I hate this city.
The reasons are simple.
First—the air here always bites.
The wind descends mercilessly from the white mountains, slipping through layers of clothing, carrying a cold that never truly leaves, even when the sun stands directly overhead.
Second—this city is far too good at reminding.
Before me, curved-roof buildings stand shoulder to shoulder, their lifted eaves like the frozen wings of birds. Dark wooden walls meet neatly stacked gray stone, forming narrow alleys blanketed in snow.
Iron lanterns hang from tall poles, their dim light casting a golden haze through the cold mist.
In the distance, tiered pavilions rise along the slopes, their pillars sturdy, carved with dragons and ancient symbols that seem to belong to a world of martial legends.
Those snow-laden roofs… all of them point toward a single memory.
Every time I step onto the slick stone roads, hear the creak of old wooden doors opening, or see thin smoke curling from the houses, that image returns.
Blood frozen in the snow.
A final breath dissolving into the cold air.
And my mother's face—pale, still, never calling my name again.
In this city, snow does not fall only from the sky.
It piles up in memory, freezing the past, forcing me to remember a death I can never leave behind.
Shirogane no Kuni.
To others, this is a city of winter's beauty.
To me, it is a grave that still breathes.
Snow fell without a sound.
In the center of a training yard ringed by stone pillars, a child stood alone. His body was small, yet his back remained straight, as if refusing to bow to the cold. The wooden sword in his hands trembled—not from weakness, but from arms forced to move for far too long.
"Again."
The voice came from the shadows of the pavilion.
Flat. Emotionless.
Yukimura Senju clenched his jaw. Sweat mixed with snow ran along his temples, freezing before it could fall. He raised the wooden sword once more, though his arms were nearly numb. Each breath felt like a blade stabbing into his lungs.
The Senju clan did not know the word enough.
The first swing missed.
The second wavered.
The third—
A bamboo staff struck his back, knocking him into the snow.
"Get up."
There was no shouting. No anger.
That was what hurt the most.
Yukimura fell to his knees. Snow stained his palms, its cold seeping through his skin. For a brief moment, the image appeared—warm hands pulling him up, a gentle voice calling his name every time he fell.
Mother.
The vision vanished as quickly as snow caught by the wind.
"A Senju must not remember the dead while fighting."
The words pierced deeper than any blow.
Yukimura stood. His legs trembled, yet his eyes were empty—not from despair, but because something inside him had been broken long ago.
Since the day his mother lay stiff beneath white cloth.
Since the day the clan decided grief was weakness.
He raised the sword again.
This time, the swing was clean. Sharp. Filled with killing intent—though all he struck was air.
The elders watching from afar exchanged glances. The boy was not yet ten, yet his gaze already belonged to a warrior who had lost everything.
"His name is Yukimura Senju," one of them said.
"The blood of a renowned clan flows in him."
"And he has no choice but to become strong."
Snow continued to fall, erasing footprints in the training yard.
But the suffering—
would remain.
Because from that day on, Yukimura learned one thing:
In the Senju clan, love is buried with the dead, and all that remains is strength.
Everything passed in emptiness.
Days changed without meaning. Winters came and went, never truly leaving.
By the time Yukimura Senju turned seventeen, his life was nothing but training, orders, and silent nights filled with snow and lingering shadows of the past.
No dreams.
No purpose.
Only survival—because that was what his clan taught him.
Until one day, he stood at the docks.
Old wooden planks coated in ice creaked softly as waves struck them.
Large ships rested at anchor, their tall masts and neatly furled sails swaying gently, ropes swinging in the cold, salty sea wind.
Seabirds circled low, their cries breaking a silence he had long known.
Yukimura stood still, his dark coat fluttering.
His empty gaze was fixed on the endless gray sea, as if searching for something even he did not understand.
"Oi."
A lazy voice interrupted his thoughts.
Beside one of the ships, a disheveled-haired sailor lounged casually. He lay atop a wooden crate, one leg crossed, a wide-brimmed hat shading part of his face.
A bottle dangled from his hand, lazily swaying with the rhythm of the waves.
"From the looks of it," the sailor said without getting up, "you seem like some kind of noble."
He grinned, still sprawled out as if the world had no right to disturb him.
"What's someone like you doing in a place like this?"
Yukimura didn't answer immediately.
The sea wind struck his face—different from the mountain cold he was used to. The scent of salt, damp wood, and freedom—something foreign yet unsettling in his chest.
For the first time in a long while, someone spoke to him not as a Senju.
Not as a tool of the clan.
Just as a young man standing at the docks.
And without realizing it, that casual encounter—
would become the beginning of a change his clan never taught him.
From that day on, Yukimura didn't leave immediately.
He stood there too long.
Too quietly.
As if the sea before him was judging him in return. The sailor didn't press him—he simply yawned, adjusted his hat, and went back to watching the sky.
"You're not the talkative type," he said lazily.
