Hidden Stories

Chapter 1: Life (No.01)

Fallen leaves swirl in the wind, kicking up dust devils in the courtyard. Though they steal my attention, the bright sunlight causes me to shut my eyes. When I open them again, I find the leaves have drifted to the children's feet. They pay them no mind. Perhaps they do not even notice.

I watch them dance. It is hypnotic.

I watch them dance.
It is hypnotic.

Beneath the open sky, behind a wall topped by ominous red spikes, children yell as they scamper to and fro. Their movements are clumsy due to their immature limbs and musculature, but their energetic voices still echo across the sky.
Passers-by outside the wall hear them and smile, remembering the halcyon days of their own childhoods.

But the passers-by do not see what they are holding.

Each child carries a deadly steel blade in one hand.
They stand in a triangular formation so they might better observe one another. It is the custom of this family for even the youngest child to wield true steel at all times, save when sparring one another.
This is because we must think of our weapons as an extension of our own bodies.

All for the sake of our lord.

I sigh and look away. A man who had been standing separate from the children meets my gaze and bows—their teacher, most likely. I respond with a brief wave of my hand.

The family I now lead is an organization of killers.
We are killers who support our lord's rule from the shadows, having polished our skills for decades so we might ensure that his rule is absolute. We are comprised of many generations of blood relatives, as well as supporting staff. Though I hear tell the family was not always so large, it has now grown in size for various reasons: the expansion of territory, securing power for wartime, family feuds, preserving secrets, and so on.

The head of the household receives direct orders from our lord, while day-to-day management of the organization falls upon the previous lord— my father. But his work is not unrelated to my own; indeed, I hold a position where I have great sway over the futures of our young charges.

The children are training in assassination. The daggers at their belts and in their hands are common things found throughout the world, and nowhere near as suited for our work as a concealed weapon.
But there are times when an assassin cannot choose their weapon. Perhaps they are not yet skilled in stealth, or perhaps their preferred weapon breaks during a mission. This lesson teaches them how to act in such unfortunate situations.

We have no choice in this.

Children will give their all to the cruelest regiments precisely because they are young and innocent. Their eyes do not yet perceive the weight of life, and this leads them down a path most dark.

It reminds me of my own past.
Of the day I first took the life of another. And if I close my eyes, I can still see my blood-soaked hands.

Chapter 2: Orders (No.02)

The horizon blurred, almost as if I was viewing it after a long and restless night.
I stood in place, staring down at a pair of hands slick with scarlet. I had just killed someone, and this act would be a part of me forever.

I remember the day I came of age. Even though I would one day inherit our house, I was given a wooden sword and told to drill with one of my father's many subordinates, no different than any other child in a samurai family.

My training was merciless, and I endured it day and night without pause. All that time, I pretended not to notice the cheerful sounds of children playing beyond the walls.
In hindsight, I realize my instructor's irritable demeanor and harsh methods were not because he wished to see me succeed, but because he hated my being heir to our house.

In one particularly brutal session, I watched the man's swordsmanship closely before slipping through a gap in his swing. But a child's meager strength and short limbs are no match for an adult—only after we quash our fundamental disadvantages can we first stand on equal footing.

The nearness of my tutor invited a mistake in judgment.

No one in our family flounders when another enters their circle, and my instructor quickly shifted his pivot foot and continued to swipe at my legs. Frantic, I struck his kneecap with the handle of my wooden sword in an attempt to halt his momentum. My plan was to slip past him to the left, then send the blade into his side. But as I readied my next move, I saw him adjust the grip on his sword out of the corner of my eye.

It was too early to step out of the way, but too late to dodge. Almost without realizing it, I grabbed the man's clothing and attempted to body slam him. But a child's grapple means nothing without momentum; all the move did was bring my physical disadvantage to the fore.

Instantly regretting my mistake, I prepared myself for pain. But rather than deliver a blow, my instructor froze.
I followed his widened eyes and turned to see the former head of the family: my father.
He greeted my instructor, who sheathed his wooden sword and kneeled, then turned his attention to me.

"We must speak. Come."

My father brought me to the parlor and told me I was to be given a mission. While the news came as a shock, the cold weight in his tone said all I needed to know about the nature of the task.

"I wish to acknowledge my daughter's maturity," he said.
"Before the week is out, you will choose a target and bring me their head. But know this: the value of the target determines your own worth."

These words caused me to lift my head; while I had expected many possible missions, that had never been one of my considerations. Yet now I had five days to eliminate someone whose death might prove beneficial to my father and our house.

My mind reeled. Unable to reply, I bowed deeply and exited the room. The question of which life was the correct one to take held me tight, almost as if I had been seized and bound in a great and weighty chain.

