Birds flew high above the forest canopy, their wings cutting arcs against a sky washed pale by dawn. They called sharply to one another—signals of return, of nests found, of hatchlings waiting with open beaks.

  Clouds hung overhead like pavilions of the purest wool, slow-moving and regal. The daylight strengthened as the sun climbed, steady and deliberate, in its dominion. Leaves rustled at the light passing of wind through cedar and pine. A cold current rode that breeze, sharper than the days before.

  “Brrr, winter is coming,” Yotsino muttered, hugging himself inside his robe. He glanced up.

  Toho stood atop a broad river stone, eyes closed, posture tall, chin slightly lifted. The breeze threaded through his dark hair and tugged at his tunic. For a fleeting second, framed by morning light, he looked less like a displaced youth and more like a figure carved from legend.

  He does look majestic. Then he snorted quietly. “In his dreams, maybe.” He giggled to himself.

  “Why are you laughing?” Toho asked without opening his eyes. Yotsino stiffened. “I laugh?”

  Toho stepped down from the rock, landing lightly. Dust lifted beneath his feet. He patted Yotsino’s shoulder. “Today we get some meat.”

  “Meat for sure,” Yotsino replied, grin returning.

  They set off toward the thicker forest beyond the river’s gentle bend. Frost still clung faintly to shaded grass. The air tasted metallic and clean. Toho walked beside Yotsino, scanning the endless treeline. “Is Tanna really big?”

  Yotsino stepped over a fallen trunk with easy balance. “Absolutely.”

  “How big?” Toho asked, lifting a low branch to let him pass beneath.

  Yotsino considered. “All I know is that it is one of the Seven Great Warring States.” The words hung heavier than the morning air. Toho’s eyes narrowed in thought , the Seven Great Warring States.

  “What about your king?” Toho pressed.

  Yotsino slowed suddenly, then darted forward and crouched low. He inhaled deeply near the ground—slow, measured. His fingers brushed aside fallen leaves. He pressed two fingertips into damp soil, lifting them to his nose.

  The scent was sharp—musky, recent. “Lower your voice,” he whispered. “We’re close.” He pointed to a line of prints pressed clearly into the earth. Fresh. Hooves sharp-edged. Soil still dark with moisture.

  Toho knelt beside Yotsino.

  He pressed his palm flat against the ground where the print lay. The earth was still warm — heat lingering in the soil like breath trapped under a blanket. He closed his fingers, scooping a small handful, and rubbed the dirt slowly between thumb and fingertips.

  Grainy. Moist. Clinging.

  Tiny flecks of crushed leaf and root clung to his skin. Beneath the damp surface the faint, residual tremor lingered on — not imagination, but the living aftershock of weight that had passed only minutes earlier. The ground remembered.

  Still warm, he thought. Not hours ago. Not yesterday. Minutes.

  The realization settled in his chest like cold iron. Whatever made these tracks was close — close enough that the forest had not yet erased its passage.

  He lifted his hand, letting the soil sift away between his fingers. A single dark crumb clung stubbornly to the pad of his thumb.

  “The King of Tanna…” Yotsino resumed in a lower tone, glancing briefly upward as if the trees might overhear. “Not much is known.”

  Toho leaned in. “What do you mean?” Yotsino gave a small shrug. “He rarely appears. Only few have seen him.”

  Before Toho could press further, a grunt rolled through the trees ahead.

  Both boys stiffened.

  Another grunt. Then several.

  They moved as one—crouched low, advancing slowly. Leaves shifted under careful feet. Ferns parted. The air grew thick with animal scent.

  Through the undergrowth, a herd of boars grazed in a shallow depression. Bristled backs glinted bronze in broken light. Snouts rooted through earth with determined rhythm.

  “Wow,” Toho breathed.

  Yotsino counted under his breath. “Two… three… four… seven…” His eyes widened. “Fourteen.”

  His heart thudded. Fourteen meant provisions for weeks—leverage for winter. A gift to present to any patrol passing through. A sign of competence.

