Chapter 15

He loved the story of Shinga.

It was a myth that spoke of a great spirit.

Shinga was the soul of a lion.

A powerful, enormous, and brave lion would leave the mountains of its homeland, wander to the plains, and eventually find a poor yet virtuous household.

Upon finding something within the home worth protecting, and acknowledging its presence, the lion would possess the home to guard it.

Standing always at the entrance, it would confront and repel any evil intruder who dared approach.

To protect the irreplaceable treasures behind it.

Shinga’s magnificent white mane was the pride of the lion, and it emitted a holy fire.

Not only did this fire smite evil, but it provided warmth to the impoverished household, which couldn’t even afford firewood. The sacred flame was said never to burn the kind-hearted poor family, nor their home.

Shinga was the guardian god of the poor but righteous people.

He loved the story, told as a bedtime tale by his older sister. It was his favorite story, second only to his beloved sister herself.

Their family had moved from a remote mountain region in their grandfather’s time. This myth was passed down only within their family and was unknown to others in the village.

The village had its own beliefs and local customs, which were interesting, but the story of his distant ancestors’ traditions held a special place in his heart.

He admired Shinga and wished to become a strong and gentle guardian like the noble protector.

One autumn, a plague struck his family.

All ten members of his family fell ill, their bodies turning black from the extremities, and each one died.

The first to go were his frail grandparents and the younger children.

The villagers sealed off his home, located on the village outskirts.

They nailed boards to the gates, surrounded the area with a fence, and posted guards to ensure no one could leave.

The family, standing on the brink of death, received no aid.

Perhaps this was unavoidable.

In a remote village with minimal medical resources, if the disease spread, there was the risk of everyone perishing. Such tragedies were, unfortunately, commonplace in this world.

But the memory left a deep scar in his heart.

The terrifyingly cold eyes of the villagers who had been so warm to them before that day.

The words of the children he had once played with.

“Filthy, disgusting, stay away.”

“Don’t spread your disease, outsider. Impure being.”

“If only you all weren’t here.”

He was born and raised in this village, his family living there since his grandfather’s time.

Yet they called his home “the house of death.”

Even though they were still alive.

After some time passed with their house sealed off, they finally ran out of food. By then, their parents had already died.

He and his sister, whose symptoms were relatively mild, crawled out, begging the village guards through a crack in the closed gate for food. Just a little, enough for their remaining younger siblings, they pleaded.

Their request was rejected.

Hands extended through the boards were beaten mercilessly with sticks, breaking three of his sister’s thin, delicate fingers.

“There’s no grain to spare for a house of the dead.”

That was the villagers’ cruel answer.

He watched as his younger brothers and sisters died, one by one.

Writhing in pain, they curled up their blackened arms and legs and died in the distinct posture of this plague.

He and his sister had no strength left to dig graves for their family. All they could do was push the bodies into the corner of the room and cover them with cloth.

By the time the snow began to fall.

Only he and his sister were still alive in that house.

Their bodies felt terribly cold, yet they didn’t feel the chill.

Outside the boarded-up windows, they sensed the presence of falling, thick snow. Though the cold air seeped through the cracks, they no longer had the energy to stuff cloth into them.

The room was shrouded in darkness.

It was filled with the stench of decay, but his and his sister’s noses had become desensitized from the prolonged exposure.

He lay on his back on straw spread over the rotting floor.

His sister lay right beside him.

Emaciated, holding each other’s hands, they awaited the end.

“Sis.”

His voice was hoarse and raspy.

The last two survivors called each other by name as much as they could, to make it clear when death took one of them.

So that the one left behind would know.

So that they could take their own life soon after, with a blade to the throat or by biting down on their tongue.

So that neither would be left alone in the darkness. To avoid being left behind, even for a moment.

To not be lonely.

“…”

His sister called his name. Her voice was so faint it was barely audible.

Even so, her voice, in that dark void, gave him something warm.

“Sis.”

