Takara-san was gone. Masashi didn't want to believe it. It felt like yesterday when the man was walking and smiling his half-crooked grin, rallying their band of brigands and dividing the loot of their spoils. When he woke, he expected to see the older man sitting by the fire stoking the flames, cup of wine in hand. 'Took you long enough. I've never seen a man sleep so soundly like he was dead to the world after finishing a single jar of wine.' But opening his eyes and seeing the place across from him empty was a painful reminder that these were just dreams. Gen Takara was gone, and he died protecting him. A week had passed from that day. Sleepless hours and silent evenings where Masashi struggled to come to terms with the truth. Takara was a man whom everyone respected, a man who brought them all together. He was a father and leader to his men. It seemed impossible for anyone within their band to have a reason to hate him… But then Shohei killed him.

Why? Why did he do it? Takara had never been unkind to him. Hiryu was his second-in-command. When it came to dividing the profits of their collections nobody argued when Shohei received a larger share. But no matter how much coin he received, how high he climbed in rank, how trusted he was by Takara–it was like it was never enough. Hiryu was already a member of the gang when Masashi was taken in, having been with Gen since the very beginning. As the Takara gang grew, Gen promoted him to be his right hand along with Tachibana. Life was better than before, but they weren't unhappy. He remembered as a child that when he looked up at Gen, he thought the man would live forever. The briefness of a person's life sometimes could be so cruel. 

The Takara gang was gone. Hiryu had killed most of the old guard and many of the younger members in his takeover. It happened suddenly, with no warning. No one was prepared for it–and the losses were great. Even now he felt searing guilt whenever he thought of it. Masashi tried to find something, anything that would make the betrayal make sense. Years ago during the peak of the Takara gang, Gen had sat down and chatted underneath the eaves of their mountain hideout late in summer. The drone of cicadas and dragonflies filled the air and the heat was stifling without a single breeze. 'Masashi, the world outside of Ataiyo is vast. There are things that exist that are beyond your wildest dreams,' The older man began. He had sat a few paces away, respectfully listening. ' Let me give you an example. What do you know about dragons?' Takara-san asked. Masashi remembered his answer: 'Dragons are great and powerful beasts, holding power over great storms and rivers. They possess a strong sense of honor and can bring wealth and prosperity to a kingdom.'

'Takara-san gave a nod, satisfied with his reply. 'Very good. All of those things are true, as the people of Nisshoki hold the great dragon Okami in high regard. However in the west, what is true for dragons is the opposite. Rather than divine protectors who bless the lands with rain, dragons are seen as great and terrible creatures who bring fire and destruction. They are cruel tyrants, demanding sacrifices and instilling fear into the hearts of all. Greedy and cruel, they take and devour as they please…' In their gang, there were many who envied Hiryu's name for its strength, evoking the image of power. But looking upon it all, Masashi now came to a terrifying conclusion. How fitting it was, how terribly fitting. How fitting it was that the life of Takara, whose name meant 'treasure', was forcibly taken by a blood-red dragon. And in Nisshoki, names meant a great deal–like a prophecy over a person's life.


He had heard from those kind enough to give him shelter of a small unmarked shrine, deep in the mountain paths. It was a monument of stone with no statues or words. Though the beliefs of those of Ataiyo varied, Masashi had never been deeply religious. Takara was the same, as most of the gang had been. Perhaps out of superstition, they would hope to appease whatever spirits or powers resided in a place and ask for protection, but they weren't devout. With no where else to turn, he sought it out. If there was truly something there, maybe it would grant him the kindness of a prayer. 

Every now and then she'd make her rounds to check the teleportation monuments scattered across Canelux and Parvpora. She didn't have to, it was sort of a compulsion. She could've made them self-repairing and impervious to weather, but she chose not to. Having to routinely check and inspect every spot allowed her to see the passage of time. It felt more natural this way. Sometimes things were designed to have a limited lifespan. Most of the time she was looking for signs of weeds or grime, maybe the occasional leftovers of someone who made use of the spot for a camp. With a broom and rag she'd clean things up and trim the plants away. Then, onto the next one. Occasionally people left things other than trash, like letters or small tokens. That wasn't what the stone markers were for, but Shiloh figured people had already forgotten all of that. A few years and details would turn hazy if they weren't thought of as important.

Today however, she'd encounter a different scene than the usual. Parvpora, famous for its nonconformity to the general world pantheon was always full of surprises–like a lone man making a confession to a slab of marble. Picking her way through the trees towards the nearest marker in the area, she stopped when she heard and saw that somebody was already there. It didn't sound like a good time to interrupt, so unintentionally she eavesdropped on a person pouring out his soul to a carved piece of stone. 

"Spirit that resides in this shrine, I humbly ask you hear my plea. Forgive me for not having much to leave as an offering. I ask for guidance, direction. I have nowhere else to go and no one to turn to." He looked like somebody in his early thirties, from his face. He was a serious man and she could hear a heaviness in his voice. His hands were rough but not calloused much, so likely not a craftsman. Despite his body's strength his spirit was tired. His heart had a burden. There were pauses as the man shifted to lean against the stone now, believing he was alone. Still his tone didn't change much and a deep sadness came into it. There was a clear and audible sigh.