  He turned sharply to Toho. “Do the thing you did yesterday.”

  “What? Now?” Toho whispered.

  Sweet venison flashed in his imagination. When was the last time I tasted real meat?

  Resolve hardened his jaw. He inhaled. Exhaled.

  He steadied the bow. Drew an arrow from his quiver. Nocked carefully. His fingers remembered yesterday’s lessons, though the skin still stung.

  Sweat formed at his brow, rolling down with the tension gathering in his chest.

  Yotsino’s eyes narrowed. “There. The straggler. Easier target.”

  A smaller boar had drifted from the main cluster. It lifted its head briefly, ears twitching, then resumed rooting.

  Toho aligned his stance—shoulder-width, knees soft. Anchor at cheek.

  Release.

  The arrow flew—but struck a tree just beyond the animal, splintering bark.

  The wind shifted.

  Carrying their scent.

  The smaller boar froze.

  Then a larger sow—broad-shouldered, scarred along one flank—lifted her head sharply. Her nostrils flared. She stepped forward, placing herself between the smaller boar and the perceived threat. Her bristles rose. A guttural warning rolled from her chest.

  Then came a chorus of sharp, panicked yelps.

  The herd bolted.

  “What… I missed,” Toho muttered, hands still extended.

  Yotsino sprang to his feet. “No time to sulk—my meat supply is running!”

  He leapt the ridge without hesitation.

  Toho followed.

  The chase began.

  The boars crashed through brush, hooves tearing soil, bodies flashing through dappled light. Yotsino moved low and fast, tracking their line of retreat with instinctive precision. Toho followed, lungs burning, boots slipping on damp leaves—but he did not fall behind.

  Branches whipped at their arms. The sun had climbed higher, burning away the last of the morning mist.

  The herd surged uphill. The forest floor tilted sharply, roots coiling like old ropes. Yotsino stepped over obstacles without breaking stride.

  At the crest, he dropped suddenly into a crouch behind a ridge of stone and fern. Toho mirrored him instantly. Below lay a shallow bowl of forest lit by fractured sunlight. A narrow stream cut through it, glinting silver. Reeds swayed in rigid rhythm.

  On the far bank, separated from the herd, a single boar rooted alone.

  Then, suddenly, one animal from the fleeing group misjudged the bank and plunged into the stream. Water exploded upward in silver spray. The boar thrashed violently, kicking, squealing as current carried it sideways before it scrambled desperately toward the opposite shore.

  Yotsino didn’t hesitate.

  He splashed across the stream, holding his bow high to protect the string. Toho plunged in after him, cold water biting his calves, current tugging at his balance.

  On the far bank, the separated boar veered sharply left—into thicker forest.

  The trees closed in.

  Light fractured into thin shafts. The air cooled, damp with moss and decay. The canopy knitted overhead, reducing sky to fragments.

  Yotsino slowed. He raised a fist. Toho stopped beside him, breathing hard.

  Ahead, the boar paused in a small glade ringed by ancient cedars. Sunlight pooled around it like molten gold. Its sides heaved. It turned its head once—eyes catching light—then bolted again.

  Deeper.

  The forest swallowed sound. Footsteps muffled. Leaves spiraled down lazily. The stream’s murmur faded behind them. Yotsino glanced sideways at Toho—assessing. Toho nodded once.

  They advanced carefully now, two shadows among many.

  The sun stood high now, glaring down through broken canopy as if presiding over a tribunal. Light fell in harsh vertical shafts, flattening shadow and exposing every flaw in the forest floor.

  Toho lay on his back in a small opening between cedars, chest rising and falling in steady, exhausted rhythm. Sweat ran from his temples into his ears. A burning sensation filled his chest with every breath.

  Beside him, Yotsino collapsed against a mossed trunk, robe damp, limbs trembling from the sustained sprint. His breaths came shorter, sharper—endurace failing him.

