The sun was setting again, sinking into the western rim of the world as though swallowed by the ocean it once feared. Clouds bruised into orange and rose, streaked like banners after battle. Birds wheeled high before descending toward the jagged coastline, their cries thinning into the hush of evening. The waves moved with harmonious rhythm, a measured cadence like infantry marching in disciplined files.

  Toho stood upon a rocky elevation overlooking the harbor. His silhouette was cut against the dying light. Below, only one vessel remained moored—a lean, scarred craft, ribs still splintered from the tempest that had nearly devoured it.

  His mind returned to that night—the storm that had come without warning. The sky had blackened in minutes. Wind tore sails into ribbons. Waves rose like siege towers, crashing down with artillery force. Lightning forked across the firmament, illuminating men clinging to ropes with white-knuckled desperation. The sea had not moved with rhythm then; it had roared like a conquering army, drowning command and courage alike.

  He had watched vessels capsize in the surf, their hulls cracked as though they were tiny branches. The storm had been no mere act of nature — it was a political declaration from God himself, a reminder that sovereignty over land meant nothing before the dominion of water.

  Toho folded his hands and closed his eyes. The evening gale brushed through his hair, gentler now, as if in apology.

  “There you are, Toho.”

  Footsteps drew closer—sand crunching under deliberate weight. Toho turned. It was Imei, broad-shouldered and steady, carrying Kenji upon his back. Both wore wide grins – almost rebellious against the gravity of the hour.

  “Heya,” Toho said quietly.

  Kenji wriggled and began climbing down, but Imei simply leaned against the rock face, folding his arms.

  “So…” Imei began, eyes narrowing. “You need to assemble a search party, and you’re standing here like a poet admiring clouds.”

  “To what end should I pace?” Toho asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Agitated command inspires little confidence.”

  Imei exhaled, defeated by composure.

  Kenji piped up, eyes bright. “I want to come with you!”

  Toho crouched to meet him. “Kenji, that is courageous. But we may be gone long, and we do not know how far we will go— perhaps even toward the far inland.”

  Toho pressed a hand to his chin, eyes closed in exaggerated contemplation. The waves kept their steady tempo. Then he snapped his fingers.

  “What if I bring you a gift?”

  Kenji’s disappointment fractured into curiosity. “What kind of gift?”

  Toho glanced sideways at Imei, who mimed the shape of a tree trunk, tracing imaginary carvings in the air.

  “Oh!” Toho clapped his hands. “A special work of art. Carved wood from the forest.”

  Kenji’s face brightened instantly. He nodded with solemn delight.

  “Then it’s settled,” Toho declared, rising.

  “Toho. Imei.”

  They turned. Haruto stood a short distance away, posture straight despite the fatigue etched into his features.

  “Osei is at the hut,” Haruto said. “He requires the names of those chosen so preparations can commence.”

  “I will be there shortly,” Toho replied.

  He helped Kenji down and sent him with Imei before ascending the rock once more for a final glance at the horizon. Then he descended toward the settlement.

  At Haruto’s hut, a dozen men pressed around the entrance like petitioners before a war tribunal. Voices overlapped in insistent appeals.

  “Choose me—I’ve navigated the western reefs!”

  “I fought during the skirmish!”

  “My loyalty is proven!”

  Sawai and Roni stood at the doorway, holding the threshold like sentries before a palace gate.

  “Do not press!” Sawai barked. “Toho has not arrived.”

  “You lie,” snapped a broad-shouldered fisherman. “Someone is inside!”

  Another man attempted to bypass the others, creeping toward the window. He lifted himself to peer inside—

  —and received the full force of Roni’s sandal stamping down upon his forehead.

  The man yelped and collapsed backward into the sand. Roni leaned from the window frame, eyes blazing.

  “Reconnaissance without authorization merits punishment,” he declared dryly.

  The crowd laughed uneasily but resumed their jostling.

  “Wow,” Imei muttered upon arrival, “so many people.”

  The sun dipped fully below the horizon. Just then Toho emerged, striding toward the hut. The murmuring ceased. All eyes turned to him.

  He stopped before them.

