He looked up from his sketchboard in the sitting room of their house on Planet New Tokyo. "Yes, mum!"
Inaho took the last look at the picture he was working on. His school assignment, which he had to turn in in a few days. The picture depicted a warrior during a sword practice, with the shadow behind him forming a dragon. With a critical look, he took an eraser and removed the shadow from behind of the warrior.
He stood up and smiled to his mother as she entered the room. "I'm going," he said, knowing she preferred to sleep on the couch in the living room, the same one he worked at. She looked at his sketch.
"It's beautiful. For your assignment...?" She continued after Inaho had nodded, "I'm proud of you... But now go to sleep," she smiled to him and started making her bed.
They were both a happy family. Inaho's mother, Asada, worked as a bank clerk working for the IC on Roppongi, earning barely enough to pay for their living expenses, their rent and his tuition fee. In turn, Inaho was doing his best to get enough of good grades to keep his scholarship in Kita Art College. He was doing good, often topping his class with rather extraordinary artwork - often depicting characters and scenes from the Imperial Japan of the ancient Earth. His dream was having his works exhibited in the National Gallery on New Tokyo. It would never happen.
He walked to the bathroom and turned on the tap. Having splashed a bit of water on his face, he started brushing his teeth and looking at his reflection in the mirror. His appearance wasn't unusual - the typical Kusarian schoolboy who didn't pay much attention to his looks. His black hair - he let them grow past his shoulders already - gleamed slightly in the faint light. He spat the toothpaste, washed his hands and went to sleep. It was supposed to be a night like any other.
He was in a stream of air. He felt like he was floating, with the strong current blowing through his hair. Everything around was grey. Suddenly, the current faded down and let him stand on his feet. He saw a small point of darkness and curiously approached it.
The darkness jumped at him violently. He turned around and tried to run away from it, but it always found its way in front of him. Seeing this, he tried to fight it, but it consumed him. He felt being tossed around and eventually his consciousness faded.
The rising sun woke him up. His alarm didn't go off - it was already way past ten and he would be late for school.
Something was not right.
His mother would have woke him up. She didn't though. Was it Saturday, or he was going mad?
No, definitely not.
He got up, dressed and went to the bathroom. He saw a couple of red stains on his face in the reflection.
What is that?!
He walked down the stairs. He didn't hear the sound of Asada making breakfast. In fact, he didn't hear anything, but the faint creaking of the wooden planks under his feet.
Something was horribly wrong.
He walked to the sitting room...
"No..."
He fell to his knees.
Asada was lying on the couch, in a puddle of blood. She was dead.
"No!"
He crawled up to his mother's corpse. Her throat was wounded with a pencil. Some blood splashed on the sketch he was working on. Windows and doors were closed - nobody could get inside during the night. Inaho looked at his hands.
They were red with blood.
"No! It can't be! It's just a nightmare... please tell me it's just a nightmare. I couldn't have murdered her. It's not possible!"
Her body was already cold, he could do nothing but let his tears fall on the floor.
First came sadness. He couldn't believe it - the woman who he loved so much, his mother, was dead. Dead, by his own hands. He couldn't swallow it. He cried for the next moments, cried helplessly, over Asada's body.
Then came fury. Inaho ran to the kitchen and took a knife. His trembling hand moved the blade to his left wrist - he was ready for it... but he couldn't do it. He couldn't put enough pressure. He was too weak.
Next was panic. They would know, someone would realise that Asada didn't come to work that day. They might have called her and after she wouldn't respond, they would call the police. He was the only one present and all the evidence pointed to him as the killer. He had to escape. The only thing he grabbed was a piece of paper - his samurai artwork, now with Asada's blood on it - from his sketchboard and rumpled it into his pocket.
After he had already left the house, at last, came reason. Where could he go? Where could be the place for him to hide? He didn't know anything or anyone. Going outside Kusari would be unwise - he had no knowledge of outside culture and getting shot by pirates in the Border Worlds would be the only thing that would come to him. He knew of only one place where he would be safe and he didn't know anything about it but the name.
Kyoto.
Seven years later, a man was sitting in his apartment, deep down in the carved tunnels of Kyoto Base in Chugoku. His long, black hair was gathered in a neat ponytail. He was sitting perfectly still on a straw mat. Only a very discerning observer could notice his eyes moving rapidly under his closed eyes.
He wasn't sleeping. He hadn't slept for a couple of years now, substituting it with a dreamless state of meditation. A completely serene state of mind - without thought, without consciousness and without awareness of what was going around.
The door to his apartment opened. "Sazan-sama! Sazan-sama! Wake up!" A black-haired girl came into his apartment. She was young, about fourteen-fifteen years of age. The man slowly opened his eyes, put on his glasses and smiled to the child, greeting her. "I brought you your dinner," she said, showing him the tray she was carrying. He nodded and closed his eyes again.
Southern Renaissance, or "Sazan-sama", as his ward Inko called him, used to be someone else. He used to be called Inaho and he used to go to an art school. He used to dream about his works being exhibited in the National Gallery of New Tokyo. That was, until one event happened in his life. One event that he erased from his memory. He was a different person now. He had no family and no past. At some point, he just started to exist.
After they had their dinner, he returned to his meditation, this time Inko sat in front of him. They held each others hands and both descended into the unconscious void.
Inko's closeness made him lose his guard. He didn't walk down slowly, instead falling into the inviting, warm darkness. Although this time, it wasn't empty. It turned white. He realised he had another vision. He remembered what happened to Asada. But before he could shake off, it was too late.
The dark stream swirled around him. It wasn't like the first time, it didn't consume him. It just passed by. He saw people in that stream. He saw his old art college classmates. He saw his father, who left their family when he was two. He saw Asada, smiling at him. And then he started seeing people he didn't recognise.
The stream started speeding up and at the end, he saw someone. Someone who looked very familiar. It was a perfect, serene version of himself. The vision moved back, showing a throne. On the other side of it, a similarly perfect and serene black-haired woman stood.
He saw a figure sitting in the throne, but before he could pay closer attention, suddenly a bright white light blasted through the vision, consuming everythiing - the throne, the woman and himself.
He was on the floor, with his stomach hurting immensely. His breath was heavy and he struggled to grasp for air. After a few, difficult inhales and exhales, he looked up. Inko was standing above him, with her fists ready. He coughed and tried to get up. "I'll explain."
"Visions?" she asked.
Southern nodded in confirmation. "I wanted to erase this episode from my mind, but... I don't think I can. It came back."
"Do you think that girl... could she be me?"
He shrugged, without saying a word.
"Dreams... Sisterhood of Dreams? They might be able to help us."
He looked up at her. She was just a teen... yet, he realised that his teachings didn't go down the drain. Quite the opposite in fact, the apprentice outdid the master. The mental control and rational thinking in such a young mind, something he struggled to learn so much and then teach her finally bore fruit. He was proud of her. Was it the same what Asada felt that day?