  “How long have we been chasing them, Toho?” he groaned. Toho shifted, resting one boot against the trunk above his head. “Like… about a watch.”

  Yotsino scoffed. “It’s all your fault, though!” Toho closed his eyes and did not reply.

  “Hey, did you hear me? It is all your—”

  “Please be quiet,” Toho interjected softly.

  Above them, clouds gathered little by little—white masses edged with veins of gray. The afternoon sun slipped in and out of concealment, and the forest shadows thinned, then deepened again in irregular rhythm. The air heavy with pine and damp loam. A warm breeze moved lazily through the trees, carrying the distant murmur of running water.

  Toho frowned inwardly. What is wrong with me? I am out here with a boy I barely know… and I do not even know where my own team is.

  The thought pressed like a weight on his ribs.

  “Toho?” Yotsino’s voice was quieter now.

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you in Tanna?”

  Toho rolled to his side, turning his back slightly. “I just happened to be here.”

  Yotsino shifted upright, brow furrowed. “By ‘I’ you mean you and your friends. The ones you mentioned before.”

  Toho hissed under his breath. “Listen, we—”

  SPUFF.

  A sudden, wet blast struck his ankles.

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  Warm. Damp. Violent.

  Toho’s eyes snapped open.

  A massive shape erupted from the underbrush directly in front of them, soil exploding outward. For a heartbeat the world reduced to coarse bristles and flashing tusk.

  The boar towered compared to the straggler they had chased earlier. This was no juvenile. The sow’s shoulders were thick, muscles rippling beneath hide scarred by old battles. Her bristled back gleamed russet and black in the fractured light. Mud clung to her flanks. One ear was torn, jagged at the edge.

  Her small, intelligent eyes locked onto them.

  They froze.

  Through a break in the undergrowth, she stood alone—separated from the herd, sides still heaving from exertion. She lowered her snout, pawed once at the earth, then resumed rooting at the base of a fallen log as if testing their resolve.

  Yotsino’s whisper barely disturbed the air. “a female boar.”He rose in a smooth, disciplined motion. Toho followed.

  They nocked arrows simultaneously. Toho’s fingers screamed against the bowstring, blisters reopening under strain, but he ignored the sting. Before they could draw fully, the boar’s head snapped up.

  Ears forward.

  She bolted.

  Yotsino sprang after her instantly. Toho followed without hesitation.

  The forest blurred around them. Trunks flashed like advancing ranks on a battlefield. Branches clawed at their sleeves and faces. The sow’s short legs pumped with astonishing speed, body low, dodging roots and fallen limbs with instinct honed by generations of survival.

  Yotsino loosed first. His arrow sliced the air—but struck a pine trunk inches behind her flank, embedding with a dull thud.

  The boar veered sharply right. Deeper.

  Toho’s lungs burned. He drew mid-stride—elbow high, anchor firm at cheek. The wind brushed his draw hand faintly.

  Release.

  The arrow skimmed low, clipping grass before burying itself harmlessly in soil.

  Too wide.

  The sow burst into a narrow glade where sunlight poured in a single golden column. Her coat flashed molten bronze. A narrow stream cut through the center of the clearing.

  Without slowing, she leapt.

  Her body arced high—legs tucked, hooves tight beneath her belly. Water sprayed upward in glittering shards beneath her trajectory.

  Yotsino skidded to the bank. “Now!”

  Toho saw it—perfect exposure mid-flight.

  He dropped to one knee.

  Feet planted. Core tight. Breath steady.

  Draw.

  Anchor.

  In that instant—memory flooded.

  Chika. He tought- The dream replayed: spear piercing her side. Blood blooming dark across cloth. Her eyes fading. The iron tip glinting cold.

  His hand trembled.

  Just slightly.

  Enough.

  Release.

  The arrow flew straight for a heartbeat—then parted bristle like a comb through fur. No blood.

  The sow landed hard on the far bank, shook violently, and vanished into dense thicket.

