Takao had once shared his mountain cabin with his father. But one day, his father set out on a hunt and… never returned. Days passed, and the little boy wasted away inside the cabin, too young to fend for himself. It was Mizaki, wandering near the flower garden by the cabin, who found him—weak, starving, and close to collapse.
She took him into her modest home at the foothills of Giramuzi, and from that day, Takao was never truly alone. For Mizaki, who had no children and no husband, Takao became a son. For Takao, Mizaki became Mami—forever young and beautiful in his eyes, despite her wrinkles and graying hair. Sometimes, he teased her with an alternate nickname, Baa-baa, just to make her laugh.
Years passed. Now twenty-one, Takao celebrated his birthday not in splendor but in warmth—together with Mami and her beloved animals in his small, shabby, yet lively cabin. His habits of preservation—treating wilting plants and nursing life back from the edge—came from his father's words that still echoed in his heart:
"Death is greedy enough already. Never let it feast too quickly."
Takao lived by that creed. He saved dying plants, learned the secrets of herbs, and crafted cures that worked like quiet miracles for wounds and illnesses.
That evening, as twilight deepened, Takao returned from the forest carrying wood for the night's fire. He had just set them down when a sharp cry pierced the still air. His breath caught. Without hesitation, he rushed outside.
Down the slope, four men staggered toward his cabin. Two collapsed immediately on his doorstep, their companions half-dragging, half-supporting them.
Takao dropped the bundle of wood and knelt beside them. "What's wrong?" His voice trembled with urgency.
One soldier gasped, "These two… arrows—they're wounded…" before nearly fainting himself.
Takao's eyes swept over the injured men. Their pulses were shallow. No time to waste. He pulled them inside, gently laying them on his futons. Armor was pried off, arrows removed with delicate precision, blood wiped away with steady hands. He cleaned the wounds, ground fresh yarrow and mugwort into a thick paste, and pressed it over the torn flesh before binding them tightly with strips of clean cloth.
The two remaining soldiers, though not wounded, were pale and trembling from exhaustion. Takao quickly brewed a steaming decoction of herbs for strength and offered it to them. "Drink this. Rest."
Too weary to protest, they obeyed, collapsing into sleep.
Takao, however, did not rest. He spent the night outside, keeping watch beneath the cold stars, the crackling fire his only companion. When dawn's first rays brushed against his eyes, he peered inside the cabin. All four men were still breathing, still asleep. Relief washed over him, followed by unease.
Who were they? Where had they come from? What danger chased them across the mountains?
With questions unanswered, Takao stepped out into the garden, tending quietly to his plants as the morning sun warmed the earth.
Meanwhile, in the halls of Tsukiyomi Palace—
.
.
.
Next part coming tomorrow...