IngvarAbbor - Mitsuki Stem (Official Music Video) (Lyric Video)
By Ingvar Abbor "Saga of Flame" Night in Boka is heavy and wet, like dark velvet. The bay breathes below, shoreline lights tremble in the haze, and the stone path remembers footsteps that no one claims anymore. Along that path walks a single man—a ronin who carried his Japan into Montenegro’s silent gulf, to a terrace where mountains hang over the water like patient judges. He isn’t searching for directions. He’s returning to the place where life used to be.
The house greets him not with warmth, but with the remnants of it: wall torches smolder as if memory itself is running out of air. Inside, the quiet is louder than the sea. His left hand rests on an old katana—not because he fears an enemy, but because he is bracing for the inevitable: the truth. He kneels at a low table and ignites a small tabletop flame. The light rises from below, sharpening his face, making him look older than his years. He sets the sword and dagger beside his knees with ceremonial care, as if laying down words that no longer need to be spoken. Then he removes a tiny talisman—a fluffy white kitten pendant—and places it on the table like the last thread tying him to what once made this place a home.
His kimono is soaked with blood. Pain doesn’t ask to be witnessed it simply exists. He finds the wound, draws out what was left inside him—someone else’s violence, someone else’s betrayal—and he does it without a sound, as though silence is the only dignity he has left. And then he does something only the truly ruined can do: he heals. His golden eyes flare with a bluish, blood-tinged glow faint lightning flickers around his lids. Flesh closes, the bleeding stops, and a scar remains like a seal. Magic can shut a wound, but it cannot restore what was taken.
He collapses into his own shadow, into his own blood. And in that depth, images arrive: his beloved wife, his older children, and finally his five-year-old son, playing with that same kitten pendant—innocent of how easily the world breaks adults. The white tatami turns red, not merely from blood, but from meaning: everything pure has been rewritten by pain.
That is when the dragon is born—not as a beast, but as an answer. Blood withdraws back into the body like dark energy. Hands become claws. Cloth tears because human skin is too small for what has awakened beneath it. Beams crack. Fire stops being fire and becomes a doorway. A massive black dragon surges out of the blaze onto the stone terrace above Boka, spreads its vast wings, and its roar shakes the ground like thunder over the bay. On one horn, the small white kitten pendant sways in the heat shimmer—weightless, yet heavier than fate. And under a blood-red moon, the dragon rises into the sky: not escaping, but ascending, the way pain ascends when there is nothing left to hold it down.
This is a story of a man who healed his body and lost his name. And of how, even in the darkest form, one bright detail remains—proof that inside the monster, a memory of home still lives.