  Silence collapsed over the glade. Yotsino lowered his bow slowly. No outburst. Only calculation.

  Toho remained kneeling, arm still extended. The miss cut deeper than physical pain.

  They approached the stream’s edge together. Water ran clear and cold, sunlight fracturing into bright coins on its surface. From deeper within the forest came the fading cry of the boar—sharp, indignant. Then—

  A different sound. Low and violent,

  A snort erupted from shadow beyond the trees.

  Yotsino froze instantly. Toho’s grip tightened.

  The air shifted.

  Another snort—heavier this time. Followed by the grinding scrape of hoof against bark.

  Yotsino’s eyes widened fractionally. “That,” he whispered, “is not her.”

  The wind rose, carrying a thick scent of musk and churned earth. From the darker treeline, branches trembled.

  A subtle vibration shook beneath Toho’s boots—the faint tremor of weight shifting on massive legs. This was no isolated sow. They had crossed into the territory of a dominant boar.

  Another heavy exhale burst from the thicket, followed by a grinding clack of tusk against wood.

  Toho and Yotsino did not move.

  The forest seemed to contract around them, light dimming as clouds rolled further across the sun.

  Toho’s heartbeat slowed unnaturally. Yotsino shifted his stance—feet widening, arrow rising.

  Neither spoke.

  The stream ran clear and untroubled, sunlight shattering across its surface like scattered coins minted by some ancient empire. The air carried the clean scent of water and crushed fern.

  Yotsino stepped forward—

  Then froze.

  His hand shot out, gripping Toho’s shoulder and pulling him back with sudden force.

  A violent snort erupted from the shadows beyond the trees.

  The male boar burst from concealment like a battering ram released from siege lines. Massive. Shoulders knotted with muscle. Tusks curved and pale like scimitars carried by desert cavalry. Its bristled hide bore old scars—long white ridges across dark flesh, testimony to past clashes with blade and spear.

  Its eyes burned red with territorial fury.

  It charged.

  The impact came without warning.

  The boar’s snout slammed into Toho’s side, jaws snapping upward. Leather tore. The scabbard strapped across his back was ripped free in a savage bite. Wood splintered between crushing molars. Fragments burst outward like shrapnel from a shattered shield.

  Toho stumbled backward. “AHH!”

  The ground vanished beneath him.

  His back struck earth with brutal force, breath blasting from his lungs in a hollow gasp. The world tilted.

  The boar shook its head violently, tusks grinding the last of the scabbard to pulp before spitting the ruin aside.

  Toho rolled instinctively, mud slick beneath his palms. His vision blurred from the impact. The metallic tang of blood touched his tongue.

  The boar turned.

  Slowly.

  It snorted low and guttural, steam curling from its nostrils in the cooling afternoon air. Tusks gleamed wet with saliva and shredded leather. It pawed at the soil once—deep gouge, a line drawn.

  Its eyes locked on Toho.

  “Toho! Move!” Yotsino shouted.

  Toho forced himself upright. His legs wavered; his back throbbed where the scabbard had been torn away. A shallow gash bled across his shoulder where splinters had grazed him.

  His bow lay a few paces away.

  Its too far, he tought.

  The boar stood between him and it.

  This is it, Toho thought.

  The boar lowered its head. It charged again.

  The ground trembled under its weight. Tusks slashed low, cutting air where his legs had stood an instant before.

  Toho dove sideways—barely. Hot breath grazed his calf. He hit the ground hard, rolling through grass and mud, wind knocked out again.

  The boar circled now, slower. Savoring.

  Yotsino moved. He snatched an arrow from his quiver and hurled it low and hard toward Toho.

  “Catch!”

  The shaft skittered across grass. Toho seized it mid-roll—sharp tip pressing against his palm.

  The toss diverted the boar’s attention.

  It swung its massive head toward Yotsino, issuing a deep rumbling grunt of challenge.

  Yotsino backed away, hands raised, knife drawn—small steel against overwhelming mass.

