"Neeew… neeeew…"
The cry of a newborn tore through the night.
A child had been born, but instead of celebration, panic filled the room as hands rushed to silence him.
Outside, the sky burned crimson, red as spilt blood. The air itself felt wrong; there was complete silence, not even a whisper of wind, not even the dogs dared to bark.
"Murasaki-kun, make him stop," an elderly woman hissed, pressing a strip of ama-no-yu, red cloth, into her trembling hands. "His cries will draw evil spirits."
"This child is a bad omen," another elder muttered, a sanba whose voice shook with age. "Look at the sky. I have never seen the heavens so enraged."
"The priest told you to cleanse yourself first," someone added sharply. "But you didn't listen."
Before the child could feel the warmth of his mother's embrace, a silk cloth soaked in bitter medicine was forced into his mouth.
He still wailed, but the sound was muffled until, at last, it faded into silence.
"You will be named Yorimitsu," his mother whispered weakly as she looked down at him. Her hands trembled; forty-eight hours of labour had taken their toll. "Your father believes you will become great."
Just above the infant's brow lay a small, dark mark shaped like a spiral.
At least he had been born at all. In these times, many children never were. Ubume stalked the land, hunting pregnant women, slitting them open and stealing the unborn from their wombs.
Five years passed swiftly.
Minamoto no Yorimitsu learned a single, unshakable truth: the world he had been born into was hell, and strength was the only path to survival.
On his fifth birthday, he was given a bow and a dagger.
Yorimitsu had pale skin and dark hair cut short around his face. One half of it seemed unnaturally aged, wrinkled like that of an old man, while the other retained the softness of a child, making him appear both old and young.
"Yorimitsu," his father said, resting a heavy hand on his head, "a man must be strong, so he may protect what he loves."
"Yes, Father," Yorimitsu nodded, staring ahead at the people practising archery.
Minamoto his father was a giant of a man, broad and scarred, his face marked by old wounds. One leg was longer than the other, yet he carried himself with unmistakable martial presence. His dark hair was cut short, and though he was kind, Yorimitsu often feared speaking to him.
Winters passed the land shivered. Yorimitsu turned six, and he slipped from the house in the dead of night.
Outside, a tengu awaited him.
Its face was crimson, its wings white as bone. It lured him by taking the shape of his mother, calling him softly into the dark.
Just as Yorimitsu was about to be seized, his father arrived.
The tengu was slain, but the victory came at a terrible cost.
Minamoto lost his arm.
With it, his strength as a warrior was halved. The once-rising Minamoto household fell into obscurity.
"That cursed child," his mother spat in drunken rage more than once. "It would have been better if you had died. Maybe then my life wouldn't be so miserable."
She hurled a sake bottle at his face.
Yorimitsu did not cry. By then, he was used to it.
"Murasaki, control yourself. That is no way for a woman to act," she was scolded every time.
Years passed.
By ten, he was dragged into the yard at dawn.
"Yorimitsu, you are a man now," Minamoto said. "It is time you learn the blade art of our family."
He pressed a bokken into the boy's hands, smooth brown wood, carved painstakingly by his remaining arm.
"Close your eyes," his father instructed, placing a palm against Yorimitsu's back. "Feel it. The energy is everywhere. Draw it into yourself."
They trained endlessly in Onmyōdō—the Art of Spirits and Divination.
But Yorimitsu made no progress.
No matter how perfectly he followed his father's teachings, no matter how steady his breath, his control never manifested. Day after day, night after night, while others slept, he practiced yet instead of growing stronger, he weakened.
"Why am I failing?" he thought bitterly. "I followed every step. Why can I not master it?"
Then one day, even his father broke.
"Tch… I truly gave birth to a failure," Minamoto said coldly. "You have no talent. If it weren't for you, I would still be living in Takashi Castle."
From that day on, the distance between them grew.
Soon, Yorimitsu's family refused to acknowledge his existence at all. They passed him in the halls without a glance, as though he were already a ghost.
Only his sister, Hikaru, remained kind.
"Have you eaten today, brother?" she asked softly, offering him a rice ball. "You look low on energy."
"Thank you," he said quietly.
He ate without looking up, then returned to practising the sword.
Hikaru stepped closer, pressing her hand gently against his back. A faint green light seeped from her palm and flowed into him.
His body felt lighter. The exhaustion weighing on his limbs faded, and strength returned.
"Tch—what do you think you're doing, Hikaru?" Yorimitsu snapped, pushing her away. "You know women aren't allowed to learn Onmyōdō. What will you do if Father catches you?"
"Go. Leave me alone," he said harshly. "I don't need your help."
He stormed off, leaving Hikaru on the ground.
He didn't look back.
"You don't want to end up abandoned like me," he thought bitterly. "You're the only one I care about… and I never want to see you hurt."