Chapter 1 The Great Shokoyo Mascara
The morning mist hung low over Shokoyo village.
Naihel clutched his newborn brother, hiding behind the slats of his small hut.
A faint creak echoed from the village gates.
His mother, frantic, shouted:
“Naihel! Hide! Don’t make a sound!”
Her voice trembled, but there was steel behind it.
She grabbed a bucket of water, throwing it at the approaching warriors, but it did nothing.
The pounding of boots grew louder.
A warrior’s voice cut through the chaos:
“Shokoyo scum! Step aside, or die first!”
A woman screamed as she was dragged from her home.
Naihel’s stomach twisted.
“No! Mother! Stop!” he shouted, his voice cracking.
He clutched his brother tighter.
The mother fought against a warrior, her nails scraping his armor.
“You’ll never take my child! Never!” she cried, but the warrior laughed, his teeth flashing.
“Foolish woman. Your clan is nothing. You will die.”
Naihel’s small hands trembled as he tried
to make sense of what was happening.
Another child, barely older than him, was impaled on a bamboo spear.
The spear grew instantly, cutting through flesh, and the child’s scream made Naihel’s ears ring.
“Please… stop… someone help…”
But there was no one.
Only laughter.
The warriors laughed as they crushed the weak underfoot.
One urinated on an old man trying to stand.
“Pathetic! You call yourselves humans? Even dogs are braver!” a warrior shouted, kicking him again.
Naihel pressed his brother to his chest, hiding behind the ruined wall.
“Stay quiet, brother… please, just be quiet…” he whispered, tears streaming.
The world outside burned in fire, blood, and screams.
The smell of burning wood and iron filled his nostrils.
Every second was stretched into an eternity.
He could not move.
He could not cry.
He could not help.
Naihel’s heart thumped in his chest like a drum of war, each beat echoing the screams outside.
His small fingers dug into the wooden slats as if he could somehow hold the world together.
Smoke curled into the hut, acrid and suffocating.
The fire from the burning huts painted the mist in shades of orange and red, the shadows of death moving across the walls of his home.
From the other side of the village square, he heard a voice that made his blood run cold.
“Bring me the boy! The little brat of Shokoyo!”
one warrior shouted.
Naihel’s stomach turned.
His brother whimpered in fear, tiny arms flailing.
Naihel pressed himself tighter against the wall.
The floorboards groaned under the weight of soldiers entering the hut.
Dust and ash filled the air, making it hard to breathe.
A warrior shoved the door open, his boot catching the edge and splintering the wood.
“Is this all that’s hiding? Pathetic.”
He laughed, stepping inside, his sword glinting in the flickering firelight.
Naihel’s mind raced.
He had nothing—no weapon, no strength, only his body and his brother’s fragile life in his hands.
The warrior’s eyes locked onto the two of them.
“Move, little Shokoyo, or I’ll tear you from this world!”
“No… please… leave us… we did nothing…”
Naihel whispered, his voice barely audible.
His tiny body shook.
The warrior kicked the wall near him, sending splinters flying.
“Nothing? Your whole clan is worthless vermin! You breathe, you die!”
Outside, more screams erupted.
Naihel caught sight of his mother again, pinned beneath a taller, monstrous warrior.
Her hair was matted with blood, her robes torn.
“I… I won’t let you take him!” she screamed, her voice raw.
“Silence! All of you will burn before the sun rises!” the warrior snapped, raising his bamboo spear.
It sprouted instantly, sharp and glinting, slicing through the air.
The sound of tearing flesh made Naihel gag.
He clutched his brother tighter.
Another scream cut through the chaos.
A child from the neighboring hut had been impaled in the same way, their tiny body pinned against the wooden wall. Blood sprayed across the yard.
“HAHA! Pathetic little vermin! How do you even survive without us crushing you first?” one warrior shouted, kicking the fallen child.
The old man who had tried to help earlier whimpered.
“Please… please… spare us…”
The warrior sneered.
“Spare? There is no mercy for Shokoyo. You are less than dogs. Even the animals spit on you.”
A second warrior kicked the old man’s ribs.
He gasped, blood mixing with the dirt under him.
Another laughed and urinated on him.
Naihel wanted to scream.
He wanted to rush out and fight, but his six-year-old body could not do anything.
All he could do was watch, absorb the horror, and pray in silence.
His mother’s voice pierced his heart again:
“Naihel! RUN! Take your brother and RUN! Hide! I… I cannot save you!”
“No! I… I… I can’t leave you!” Naihel cried, tears blinding him.
“You must! Survive for him… survive for the boy…” her voice faltered as a soldier grabbed her by the hair, dragging her across the burning dirt.
Naihel’s vision blurred with tears.
He pressed his face to his brother’s, trying to shield him.
The screams, the smell of burning wood, the acrid smoke, the stench of blood, urine, and sweat—it all seared into his mind.
Every second was a lifetime of horror.
Then he heard it: the cackling laughter of the commander, the one in blackened armor, carrying a sword that gleamed red in the firelight.
“Enough! Destroy everything! Leave nothing for memory! The Shokoyo are nothing! Their blood is the Creator’s feast!”
Another scream pierced Naihel’s ears.
He had no strength to stand.
He could do nothing.
All he could do was hold his brother, breathe through the smoke, and memorize every detail—the screams, the chaos, the cruelty.
Every sound, every smell, every flicker of fire would be etched into him forever.
And in that moment, a tiny, unspoken resolve formed in his heart:
“I will survive. I will survive, no matter what. For him… for my brother… for the Shokoyo… I will survive.”
The soldiers moved past, leaving behind chaos.
