CHAPTER 4 — WHAT HAS BEEN LOST WILL NEVER RETURN
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Kyoichiiro's consciousness came and went like cold tides.
Between his moments of awareness—growing shorter, rarer, like a candle flame nearly spent—he felt his body moving. Being carried. Jostled. Rising and falling with the footsteps of someone running. There were sounds around him—heavy voices, hurried voices, the clashing of metal—but all felt distant, as if separated by a thick layer of fog he couldn't penetrate.
His right arm hurt. No, not hurt—more than hurt. As if something was tearing his flesh from within. He couldn't move it. Couldn't feel his fingers. Perhaps his arm was already gone. Perhaps he was hallucinating.
Underground, he thought vaguely, as his sense of smell—still working, even if his body wasn't—caught the distinctive scent of damp earth. Not garden soil, fragrant after rain. This was deeper earth, older, darker. Earth that had never been touched by sunlight. Earth that had absorbed water for years, becoming damp and cold, and from its cracks rose the smell of iron—the smell of blood—the smell of something dead left to rot.
Stone, he thought again, as his back—which had struck the wall when the monster attacked—touched a hard, uneven surface. Not smooth stone like the manor's marble floors. Rough stone, like cave walls. Stone that was scratched, cracked, in some places covered with thin blackish-green moss.
Narrow passage, he thought, as he felt his body sway left and right, like someone walking in a place not wide enough for their shoulders. Or perhaps the shoulders of the person carrying him were too broad for that passage.
They're taking us underground.
He didn't know who "they" were. Were they the attackers who had slaughtered his family? Were they the soldiers who had come too late to save them? Or was he dreaming—a nightmare that would never end—and soon he would wake up in his warm bed, with his sister's voice knocking on his door shouting, "Kyoichiiro! Father is waiting for me in the training yard! Do you want to watch?"
But he didn't wake up. The dream didn't stop. And the pain in his arm—which he couldn't move—felt more real with every passing second.
---
UNDERGROUND PRISON
Unknown Man's Voice: (From somewhere very close, or perhaps from inside his own head—a heavy voice, a tired voice, the voice of someone who had seen death too many times) "Put him here. Next to the girl."
Another Man's Voice: "But Commander—they're still children—shouldn't we—"
First Voice: (Cutting in, firm) "It's an order. We don't have much time. The pursuers are still above. We have to move quickly."
No answer. Only a heavy sigh, then the sound of approaching footsteps.
Kyoichiiro felt his body being lowered—carefully, though hurriedly—onto a hard surface. Thin fabric. Perhaps a mattress. Perhaps just a pile of old cloth folded into a mat. The air here was colder than the passage before. Damp. Stuffy. And there was a smell—a smell he couldn't describe—like rusted iron, like water stagnated too long, like something sweet but not fragrant, like fruit rotting in a closed room.
Where am I? he thought, trying to open his eyes. His eyelids felt terribly heavy—like lead was hanging from his lashes. He managed to open them a little—just a little, just a tiny crack—and what he saw was darkness. Not the darkness of his room at night, where starlight could still enter through the window. This was thicker darkness. Blind darkness. Darkness that human eyes couldn't penetrate.
Underground, he thought again. No windows. No light. I'm in a dungeon.
Footsteps receded. The creak of an iron door—or an iron gate?—opened, then closed with a firm click, followed by the sound of a key turning. Locked. They had locked him in.
Kyoichiiro didn't know how long he lay there—on that hard surface covered with thin fabric, in that cold, dark room, with the pain in his right arm refusing to subside. Perhaps five minutes. Perhaps an hour. Perhaps more. Time felt different when there was no light, no sound, no markers other than his own heartbeat and his short breaths.
He tried to move his right hand. Couldn't.
He tried to move his left hand. Could—a little—but it felt very heavy.
He tried to open his mouth to speak, to scream, to call someone—anyone—but his throat felt as dry as a desert, and his tongue felt thick, and what came out was only a soft groan that even he couldn't hear.
