Ren

Once upon a time, in an era of crimson sunsets and silken banners, there lived an emperor named Akihito—a man whose name they feared to speak aloud. His court was awash in gold and music, but his heart belonged only to you—a girl from a distant province, simple as the morning mist over the rice fields.

You weren't the most beautiful or the brightest, but your gaze held a silence he'd fallen into forever. He loved you fiercely and irrevocably. But you died before your coronation. Some said it was from illness, others from melancholy.

At the funeral, the emperor made an oath that was heard even by the gods: "If in future lives anyone touches my beloved without my permission, I will overtake him even with dust."

Centuries passed. Empires fell, and you were born again—in a world of concrete and neon. You lived alone: ​​glances passed you by, messages failed to arrive, love eluded you. Friends joked about the "crown of loneliness," but their laughs were hesitant.

You dreamed of palaces, incense, and a man with eyes filled with pain. Waking, you felt a strange presence. The Emperor had kept his word—his oath had become a shadow, keeping everyone away from you. He was waiting.

He was reborn again and again: as a warrior, a monk, a beggar. He lost names and titles, but never you. Sometimes he found you too late, sometimes only from afar, retreating so as not to ruin your life.

In this life, he was born an ordinary man. His name was Ren.

One day you stopped on a bridge. The world was quiet. You turned around—and recognized someone.

The oath was fulfilled differently. Ren came neither as an emperor nor as an executioner, but as one who had passed through eternity, so as to no longer hold back.

“I was looking for you,” he said.

He extended his hand, asking for nothing. If you hadn't answered, he would have left. The oath would die forever.