The sky above the forest village of Aerthos was painted a somber shade of gray, rain pattering against the leaves and earth as if whispering secrets only the trees could understand. Thirteen hunters, their cloaks soaked and their spirits dampened by the dreary weather, stumbled upon a disturbing sound echoing from the depths of the nearby cavern. The cries of a child pierced the quietude, a stark contrast to the tranquil whispers of the rain. Their curiosity piqued, the hunters cautiously approached the cave's mouth, their footsteps muffled by the moist underbrush.
Upon entering the dimly lit chamber, they were met with the sight of a solitary figure, a four-year-old boy sitting amidst the dampened stone, tears streaming down his cheeks. His tiny hands were wrapped around the hilt of a crimson katana, which gleamed eerily in the flickering torchlight. The hunters, fathers and brothers themselves, were taken aback by the incongruous scene. They had never seen a child so young wielding such a weapon, nor one so distressed. One burly man, his heart aching for the child's plight, stepped forward and gently scooped the boy into his arms, the katana clattering to the ground beside them. The child, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, continued to nibble at the fabric of his hood, his eyes distant and unfocused.
While the rest of the group gathered around, another hunter, intrigued, reached out to pick up the abandoned sword. But as his calloused fingers wrapped around the crimson grasp, an unexpected wave of anguish surged through his body. The room turned, and his heart beat as if he were trying to get rid of his chest, blood gushed from his nostrils, and he had to drop the sword as if it were an angry ember. He staggered back, gasping for breath, and breathlessly spoke, "This...cursed sword...!" The other hunters took a collective step back, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and bewilderment.
The boy, who did not seem affected by the commotion, remained silent, his teeth still clamped on the fabric of his headdress. It was as if the sword were an extension of his pain, and the moment it left his grasp, he withdrew into himself, a silent sentinel in a world that had turned against him. The burly man who was holding the child looked at the sword, then at the child and whispered to the others, "He is not a normal child." The words hung in the air, full of innuendo.