Sister, he thought, and that call—that call for Claire—suddenly flashed in his mind like lightning. Sister, where is she? Did she survive? Is she...
He couldn't finish the sentence.
---
VOICES FROM A DISTANCE
He didn't know how much time had passed—or perhaps only a few minutes that felt like hours—when he heard something.
Not footsteps. Not the iron door. But breathing.
Someone else's breathing.
In the same room. Close. Very close.
Kyoichiiro held his own breath, listening. Hhhh... hhhh... hhhh... That breath was steady—not rushed, not like someone who was afraid. But also not deep—not like someone sleeping soundly. It was short, shallow, like someone exhausted, or someone who was ill.
Kyoichiiro opened his eyes again—still dark—and tried to turn his head toward the sound. His neck felt stiff, but he could move it a little. Nothing was visible. Only darkness.
Kyoichiiro: (Trying to speak—his voice hoarse, barely audible, like someone who had just woken from a three-day sleep) "Hello... who... who's there?"
No answer. Only that breath—hhhh... hhhh... hhhh...—repeating, unchanging, as if that person couldn't hear him, or couldn't answer.
Kyoichiiro tried again, a little louder.
Kyoichiiro: "Who... are you...? Are you... a guard...? Or... or a prisoner...?"
Still no answer.
But that breath—it suddenly changed. Becoming faster. Shorter. Like someone waking from a nightmare, or like someone just realizing they weren't alone.
Claire: (From the darkness, a small voice, a familiar voice—so familiar, like a voice he had heard a thousand times—but also different, weaker, more distant) "Kyoichiiro...?"
Kyoichiiro's heart stopped.
Sister.
---
SISTER
Kyoichiiro: (His voice breaking—not like usual, not flat, not controlled) "Sis! Sister! You're here! You—you survived—!"
He tried to get up. His left hand—the only one he could move—supported his weight on the hard, thin mattress. Pain. His whole body ached. But he didn't care.
Claire: (From the darkness, her voice clearer now—still small, still weak, but there was relief in it, there was hope) "Kyoichiiro... you're... you're awake... thank goodness..."
Kyoichiiro: (Trying to sit up higher, his hand searching in the darkness) "Sis, where are you? I can't see anything—it's so dark here—"
Claire: (The sound of movement—rustling fabric—perhaps Claire was sitting up, or shifting) "I'm... I'm here. Next to you. Maybe... only one or two meters away."
Kyoichiiro reached his hand toward the sound. His small fingers—still movable, though trembling—felt the cold air. Nothing. He reached further. Nearly fell off his mattress.
Claire: (Anxiety in her voice) "Kyoichiiro... don't move too fast... you're still... you're still hurt..."
Kyoichiiro: "I don't care! I have to—I have to—"
His hand touched something.
Not fabric. Not a wall. Not a mattress.
A hand. A small hand—larger than his, but still small—cold, trembling slightly, but warm in the palm.
His sister's hand.
Kyoichiiro gripped it. Tight. Refusing to let go.
Kyoichiiro: (His breath ragged) "Sis... are you alright? Are you hurt? Where—what—"
Claire: (Her voice trembling, but she tried to stay calm) "I... I don't know. I fainted. When I woke up, I was already here. In this dark room. Alone. I... I was scared, Kyoichiiro. I was so scared."
Kyoichiiro felt Claire's fingers grip back. Not as strong as usual—not like when Claire pulled him to play, or when she gently patted his head—but tight. Tight like someone holding onto the only thing that could save them from drowning.
Kyoichiiro: (Trying to calm—though he himself wasn't calm) "I'm here, Sis. I'm here. We're together. We'll—we'll get out of here. I promise."
Claire: (A soft hiss—perhaps from pain, perhaps from crying) "Mother... Kyoichiiro... what about mother? Is mother—"
Kyoichiiro: (Silent. His tongue felt stiff. Those words—the words he had to say—felt like thorns in his throat) "...Mother is gone, Sis."
Claire: (Silent. Too silent. Even her breathing seemed to stop)
Kyoichiiro gripped Claire's hand tighter.