  “If you are not chosen,” he said evenly, “it is not because you lack valor or worth. This expedition requires precision, not numbers.”

  “Have you made your choice?” asked Osei, stepping forward. His bearing carried the weight of leadership.

  Toho nodded.

  Imei exhaled softly, certain that only the Osei clan would be named.

  “The expedition members are as follows—”

  A wind rose, snapping roof flaps and stirring cloaks.

  “Sawai of the Osei clan.”

  Sawai nodded once, solemn as a commissioned officer accepting rank.

  “Haruto of the Osei clan.”

  Haruto stepped forward, voice cracking. “Yes, sir.”

  His voice cracked slightly on the word 'sir.' Pride stung for a heartbeat — then steadied into trust.

  “Roni of the Osei clan.”

  “At your service, hero,” Roni replied, adjusting his stance with theatrical precision.

  Toho scanned the crowd—so many eager faces reflecting firelight and ambition.

  “The final two positions are reserved for myself and Imei of the N'Jali clan. This meeting is adjourned. Return to your homes. Thank you.”

  For a moment the crowd stood stunned. Then cheers erupted—not bitter, but proud. Men clasped forearms in solidarity. Some nodded approval. Others accepted the decree with quiet dignity before dispersing into the night, lanterns bobbing as they returned to their huts.

  Imei blinked. “Eh—you mean… I am chosen?”

  Sawai walked past, clapping him on the shoulder. “Do you see another Imei here, fool?”

  Understanding dawned across Imei’s face like sunrise over battlements. His grin widened uncontrollably.

  “Here,” he said, offering Toho a half-eaten papaya in celebration.

  “Thanks,” Toho replied dryly, accepting it before walking away.

  “Where are you going?” Imei called.

  “Somewhere.”

  Night settled upon the settlement. Snores rose from huts like distant drums. But not from Haruto’s.

  Inside, the chosen five lay awake.

  “Do any of you comprehend what we are undertaking?” Imei muttered.

  Sawai, eyes closed, reached over, grabbed Imei by the collar, and slammed him gently but firmly against the mat.

  “Silence.”

  Toho stared at the ceiling beams.

  “I used to feel fear,” he said softly. “This time, I feel light.”

  “Perhaps,” Haruto murmured, “because this is destiny.”

  “Destiny?” Toho echoed.

  “Destiny it is,” Imei agreed.

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  “And I,” whispered a voice near his ear, “am part of it.”

  “Ah!” Imei yelped, flailing.

  It was Roni, who had repositioned himself with silent precision.

  Imei scrambled upright, accusing him of espionage and sorcery in equal measure while the others chuckled.

  “Shut up, Imei,” Sawai muttered.

  Laughter rose — brief, defiant, alive — then faded into the dark.

  Outside, the wind shifted eastward, carrying with it the scent of salt and the promise of campaign. The sea that once threatened annihilation now beckoned like contested territory awaiting reconnaissance.

  And at dawn, they would march—not with banners, but with resolve.

  The first line of sunlight broke across the horizon like the unsheathing of a blade. The sea glittered beneath the newborn hues, each ripple catching gold and scattering it in disciplined ranks toward the shore. The breeze was cool, the dew jeweled upon the grass, and the settlement’s torches had surrendered to thin spirals of smoke. Fire pits lay dormant—ashes of yesterday’s warmth.

  Inside the hut, Toho lay still, eyes closed.

  It is day already.

  He rose slowly. Kenji remained asleep, curled like a small soldier spared from duty. Haruto—whom some still called Naruto from childhood habit—sat cross-legged near the doorway, methodically preparing bundles of dried herbs. His hands moved with the precision of a quartermaster inventorying supplies. He separated leaves of yarrow from crushed bark, tied each measure with twine, sealed them in oilskin cloth, and labeled them with charcoal strokes indicating dosage and application—fever, wound, infection. A week’s provision, calculated carefully for five men operating beyond logistical support.

  “Good morning, Haruto,” Toho said quietly.

  Haruto glanced up, nodding. “Good morning. I must deliver Kenji to the women’s quarter. Do not depart without me.”

  Toho nodded.

