Kurogane Ikki: "Another one!"

The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding hues of crimson and gold across the horizon. Shadows stretched long over the dirt roads of the village, flickering as the last of the lanterns were lit. A hush fell over the streets as heavy boots met the packed earth, each step sending a quiet ripple of tension through the onlookers.

Tengri Baatar walked with an unhurried pace, his towering form a stark contrast to the smaller, wiry villagers who hurried out of his way. His broad shoulders cast long shadows against the earthen walls, and the smell of sweat, blood, and the wild clung to him like a mantle. Over his shoulder, the fresh game he had hunted swung lazily, the scent of raw meat trailing behind him.

Villagers peered cautiously from their homes—some peeking from behind door curtains, others standing in the open but not daring to meet his gaze for too long.

Even after months of his presence, they were not yet accustomed to him.

..................

"It's him."

"The warrior from the west..."

"The beast hunter."

"No, fool. The bandit killer."

The murmurs floated through the air like wind rustling through dry grass, cautious yet reverent.

An old potter leaned against his stall, speaking in hushed tones to a neighbor.

"I saw it with my own eyes," he muttered, voice tinged with something between fear and awe. "A group of ten men, each armed to the teeth. And he..." The old man hesitated, shaking his head as if recalling something unbelievable. "He slaughtered them like ducks in a pond."

A young apprentice, barely past his teenage years, gulped. "I thought there were only five?"

The potter scoffed. "Five? No, boy. Ten. And he cut through them like they were straw dummies in a soldier's training ground."

The Memory of Blood

It had been just a few months ago, at dusk, when the bandits came.

Ten men, filthy and armed with rusted sabers and bows, thinking a small village near the forest was easy prey.

They were not expecting Tengri Baatar.

He had stood at the village's entrance, alone, his curved bow already drawn.

The first arrow found its mark in the leader's throat. He had barely fallen before the next was loosed—another man collapsing mid-stride, clutching his chest as blood soaked his tunic.

The bandits hesitated.

Too late.

A third arrow.

A scream.

Then, the warrior charged.

By the time they realized they were not hunters, but hunted, he was already among them—his spear flashing like the fangs of a wolf in the dark.

A bandit swung wildly, only to find the Mongol's saber in his gut, twisting cruelly before being yanked free. Another tried to flee—Tengri's spear impaled him clean through the back.

The last ones, terrified, tried to rush him at once.

It made no difference.

The villagers had only dared to watch from the safety of their homes, witnessing the spectacle of a lone warrior cutting through ten men like a whirlwind.

When it was over, he did not even glance at the bodies. He simply cleaned his weapons, dragged their corpses to the road, and left them for the wild animals to claim.

.....................

Now, as Tengri walked through the village streets, those who had once cowered now lowered their heads in silent acknowledgment.

The baker offered a nod from his stall.

The blacksmith, who had once clutched a hammer at the sight of him, now merely grunted in greeting.

A group of children, too young to remember the bloodshed, watched him with wide, curious eyes. One boy, braver than the rest, mimicked Tengri's gait, puffing out his chest and walking in exaggerated strides.

The hunter caught it from the corner of his eye but said nothing.

Only the faintest curve of amusement touched his lips.

A small girl, clutching her mother's robe, whispered, "Is he a demon?"

The mother stiffened but did not correct her.

.........

The soft hum of evening cicadas filled the air, blending with the faint crackling of the lantern flames that swayed gently in the cool night breeze. Guo Ren sat in the courtyard, arms folded behind his back, enjoying the crisp evening air. Mei Lian sat beside him, rocking Ikki gently in her arms, humming a quiet lullaby. The child was wide awake, his black eyes fixed on the flickering lanterns, his tiny fingers occasionally grasping at the air as if trying to capture the dancing light.

The peaceful stillness of the evening was soon disrupted by the measured, heavy steps of an approaching figure. The rhythmic crunch of boots on gravel preceded the deep, rumbling voice that carried across the courtyard.

"Master Guo. Madame Guo."

The voice, though gruff, was carefully measured—a warrior's discipline wrapped in the deference due to one's elders.

Mei Shi, just stepping out from the kitchen with a rag in her hands, narrowed her eyes in suspicion as she turned toward the sound.

Tengri Baatar strode into the lantern light, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the courtyard. His thick, fur-lined cloak was slung over one shoulder, the scent of iron and pine clinging to his clothes from his evening patrol. His features were rugged, his beard framing a face weathered by wind and battle. Despite the dust clinging to his boots and the dried blood speckling his hunting leathers, his posture remained impeccably formal.

"You departed without my escort."

His tone was polite, but the undercurrent of quiet reprimand was unmistakable.