Kyoichiiro: "I saw her. Mother... she tried to fight. But they... they were too strong."
Claire: (After a long pause, her voice hollow—like someone speaking in a dream) "So... so mother won't come back? Won't... won't ever?"
Kyoichiiro: "No, Sis. Mother won't come back."
Claire didn't cry. Didn't sob. No sound at all. Only silence. Heavy silence. A silence more painful than weeping.
Kyoichiiro didn't know what to say. He just sat there—or rather, half-sat, half-lay—on the hard, thin mattress, in the dark underground room, beside his broken-hearted sister, and held her hand.
That was all he could do.
---
FIFTEEN MINUTES — OR PERHAPS MORE
They sat in silence. No one spoke. No one moved. Only their breathing—Claire's short, shallow breath, Kyoichiiro's still-raspy breath from the pain—broke the stillness.
Kyoichiiro didn't know how much time had passed. Perhaps fifteen minutes. Perhaps half an hour. Perhaps more. In a room without light and without sound, time lost its meaning.
But slowly—very slowly—he began to see. Not because there was light, but because his eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He still couldn't see Claire's face—only a faint silhouette beside him—but he could see the shape of the room: small, square, with rough stone walls and a packed earth floor. On one side of the room, there were iron bars—a locked gate—and beyond that bars, a dark, endless passage.
Prison, Kyoichiiro thought. We're in a dungeon.
Kyoichiiro: (After gathering his courage) "Sis. We have to get out of here."
Claire: (Her voice still hollow) "Go where? We don't know where we are. We don't know who brought us here. We can't even see anything."
Kyoichiiro: (Trying to get up—this time more successfully. His left hand supported his weight, and he managed to sit steadily, even though his body still felt like it had been beaten with hammers) "We look for a way out. Dungeons always have doors—or at least, drainage channels, or a hole in the ceiling, or something. We can't stay here. If the people who attacked the manor find us here..."
He didn't finish the sentence. There was no need.
Claire was silent. Then, she sighed—a long sigh, one that felt like releasing a terribly heavy burden.
Claire: "You're right. We can't stay here."
She stood—or at least, tried to. Kyoichiiro heard the rustle of fabric, the scrape of shoes on the earthen floor, Claire's soft hiss of pain—perhaps she was also injured, though not as badly as Kyoichiiro.
Kyoichiiro: (Also standing—his body unsteady, but he held) "Hold my hand, Sis. We'll walk together."
Claire: (Her hand finding Kyoichiiro's in the darkness—finding it—gripping it) "I'm holding."
They walked.
---
UNDERGROUND PASSAGE
The passage outside their cell was narrow—very narrow, only wide enough for one adult to walk without touching the walls. The walls were of cold, damp rough stone, in some places covered with thin blackish-green moss. The floor was uneven—scattered with small stones, with small holes that could make them trip if they weren't careful. The ceiling was low—perhaps only two meters high—and in some places, tree roots pierced through from above, dangling like dead snakes.
Kyoichiiro walked in front, feeling the wall with his left hand to make sure he didn't miss any branches or turns. Claire behind him, one hand still gripping Kyoichiiro's tightly, the other hand feeling the wall on the other side.
No light. Only darkness. And the smell—the smell of damp earth, of old iron, of something sweet but not fragrant, growing stronger each time they passed a door (or perhaps another cell) on the side of the passage.
Claire: (Whispering, her voice echoing in the narrow passage) "Kyoichiiro... I... I don't like this place."
Kyoichiiro: (Also whispering) "Neither do I, Sis. But we have no choice."
They walked. One step. Two steps. Ten steps. A hundred steps.
Kyoichiiro lost count.
The passage wasn't straight. It turned left, then right, then left again, then straight, then turned again. Like a labyrinth. Like the passage was deliberately designed to make anyone who entered it lost forever.
Kyoichiiro: (Stopping at a turn, sharpening his hearing) "There's a sound. Ahead."
