The sky was bruised with smoke. Somewhere between the burning village of Kisen and the black mountains beyond, a patrol of ten Sihara soldiers marched — armored, armed, and laughing over the screams they left behind.
They didn’t know they were being watched.
They didn’t hear the wind shift.
One blink too long… and the first soldier’s head was already gone.
Steel flashed like lightning, but made no sound.
Another dropped, blade through the ribs.
Then another.
Screams erupted, but no time to aim, no time to run.
They weren’t fighting a man.
They were being erased.
The last soldier, blood soaking his throat, staggered back and caught a glimpse — just a glimpse — of a masked figure in grey, half his face hidden, eyes like winter.
He tried to speak. He couldn’t.
A hand gripped his collar.
And the voice that came was soft. Controlled. Almost broken.
“If you have the courage to raise that sword, then raise it against the worthy one?”
Silence.
Then....
SHNK.
The blade entered clean. The body dropped.
And just like that… the shadow was gone.
SCENE- 2
The wind had settled by the time they reached the outskirts of an abandoned shrine. Hidden beneath collapsed roofs and wild ivy, the place breathed with ghosts — a perfect home for a woman like Ayame.
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Raiken followed her through the crumbling entrance. Inside, a few scattered candles gave off a soft glow. Medical supplies, maps, and coded notes littered the floor. It wasn’t much, but it was alive.
Ayame poured tea without asking.
"You’re still hiding in ruins," Raiken said, accepting the cup.
"And you’re still allergic to gratitude," she shot back.
They sat in silence for a moment — just the crackle of the fire between them.
Then Ayame spoke.
“Word’s spreading. Someone’s been killing Sihara soldiers. Swift. Precise. Leaves no survivors. Only corpses with clean slashes and terrified whispers.”
Raiken looked up. “Another rebel?”
She shook her head. “No… too skilled. Too silent. The rebels fight loud. This one moves like smoke.”
A long pause.
Raiken’s voice dropped low. “How many bodies?”
Ayame met his gaze. “Fourteen. In a week.”
He looked away, jaw tightening. He already knew. The way the wind shifted after a kill. The mark left behind. Only one man he ever knew could leave behind nothing but fear and silence.
Ayame narrowed her eyes. “You’ve already guessed, haven’t you?”
Raiken didn’t answer.
SCENE- 3
Ayame and Raiken hearing the loud voices rushed out, they stood behind a crumbling stone wall overlooking a small village square. Below them, Shihara’s elite samurai surrounded terrified villagers. Their armor shimmered black and gold, their movements full of arrogance.
At the center stood their captain — tall, cruel, and calm. He yanked a middle-aged man by the hair and forced him to kneel before the crowd.
“You promised three barrels of indigo,” the captain growled. “You gave half a sack.”
The farmer sobbed. “The rains never came… the land—”
His plea was cut short by a brutal slap.
“You failed the crown,” the captain said coldly.
With ceremonial flair, he tied the man to a rope rigged to a post. No trial. No hesitation.
Slice.
The head rolled to the ground. Blood pooled at the feet of his wife and son.
The boy, maybe twelve, screamed. The captain turned, eyes on him now.
“If your family can’t provide harvest,” he said, unsheathing his blade again, “perhaps you can serve as compost.”
The boy screamed as the captain raised the sword high.
And then—
Nothing.
No thunder. No warning. Just a flicker in the air.
The sword never fell.
Because the captain's hand — and head — were no longer attached to his body.
A heartbeat passed.
Then:
SHHLK. SHHLK. SHHLK.
It happened faster than thought.
A silver blur danced through the air — no, it was Raiken. Not running. Not leaping.
Moving like death itself.
By the time Ayame blinked, it was done.
One hundred and fifty samurai stood. For half a second, they looked fine.
Then they all collapsed. Heads sliding from necks, torsos cleaved, weapons still raised mid-air.
Blood didn’t even get the chance to splatter — it misted out like fog.
Villagers stared. Frozen. Silent.
Ayame turned slowly toward him.
Raiken stood among the corpses, not a single drop of blood on him.
His blade wasn’t even drawn.
Just the afterimage of steel lingered in the air.
He looked at the boy the captain had almost killed — still shaking, eyes wide.
And without a word, Raiken turned away.