Chapter 3: Fate (No.03)

If it was ever acceptable to measure the worth of another's life, who would have the right to do so? Even if it is not acceptable, people still seek their own worth.

It is as though the value of one's life is fixed.

I was given my first order to kill when I was yet young.
The trial would serve as a display of our abilities, and involved us killing a target of our choosing.

I was allowed to venture into the city under supervision of people from the family in order to search for a target.
While I sometimes left the house for espionage missions, such instances had been rare.
This was the first time I was able to act and search of my own accord.

As I moved through the city, I recalled something my instructor said to me before I left on my mission:

Anyone can be killed if they are considered weak. Even you.

His meaning was clear: If I did not put my life on the line to satisfy my father, he would take it without any hesitation.

But I was so young, and the hesitation of taking a life combined with the pressure I felt in the face of my trial was enough to drive me into the proverbial corner.

And that fear bound my shadow to my house. How ironic.

As I searched for my target, I did my best to hide my trembling fingers in my fists.
I wandered the boundary between light and dark, weaving the narrow alleyways between buildings as I tried to make my decision. It was as far from true freedom as one could be, yet I mistook it for such in those early days.

Removing this samurai will be more than enough to display my strength.

But I have never killed before. Can I do it?

That man drowns in unearned riches. His death will be easy and beneficial.

But is that enough to satisfy my father?

That merchant has earned great ire from the townsfolk.
Many would want him dead.

Is it my place to make such a judgment?

My thoughts came to a dead end. I repeated the same actions over and over until the very last day, staring for hours at the boundary between light and dark.

When that last day came, I grew impatient. Where did I even go? I know I pursued my target with fevered desperation and a kind of awkwardness, and eventually my hesitation led me back home, where I stared at the weapons along the wall of my room and shivered.

Who can I kill?
Who is the right candidate?
Who is all right to kill?
How should I kill?
When should I kill?
Where should I kill?

In the end, perhaps the answer is for me to kill...me.

My family made children determine the value of a life, putting their very selves at risk in the process. Indeed, that was likely the purpose of the exercise. Will their sensibilities break under the weight? Will their spirits shatter under the pressure?
Can they still bring profit to the family?

In the end, it taught me that hesitation in the face of a kill was unnecessary to those of my household. Perhaps it even served the purpose of destroying any worthless hopes and dreams.

I greeted the dawn of the final day with exhaustion and anguish. I had forgotten what it meant to be alive.

When I finally looked down, I realized my hands were soaked with blood. My eyes clouded, and I found myself unable to hide my irritation.
As such, I did not notice my fingertips relax and begin to draw slow patterns in the soft earth below.

Almost as if this was the way things were meant to be.

Chapter 4: The End (No.04)

The bodies lay at my feet.
Their eyes lifeless. Waxy.

A blossom of brilliant crimson bloomed. Its wretched vermillion petals scattered.
As I looked down at my palm and saw a dim reflection of glimmering light, memory finally returned.

I'd always wondered what was so different between the life I led within the walls and the lives of the children who lived outside it.
But when I finally asked the question, it was far too late.

That was the moment I killed a part of myself.

My father gave me the mission and allowed me to choose my companions, so I selected my instructor and his younger brother.
They had long been dissatisfied with our family and current lord, and since I would one day assume that position, I saw the mission as a chance to solve that most tired of problems.

Perhaps I let my guard down in the process.

I knew they schemed to use me to depose the current lord, and when I snuck into their manor under the curtain and shadows of night, the were so engaged in their plans they did not notice me. But as they continued to converse, I felt time growing short.

Father will be pleased that I am ridding him of traitors.

Alas, I did not bother think of how I would kill them.
Soon, thick sprays of blood flew through the moonlight.

My father praised me when I returned with their heads.
Though I took their lives in a cowardly ambush, he was pleased I had the backbone to kill people I knew personally.
Thinking back, I'm sure it was a test—my father knew full well who the traitors were.
Though I was now free from the trial, my life as a killer had only just begun.

Afterward, I meticulously washed the blood from my cold hands and let them rest, folded as though in prayer, on my lap. But it was a fool's errand; those hands would be soaked in blood countless times after that.
No matter how I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, I could never cleanse the stains of murder.

I could never walk a different path.

And so, I began to plan.

I watch as the children devote themselves to their training. They have yet to learn of the outside world, and know nothing of the circumstances of their existence. I lead this family now, and much as my father before me, I will likely shake them free of their reverie with a trial of blood and death.

This is wrong. I know it to be so. But I have walked the path of a killer. Even if I were to cast it all aside and free them from this house, I know not if I could protect them from whatever the future holds. Perhaps they would only end up lifeless on the ground, just like those who plotted betrayal and met death by my own hands.