Guo Ren barely turned his head, unimpressed.

"You were patrolling the perimeter," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "We were visiting the shrine, not going to war."

Tengri exhaled sharply through his nose—a gesture that was neither agreement nor disagreement.

Without another word, he unshouldered his game—a trio of pheasants and two hares, all neatly pierced with arrows—and placed them near Mei Shi.

Only then did his storm-gray gaze flicker toward Mei Lian. His keen eyes immediately honed in on the small bundle in her arms.

"And what is this?" His voice, though still polite, carried a note of disbelief.

The infant in Mei Lian's lap stared back at him, his tiny fingers tightening around the silk of her sleeve as if sensing the weight of the moment.

Mei Lian smiled gently. "A gift from the heavens."

Tengri's brow twitched, his expression shifting into something unreadable. His people were not ones to speak of 'gifts from the heavens' lightly.

"A child?" he asked, his voice low, as if testing the words on his tongue. "Where did you find him?"

Mei Lian's fingers traced soothing circles over Ikki's back. "By the shrine. Alone in the woods."

Tengri stiffened.

His sharp instincts flared, honed from years of dealing with raiders, assassins, and more than a few things that lurked where no child should have been left alone.

"Alone?"

"Yes," Guo Ren confirmed, leaning back against the wooden railing. "No tracks. No footprints. No signs of how he got there."

Tengri's expression darkened. His eyes flickered toward the forest as if expecting answers to materialize from the trees.

A child, alone in the wilderness, with no trace of who left him?

That was not natural.

"And you did not think to tell me immediately?" His tone remained calm—too calm—but the tightness in his jaw betrayed his disapproval.

Guo Ren exhaled, rubbing his temple. "We were preoccupied."

"Preoccupied?"

The measured formality in Tengri's tone did not waver, but there was a flicker of sharp scrutiny in his gaze. He had fought beside Guo Ren in his younger years—he knew the man was thorough, careful, almost annoyingly methodical.

For him to dismiss something this strange…

"Master Guo," Tengri continued, more insistent this time, "what truly happened?"

Guo Ren let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping absently against the wooden porch.

"The child avoided a wolf's attack."

Tengri's gaze sharpened instantly, his broad shoulders stiffening as if he had misheard. His storm-gray eyes darkened, narrowing at Mei Lian with the intensity of a man trying to determine if he was being deceived.

"Madame Guo," he said slowly, his tone laced with the rare weight of disbelief, "forgive me, but did you just say the boy… dodged?"

Mei Lian, ever composed, nodded once. She did not elaborate immediately. Instead, she studied Tengri's expression, a quiet amusement flickering in her gaze at the rare sight of the unshakable warrior looking so utterly perplexed.

"You heard correctly, Baatar."

Tengri exhaled sharply through his nose. He turned to Guo Ren, as if seeking some rational explanation from a fellow man of discipline and knowledge.

"Master Guo," he said, his voice measured, "surely you exaggerate?"

Guo Ren, to Tengri's mild surprise, merely stroked his beard and nodded.

"I do not."

Tengri blinked, still struggling to process the words.

"Then explain," he pressed, stepping forward, his fingers unconsciously brushing against the hilt of his saber as if grounding himself. "You said the child dodged. But how? Did someone pull him away at the last moment?"

"No one was there," Mei Lian said, her voice turning faintly wistful. "A wolf had found him first."

Tengri froze.

The lines of his face hardened, his jaw tightening. His large hands curled slightly, his mind immediately conjuring the worst scenarios—the shredded remains of an infant, blood soaking into the dirt, bones cracked beneath the weight of fangs.

"A wolf?" he repeated, his voice dropping an entire octave, cold and dangerous.

His entire body shifted, the subtle movement of a seasoned warrior readying himself for battle even though the threat had long passed. His other hand moved toward his bow—an instinct, an old habit.

"A sickly one, weakened from hunger," Guo Ren clarified, his voice steady but firm, the words chosen carefully to temper Tengri's rising tension.

Tengri's fingers slowly relaxed away from his saber.

Still, his expression remained unreadable.

"And the boy? He was injured?"

"No."

Tengri's brow furrowed. He took a deep breath.

"Then… how did he survive?"

"He avoided its attack—dodged it," Guo Ren repeated.

A pregnant silence settled between them.

Tengri stared at the scholar, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he turned back to Mei Lian.

"...Dodged?"

"Mm," Mei Lian hummed. She adjusted Ikki slightly, her fingers absentmindedly tracing small circles against his back, as if the boy's very existence was still a marvel to her. "It was not perfect, but it was deliberate. His body moved… as if it had already learned."

Tengri's mouth parted slightly in astonishment.