The hand holding his moved slightly. Glancing to the side, he saw her eyes closed.

Her cracked lips whispered.

“Don’t hate the villagers. You’re a good kid, so you understand, right?”

“…But.”

“Even if it wasn’t us, if anyone in the village had gotten sick, I’m sure it would have been the same… There’s no doctor here. It couldn’t be helped.

“Losing everyone in our family… it was hard, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, big sis. I hated it… and it made me so sad.”

“Yeah, me too. I really hated it, and I was sad. But it was the same for everyone in the village; they wanted to protect their families. So, don’t hate them or hold grudges. Can you do that?”

“…Yeah, if you say so, big sis.”

Listening to her voice of compassion, he leaned in.

For him, all he had left was his sister. If she was telling him to forgive, then he could let go of his anger.

His sister reached out slowly, gently patting his head.

Her fingers, painfully twisted, hadn’t healed properly. Being less than ten years old, they hadn’t even known how to make a splint for her broken bones.

“Big sis, your fingers…”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Besides, there’s no food left anyway, so it’s fine.”

She smiled softly.

And with that, he accepted everything.

All that was left was one thing. To die alongside the person he loved most in the world.

Staying by his sister’s side was all that remained for him.

“Big sis, I love you.”

“…I love you too.”

He rested his cheek on her shoulder, and she gently wrapped her arms around his head.

…But the end never came, no matter how long they waited.

Outside, winter receded, snow melted, and fresh new buds emerged from the damp ground. A big storm passed once, and then—spring arrived in the village.

The two of them just lay there on their backs, still alive.

They called each other’s names, took neither food nor water, and drifted in and out of shallow sleep day after day.

They had no idea what was happening to them.

But somehow, they were alive and breathing.

From beyond the closed windows came the sounds of birds announcing the season.

He asked his sister.

When he didn’t understand something, he always asked his wise, clever sister.

“Why? Big sis.”

“I don’t know…”

If she didn’t know, that was that. He wasn’t as smart as she was.

So he decided it must be something beyond his understanding.

What mattered more was what they would do from now on.

Since the end hadn’t come, maybe there was something outside if they got up. Maybe there were edible wild plants growing in the garden.

He knew how to identify them because his sister had taught him.

“Big sis. Let’s go outside.”

“O-okay.”

Getting up was hard. Their bodies, exhausted beyond limit, could barely manage to stand.

It took over an hour, but the siblings made it outside.

Looking around the garden, they found plants swaying in the breeze that resembled parsley and chickweed. With trembling hands, they picked them and ate.

There was no time to prepare them, and their dry throats made it hard to swallow, but it was their first food in months.

After eating, they returned to the house, and exhaustion overtook them; they collapsed onto the straw and fainted.

The siblings held hands as they slept.

The next day came.

The board nailed over their gate was torn off, and villagers entered, shouting angrily with cloths over their mouths, brandishing clubs.

He couldn’t immediately grasp what was happening.

The villagers tied the two up with rope and spoke.

“So you were still alive after all. You cursed the village, didn’t you?”

He didn’t understand. What was a curse?

They’d simply been abandoned and had lain here, sleeping.

He could only tell them the truth.

“All of the village’s spring crops have failed. You must have cursed us in your hatred. It’s your fault. Don’t try to deny it.”

He didn’t know. He didn’t know. They hadn’t done anything like that!

“Don’t lie. There’s no way you two survived through winter. It’s impossible to live without eating anything.”

That’s…

“They’re witches. Monsters! Someone saw you outside yesterday—now we know who’s responsible. We’ll execute you.”

In his weakened state, he couldn’t resist.

His sister was being choked, and she screamed in pain. He tried to reach out to her, but he couldn’t make it.

The two of them were dragged out to the village square.

The entire village had gathered in the square, their faces twisted in misguided rage.

Amid the deafening jeers, a figure wielding an axe stepped forward.

In front of him, his sister was forced to lay her head on the chopping block first.