  The boar charged him.

  Toho surged to his feet.

  The boar thundered after Yotsino toward the trees. Ferns flattened beneath hooves. Yotsino darted behind a cedar trunk—barely in time. The boar slammed into bark with explosive force. Wood splintered. The trunk shuddered.

  It wheeled for another assault.

  Toho turned, now positioned behind the beast as it reoriented for Yotsino.

  No. Not him. Not like Chika in the dream.

  Something surged within him.

  It ignited at his ankles — a sudden, electric heat uncoiling upward through calves, thighs, spine, like wind pouring through hollow bone. Not the full amber freeze of before, but a sharpening — every muscle fiber tightening, every joint aligning, as though the air itself had decided to lift him.

  The boar lunged.

  Toho jumped.

  High.

  Higher than muscle alone could carry him.

  Legs drove into earth, knees bending, then exploding upward. He twisted mid-air — full somersault — body curling tight then snapping open like a drawn bow released.

  Yotsino, ducking aside, caught the motion — eyes widening in raw disbelief.

  No one moves like that.

  The boar skidded, hooves scraping furrows in dirt, head snapping up at the impossible figure arcing above it.

  Time did not stop —

  but it dragged.

  Heavy.

  Viscous.

  Leaves hung suspended in spiraling arcs around Toho’s turning body — yellow and brown caught in invisible currents. Sound stretched thin: the boar’s snort became a low, grinding rumble; Yotsino’s sharp intake of breath slowed to a drawn hiss; wind rose from nowhere, roaring in Toho’s ears like a distant sea breaking on unseen cliffs.

  His right hand found the bow on the ground mid-rotation — fingers closing with perfect, unthinking certainty.

  The arrow Yotsino had tossed earlier was already in his grasp.

  He nocked it without looking.

  Anchor to cheek. Elbow high. Breath out — slow, deliberate.

  The world narrowed to a single line: throat of the boar, exposed in mid-turn, steam rising from flared nostrils.

  Release.

  Time snapped back — sharp, like a bowstring cut free.

  The arrow flew.

  Straight. Lethal.

  It pierced the boar’s throat cleanly — punching through muscle and windpipe with surgical precision. Blood sprayed in a brief arc.

  The charge faltered mid-stride.

  The beast’s legs buckled. Momentum carried its bulk forward — tusks gouging deep furrows in soil — until the massive body slammed down with a wet, heavy thud. It thrashed once — hooves kicking uselessly — then stilled.

  Silence rushed in.

  Yotsino exhaled sharply, knife still raised in a half-forgotten defense.

  Toho landed lightly — knees bending to absorb impact — bow still in hand.

  Blood dripped from his fingers onto the earth.

  The wind settled around him — soft and gentle — as though satisfied.

  Yotsino approached cautiously, knife still drawn. He circled once, testing for movement. None came.

  He looked up at Toho, he stared at him.

  “That…” he whispered. “That was not human.”

  Toho met his gaze.

  “I heard it,” he said simply.

  “Heard what?”

  “The wind.”

  Yotsino studied him for a long moment. Awe and confusion warred in his expression. He did not understand.

  But he accepted.

  Together they began the laborious task of dragging the boar toward the shelter. It was heavy—far heavier than either expected—but they worked in coordinated pulls, resting only briefly.

  The forest seemed quieter now.

  The boar was heavier than either of them had expected.

  Its body dragged behind them in slow, stubborn furrows, tusks gouging twin lines through soft earth and fallen leaves. Toho and Yotsino took turns gripping the hind legs, shoulders straining, boots slipping on moss-slick roots. Blood from the throat wound had already thickened into dark streaks along the bristled hide. The afternoon sun slid lower, turning the forest gold and long-shadowed.

  Neither spoke much. Breath came in measured huffs. Sweat rolled down Toho’s temples, stinging the cuts on his fingers. Yotsino’s face was flushed, but his grip never faltered.