  Haruto rose, lifting Kenji gently into his arms. For a fleeting second, Toho saw not his companion but his father—broad hands, steady presence, carrying him from training grounds after long days beneath a merciless sun. The memory hit him sharp and sudden.

  He shook his head and stepped outside.

  “Already awake, eh?”

  Imei sat upon a low crate, blade laid across his knees. He drew the whetstone along its edge in long, deliberate strokes. The metallic whisper was steady, disciplined. By the sheen alone, one could tell he had labored before dawn; the blade now reflected the rising sun in a clean silver arc.

  “I should be asking you that,” Toho replied.

  Imei grinned. “Preparation is half of victory.”

  He paused, examining the edge critically.

  “Oh, by the way—what weapon are you carrying?”

  Toho blinked. “None.”

  Imei froze, then slowly lifted his gaze. “None?”

  “Sawai bears a sword. Roni carries spear and staff. Haruto has his medicaments. You…” He gestured toward the polished steel. “You have that.”

  Imei stared at him for a moment—then burst into laughter.

  “What?” Toho demanded.

  “Oh nothing,” Imei said between breaths. “We shall procure something on the way.”

  Toho folded his arms, cheeks warming. “If you say so.”

  He made his way toward the square. Chika’s tent remained guarded by Bakaru’s men. Their eyes followed him, cold and unyielding. Beyond them, the Eldership’s pavilion still glowed faintly from within. Silhouettes moved against the fabric walls.

  Toho inhaled and lifted the flap.

  Inside sat Bakaru, rigid, spear across his lap. Beside him knelt a scrawny attendant who poured tea with exaggerated reverence—wiping the rim before presenting the cup, adjusting the spear’s position when Bakaru shifted, eyes perpetually lowered in servile deference.

  “I came to inform Osei we depart shortly,” Toho said evenly.

  Silence.

  Bakaru opened his eyes and flicked his fingers dismissively. “Leave.”

  Toho’s jaw tightened. “How is she?”

  Bakaru rose abruptly, indignation flaring. “What concern is that of yours?”

  “I mean no harm. I—”

  “You pest,” Bakaru hissed, stepping closer. “You deceive others. Not me. I know what you are.”

  Toho’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”

  “My only prayer is that you perish in that forest.”

  Silence pressed between them like a drawn blade.

  The scrawny man interjected without looking up. “You litter the sight of Lord Bakaru. Remove yourself.”

  He resumed his duties—refilling the cup, adjusting the lamplight, kneeling as though his spine were carved from submission.

  Toho turned and exited.

  The sun had risen higher now. A gentle breeze brushed his face. For a moment, he thought he heard his name carried within it—Toho—blended with the rustle of leaves.

  He faced the forest.

  Is this destiny?

  His gaze drifted briefly toward Chika’s tent. His chest tightened. A sharp pain lanced through memory—her eyes the night of the storm, wide and resolute.

  Forgive me, Chika. Not yet.

  He stepped toward the forest path.

  The chosen five waited at the boundary where grass surrendered to shadow.

  “Hey, Toho!” Imei waved.

  Roni crouched, tightening the knots of his satchel with soldierly care. Sawai stood upright, sword at his hip, posture disciplined.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Toho said. “Let us proceed.”

  “YES, SIR!” they answered in unison, voices cutting the morning air like a trumpet call.

  Before they could advance, a figure approached—measured, deliberate. It was N’Jali, patriarch of the N'Jali clan.

  “Before you go,” he said, “heed this.”

  They stopped.

  “The forest conceals more than foliage. This land harbors threats older than your understanding.”

  Sawai rolled his eyes slightly. “Such as?”

  “You will discover,” N’Jali replied. Then he fixed his gaze on Toho. “Young man—act with discernment.”

  He departed without elaboration.

  “Is he always like that?” Roni muttered.

  Imei shrugged.

  Toho clapped once. “Forward.”

  The forest swallowed them.

  Light fractured into shafts between dense canopies. The air grew damp, carrying the scent of moss and bark. Birds called intermittently; unseen insects hummed in territorial defiance.

