Death is Eternal #458
The shadow of Akebono and The last stand at Monte Claro
The shadow of Akebono
Genre: folk hero
Word count: 500
In the waning days of the Akebono shogunate, the land of Haruka lay under a heavy shadow. Lord Takumi Hisanaga, the 13th shōgun, ruled from his fortress city of Izanami. His reign, once promising, had become one of fear and corruption. His court was riddled with intrigue, and the people whispered of his growing cruelty. The samurai, once proud and steadfast, now looked upon their leader with doubt. The common folk suffered under harsh taxes and even harsher soldiers, longing for a change they dared not speak aloud.
Among those who watched in silence was a man named Matsunari Kaito. Once a devoted samurai sworn to protect the shōgun, Matsunari’s loyalty had turned to bitterness. He had witnessed the suffering of villages crushed beneath Takumi’s greed, paranoia and tyranny. For years, Matsunari wrestled with his duty and his conscience, until finally he resolved that the only way to save Haruka was to strike at the very heart of corruption itself.
One cold autumn night, beneath a crimson moon that bathed the land in an unnatural glow, Matsunari moved like a shadow through the sprawling halls of Izanami’s fortress. His black cloak slipped silently past the guards, who were blinded by complacency. The fortress, thick with stone and iron, seemed impregnable — but not to him. His every step was measured, his breath steady as he approached the shōgun’s chambers deep inside.
Inside, Takumi Hisanaga sat brooding over faded scrolls and broken promises. The years had not been kind to the shōgun. His once commanding presence was now reduced to a frail figure haunted by paranoia and regret. The door creaked open barely an inch before Matsunari’s blade, forged in the sacred fires of Mount Akira, flashed through the dim room. A single strike ended the reign of the tyrant in silence — no cries, no last words, just the cold certainty of justice.
Word of the assassination spread swiftly through Haruka. Some called Matsunari a traitor, a murderer who had broken his oath. Others hailed him as a hero, a liberator who had dared to bring down a cruel ruler. Songs were sung in his honour in village squares, and his image — a dark silhouette with a shining blade — was painted on temple walls. The people saw in him the promise of a new dawn.
In the chaos that followed, power struggles erupted throughout the land. Yet Matsunari did not seek control or glory. Instead, he disappeared. Becoming a symbol of hope — a steadfast reminder that tyranny could fall when one man dared to act.
The tale of Matsunari Kaito endured beyond the fall of the 13th shōgun. Around fires and in quiet tea houses, people told the story of the shadow who struck down a corrupt lord and changed the course of history. His courage echoed through the ages, a whisper on the wind and a glint of steel in the dark.
Though Haruka’s future remained uncertain, the people never forgot the night justice came, carried by a single fearless man.
The end
The last stand at Monte Claro
Genre: folktale
Word count: 1,085
Long ago, in the land of Lirianna, nestled between wild forests and silver rivers, there lay the proud kingdom of Varasia. For centuries, Varasia had lived under the shadow of the mighty Empire of Selenor. Though Varasia’s people spoke their own language and sang their own songs, their lands were ruled by foreign hands. The empire’s governors collected heavy taxes, enforced harsh laws and claimed every grain of harvest as their own. Yet, in the hearts of the Varasians burned an unyielding fire, a desire to live free on their own soil.
The story of Varasia’s fight for freedom was woven into the very trees and stones. It was said that the land itself had chosen its people to be brave, and that those who honoured the earth would be granted strength beyond measure. The kingdom’s greatest hope rested on the shoulders of King Dom Telon, a leader known for his courage and wisdom. When the empire tightened its grip, Dom Telon called his people to rise and reclaim their birthright.
For years, the two forces clashed across Varasia’s rolling hills and deep valleys. Skirmishes and sieges painted the land with hardship and sorrow, but the will of the Varasians never wavered. The empire, vast and wealthy, sent wave after wave of soldiers to crush the rebellion. Yet, the forests and mountains seemed to protect the Varasians as if the land itself lent them its power.