Claire: (Also stopping, her breath short) "What sound?"
Kyoichiiro: "Water. Flowing water. Maybe... a drainage channel."
They walked further. The sound of water grew clearer—krishik, krishik, krishik—like a small stream, but not like clear river water. This water sounded heavier, thicker, like water mixed with mud. Or blood.
And the smell—that smell grew stronger. A smell Kyoichiiro recognized from his previous life. The smell of a sewer. The smell of waste. The smell of something rotten, never touched by sunlight.
Claire: (Covering her nose with the edge of her torn cloak, her voice muffled) "Kyoichiiro... the smell... I think I'm going to be sick..."
Kyoichiiro: "Cover your nose, Sis. Don't breathe too deeply. Walk quickly."
They walked faster—though in darkness, walking fast was risky. Kyoichiiro nearly tripped several times, but Claire always caught him.
And finally—after walking through more turns than they could count—they saw light.
Not sunlight. Not moonlight (because there was no moon in this world). But starlight—a faint, silvery light, entering through cracks in the stone ceiling. Perhaps there was a hole above. Perhaps they were close to the surface.
Claire: (Her voice full of hope) "Light... Kyoichiiro, I see light!"
Kyoichiiro: (His eyes also catching that light—faint, but real) "Come on, Sis. Let's go."
They ran—or rather, walked quickly—toward that light. The passage began to slope upward. The floor, which had been packed earth, was now turning to stone—smoother stone, better maintained, perhaps the remains of an old building's foundation. And at the end of the passage, after the final slope, they saw stairs.
Stone stairs. Old. Worn. With wide, low steps.
And at the top of those stairs—the sky.
The night sky, filled with stars—hundreds, thousands of brightly shining stars—and fresh air that felt like cold water after days of thirst.
Claire: (Almost crying) "We... we made it..."
Kyoichiiro: (Also moved, but not showing it) "Let's climb, Sis. Quickly."
---
RIMBA VILLAGE
They emerged from a hole in the ground—covered by bushes and wild grass—and stood on dew-wet grass. Around them stretched a landscape they had never seen before.
Not a palace. Not a city. But a peaceful rural expanse. Simple wooden houses with thatched roofs, lined along a winding dirt road. Green fields stretching to the foothills in the distance, with rice beginning to yellow—perhaps ready for harvest. At the edge of the village, a small river flowed, its clear water sparkling under the starlight.
No screams. No clashing swords. No monster roars. Only the sound of crickets—which, after a night full of horror, sounded like music—and the gentle breeze through the leaves.
Claire: (Whispering, as if afraid her voice would disturb the peace) "Where... where are we?"
Kyoichiiro: (Scanning the surroundings, his eyes searching for clues) "A village. Perhaps a small village at the foot of the hills. Far from the manor."
Claire: (Shivering—not from cold, but from relief) "We... we survived?"
Kyoichiiro: (Didn't answer. He wasn't sure either)
From a distance—from the village's direction—several points of light began moving closer. Lanterns. People. Perhaps villagers who had been woken by their noise, or perhaps just coincidence.
Man's Voice: (From behind the bushes, a deep but friendly voice) "Who's there? It's midnight—no one should be out."
Kyoichiiro turned toward the voice. A middle-aged man in simple work clothes—a ragged shirt, shorts, and a straw hat nearly falling off—stood at the edge of the path, holding a lantern in his hand. His face wasn't unfamiliar—or rather, not threatening. His nose was flat, his eyes small but friendly, and his thick mustache covered half of his upper lip.
Middle-Aged Man: (Seeing their condition—torn clothes, pale faces, wounds all over their bodies—his expression shifted from friendly to worried) "Children? You... you're badly hurt. What happened? What's wrong?"
Claire was silent. She looked down, not daring to meet the man's eyes. Kyoichiiro glanced at his sister briefly, then decided to speak.
Kyoichiiro: (His voice flat, but slightly softer than usual—because he knew they were speaking to a stranger, and he didn't want to seem suspicious) "We were attacked by a group of magical beasts in the forest. While traveling. We managed to escape, but... we got lost."
