Chapter 2 – Three Shadows in the Snow
The third morning came with silence so deep I could hear my own heartbeat echo against the walls.
It wasn't a human silence. It was the kind that lived in mountains — heavy, patient, endless.
I sat cross-legged in the small chamber they'd given me, the scent of incense threading through the cold. My breath hung in the air. I tried to meditate, as the old monk had suggested.
"Still the mind," he'd said. "When you still it long enough, the truth beneath it begins to move."
I wasn't sure what truth he meant.
But when I closed my eyes, something did move.
At first, I thought it was just the sound of wind. Then I heard it — a whisper. Low, rough, carrying the faintest trace of anger.
"You're wasting time."
The voice wasn't mine. It came from inside me, behind my heartbeat, cold and sharp like steel drawn in the dark.
I flinched. My eyes opened — empty room, same shadows, same faint smoke curling upward.
Then came another voice, quieter, measured, each word deliberate:
"He needs to heal first. Recklessness kills quicker than cold."
A pause. Then a third, softer than the rest — calm, almost detached.
"We are bound. Three who should not be one. The mountain watches. We must learn to stand."
I froze. My breath hitched, and I pressed a hand to my chest, half expecting to feel something clawing beneath my skin.
But there was nothing — only the rhythm of three heartbeats where one should be.
Pain pulsed behind my eyes, and for a moment I saw flashes:
— A man in black, mask torn, chakra flickering through his veins as he threw a kunai into the snow.
— Another, kneeling before a shrine, sword laid across his knees, whispering prayers to a god of steel.
— And then a third — someone ordinary, standing before a city skyline of glass and light, clutching his chest as the world blurred into white.
Three lives. Three deaths.
And now… me.
I pressed my palms to the floor and steadied my breathing. "Who are you?" I whispered.
The first voice — the shinobi — laughed, low and humorless.
"You already know. You carry our memories like scars."
The second — the samurai — spoke next, firm but not unkind.
"Names no longer matter. What matters is the path you choose."
The last one — the man — sounded tired, human, almost pleading.
"We shouldn't exist. Not like this. But if we do… we can't fall apart."
The world tilted again. The incense smoke thickened, twisting like ghosts in the dim light.
Then the pain struck. A flash of heat behind my ribs, a current that shot through every nerve. My vision fractured — one moment I was kneeling in the temple, the next I stood in an empty field of snow, moonlight spilling across three silhouettes facing me.
The shinobi wore black armor, face hidden by shadow. The samurai stood tall, blade drawn but resting against his shoulder. The man — the modern one — looked lost, his hands bare, his eyes too human.
They stared at me.
I stared back.
"Why me?" I asked.
The shinobi tilted his head. "Because you were empty enough to hold us."
The samurai's gaze softened. "Because the mountain chose to forge what the world forgot."
The man just shook his head. "Because you died. We all did. And something out there decided death wasn't enough."
The snow rose around us, swirling. I felt their memories bleeding into mine — the sound of steel, the sting of betrayal, the warmth of sunlight on a city I could no longer name.
When I came to, I was on the floor, drenched in sweat. The incense had burned out. My hands were trembling.
But my breathing was steady.
Three voices. Three fragments. One body.
I looked toward the sword resting by the wall. Its plain scabbard gleamed faintly in the half-light. My hand moved to it again — this time, there was no hesitation.
When my fingers touched the hilt, I felt all three of them stir.
The samurai's discipline guided my grip.
The shinobi's instinct measured the balance.
And the man — the part of me that was neither — simply watched, trying to understand what he'd become.
I drew the blade halfway. The steel caught the light, and for a heartbeat, I swore I saw three reflections staring back.
Then, faintly, the whispers returned — no longer discordant, but woven together:
"Takeshi Shinrai."
It wasn't a memory this time. It was a name — our name.
I sheathed the sword and stood. My knees ached, but the weakness was gone. The mountain's wind howled outside, but I didn't flinch.
For the first time, the silence didn't feel empty. It felt like breath held before motion.
Tomorrow, I would begin training again.
Not as a man trying to remember his past —
but as Takeshi Shinrai, the man born from three deaths.
And maybe, in time, the mountain would decide whether that was a gift… or a curse.