Then came the year of the last great battle — the battle that would decide the fate of Varasia once and for all. It was to take place on the slopes of Monte Claro, the “clear mountain,” where the sky stretched wide and the air was thick with ancient magic. According to legend, Monte Claro was sacred ground, blessed by the spirits of the ancestors. It was said that whoever stood firm upon its heights would hold the destiny of Varasia in their hands.
King Dom Telon gathered his closest commanders in a clearing beneath towering oaks. Among them was a young hunter named Soren, whose keen eyes and steady hand had earned him a place at the king’s side. Though still untested in great battles, Scoren carried with him the hopes of his family and village.
“Tomorrow,” the king said, his voice calm but resolute, “we face the greatest storm. The empire’s legions will come in numbers like never before. But this is our land, our home. We fight not just for ourselves, but for all who will come after us. We stand as one, or we fall divided.”
The warriors listened, their hearts beating in time with the rhythm of the forest around them. The night was restless, filled with whispered prayers and the clatter of sharpened blades.
When dawn broke, the valley was cloaked in thick mist. The empire’s army appeared first — a river of soldiers streaming down the eastern ridge, their polished armour catching the faint light like the scales of a monstrous serpent. Their banners, black and gold, snapped fiercely in the chill wind.
The Varasian warriors waited, cloaked among the trees and rocks, their breath steady and weapons ready. As the first horns sounded and the clash began, the earth shook beneath the thunder of boots and the cries of battle.
Soren fought with the strength and precision of the forest’s great bears, his blade cutting a path through the enemy. Beside him, the king’s voice rang out, rallying the weary troops. But the empire’s forces were relentless, pressing harder with each wave.
The tide began to turn against Varasia. The lines wavered; hope seemed to slip like sand through fingers. It was then that the legends came alive.
From the deep woods, where the shadows lay thick and the birds fell silent, a band of warriors appeared: the Guardians of the Grove. Cloaked in green and moving like the wind through leaves, these warriors were said to be blessed by the spirits of Monte Claro itself. Their arrows flew swiftly and silently, striking with unerring aim.
The empire’s soldiers faltered as the Guardians struck from the flanks, sowing confusion and fear. Soren caught sight of them first — their faces hidden beneath leaf-woven hoods, eyes blazing with a fierce light. The warriors fought not for gold or glory, but for the land that birthed them.
King Telon seized the moment. With a roar that echoed across the valley, he led a fierce charge. The Varasian warriors rallied, the fire of freedom burning bright in their hearts. The empire’s army, once certain of victory, now staggered beneath the unexpected assault.
But even as the battle turned, the cost was heavy. The fields of Monte Claro were littered with the fallen, friend and foe alike. Blood soaked the earth, mingling with the sweat and tears of a people fighting for their very souls.
In the heart of the fray, Soren found himself face to face with General Marvek, the iron-hearted commander of the empire’s forces. Tall and grim, Marvek was a man who fought not just with a sword but with cold calculation. Their duel was fierce, each strike ringing through the air like thunder.
Soren’s heart pounded, but he remembered the stories his grandmother told: “Be courageous and strong not only in body but also in spirit.” With a final, deft move, Soren disarmed Marvek, sending the general’s sword clattering to the stones. Marvek fell to his knees, defeated.
The battle was won.
King Dom Telon stood atop Monte Claro as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of amber and blood. Raising his sword high, he cried out: “Varasia is free! Let no man ever say our spirits can be broken!”
The people cheered, their voices rising like a great wave. The winds carried their songs through the forest, through the valleys and beyond. The land itself seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
In the years that followed, the story of Monte Claro grew, passed down from parents to children, from elders to strangers. It became more than a tale of war — it was a symbol of hope, a reminder that no empire, no matter how mighty, could conquer a people united by love of home.
They say the trees on Monte Claro still whisper the names of the fallen, and that on quiet nights, the wind carries the song of freedom — the song the Varasians sang when they took back their land.
And so, the kingdom of Varasia lived on, free and proud, under skies that belonged to them alone.