He was not a man easily shaken. He had seen boys no older than fifteen cleave a man's skull open in the steppes. He had witnessed archers loose arrows with deadly accuracy before they had even reached adulthood.

But a child barely able to stand… dodging a wolf?

His thick brows furrowed, his rugged face etched with something between awe and sheer incomprehension.

"At that age…" he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with disbelief.

He stared at the boy now, truly seeing him for the first time.

The calmness in his dark eyes. The way he studied everything—not like a baby, but like a warrior assessing his surroundings.

"Hah." Tengri let out a short, astonished breath. His lips curled into an incredulous grin. "What is he, a reincarnation of Lü Bu?"

Guo Ren's temper flared instantly.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!"

Tengri chuckled, thoroughly amused at the scholar's reaction.

"Oh? And why is that, Master Guo?"

Guo Ren huffed irritably, folding his arms across his chest. "That brute was no scholar. His strength was immense, but his mind was a pile of wet straw. If my grandson must be compared, let it be to someone worthy—like Zhang Liang!"

Tengri barked a laugh, shaking his head.

"Ah, so he is already your grandson, then?"

Guo Ren froze.

Mei Lian smiled knowingly.

Tengri's smirk widened.

The scholar, realizing his own slip, coughed loudly, shifting uncomfortably. "That is beside the point!"

Mei Lian's gentle laugh filled the air. "So, you are happy, after all?"

Guo Ren grumbled something incomprehensible, stroking his beard, but the faintest trace of a smile betrayed him.

Tengri, watching the exchange, let out a deep exhale. He glanced at the child once more, his expression softer now—no longer just that of a warrior studying a strange phenomenon, but of a man… considering something greater.

Finally, he straightened his back, rolling his shoulders.

"Tomorrow, I will inspect the area where you found him," he declared. "No child appears without a trace. There may be clues we missed."

Mei Lian nodded approvingly. "Be thorough."

"I always am."

With that, the warrior turned to Mei Shi.

"Prepare the birds," he said. "We will eat well tonight."

Mei Shi scowled immediately, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. "And you—go wash! You stink of blood. You'll give the boy nightmares smelling like a slaughterhouse!"

Tengri snorted. "You act as if the boy hasn't already met death in the woods."

"He is a baby, not a soldier!" Mei Shi huffed. "We don't need you filling his head with blood and steel before he's even grown teeth!"

Tengri, ever the warrior, grinned slightly. "Hah. I'll leave the coddling to you, old woman."

Mei Shi smacked his arm. "And take off those boots before stepping inside!"

A Night of Unspoken Understanding

As the evening stretched on, the household fell into its usual rhythm.

The birds were plucked and cooked, the fire pit crackling warmly as the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Guo Ren relaxed with a cup of warmed rice wine, Mei Lian kept Ikki nestled against her chest, and Mei Shi continued to bicker with Tengri about everything from his eating habits to his tracking skills.

Tengri's sharp eyes lingered on the child nestled in Mei Lian's arms, then shifted subtly toward Guo Ren. There was something different about them—a quiet change that had settled into their expressions. The weight that had once lined Mei Lian's face, the sorrow that had dulled Guo Ren's sharp wit, seemed lighter now. They sat with purpose, not just routine; they spoke with warmth, not just obligation. For years, they had carried grief like an unspoken burden, their lives moving forward but never truly living. And yet, as he watched Mei Lian gently rock the child, as he noted the quiet amusement in Guo Ren's eyes rather than cold calculation, Tengri recognized something he had not seen in them for a long time—contentment. A rare softness crossed his rugged face, a fleeting moment of quiet satisfaction. They had found something worth protecting again. And for that, he was glad.

And yet, despite all the grumbling, there was an ease to the night.

Tengri, for all his gruffness, found his gaze wandering to the small child curled against Mei Lian's robes.

A babe, barely able to walk, yet already carrying the air of someone who had seen too much.

"Lü Bu, huh?" he muttered to himself, taking a sip of his drink. "No… something else."

He glanced at Guo Ren, who watched the boy with a proud gleam in his eyes.

Tengri chuckled under his breath. "Hah. You old scholar. You're already invested."

Guo Ren, pretending not to hear, simply adjusted his robes.

"You'd best be careful," Tengri murmured. "A storm follows children like this."

Guo Ren took a slow sip of his wine and smirked.

"Then we will teach him to weather it."

Ikki Watched It All.

He did not understand their words, not fully.

But he understood their movements.

The way the warrior and the old woman exchanged barbed words but never meant harm.

The way the old man—his grandfather—clung to logic but still smiled at him.

The way the gentle woman—his grandmother—held him with quiet certainty.

He was safe.

For the first time since waking in this world—

He was home.