  As the light began to bronze and slant hard through the trees, the familiar river bend appeared ahead — reeds swaying, water glinting like hammered copper.

  Yotsino suddenly dropped low, yanking Toho down with him.

  “Shhhh!”

  Toho’s knee hit the ground. He opened his mouth—

  Yotsino’s hand clamped over it instantly.

  “Quiet,” he hissed, eyes wide. “There are people there.”

  Toho froze. His pulse hammered against Yotsino’s palm.

  He peeled the boy’s fingers away just enough to whisper, “What do you mean?”

  “Just shut up,” Yotsino snapped, voice barely audible. “Listen.”

  Toho listened.

  Voices — low, familiar cadences — drifted from the direction of the shelter.

  “…told you the tracks bent east…”

  “…if he’s hurt I swear—”

  Toho’s heart lurched.

  “My friends?” he breathed.

  Yotsino shook his head violently. “No. My friends are good-looking.”

  Toho held in his laughter — the absurdity cutting through fear — but Yotsino’s grip on his wrist tightened.

  A shadow detached from the trees.

  Tall. Moving carefully. Probing the underbrush with the butt of a spear.

  The figure paused, head tilting as though listening. Then stepped closer — boots crunching softly on dry leaves.

  Moonlight caught the spear tip — iron glinting cold.

  The man crouched, parted ferns with the shaft.

  His eyes found Yotsino first.

  “Uh… who are you?”

  The voice was unmistakable.

  Roni.

  His gaze drifted sideways — and locked on Toho, who had instinctively ducked his head behind a low branch, heart slamming against his ribs.

  A beat of stunned silence.

  Then Roni’s face split into a wide, disbelieving grin.

  “Eh… Toho?”

  Toho raised his head slowly.

  “Roni.”

  Roni’s eyes lit up like lanterns struck fresh.

  “Hey! Imei!” he shouted over his shoulder, voice cracking with relief. “I found him!”

  From deeper in the trees came a sharp yelp — half-laugh, half-sob.

  Imei burst through the undergrowth, blade already half-drawn, then froze mid-stride when he saw Toho clearly.

  His face went through three expressions in half a second: shock, joy, and something dangerously close to tears.

  “You absolute idiot,” Imei rasped, lowering the bow. “You had us thinking you drowned.”

  Toho stood. His legs unsteady, but not from exhaustion.

  “Where are Sawai and Haruto?” he asked.

  Roni pointed with the spear butt toward a rope of braided vines dangling from a nearby cedar.

  “Imei’s genius was put to work for a moment,” he said, grinning. “Signal line. But he’s still mostly a big talker.”

  Imei shot Roni a mock glare, but his eyes were already on the boar carcass.

  His expression changed instantly.

  “Is that… meat?”

  He stepped forward, reverent, running a hand along the bristled flank.

  “Actual meat. Not dried strips. Not fish. Meat.”

  Yotsino, who had stayed crouched half-behind Toho, flushed bright red.

  Toho noticed and gently urged him forward.

  “This is Yotsino,” he said. “He saved my life. And taught me how to shoot.”

  Yotsino straightened — twelve years old and suddenly the center of three strangers’ attention.

  He swallowed.

  “I… I’m going to be the best soldier,” he stammered. “Head of cavalry. One day.”

  Imei blinked.

  Then grinned — wide, wicked.

  “Cavalry, huh? With that baby face?”

  Yotsino flushed deeper, but before he could retort, Imei’s gaze slid back to the boar.

  “Never mind. You brought dinner. You’re already my favorite person today.”

  Toho watched the exchange — Imei’s teasing, Yotsino’s flustered pride, Roni’s easy laughter — a deep, fresh bliss settled in his chest.

  For the first time in days, he was not alone.

  The wind rose gently through the trees.

  And carried — faint, persistent — the rhythm of drums from somewhere far deeper in the forest.

  Toho heard it.

  So did the others.

  No one spoke.

  Tanna was listening.

  And it was not finished with them yet.