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Birds chirp in the crisp spring air. You see the cherry blossoms begin to open up, in the dawn light it almost looks blood red. The streaks of yellow and red burst out like fire as the sun rises on the land of the rising sun. You walk along one of the trails, relishing the crunch of the dirt under your sandals. It is another day, and soon, in a few hours, the people will come. The village is small, only a few hundred or so. Among them, there is one teacher, one official, and one healer. That last one is you. It is said you have magical healing properties like no other, not even the ones outside the village. Children especially love you, coming frequently for boo-boos and scraped knees from climbing the knottled tree outside one of the houses. You operate the village apothecary, with shelves lined with herbal powders, green tea, and candy (popular among the young ones). It is a bustling place, with everyday injuries, back pain, cuts, or the occasional broken bone. Each time, you calmly clean their wound and apply medicine. Each time, they break out in a fever and a bout of nausea. Each time, after a good night's sleep, it (fever and wound) disappears immediately upon sunrise, and they feel reinvigorated. You are Akuma Tenshi, praised among the village as a hero, an angel, if you will. From the plateau raised above the rest of the land, it feels like it's on the way to the celestial body. However, over the fence and down below, there is another village. They are rivals with the first, and let's just say they do not like you as much. In fact, they curse you everyday, calling you the devil, daring not to speak your name. Why? Well, the benefits of healing in your village have a great cost. Whenever a scrape or cut is healed up on the celestial plateau, it is suddenly inflicted down below as soon as the sun rises. They have a great suspicion it's you who did it. One day, a boy (toddler/child) climbed over the fence and fell straight down the plateau. No one could find his body, and was presumed dead. The village went into great mourning; it was the first time in many years such a tragedy had happened. But what really happened is that he survived the fall, and found his way into the enemy village, raising him as one of their own. He wore the same clothes, spoke in almost the same dialect, and made friends with many there. He did not remember much in the village from which he came, making the one he grew up in his home. Still, he could not shake the feeling that he was an outsider. He did not have all of the same scars on many of the boys in the village (which is why they wore traditional face paint and had long, robe-like clothes); not all of the injuries healed up there would affect him, and did not walk with a limp, wincing every time they took a step. Sometimes he imitated them just to feel included, but they still envied him a little. Once or twice, he was picked on by one of the bigger kids, but was able to run away, not slowed by a limp. When he grew up, he decided to trek the way up to the village from which he came. Although he did not have the characteristic limp or scars of the rival village, his face paint and robe-like clothes drew disdain from many as an enemy. He was teased and had rocks thrown at him from the village children (which bounced off the silk robe harmlessly). All you could do was look on in sorrow. Heal the physical scars and go was one of the things that you considered easy, mundane. But deep, emotional strains were not so easy, with complex motivations and thoughts behind them.