  Haruto walked alert, scanning underbrush and branches alike. “Tracks,” he murmured at one point, kneeling to inspect impressions in mud—deer, perhaps, or something larger. Roni practiced fluid transitions between spear thrusts and staff rotations as they moved, never breaking stride. The rhythmic sweep of wood through air demonstrated training beyond mere enthusiasm.

  Imei, by contrast, walked with unsettling ease, chewing contentedly on a papaya he had brought along.

  “You cannot fight with fruit in your mouth,” Sawai muttered.

  “Watch me,” Imei replied through pulp.

  Their laughter was brief—but genuine.

  Suddenly Toho halted.

  Sawai collided lightly with him. “Oi, warn us next time.”

  Toho pointed ahead.

  A tree stood marked with deliberate carvings—angular strokes intersecting in geometric precision.

  Imei’s chewing slowed. “Yes. That one.”

  Roni’s eyes widened. “Why are these signs here?”

  “You recognize them?” Toho asked.

  Haruto stepped forward, eyes fixed. His breath caught.

  “All within the Osei clan know these,” Roni said grimly.

  “They are military marks,” Haruto finished.

  “From whom?” Toho asked.

  “Unknown,” Roni replied. “But those who bore them enslaved our people generations ago. Organized battalions. Structured supply lines. They moved like empire.”

  Silence pressed down.

  Birds resumed their chirping, indifferent to revelation.

  Sawai folded his arms, studying the mark.

  “Carve it out,” Toho ordered quietly.

  “Why?”

  Toho’s gaze remained fixed beyond the treeline, as though calculating unseen vectors. “Just do it," said Roni.

  Imei drew his blade. Sawai assisted, pressing the trunk steady as steel bit into bark. Wood splintered. The angular symbol fractured under deliberate force. Chips fell like shavings from a dismantled weapon.

  The carving resisted briefly—then gave way.

  They stepped back.

  The tree now bore a scar where insignia once stood.

  Toho waited. The wind stirred. Sunlight strengthened, penetrating deeper into the forest floor.

  “Move,” he said finally.

  They advanced.

  Behind them, the carved tree stood marked by absence.

  The gale struck without warning.

  It began as a murmur in the canopy, a restless shifting of leaves. Then the forest convulsed. Branches thrashed violently overhead, cracking against one another like spears colliding in formation. Twigs and leaves spiraled through the air, flung like shrapnel from an unseen artillery barrage.

  Imei, mid-step, gulped as the final piece of papaya slipped from his fingers. It struck the mud and rolled lazily downslope toward Toho.

  “Oi—” Imei started.

  Toho instinctively reached for it.

  His fingers closed on nothing.

  The earth beneath him collapsed.

  “Ahhhh!”

  The ground gave way into a concealed torrent—an inland river swollen by last night’s distant rains, masked by reeds and storm debris. The current seized him instantly, a living force with no allegiance to mercy.

  Sawai lunged forward, boots digging into mud. His fingers brushed Toho’s sleeve—

  Too late.

  Imei dropped to his knees at the bank, hands clawing earth. “Toho!”

  White water erupted as the current dragged him downstream. Toho’s head surfaced once, eyes wide, arms flailing—then vanished beneath froth.

  Sawai roared and plunged knee-deep into the shallows, but the undertow nearly took him as well. Roni and Haruto seized him by the shoulders and hauled him back.

  The river bent sharply eastward and disappeared into denser forest. In seconds, Toho was gone.

  Imei collapsed forward, palms slamming into mud. “No… no, no, no…”

  Sawai stood rigid, fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked audibly. His face was stone, but his eyes burned like coals beneath ash.

  The wind howled louder.

  Downriver

  The water was glacial.

  It flooded Toho’s mouth, his nose. He kicked blindly, lungs already burning. Rocks battered his ribs; a submerged branch tore across his forearm. He glimpsed gray sky above—indifferent, distant—before the river dragged him under again.

  Not like this.

  He remembered the reef storm—clinging to wreckage, refusing to yield. He would not surrender now.

  A boulder loomed ahead, jagged and immense.

  Toho thrust an arm outward. His fingers scraped slick stone. Slipped.

