The sky above Kyoden started turning red. This wasn't just a soft red like most sunsets - nah, this was heavy, dark, almost wrong-looking, the shade that makes battle-scarred fighters stop dead and whisper quiet words to their gods. Old-timers had a saying: "Red skies like blood mean fate's on the move." That night, with ash drifting from distant homes riding the breeze, you could feel it - the whole world staying silent, waiting.
Kyoden's been off for weeks - too silent when it should speak, shouting where it ought to hush. Raids piled up, killings stacked high, kids vanished without trace. Folks passing through muttered about agitated ghosts. How elders wouldn't take gifts anymore. How war beats grew stronger each night.
Yet amid all that stress, a single guy strolled easy, like it didn't matter at all.
He wasn't wearing any sign of a clan. Not even armor. There weren't flags or marks pointing to loyalty. Instead, he had a worn-out cloak draping over his frame, hanging slack. A slouched hat shadowed his face. His shoes held layers of trail dust. At his side sat a beaten blade, muffled in fabric - like it feared exposure.
This guy went by Stranger in a few spots. Elsewhere, they called him Wanderer. Most folks across Kyoden didn't name him whatsoever. Yet he liked it just fine like that.
His actual name? Lost. Gone. Maybe stuck far inside him, tucked away beside thoughts he just won't reach.
He walked like someone used to tough breaks, calm but worn down from what he'd been through. War shaped him, taking lives changed him, facing death so often made it feel familiar - almost normal. Yet now, something felt off. Not panicked, just uneasy beneath the surface. His pace didn't waver, still firm on each step forward. Then again, outta nowhere, he'd stop dead - and tilt his chin up quick, like catching a sound nobody else noticed.
The breeze brought echoes of galloping hooves - harsh shouts followed. Then the ring of steel hitting steel, sharp and sudden.
He scowled under his cap.
"One more hit," he said quietly. A deep, scratchy tone - like someone used to speaking only when needed.
He stayed on course. Not moving toward the noise, nor backing off from it either. Just trudging ahead along the tight trail cutting through scattered trees. A speck of crimson light bounced off his blade's surface, so he stopped once more - short pause only - as if that shade brought back a memory best left buried.
He kept moving, then spotted trouble - broken twig on the path… tiny footmarks dashing ahead… bigger, slower tracks behind, closing in.
He sighed. "Trouble is looking for somebody today."
He kept walking.
The village up ahead went by the name Mibu. Usually calm, it bustled with folks like farmers, weavers, or those pulling nets from the river - simple routines, steady days. Yet now, things felt off. Thick smoke curled above the rooftops, slow and constant - not kitchen fires, mind you, but something darker, burning down what stood before.
The nearer he got, the louder it grew - yells, shrieks, doors smashing apart. A kid sobbing in some corner. That sound stuck in his head somehow.
Yet… he didn't hurry.
Mibu had vanished. From the street, he sensed it somehow.
A bunch of guys in armor clattered by on horses - part of the Red Scorpion crew, obvious from the red marks on their face coverings. A single rider eased up, eyeing the lone traveler like prey caught in sight.
"You there," the soldier barked. "Did you see a boy run this way?"
The guy tilted his chin up a bit. "Saw plenty out there."
The soldier frowned. "I'm asking about a child--small, maybe twelve. Quick feet. If you've seen--"
"I said I've seen many things," the wanderer repeated, voice calm. "Not sure which one will help you."
The soldier let out a sharp sound between clenched teeth - "Seeking your end, geezer?"
The stranger shrugged lightly. "If death is looking for me too, let it come. I will answer it."
A certain calmness in his voice - icy, steady - set the soldier's nerves on edge. Yet the grip on his blade grew harder.
Yet just as he started to pull it free, a different Scorpion guy shouted:
"Forget the wanderer! The boy is close. Move!"
They rode off.
The traveler saw them go - no sound came out.
After a while, he started moving faster.
He wasn't moving fast. No hurry at all. Yet his walk felt different somehow. Red from the sky shone in his gaze - his look was keen, worn out, ancient, still scary though.
When he moved farther into the village, it was obvious - everything was wrecked.
Windows smashed. Ceilings caved in. Animals killed. Red stains on soil - heat barely gone.
He let out a slow breath. "Yeah."
Every time chaos came around, it brought a familiar stink along with it.
He slipped through broken shacks, eyes sharp for any sign of motion. Not here to rescue folks - he never bought into that savior stuff. Yet this kid everyone's chasing… that tiny cry from before… it felt off somehow.
The guy started trusting his gut. Because it'd kept him safe - more than once.
He got to a little house that looked broken. The door dangled by just one side. In the room, someone was collapsed - maybe an old guy who once watched over the place, now killed real bad.
The traveler dropped to one knee next to the man, then brushed two fingers across the floor where red stains spread.
"New," he mumbled. "Nearby they are."
He stood.
Then he froze.
A soft noise - barely there - shifting near toppled crates. Not silence. Quick gasps filling the gap. Heavy air. Fear pumping through small lungs. No grown-up around. Just a kid tucked away, frozen.
He stayed still. Not a sound came from him. Just a soft whisper slipped out
"If you want to live, stop breathing like someone beating talking drum."
Silence.
After that, the kid shot out from behind the crates - no shoes, grime smeared on his cheeks, pupils blown with panic. Inside one hand dangled a beat-up satchel; in the other, snapped at the middle, was an old flute made of wood.
The kid stared, unsure. "Uh... what's your name?"
"Nobody important."
"You're not with them?"
"If I were with them," the wanderer said calmly, "you would not be standing there talking."
The boy swallowed. "They killed my uncle."
"I saw."
"They're still looking for me."
"I know."
"Can you help me?" the kid said, his voice shaky.
The stranger stayed quiet. Instead, he spun around - headed for the exit without a word.
"Hold on!" the kid ran behind. "Come back! Or they're gonna end me!"
The traveler kept walking - none of his concern
Yet as he moved ahead, the cabin's top burst open when a pair of armed men in masks plunged down from above - fast, sudden, like predators on the hunt.
"There he is!" one snarled. "Kill the man too!"
The wanderer sighed.
"Omo, see problem."
The troops charged toward him.
He shifted just a single time.
A haze. Then - his coat flares. His heel drags sideways.
Then, just as the kid started to grasp it, one soldier stiffened - staring blankly - the other dropped right after, red streaking the broken plaster.
The traveler left his blade alone - no point reaching for it.
He stood up slowly, dusting his hands. "I hate when people force me to work."
The kid looked up, frozen - part wonder, part terror. "Uh… uh - you're one o' them demons."
"No," the wanderer said simply. "I'm just a man who knows how to kill very well."
A thud of steps sounded nearby. Yet another set came right after.
Dozens.
The kid shook. "Here they come."
"I know."
"What do we do?"
The traveler moved out into the breeze just when the reddish glow got darker overhead.
He glanced toward the soldiers coming close - maybe a dozen - all rushing down the slope of the village, weapons out.
In the breeze, his cloak danced, showing off the handle of a worn sword bundled in fabric.
He brushed against it - just briefly.
Just once.
Like he was trying to remember a thought.
After that, he spoke soft-like:
"You want to survive? Stay behind me and do not run."
The kid gave a quick nod while holding tight to the cracked flute he had.
The traveler moved ahead, while his silhouette stretched across the red-dyed horizon.
"Kyoden…" he murmured.
"…your troubles have found me again."
When the first soldier charged at him yelling, the stranger reacted - quiet, sharp, lethal - like someone used to living where death marks every step.