Blades of Despair

-Epilogue-

Twenty-Three Years Later

The summer sun gazed down unfalteringly upon a small village, as it had every day since the village was founded. On some days, it would find its vision obscured by clouds of snow, rain and thunder, but the summer sun persisted in casting its glow upon the village nonetheless. Its heat bore down on the village's denizens almost oppressively; it was as though they were paying a penance for some crime by suffering its unbearable heat and humidity. In the fields, the arms and shoulders of farmers glistened with sweat as they toiled the crops and tended to livestock; in the square, merchants incessantly fanned both themselves and the flies buzzing around their produce, cursing the harsh weather while trying to keep their wares from perishing; by the river, a group of teenagers gossiped idly as they dipped their pale toes in the lukewarm waters. Despite the ferocity of its gaze, the summer sun could not interrupt the mundanity of human life, the repetitiveness of the day. Even its own life was bound to a twenty-four-hour cycle. The clouds of snow, rain and thunder were only temporary visitors, but the summer sun was constant. Even at night, the moon, unable to emit light of her own, would call on the sun to help her cast her own eerie glow.

However, not everyone in the village was as disturbed by the heat as the farmers and the merchants and the teenagers by the river. A single path of dirt and stone stuck out from the south of the square like a forgotten appendage. It snaked and curved with the natural terrain and along the slope of a nearby hill. It was not a large hill, many of the villagers were always quick to remark, but when the rest of the neighbouring land was flat, the not-so-large-hill was certainly noticeable. Atop the mound was a single building, the local bakery. On this particular day, the scents of freshly baked goods wafted faintly throughout; the bakery itself (which was located on the ground floor only) was closed that day, just as it had been every week since its currency occupants had moved in, but there were signs of life inside. The source of the faint smell of dough was a medium-sized, open-top basket of woven bamboo, donned with a tartan cloth of red and white. Inside the basket were dozens of golden, fluffy cupcakes, fresh and mouth-watering.

Upstairs, one could hear the frustrated sighs of a man: the baker. He was sitting at his writing desk with his head in his hands. He had been writing, as one does at a writing desk, in the hope that he would find answers to questions that had been plaguing him for years. Finding none, the man had resigned to sighing and massaging his temple. After a lengthy amount of time, during which the man did not move, he stared at the page before him, upon which he had managed to write only one sentence.

My name is Miyagawa Hitomaru, and I am a survivor of humanity's cruellest game.

It had been a long time since the man had heard or seen that name; he traced with his right index finger a line underneath the words. Twenty-three years, the man thought. It's been twenty-three years since I woke up in that hospital, since I met Lioness, and since the game ended. Many things had changed for the man in those twenty-three years. He had been given a new name, a new identity, a new life, just as Lioness and Sapphire had promised him and three others all those years ago. He had moved to this village to begin the new chapter of his life. When he arrived, some of the other residents gave him a knowing look. Other survivors, the man had soon realised. He was one of them, so he was warmly welcomed into the community by those who knew where he had come from, and by those who didn't. They never asked questions, and they never had open discussions about his origins, but they knew what he had been through. The man was given the bakery as a welcoming present, though he had been told to use the building as he saw fit. The man decided to learn how to bake and bring a little joy to the lives of the other villagers and, more importantly, to his own. It had been a challenge, but eventually the man learned to master the craft of baking over the twenty-three years he had lived there, and the bakery was a popular spot for the villagers. It did not go unnoticed by the man that the majority of his customers were women. After all, the years had been surprisingly kind to his features. He had only recently passed forty years, but his tall physique had remained muscular (he liked to go for a jog every morning). His eyes, though dark and brooding, were brimming with life, though more perceptive people would see the unmistakable sadness hiding in the corners. He had also grown out his facial hair, which he trimmed regularly to a neat and clean standard. There were plenty of blushing customers that would compliment him and his baking in the hope that he would flirt back or take even the slightest notice of them. But the man did not.