He was gripped by pure terror. He didn’t care about his own life anymore, but the thought of watching his sister die like this was unbearable.

That gentle sister, so full of kindness and empathy—she didn’t deserve any of this.

Stop it. Please, stop.

He cried out desperately, but his weakened voice barely came out.

He tried to crawl to her, but his body was pinned down; he couldn’t move.

Why? What had they ever done to deserve this?

They’d only been abandoned, trying to follow their family, only wanting to be together until the end.

The terrifying axe was raised over his sister’s neck.

In the end, he pleaded, begging them to spare her. He would do anything if they just let her live—

His sister turned to look at him.

He saw her lips moving ever so slightly.

“…live… without… me…”

The blade came crashing down.

In that instant, all sound vanished from his world.

And then, he saw it.

His sister’s bloodied head, held up high for the villagers to see.

Aaaahh…

Her headless body was kicked aside like trash.

Aaaaaahh…

The villagers cheered, throwing stones at his sister’s corpse, spitting on it.

Aaaaaah… AAAAHHH…

Now it was his turn; his emaciated body was dragged to the bloodstained chopping block.

The red-streaked wood filled his vision, but his sight burned even brighter with a searing rage.

Red.

Red.

It blazed like fire.

He recognized this color, though he couldn’t remember why.

It was the color of sacred flames.

Unknown to him, his family had once been revered in their ancient homeland as guardians of fire-worship rituals.

The moment the axe severed his neck, something within him resonated with something buried in his sister’s kidney—a relic passed down from parent to child, from ancestor to descendant.

“Sister…”

A distant roar, like the cry of a lion from faraway mountains.

He thought he heard it.

Kill

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A massive lion with a white mane stood before them.

Born from his lifeless body, it rose slowly, surveying the surroundings with a fierce gaze.

As a roar filled with crimson rage erupted, the mane transformed into blazing red flames.

The first to be incinerated by the searing heat was the executioner who had mercilessly severed the siblings’ heads. The man vanished, not even his bones left behind.

Three others nearby were caught in the heat, becoming human torches. The lion stepped over their writhing forms, baring its fangs at the villagers present.

Behind it lay the severed head and body of the fallen girl.

The lion, as legends foretold, sought to protect the treasure that lay behind it—even if that treasure was now only a remnant.

It was ready to annihilate every adversary.

The villagers, screaming as they fled, were engulfed one by one by massive fireballs erupting from the lion’s flaming mane.

The young men and women.

The elderly.

Wives, pregnant women.

Fathers, mothers, children.

Save for one exception, the lion’s wrath spared no one.

When all movement had been scorched to a halt, the fiery mane swirled around the lion in a great roar, exploding outward and spreading across the land.

The enormous flames, like a cloak of fire, consumed the entire village.

Even the infants left behind in their homes were incinerated in an instant.

Red.

Burning everything to ash.

The blazing houses surged with heat, and fragments of burning wood rained down like fiery droplets.

And yet…one exception.

In the sea of flames, one thing behind the lion remained unburned.

The lion turned and looked at the girl’s lifeless form.

It approached her fallen head, gently licking her cheek.

Its treasure no longer moved.

They had only wanted to be together until the end, undisturbed, welcoming death in that small home.

Just that—nothing more.

But suddenly, the lion felt an inexplicable doubt. Its memories, distorted by the twisted resurrection, were hazy and incomplete.

Why had it wanted to stay by her side?

Who was it, really? Fleeting memories flitted through its mind, and amidst the walls of flame, the lion tilted its head in confusion.

A face appeared in its mind—a girl’s face. “…I love you too…”

Ah, yes.

The lion finally understood. Those words were indeed from her.

I am Shinga.

Mighty, brave, and strong—the soul of the guardian lion.

Its blazing mane was sacred, a holy fire, tasked with vanquishing evil to protect the treasure behind it.

Shinga was the guardian spirit, devoted to the kind and gentle girl.