I remember the grains of rice,
Spilling from the clay pot in the shade.
Hands extended, hastily shovelling fruits.
Whose voice is that?
I have definitely heard it before, Running in the fields and along the moonlit shore.
Glimpses of another world, Nostalgic voices from songbirds.
I woke up from my slumber, Contorted,
With blurry vision, shadowy figures barely lit,
Legs mangled like out-of-season turnips,
Pulled prematurely from the soil,
Discarded along with all the other rotten fruit and turmoil.
This apple tree no longer bears fruit, Seedless, Belonging to a segmented group. Rejects.
Hokiko remembers the blistering heat against her skin, the frantic sprint toward the river, the smoke stinging her eyes as she looked back, wishing she could fan the flames with her bare hands, for they separated her from her family forever.
Therefore, that night, her heart burned alongside her home, bound to ashes and aching.
She moved through drills as if they were part of her very breath: a sweep, a pivot, a strike, and a precise follow-through. Her stance, low and firm, grew stronger with each year, her movements honed to be swift, exact, and silent.
Her thoughts set on a life beyond the castle walls, away from the lineage of secrets that haunt her family's history and the watchful eyes that followed her every step.
One night, her life changed. Screams tore through the air as smoke choked the sky, and the crackling of flames swallowed the village whole. Shadows moved with violent purpose, figures slipping between houses followed by trickling flames that soon raged and screamed.
Hokiko watched the roofs buckle, their bright embers flickering against the night, each gust carrying ashes and the scent of burning wood.
Years passed. She found herself standing at the edge of a dense forest, the scent of pine and damp earth grounding her in the present. She had lost everything. But she carried a vow, one that drove her through fields and across the mountains of Yūzan.
She would hunt down the men who had torn her world apart. Therefore, her days became filled with tracking them across the landscapes, her path marked by solitude and silence.
One afternoon, while scaling the jagged cliffs of Mount Ryūzan, she stumbled upon a village scarred by violence.
The houses stood hollow, grey skeletons against the fading sun. Hokiko approached a bent elder, his gaze weary yet sharp. “They came at dusk, taking what little we had,” he murmured, his voice thick with grief. “We are defenseless against their fury.”
Therefore, his words hung heavy in the air, a mirror of her own scars.
At her side, Hokiko carried a blade like no other, forged not from steel but twisted vines of ancient strength. Its throned edge bore the weight of her sorrow and vengeance. But it was more than a weapon; it was a bond, a curse that wound through her veins, pulsing with her heartbeat.
