Steel and Ambition: No SV, Just Building the Guns Won't Make for a Successful Business. You Need More!

Death has Come Part 2: A Simple Letter

You had run for hours, carrying both of your sisters through the dense wilderness, your lungs burning, your legs screaming for rest. Every step forward was another step away from the nightmare unfolding behind you. And yet, even as you pushed ahead, you swore you could still hear it. The distant echoes of gunfire, the crackling of flames, the faintest cries of battle carried by the wind.

There was a war going on back home. A war of one man and his wife against the Shogun's samurai.

And you knew the truth, as much as you hated it.

You would never see them again.

Stopping was not an option. Turning back was a death sentence. You would die with them, your body burned alongside the wreckage of your home. Your parents had made their stand and paid the price. Your duty was to survive.

But duty or not, Miriko still cried, her little body trembling as she clung to you, fear mixing with the creeping chill of twilight. Makoto stumbled beside you, her breath coming in ragged gasps, too stubborn to complain but too small to keep going much longer.

You knew what needed to be done.

If anything were to happen, if someone found you, you needed them calm. Focused. A part of you felt cruel for even thinking it. How could you ask that of them? They were just children.

But then, so were you.

And yet, here you were. The only one that could protect them.

The only thing you had left in the world was a single letter and your two younger sisters. That was all.

You couldn't even read the letter in the growing darkness. But it wouldn't matter until you stopped running. And you couldn't keep going forever.

Makoto was the first to break the silence, her voice small, barely more than a whisper.

"Are you okay, Miki?"

The question caught in your throat. How could you be okay?

Your entire world had been shattered in the span of a single night. You had no home, no family—no future except for the one you could carve from the unknown. You didn't even know where you were going, only that Kyoto lay ahead.

But what else could you say?

What else could you tell them, other than the lie you wanted to believe?

"I'll be okay," you whispered, pulling them both closer. "We will be okay."

You found a sturdy tree, resting your back against it, your arms wrapped tightly around your sisters. The forest was dark, the night settling in around you like a heavy cloak, but the warmth of their small bodies pressed against yours was enough. If any snow fell, you would die here.

It had to be enough.

And so, together, you held each other close.

And then, finally, you drifted to sleep.

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The hilltop was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of twilight, and for a moment, the world felt still.

Your father sat beside you, just as he had so many times before, his presence calm and steady, as if he had been waiting for you.

"Am I dead?" you asked.

He gave a small, knowing smile. "Far from it. Though I am." His voice was soft, carrying the weight of truths unspoken. "But I suppose you already knew that. Once the fire stopped… and you saw the smoke in the distance."

You swallowed, your throat tightening. You had known. You just hadn't wanted to.

"Is this a dream?"

"A dream, a memory… a hope." He shrugged. "It does not matter. Not really." His gaze was distant for a moment, then returned to you with quiet warmth. "Maybe you just need to hear something you already know. Maybe…" He paused. "Come. Sit."

You did.

And it was light, so light, like you were made of air, as if the weight of exhaustion and grief had been stripped away. Yet his hand, when it rested lightly on your shoulder, felt strange. A shimmering shade of something half-real. Present, but distant. Like he was there, but also… not.

"Where is Mother?" you asked.

He smiled faintly. "She'll be here. Eventually." His tone was unreadable, as if meeting her here would bring him some happiness. "If you wish." He tilted his head slightly. "But something tells me… You came here to speak to me."

You hesitated, looking down at your hands before finally meeting his eyes.

"How can I protect them?"

For the first time, he chuckled, low and deep, like he used to when he found amusement in something only he understood. "You've kept them alive so far. And you are almost to Kyoto. So then, you can finish your mission… and be safe."

Safe.

The word felt foreign now.

You swallowed again, unsure of why you hesitated. But then, finally, you admitted, "I… I didn't read the letter."

It was the last thing they had left you. The last thing you had.

And yet, you had kept it folded away, untouched, as if opening it would break something inside you that couldn't be put back together.

Your father regarded you carefully, then simply asked:

"Are you afraid of its contents? Afraid of what it could be?"

That was it.

You didn't know.

The letter sat like a weight in your mind, unopened, unread, a mystery that could change everything, or nothing at all.

"Would you write something I wouldn't want to hear?" you asked, hesitating.

Your father's gaze was steady. "I would write what was needed." His voice was neither gentle nor harsh, just certain as he always was in your mind and memory. "Something to keep you alive. To keep you safe. And, if I could, to provide you with assistance."

His words settled into your bones.

It felt as if he was pulling thoughts straight from your own mind, speaking the unspoken fears, the quiet hopes you barely dared to admit. A childish wish, finally given voice.

"Or maybe," he added, tilting his head slightly, "it only contains the words you need to keep going."

You looked at the letter in your hands.

And then, with trembling fingers, you opened it.

It wasn't a death poem. No final lament, no poetic farewell written in solemn brushstrokes.

It was simple.

A letter from your mother and father, written in plain script—so that all of you could read it, no matter how rushed, no matter how desperate the moment.

It was filled with words of hope.

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To our beloved children, but to you, Miki,

By the time you read this, we will be gone. That is the simple truth of it.

We will die defending you, and you may never fully understand the reason behind our sacrifice. Perhaps the Emperor will abandon his promise. Perhaps the Shogun, realizing too late what has been done here, will regret the loss of a gunsmith capable of shaping the future of warfare.

But none of that matters now. Because we will not be there to see it. We will not be there to protect you.

Miki, you have always been different. You were never just a craftsman like us, you are a creator, a dreamer, a builder of things beyond what even we could comprehend. Had you stayed with us, had you remained under our roof, we might have held you back, caging your brilliance within the forge, fearing the unknown roads your mind wished to walk.

But now, we see it clearly.

That curiosity in your eyes, the hunger in your hands, the endless pursuit of something greater, these are your gifts, and they are not meant to be contained.

The world is changing, Miki. The old ways will break, whether men wish them to or not. And when they do, the future will not belong to those who cling to dust and fading tradition. It will belong to those who dare to shape it.

And you, our son, have the chance to be one of them.

Yet, you do not walk this path alone.

Your sisters carry the same spark of wonder that you do. They, too, are meant for more than what this world might allow them. It is not enough that you survive, Miki. You must protect them. Teach them. Nurture the same fire in them that burns within you.

Do not let them be stifled. Do not let the world tell them they cannot create, cannot learn, cannot dream as you do.

Let them grow.

Let them become cherry blossoms of creation, as you have.

With eternal love,
Mother and Father

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The Letter was open when you awoke, and the sun felt warm, as the light touched your face.

You didn't know… but you felt content.

You merely folded it back up… and picked up your two sisters, letting them sleep.

And you kept walking.

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You arrived in Kyoto, what do you do?:

[]Rest: You need to rest, because all you need is rest.

[]March towards the Emperor: You will deliver the sword as you father wished.

[]Walk Away: This place… is not worth your potential. You are going to leave, taking the artifact with you. Find your own way.

AN: Enjoy.