Middle-Aged Man: (Frowning) "Magical beasts? In this forest? They usually don't come out this far—" He stopped, examining Claire's clothes more carefully. A school uniform from the Kyoukoten Academy—though torn and dirty, still recognizable by its color and cut. "That uniform... are you from Kyoukoten? I've delivered produce there a few times. A good school. For noble children."
Claire remained silent. Her face went pale—perhaps because she was afraid their identities would be discovered, or perhaps because she was still in shock.
Kyoichiiro stepped forward slightly—not too far, but enough to protect his sister if the man meant harm.
Kyoichiiro: "Yes. But..." He paused, choosing his words. "Please keep our presence a secret. For now. We need... a place to heal."
The middle-aged man looked at him—looked into those calm light blue eyes, too calm for a child his age—and for a moment, there was something in his face. Not suspicion, not fear. But... understanding. As if he too had seen horror, and he knew that not all wounds could be seen with the naked eye.
Middle-Aged Man: (Smiling—a warm, genuine smile) "Of course. My name is Edon. I have a small inn at the end of the village. Not luxurious—but enough for rest. You can stay there. As for payment... later. When you have money. What matters now is that you eat and rest."
He laughed softly—a warm laugh that gradually eased the tension in Kyoichiiro's shoulders.
Kyoichiiro: (Nodding) "Thank you, Uncle Edon. We... we're very grateful."
---
THE JOURNEY TO THE INN
Edon led them through the village.
Along the way, he talked—not too much, but enough to fill the awkward silence. About this village—Rimba Village, he called it—small and not well-known, but the people were friendly and helped each other. About the fields beyond the hills, which had a bountiful harvest this year because the rains came on time. About his children, already grown and gone abroad, leaving him and his wife alone at home.
Kyoichiiro listened—half-heartedly, because he was still busy scanning the surroundings—but he stored that information in his head. Rimba Village. Friendly residents. Not too far from the manor, but remote enough not to be affected by the chaos at the palace.
The villagers they passed—some of them still outside even though it was late at night, perhaps woken by barking dogs—smiled warmly or waved, without suspicious or fearful glances. A few small children ran between the houses, laughing, playing tag—as if they didn't know that outside this village, somewhere up on the hill, there was a ruined castle and scattered corpses.
Places like this... do actually exist, Kyoichiiro thought, walking beside his still-silent sister. In the middle of a world that seems full of power and hierarchy, in the midst of chaos and death... there are still corners where people live simply and peacefully. They don't know much about war, about monsters, about nobles killing each other. They just... live. Farm. Laugh. Cry. Die of old age.
He didn't know if he envied them. Or if he was just tired.
Edon: (Stopping in front of a simple but well-maintained two-story wooden building—with a wooden fence in front, a small garden of wildflowers, and an oil lamp still burning on the porch) "Here we are. My inn. 'Green Home,' it's called. Not very fancy, but clean."
He opened the door—a wooden door that creaked softly—and invited them inside.
---
"GREEN HOME" INN
The inn's living room was simple—a few wooden chairs around a cold fireplace, one long table in the center, and small shelves on the walls holding dried flower vases and worn books. The floor was wooden, creaking with every step, but clean—evident from the lack of dust in the corners. The walls were painted white, but the paint was beginning to peel in several places, revealing the dark brown wood beneath.
Edon: (Pointing to a sofa near the window) "Sit down. I'll make something warm. You must not have eaten."
He hurried to the kitchen—a door in the corner of the room—leaving Kyoichiiro and Claire alone.
Claire sat on the sofa—or rather, fell onto it—her body stiff, her eyes empty, her hands clenched in her lap. She wasn't crying. Not speaking. Just sitting there, like a freshly carved statue, not yet given a soul.
Kyoichiiro sat beside her—not too close, but close enough to feel his sister's body warmth—and also remained silent.
