There is no breath.
No heartbeat.
No weight to my body.
Only silence. And that... waiting.
Not peace. Not oblivion. Something else. Something colder.
Time doesn't exist here. Not like it used to. But memory does.
And that's what kills me all over again.
---
My name is Daimyō Akatsuki.
Last of the Crimson Line.
Sworn blade of Tenka Province.
Warden of the Southern Shrine.
And, once, the chosen of Amaterasu.
They used to say my name like a sunrise—soft, reverent, full of promise. Even my enemies said it with respect. I was not kind, but I was just. I was not gentle, but I was unshakable.
The people of my chan followed me because they believed. In the old ways. In the gods. In me.
Now? The name Akatsuki is ash in the wind.
---
I was born during a blood moon, or so the records say. A bad omen, the monks whispered—until my mother, the iron lady of the Akatsuki bloodline, slit her palm and burned the blood at Amaterasu's altar.
"Let the sun bless this child," she declared. "Let him burn brighter than the omen."
That was my first gift to the goddess—blood not yet mine.
I gave her many more in the years to come.
My father taught me swordsmanship at six. By nine, I had fought and bled in my first border raid. By eleven, I killed a man who dared spit on our shrine.
They called me a prodigy. A divine child. A flame wrapped in skin.
But I wasn't special. Not really.
I was just obedient.
---
I remember the Great Purge.
The west burned first—plagued by a "false light" cult that claimed the sun goddess was dead. We watched their cities crumble from across the river.
I offered prayers. Burned three horses and a virgin to keep the plague from crossing into our lands.
The flames flickered, then died.
The plague came anyway.
We held the line. I held it.
I buried my soldiers and ordered more to dig trenches. I gave my general leave to kill any who showed symptoms. I turned my palace into a fortress, and my gardens into graveyards.
Still, I believed we were righteous.
Still, I believed Amaterasu watched.
But as the years passed, I stopped asking for her mercy. And started asking for her attention.
---
Then came the betrayal.
Not by enemies. Not even by gods.
By blood.
My half-brother, Kaito. Born from a concubine, never trained in court etiquette, never disciplined. I raised him like a son. Fed him from my table. Bled for him in war.
And he sold us to the cult for a bag of relics and a fake divine title.
It happened on the Festival of Ember Lights. A night meant to celebrate the cleansing flame of the goddess.
Instead, fire cleansed my palace.
My guards collapsed—poisoned.
My generals fought shadows—literally, twisted men whose eyes burned like coal.
My sister's screams rang through the gardens before she went silent forever.
I remember rushing to the top of the Flame Pagoda, blade in hand, roaring for Amaterasu to see me.
To choose me again.
To show the traitors her wrath.
And nothing happened.
Just wind.
Just fire.
Just silence.
---
I survived. Barely. With half my face burned and my sword broken.
I crawled through the mountains like a dying wolf, watched by carrion birds too patient to attack. I slept in empty shrines, drank from poisoned streams, and dreamed of vengeance.
And through it all, I prayed.
Because I was still that boy with the fire in his chest. The one who thought faith could save his people.
But no visions came.
No dreams.
No light.
Only the cold silence of a god who never loved me.
---
When I returned to my chan, weeks later, there was nothing left to rule.
Ash.
Bones.
Red banners burned black and buried in mud.
My people—what remained of them—refused to meet my eyes.
Some spat on me.
Some wept.
Some bowed out of old habit.
But all of them looked broken.
And that's when I understood: it wasn't just my kingdom that died.
It was me.
The boy born under the blood moon.
The daimyō of crimson fire.
The chosen of Amaterasu.
All gone.
Burned away in a lie I was too proud to question.
---
That's why I went to the shrine.
The one I built with taxed stone and monk blood. The one with gold gutters and paper charms that could bind spirits. The one that was meant to be her home on earth.
I took the blade.
Knelt before her statue.
And gave her one final offering:
Me.
---
I thought she might answer at the end.
That maybe—maybe—a flicker of warmth would touch my cheek.
That I'd feel her hand on mine as I died.
But she left me with nothing.
Not even a whisper.
Not even pity.
---
Now here I float, between breath and oblivion.
And I see it all again.
My mother's bleeding palm.
My brother's twisted grin.
My sister's silence.
My sword, buried in traitor's blood.
My kingdom reduced to ash.
I want to scream.
But even rage takes breath.
So I do the only thing I have left.
I curse her.
Amaterasu.
Goddess of light. Liar of heavens. False sun.
May your name be forgotten.
May your temples crumble.
May the world see you as I do—cold, cruel, silent.
If there are gods listening now, hear this:
Let the sun be damned.