"That's fine. The sea's the same."
Yukimura finally turned.
"Why are you here?" he asked quietly.
The sailor chuckled. "Good question. I could ask you the same."
That day ended without clear answers.
Yet the next day, Yukimura returned to the docks.
At first, it was coincidence.
He stood at the edge of the pier, staring at the same ship. The sailor was sitting this time, repairing sail ropes with movements that were lazy yet precise.
"You're back," he said without looking.
"Thought a noble like you would get tired of the smell of fish."
"I'm not bored," Yukimura replied shortly.
The sailor glanced at him. There was something in the young man's eyes—not arrogance, but a hollowness too deep for his age.
They didn't speak much that day. But before leaving, the sailor tossed something small.
Yukimura caught it by reflex.
An apple.
"If you're going to stand at the docks, at least eat," the sailor said.
"You're too skinny for someone who looks dangerous."
Yukimura didn't say thank you.
But he ate the apple.
The days that followed, their meetings became routine.
Sometimes the sailor lounged about. Sometimes he loaded cargo. Sometimes he shouted orders at the crew with the same casual tone he used for jokes.
Yukimura simply watched.
"My name's Hagan," the sailor said one afternoon, suddenly.
"And you?"
Yukimura hesitated.
"Yukimura."
"No family name?" Hagan raised an eyebrow.
"None."
Hagan smiled faintly, as if understanding something left unsaid.
Change came slowly.
Hagan began to tell stories—of distant warm harbors, of floating cities untouched by snow, of storms where sky and sea became one.
They didn't sound like heroic legends. More like fragments of life, passed through laughter and wounds.
Yukimura listened.
He didn't interrupt. Didn't ask questions. Yet every word lodged itself inside him, opening small cracks long sealed shut.
"Why don't you ever smile?" Hagan asked one day.
Yukimura looked toward the sea.
"I was never taught how."
Hagan fell silent for a long moment, then laughed softly.
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
One evening, snow fell lightly over the docks.
Yukimura helped without being asked, lifting heavy crates onto the ship. His movements were precise—too trained for an ordinary youth.
"You're a soldier," Hagan said flatly.
Yukimura paused.
"I don't know if I can still be called human."
Hagan didn't laugh this time. He patted Yukimura's shoulder—a light gesture, yet warm.
"The sea doesn't care what you are," he said.
"It only knows who dares to stand before it."
For the first time, Yukimura didn't feel cold.
That night, as he left the docks, his steps felt different.
Lighter.
Their bond wasn't built on promises or grand confessions, but on presence. On brief conversations. On silences that demanded nothing.
And without Yukimura realizing it, amid waves and weathered planks, someone had treated him not as the heir of a famed clan—
but as a human being still allowed to choose his own life.
In this world, waves are not merely water.
They live. They rage.
Sometimes they swallow entire ships without a trace. Sometimes they cast bodies onto ice-lined shores.
Every sailor knows—the sea is not a path, but a trial. One small mistake is enough to end everything.
Yukimura knew that.
Yet he kept returning to the docks.
One afternoon, the sky hung low and gray, pressing the sea into uneasy calm. Hagan stood on deck, inspecting ropes and sails with an expression Yukimura rarely saw—more serious, more focused.
"We're setting sail," Hagan said plainly.
Yukimura lifted his gaze. "Where to?"
"Home," Hagan replied. "A city called Cogspire."
The name was unfamiliar, but the way Hagan spoke it was different—not like a stopover, but a place that belonged to him.
"There," Hagan continued, tying a knot, "iron towers rise higher than any ship's mast. Gears turn day and night, and steam pours like the breath of giants. The city never sleeps, and the wind is warm—not like this cursed place."
Yukimura imagined a world without snow. Without silent training yards. Without commands that froze the heart.
"The sea there is brutal," Hagan added lightly.
"The waves can split a hull in two. Many never make it."
That should have been enough to make anyone turn away.
Hagan climbed down from the deck and smirked.
"But don't worry. I'm just joking."
He patted a wooden crate and added playfully,
"If you want to come along, that is. A noble like you would make fine ballast."
Yukimura looked at him.
Normally, he would have ignored such a joke. Normally, his face would remain empty, his mind distant. But this time, something stirred in his chest—small, warm, unfamiliar.
His lips curved.
Not a broad smile.
Just the faintest lift—almost unnoticeable.
But it was enough to make Hagan freeze.
"I'll come," Yukimura said.
Hagan blinked. "What?"
"I want to see Cogspire," Yukimura continued calmly.
"And that unforgiving sea."
For a moment, the sound of waves seemed to fade. Hagan stared at him, then burst into laughter, louder than the crashing surf.
"Well then," he said, extending his hand,
"welcome aboard the ship of a madman."
Yukimura took it.
Beneath a gray sky and a murderous sea,
he made his first decision—
not as a Senju,
but as Yukimura.
—to be continued—