He chose not to speak. He knew, from bitter experience in his previous life, that when someone was traumatized, forcing them to talk would only make them withdraw further. Sometimes, shared silence was more comforting than empty words like "everything will be alright"—because the truth was, no one knew if everything would be alright.
Soon, Edon returned from the kitchen with a large tray in his hands. On that tray were a bowl of warm soup—steaming, with pieces of carrot and potato floating on its surface—a plate of still-warm whole wheat bread (perhaps freshly baked), a piece of white cheese already thinly sliced, and a small teapot of herbal tea whose aroma immediately filled the room.
Edon: (Setting the tray on the table in front of them, smiling) "Sorry, not much. This is what I could prepare quickly. But hopefully it's enough."
Kyoichiiro: (Staring at the food—still warm, still steaming—and for a moment, he almost forgot that only hours ago, he had watched his mother die before him) "Thank you, Uncle Edon. This... this is more than enough."
Edon: (Nodding, then walking toward the door) "I have some business in the back. Eat in peace. Don't be shy, alright?"
He went out—closing the door behind him—leaving them alone again.
Kyoichiiro picked up the wooden spoon provided. The soup was warm—warm in his hands, warm in the spoon, warm in his mouth. Savory from the broth, sweet from the carrot, a little salty from the salt. Simple. But more than enough.
Kyoichiiro: (After a few spoonfuls, pushing the bowl toward Claire) "Eat, Sis. Your body needs strength."
Claire didn't move. Didn't turn. Didn't answer.
Kyoichiiro placed the bowl on Claire's lap—carefully, so it wouldn't spill—then patted her shoulder gently.
Kyoichiiro: "Mother wouldn't want you to starve."
Claire flinched. The name "Mother"—which she hadn't heard since waking up in the dungeon—suddenly stabbed her chest like a knife. The tears she had been holding back finally fell. Falling on her cheeks, falling into the soup bowl in her lap, falling onto Kyoichiiro's hand still patting her shoulder.
Claire: (Whispering, her voice breaking) "Kyoichiiro... I... I can't... I can't do this without her..."
Kyoichiiro: "You're not alone, Sis. I'm here. Father is here—somewhere, maybe—we'll find him. The servants... the survivors... we'll find them too. But for now..." He pressed slightly on Claire's shoulder. "...for now, we have to eat. We have to rest. We have to live. For Mother. For Father. For us."
Claire didn't answer. But slowly—very slowly—she picked up the wooden spoon. Took a little soup. Put it in her mouth.
She cried while eating. Tears fell into the soup, making it slightly saltier. But she kept eating. Little by little.
Kyoichiiro sat beside her—saying nothing more—just keeping her company.
Behind the kitchen door, Edon stood silently, watching them through the small gap between the door leaf and the frame. A warm smile still spread across his face—but his eyes... his eyes held a glint of sadness and recognition.
Edon: (Whispering to himself, barely audible) "Thank goodness... they're finally eating."
He let out a long breath—a breath that felt like releasing a burden he had never asked for.
Edon: "But... I recognize them. That girl—Claire Khaneo. Daughter of the Khaneo Family. I saw her once, when I delivered produce to the palace. Her face is the same—though now paler, thinner. And that boy..." He frowned, trying to remember. "The second son. The one rarely seen. Kyoichiiro, I think his name is."
He looked down at his own hands—rough hands, calloused hands, hands that had never held a sword or been involved in political intrigue.
Edon: "The Khaneo Family... what really happened in your palace?"
He didn't know. And perhaps he never would.
But he knew one thing: these two children—who had survived a horror he couldn't imagine—needed a safe place. At least for a while.
He turned, walking back to the kitchen, and began preparing warm water for them to bathe.
Outside, the sun was beginning to rise in the eastern sky—golden-orange light slowly chasing away the night's darkness. Birds began to sing in the trees. Roosters began to crow in their coops.
In Rimba Village, in a simple place not well-known to many, a new day was beginning.
And for Kyoichiiro and Claire—who had lost almost everything—that new day was the beginning of something they didn't yet know.
Their journey was only just beginning.