  Again.

  He caught hold.

  The current tried to wrench him away, muscles screaming in protest. Inch by inch he hauled himself upward until his chest cleared the torrent. He sprawled atop the rock, coughing violently, river water spilling from his lungs.

  The forest stretched endlessly inland. No sign of his companions. Only white water and green shadow.

  Movement.

  On the far bank stood a boy, no older than twelve, crouched by the water’s edge with a fishing pole in hand. He stared, stunned.

  Toho slid from the boulder into the shallows, legs trembling. Twice he stumbled; once he struck his knee sharply against stone. His head throbbed—he must have collided with something in the descent.

  The sun had risen fully now, casting a golden halo around him as he staggered forward.

  The boy whispered, barely audible, “Who…?”

  Toho took one more step.

  Darkness swallowed him whole.

  The Trio

  Evening descended with oppressive weight.

  Sawai, Imei, Roni, and Haruto followed the river as far as terrain allowed. The current eventually fractured into seven nearly identical channels, fanning into the forest like the splayed fingers of a hand.

  Seven paths.

  Seven uncertainties.

  Imei dropped to his knees. “Toho’s…”

  His voice failed him.

  Sawai stared at the branching waterways, fists tightening until his knuckles whitened. He said nothing. His silence was heavier than grief.

  They established a small fire on elevated ground beyond the floodplain. Flames crackled, casting uneasy shadows across their faces. No one ate.

  After a long while, Sawai spoke.

  “We are not abandoning him.”

  His tone was low—controlled, lethal.

  “At dawn, we search each branch. Systematically. No gaps.”

  Imei nodded once. Tears had dried, replaced by hardened resolve.

  Roni adjusted his spear silently. Haruto stared into the flames, calculating distances, survival windows.

  Somewhere in the forest, faint and distant, a drumbeat echoed once.

  The men stiffened.

  Then silence.

  Flickers of light danced behind Toho’s eyelids.

  He opened them.

  A face hovered above—sharp features, dark straight hair cut short, skin warmed by sun and labor. The boy’s eyes widened – curious, not afraid.

  “Who are you?” the boy asked.

  His language was unfamiliar—yet Toho understood.

  “I am… Toho.” His throat felt flayed raw. “And you?”

  The boy hesitated. “Yotsino.”

  Toho tried to sit up. Pain lanced through his skull, forcing a grimace.

  Yotsino steadied him with surprising strength. “Do not rise. It is night. Predators move after dusk.”

  Toho became aware of his surroundings: a modest shelter constructed of interwoven branches and woven reed mats. A small fire burned low at the entrance, smoke guided carefully through a vented gap.

  Yotsino handed him a hollowed gourd.

  “What is this?”

  “Green tea.”

  The liquid was warm and slightly bitter, grounding. Yotsino unwrapped a leaf parcel from his pouch. Inside lay grilled fish—still warm, seasoned with sharp herbs and smoke.

  Toho accepted a piece. The flesh was tender, salted by river and flame. It tasted like life.

  They ate quietly.

  “Where am I?” Toho finally asked. “My friends—I must return to them.”

  Yotsino tilted his head. “You do not know where you are?”

  Toho shook his head.

  The boy rose slowly and stepped outside the shelter’s threshold. Moonlight washed the clearing in pale silver.

  “You are in Tanna.”

  The word hit him like a blow.

  “Tanna…” Toho whispered.

  Yotsino nodded solemnly. “One of the Seven Great Warring States.”

  The Seven

  Toho’s mind raced. The military marks. The carved insignia. The enslavement of clans generations prior.

  Yotsino lay down upon a woven mat. “Rest. You are fortunate.”

  “To be alive?” Toho murmured.

  “To have washed ashore here.”

  The boy closed his eyes.

  Toho remained seated, staring into the forest beyond the firelight.

  Tanna.

  N’Jali’s warning resurfaced in memory: This land hides threats greater than you know.

  A breeze stirred the leaves outside. It carried a faint whisper—almost familiar.

  Welcome.

  Or warning.

  Far away, beyond river

  and forest, a single drumbeat echoed again.

  The wind answered.