His home wasn't a house—it was a palace of silent marble and hallways that echoed too loudly.
He sat across from his father, General Yoshiro Shinjuku, in a dimly lit dining hall. Servants brought in trays of roasted fish, ginger rice, and sea broth. Yoshiro didn't look up from his scroll.
"You've been out late again."
Argon didn't answer at first. Then:
"Studying."
Yoshiro finally looked up. His eyes were sharp, clinical. Like a commander assessing a soldier.
"That dojo. The one outside the upper village districts. You've been sneaking out through the servant's wing again. I know that you are not going to the one I assigned you to. Master Kaien is a much more composed and thoughtful person than Ishido. I won't punish you this time, but you should know that will soon be over."
Argon said nothing. He didn't lie. He didn't admit it. But most importantly, he was scared of what his father meant.
Yoshiro sipped his broth.
"Your grades at the academy remain top-ranked; your swordsman skills are the peak for your age. That pleases me. But your behaviour…""You have more responsibilities than a common swordsman's son.
You are destined to lead this Country, to further glorify our name and fight for our people. You should not oppose our Government; you should oppose these rebels. One of them is your Master Ishido, the same one you keep clinging onto.
But don't worry, as I said before, it will soon end. The entire Samurai culture will begin to fade away for those not worthy of it. For you it will remain, but for those peasants it will be a dream that will never be achieved."
Argon picked at his food, expression blank.
"I know."
"Good."
They ate in silence.
No mention of dreams. No mention of the Tree. No mention of fear.
Just bloodlines. And legacy.
Later that night, Kamui, Arma, and Argon gathered behind the dojo under the paper lanterns. The stars peeked from behind slow-moving clouds.
Kamui picked up a flat stone and skipped it across the pond.
"I feel like... I'm changing.
Like something inside me shifted since we went to that mountain. It's like that we know the knowledge, maybe 1% of what our Master knows."
Arma nodded, unusually still.
"Me too. I'm scared to ask Master Ishido what it means. Like if I say it out loud, it'll make it real."
Argon remained silent for a while, then finally spoke:
"The Tree showed me a future I don't understand. But the pain was real. I don't think it was a lie."
Kamui looked up at the stars.
"Then we carry it. Together."
The three placed their hands together in the grass, as if sealing a silent pact.
A promise they didn't yet know they'd be forced to keep.
From behind the curtains of his room, Ishido watched them.
"They're still just boys…"
He looked down at the old scroll he kept hidden beneath the floorboards. It was yellowed with age. Stamped with the seal of the Yaksha. Without a signature, but the name "Yaksha" echoed through the night.
Ishido's fingers trembled.
"They have to know. But not yet. When they find out their true purpose and where the faith leads them to, their lives will change forever."
He turned to the blade hanging above his altar.
"When the fire burns again, when I am gone, this nation will witness their rise, and I am forever glad that I made them what they are meant to be. "