Birds freed from their cage.
Dolls obtaining sentience.
Where would they go?
Would they travel?
Do they even know such a thing is possible?

And what of me?

The past steals freedom. Responsibilities steal freedom.
The future steals freedom.
The fetters of unending reincarnation have returned to me once again, and though I now have the power to choose, I have no solution at the ready.

It is a riddle with no solution, and I hate it with all that I am.

Chapter 5: Regret (No.05)

Home is a place for kin to gather.

Kin is a concept created by people for the sake of others.
They do not have wills of their own. They are but words— or so they are meant to be.
Yet it seems those who never intended to find a home now find themselves amongst kin.

Those who have abandoned a sense of individuality to come together under a singular belief and roof have formed a bond more powerful than anything—and are more feared than anything.

But she alone is different.
She is the only one who stares off into the distance.

She gazes beyond the walls that encircle the manor. From within the prison that is her home, she looks to a world somewhere beyond.

Chapter 6: The Regular (No.06)

There's one regular who often comes to my shop for a cup of tea and a plate of dango.
She's always alone, and always carries a katana, which tells me she must be of some significant standing. I'm not certain what she sees in my humble little establishment, but I appreciate the business.

At first, I was terrified of her, for the crest on her clothing belongs to the manor known as the Den of Demons.
It's an eerie place that normal citizens all steer clear of—but when I thought about it more, I realized the reputation came from nothing but hearsay. I felt shame at having judged someone based on rumors, and more ashamed still since she was a regular.

So today I made her more dangos than usual.

"This is my thanks for you being a frequent customer," I say as I hand her two plates piled high with dangos.

She looks at me in shock and murmurs a brief thanks.

Chapter 7: Indigo (No.07)

"I'm home!"

"Welcome back. ...Hmm? What's with the pot?"

"I got these flowers after helping at the temple today.
I was admiring them, and they said they had way more than they needed, so they let me take some back."

"Well, how nice of them. You'll have to return and thank them later."

"It was nice, right?
Anyway,I figured since they're letting me have some, I should get blossoms as close to red and blue as possible."

"What? Why?"

"Because then they match our names, silly!"

"Not sure I'd call that color Scarlet, but I suppose the blue one could be Indigo if you squint real hard."

"Oh, don't be a downer! It's the thought that counts!"

Chapter 8: The Poison from the Cure (No.08)

A peculiar air settled over the house known as The Demon's Den. Stalwart fighters who were the eyes and ears of the dreadful undefeated hound—and who at times acted as her fangs—gathered in the hall for a somber discussion.

Though they had successfully vanished the successor of the opposing lord, the body had yet to be found.
But more importantly, the woman who served as head of their house had gotten into a skirmish and cut down countless enemy samurai.
She then dragged her injured self away and vanished like smoke, leaving only a bloodstain behind.

If she were dead, well and good.
But if she yet lived, it meant trouble.
For she was their lord, the one who knew every secret of the house. She was a cure to all problems while within their walls, yet would be poison if ever she turned her back.

"We cannot permit her to live. Find her. End her."

The metallic sound of blades loosening in scabbards echoed throughout the room in reply.

Chapter 9: Stupor (No.09)

Twilight. Fading sun shines through the smallest gap in the woman's eyelids. Her vision is crimson. Vaguely, she hears the faint drumming of a heartbeat.

When viewed through a curtain of blood, everything looks the same. The woman stares at palms and footprints stained the same deep shade of red. She thinks back on that day, a dim one drowned in rain, when she met the girl. The girl who bore the selfsame scars. The girl she attempted to save in exchange for her own life.

But, the woman thinks, have I not been using her life to save my own?

And it's true: The life she thought she saved, she had merely claimed for herself.

Alone, the woman is ashamed. She scolds herself. For she knows that when she sees the girl smile, she will forget the blood staining her own hands.

Chapter 10: The Beautiful Scarlet Devil (No.10)

One fateful day, the head of our house vanished.
It was she who taught me how to live—and how to kill—in this cruel world of ours.

Despite not being related by blood I admired her as one might an older sister and referred to her as such, and it is she who made me into the devil I am today.

The sudden absence of the one most skilled among us with a blade bettered my own status within our house, but plunged us into chaos and petty rivalries at the same time. There are even feuds regarding whether or not it is appropriate for those not of our head's bloodline to accept missions from our lord.

How foolish it all is. I've no interest in authority or power. For neither did she, you see, and that it was allowed her to grasp the peerless strength she wielded.

I search for her even now; her beautiful pale skin stained with the blood of her enemies, her gaze as cold and dark as night turned upon the corpses of her felled foes.

"Oh, my dear sister... Where have you gone?"

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