"I don't know what to do. A man who was like a father to me has had his life taken away, my blood brothers lie dead in unmarked graves. And like a coward, I ran while that man protected me. He knew he was going to die, but still in his last moments he didn't think about himself. Even if the others forgive me, even if they don't blame me–how can I call myself a man?" Slowly he rubbed the back of his head and brought a hand to his face. He was breathing deeply, like someone with an open wound. Shiloh didn't smell blood, but caught the scent of sweat growing stronger. Grief, anxiety. Suppression of emotional distress. The deeper breaths were attempts to slow down the process of oncoming emotions that threatened to drown the mind out in pain. It was like pressing a bandage against the aching gash on one's heart.

"Takara-san, he gave me everything. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. But I can't even give him the honor of a proper burial without risking my own neck that he sacrificed himself to save. He deserves better than this. I know…we all know he was a good man." He was walking back to square one. With all his words used up he was now only repeating. If he had wine, this was where he would take a drink and say it all over again. Shiloh was hesitant to show herself, but if she didn't say something the man would keep talking in circles. In a way she felt bad for him. She of all people would know what it was like having others risk their lives to keep her safe. So she made a move, and stepped forward. "Can you tell me more about what he was like? Even if I can't do anything to help, I can still listen."

"Who are you?" It was the first question that came to mind. The masked person walked over out from the bamboo and stood, then found a place to sit across from him. They were separated by a few paces, but he couldn't see anything that wasn't covered. Not even any stray locks of hair out from under that hood. "I'm the caretaker of these stones. Every now and then I make my rounds to see if they need cleaning. I pull the weeds, sweep the leaves, and wipe off the dirt so the stones can be seen." The voice sounded younger than his, but he couldn't tell if it was male or female. "Do many people come to these stones?" He asked out of curiosity. "Not really. You're one of the first I suppose. People sometimes make camp here for the night. Might be a protective aura coming from them or so." They set down a worn broom made of tied reeds beside them. Even though the stranger offered to lend an ear, speaking about his own troubles wasn't the usual for him. It was different than speaking with those who were involved, people who knew the names and faces that went with them. "I'm not one who is skilled with words, and bothering strangers isn't something I do." 

"So am I. I think you're better than I am though, from what I heard from you a few moments ago. Sorry for eavesdropping a little. If it helps, I've been through the same situation too." Masashi felt that hard to believe, but the person didn't seem to be lying. "What happened?" The person leaned back and looked up, as if trying to find a good way to start. "…You'll probably think I'm crazy, but I'm not from around here. And I don't mean Nisshoki–I mean from a different time and place. It wasn't a great one-way trip, I'll admit. Falling from the sky inside a sealed coffin is…something you don't forget easily." 

"A…coffin?" He couldn't imagine how that could even happen. "How did you–" The stranger answered before he could finish his question. "It was chained from the outside. I was almost buried alive. Almost." That alone was enough to make him silent. He had no words to express how he felt hearing it. Spirits above…what a way to arrive. If they hadn't been miraculously transported to this world they would have surely died a slow and agonizing death. "…I guess you could say I was lucky. Though I still doubt it when I think about it." Masashi let out a long exhale in reply. Part of him felt guilty for letting Takara's death get to him when there were others who had experienced much worse. There wasn't a good way to ask about why they were locked inside a coffin, so he didn't ask. The stranger was looking at him, and seemed to know what he was thinking as they then said: "You're wondering why I was in there right? It's complicated, but in short–some people who thought I was guilty of treason threw me in there. It wasn't entirely their fault though. I let myself get caught, and sometimes when people are afraid of the unknown they can do terrible things."

"But to bury someone alive?" Even as a former brigand, Masashi felt that was too cruel. "The old men were scared and afraid, and they needed someone to blame. If they got rid of a scapegoat, they thought their fears would go away. But I didn't do it for them. I let them take me so they wouldn't go after my family. I thought I could break out and escape, but that never happened." More silence passed between them as the words sank in. "Your family, did they know what happened to you?" The masked person slowly shook their head. "No, I didn't have the chance to tell them."

"I sometimes regret for not telling them the truth. I told them I'd come back, and to wait for me. Because I told them to wait, I'm sure that they're still looking for me. They'll keep waiting and waiting, even until the world ends. I shouldn't have told them that. I didn't want them to know…" This person, the way they spoke reminded him of Takara-san. Even when they knew they wouldn't make it, they lied to those who cared about them because they couldn't break their hearts. A painful sting started to well up in his heart as he felt a lump form in his throat. "You're just like him. You're just like Takara-san. I think I finally understand why he asked me that question a long time ago." The wall holding back the words finally burst. He began telling the stranger about it all, from the very beginning. How the Takara gang built itself up from a handful of men into a growing, close group of of blood brothers. About Takara before he started his gang and the men who eventually became the officers within their group. He couldn't stop. When he had said everything there was to say, he could feel the tightness in his chest release. And all this time the masked person sat listening without saying a word until he was done.