The scent of blood lingered like a stain on the wind.
Ren awoke to the sharp, bitter sting of smoke invading his lungs. His eyes fluttered open, disoriented, burning from the heat and ash that cloaked the world around him. Orange embers floated in the air like vengeful spirits, drifting through the darkness like falling stars. The night sky, once a serene blanket of stars, now glowed red, alive with fire.
He was lying face-down in the dirt, the ground beneath him still trembling with distant clashes of steel and screams. Something warm trickled down the side of his face. Blood. His blood. He blinked rapidly, struggling to piece together what had happened.
The last thing he remembered—
His patrol. The faint scent of something off in the wind. A single shadow. Then chaos.
Ren pushed himself up with a grunt, his muscles sluggish and his breath heavy. Every fiber of his body screamed, not from pain alone, but from something deeper—something cold and alien clawing at the edges of his mind. He winced, grabbing his head as a dull ache spiked behind his eyes.
"No... not now," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
But it came anyway.
A flood.
Memories—foreign and yet familiar—crashing into him like a tidal wave.
He staggered back, clutching his head, vision blurring. Faces he didn't recognize. A city he'd never seen. Weapons that shouldn't exist. War. Betrayal. Loneliness. Death.
Then silence.
Ren fell to his knees, gasping, trembling.
Who... am I?
He didn't have time to answer.
The fire crackled louder now, hungry and unrelenting. He turned slowly, his gaze falling on what remained of his village. Homes once built with care and laughter now collapsed in smoldering ruins. Smoke curled from rooftops, mixing with the glow of moonlight dimmed by ash. Shadows ran through the streets—some fleeing, some hunting.
Then he saw it.
His home.
Or what was left of it.
The thatched roof had caved in. Flames danced through the cracks in the timber walls. And standing before it—was a man. Cloaked in black, his figure tall and silent, sword dripping red.
Ren's eyes widened, heart stopping.
"No..." he whispered.
He stumbled forward, body moving before thought could catch up. His feet dragged across scorched earth, each step growing heavier as the man turned to him. There was no face beneath the hood—just darkness. But Ren could feel it. That presence. That pressure.
He froze.
The assassin took a step forward.
And Ren did what instinct screamed.
He turned and ran.
Through smoke and flame, past collapsed walls and corpses sprawled in silence. He could barely see where he was going, but his legs didn't stop. His thoughts raced, jumbling with panic and flashes of something deeper.
A boy alone in a battlefield. A name he couldn't recall. A promise he never made.
He didn't know how long he ran.
But eventually, his body gave in. Knees hit the dirt, his arms catching him before he crumbled completely. His breaths were ragged, throat raw. And still, he heard it.
The sound of footsteps.
Crunching through ash.
Coming closer.
Ren turned his head. His vision wavered.
More figures now. Silent. Hooded.
He tried to rise. Failed.
"Take him," one said. The voice was cold, sharp as a dagger.
Hands grabbed him. Bound him.
He didn't fight. Couldn't.
The last thing he saw before the world darkened again was the moon, veiled behind smoke—a pale, distant eye that watched and said nothing.
---
Somewhere, far from fire and blood, a voice echoed inside his mind.
Remember.
Who you were.
What you are.
And Ren, unconscious and bleeding, began to remember.
Not all at once. Not yet.
But the cracks had begun to show.
And the boy who had been hunted all his life was about to become something else entirely.