Death Guns In Another World

The following morning, Saeko woke with sunlight streaming through the inn’s small window, golden beams warming the worn wooden floorboards. For the first time in many days, she didn’t rise with urgency or the itch of looming danger. The weight that usually settled in her chest like coiled steel was gone—at least for now.

She took a slow breath, letting it fill her lungs, and exhaled with a sense of clarity.

Today, there were no missions. No blades to draw. No blood to spill.

Today was hers.

After a quick wash and a modest breakfast of porridge and dried berries, Saeko stepped out into the streets of Rivermere with only her katana strapped to her back and a light cloak over her shoulders. The city opened before her like a living tapestry—alive, breathing, and humming with stories.

The morning air was crisp and scented with fresh bread and the dew-drenched earth. Cobblestone streets shimmered with moisture, and sunlight danced across slate rooftops. Rivermere was older than many towns she’d visited, but it wore its age well. The walls were etched with ivy, and the buildings bore the graceful architecture of a bygone era—arched windows, balconies wrapped in wrought iron, painted murals fading into stone.

She wandered first toward the market square, where vendors called out in singsong voices, offering fragrant spices, embroidered linens, handmade charms, and foreign trinkets. Children laughed as they chased a street performer’s conjured butterflies—golden, glowing illusions that flitted through the air. A woman played a haunting melody on a bone flute, the notes curling through the square like a gentle fog.

Saeko paused to watch. Not just the musician, but everything.

The way a baker dusted loaves with flour like snow. The way a blacksmith smiled at his apprentice after a perfect strike. The quiet affection of an elderly couple sharing tea under a faded awning.

This city was alive with love and struggle, joy and pain—and for the first time in a long while, Saeko let herself feel part of it.

She drifted into a shop selling old books and maps, the scent of parchment wrapping around her like a warm blanket. An old man with round spectacles looked up from behind the counter, smiled, and went back to his reading without asking questions. She traced her fingers over ancient tomes—histories of kingdoms long gone, atlases of unexplored lands, journals written by wandering knights and scholars. One leather-bound volume caught her eye: The Winds Beyond the Wall.

She opened it to a random page. The passage read:

“To command the wind is not to possess it—but to listen, to understand. It does not obey. It follows those who walk with purpose.”

She closed the book, her chest tightening unexpectedly.

How many days had she fought without stopping to understand her own purpose? How often had she buried her emotions beneath layers of discipline and steel?

She bought the book and tucked it into her cloak.

Leaving the shop, Saeko meandered toward the river. Rivermere had taken its name from the great Veilin River that curved through its center like a silver ribbon. A stone bridge arched over it, and beside the banks, a small garden had been carved into the land—rows of blue irises, dragon lilies, and soft white valerian. She found a bench there, half-shaded by a birch tree, and sat for a long time in silence.

Birds chirped in the distance. A young boy fed ducks nearby, his mother watching from a distance with tired but kind eyes.

Saeko closed her eyes.

In the calm, she felt the wind stir again—soft, curious, almost playful. It wrapped around her like a memory. Not a call to fight, not a warning. Just presence.

She thought of her village—of what little she remembered. Faces blurred by time, laughter buried by loss. The image of her father came unbidden: standing tall at the edge of a field, his hand on her shoulder, showing her how to feel the direction of the wind with her palm open.

“Trust it, Saeko. Let it teach you. Let it carry what you can’t.”

Her throat tightened. She hadn’t thought of him in years.

She hadn’t let herself.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. But something shifted inside her—a loosening, a slow, inevitable unraveling of old walls. She sat there for what felt like hours, letting the moment hold her.

Eventually, her feet brought her to the outer edges of town, where artisans worked in sunlit courtyards. She watched a glassblower shape a sphere of glowing red into a perfect orb, its center catching the light like a captured star. Nearby, a woman painted river scenes onto tiles, her fingers stained with cobalt and green. She spoke with the painter briefly—asked about a landscape that reminded her of a lake she once passed near a border town.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the woman asked, her tone gentle.

“No,” Saeko replied. “But it’s starting to feel like I could be.”

The artist smiled. “Then maybe you’re closer to home than you think.”

By midday, she found herself on a hill just outside the walls. From there, she could see all of Rivermere—the spires, the bridges, the domes of temples, the winding alleyways, and the ever-flowing river. The wind picked up again, rustling the grass around her.

She knelt, placed a hand to the earth, and whispered a quiet vow.

“To grow stronger. Not for pride. Not for power. But to protect. To understand. And maybe… to belong.”

When she stood again, something inside her felt quieter. Lighter.

As evening fell, the city shifted into gold and amber. Lanterns were lit, music echoed from taverns, and laughter spilled from courtyards.

Saeko returned to the inn with a satchel of small purchases—a carved wind chime, a journal, the book of wind lore. Simple things. But they meant something.

In her room, she hung the chime by the window. When the breeze came, it rang softly—like a song only she could hear.

That night, she slept well.