Homes were ash, bodies strewn across the ground, blood slicked dirt everywhere.
The village he had known, the people he had loved, everything was gone.
Only the smell of death, smoke, and despair remained.
Naihel remained behind the ruined wall, shaking, clutching his brother, tasting blood and soot in his mouth, listening to the occasional moan of survivors—or the final silence of those who were already dead.
He could not cry.
His six-year-old mind tried to process the impossibility of it.
His body was numb from fear and exhaustion.
But one thing was clear: he would survive, no matter what horrors awaited.
The cries outside slowly began to thin, but the silence that replaced them was somehow worse.
For a long moment Naihel did not move.
He stayed pressed against the wall, his small back trembling, his newborn brother held tightly against his chest.
The baby’s tiny breaths brushed against
Naihel’s neck, warm and fragile.
Every breath reminded him of what his mother had shouted.
“Survive for him…”
Ash drifted through the doorway like gray snow.
Pieces of burnt wood cracked and fell somewhere outside.
The air was thick with smoke, stinging Naihel’s eyes and throat.
He swallowed hard.
“Shh… please… please don’t cry…”
Naihel whispered to the baby, rocking him slightly.
“They’ll hear us…”
The newborn let out a small whimper.
Naihel froze.
Outside the hut, boots scraped against the dirt.
Two warriors were still nearby.
“Did you check that house?” one of them asked lazily.
“Yeah,” another voice answered.
“Nothing but bodies and ash. The rest must have run into the forest.”
The first warrior snorted.
“Run? Shokoyo rats don’t run far.”
Their boots moved closer to the hut.
Naihel’s breath stopped completely.
He pulled his brother under his torn shirt, trying to hide the baby’s face against his chest.
The door, already broken, creaked as the wind pushed it slightly open.
One of the warriors stepped into the doorway.
Naihel could see only the man’s boots from behind the broken wall.
Thick iron boots stained with mud and dark patches that Naihel knew were blood.
The warrior looked around lazily.
“Look at this place,” he said.
“Filthy clan. No wonder the nobles wanted them wiped out.”
The other warrior laughed.
“Doesn’t matter. Orders are orders.
Aryan said none of them should remain.”
Naihel’s heart pounded so loudly he was certain the soldiers could hear it.
The baby stirred again.
Naihel pressed his hand gently over the
child’s mouth, terrified the sound would escape.
“Quiet… please… please…” he whispered desperately.
The first warrior kicked something inside the hut.
A wooden bowl rolled across the floor and hit the wall with a dull clack.
Naihel flinched.
“Nothing here,” the soldier muttered.
“Let’s move. Commander said to burn the rest.”
“Yeah. And the bodies too.”
Their boots scraped across the dirt again as they turned away.
For several seconds Naihel did not breathe.
Only when their footsteps faded into the distance did his body finally collapse forward.
His legs were shaking so badly he could barely stand.
Outside, the village of Shokoyo was no longer a village.
It was a graveyard.
Huts burned slowly, their wooden beams collapsing in showers of sparks.
Smoke drifted through the air in thick waves.
The ground was dark with spilled blood.
Naihel stepped out slowly, still clutching his brother.
The heat from nearby flames brushed against his face.
“Mother…?” he whispered weakly.
There was no answer.
He walked a few steps into the open yard.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Neighbors.
Friends.
People he had seen every day since he was born.
Some were motionless.
Others twitched weakly, breathing their last breaths.
A man near the well tried to raise his arm.
“Nai… hel…” the man rasped.
Naihel recognized him.
Old Haru, the man who used to give him sweet berries during the summer.
“Haru…!” Naihel ran toward him.
The old man’s chest was stained with blood.
His breathing was shallow.
“Listen… child…” Haru whispered painfully.
“You… must… run…”
“Where is my mother?” Naihel asked desperately.
“Did you see her?”
The old man’s eyes shifted weakly toward the far side of the square.
Naihel followed his gaze.
His mother lay there.
She was motionless in the dirt, her body twisted unnaturally.
For a moment Naihel simply stared.
His mind refused to understand what his eyes were seeing.
“No…” he whispered.
The baby in his arms made a small sound.
Naihel walked slowly across the square, his bare feet stepping through ash and dirt.
“Mother…?” he called again.
The only answer was the crackle of burning wood.
When he reached her, he knelt beside her body.
Her face was pale and streaked with dirt and blood.
Naihel touched her shoulder gently.
“Mother… wake up…” he whispered.
She did not move.
“Please… we need to go… the warriors are still here…” his voice trembled.
Still nothing.
The realization crept slowly into his chest like cold ice.
His mother was not sleeping.
She was gone.
Naihel’s small hands shook violently.
For the first time since the attack began, tears spilled down his face.
But even then he did not scream.
He could not.
His brother began crying softly.
Naihel wiped his eyes quickly.
“It’s okay…” he murmured, rocking the baby gently.
“I’m here… I’m here…”
He looked around the burning village.
Everything was gone.
His home.
His family.
His clan.
All that remained was smoke and silence.
Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a horn sounded.
A deep, sharp call.
One of the warriors shouted in the distance.
“Move out! The commander says we’re done here!”
Another voice answered.
“Let the forest take the rest!”
Their voices faded as the army began to leave.
Naihel stood slowly.
He looked one last time at his mother.
“I… I’ll protect him,” he whispered quietly.
“I promise…”
The wind carried sparks through the ruined village.
Naihel turned away from the only home he had ever known.
With his newborn brother held tightly against his chest, the six-year-old boy stepped toward the dark forest.
He did not know where he would go.
He did not know how he would survive.
But one thought echoed again and again in his mind.
Survive.
No matter what.
