Spring, Mountain Pass, Border to Satsuma – 1551

  The canyon felt like a tomb.

  Jagged cliffs loomed on either side, towering slabs of stone trapping us in a suffocating corridor. The scent of damp earth and blood clung to my nostrils.

  We were caged.

  Kensai-ryū in front. ōtomo behind.

  Even Shigure, who had toyed with us like a fox in a henhouse stood unnervingly still. His ever present grin faded into something unreadable. The air around him crackled with an unease I hadn’t seen before.

  Then the marching stopped.

  A stillness spread over the canyon, thick and unnatural. The ōtomo ranks stood as a sea of polished armor and snapping banners.

  Then they parted, like silk being drawn aside.

  Their colors caught the weak sunlight, standing out against the muddy gloom of the canyon. Bright and pristine, as if war had never touched them.

  Through that breach, a lone rider emerged.

  His horse moved in slow graceful steps, its hooves pressing into the earth with an eerie rhythm. Each impact sent echoes rolling off the canyon walls, a hollow beat that sent a shiver crawling up my spine.

  The Kikuchi warriors stirred.

  Masanari’s breath hitched.

  Harutora stiffened so violently that his fingers locked around the reins, blood draining from his face. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. His lips parted and a sound barely escaped him.

  “…No…”

  The rider pulled his horse to a halt.

  Kikuchi Hidemitsu.

  The man who had once stood at Harutora’s father’s side.

  The man who had been a pillar of the Kikuchi.

  The man who had always regarded me as nothing more than a rat with a sword.

  A silence thicker than blood settled over the canyon.

  Harutora’s hands trembled against the leather of his reins, his voice cracked with disbelief. “Ojiue… tell me this isn’t real.”

  Hidemitsu did not flinch. He did not look away. If he felt shame, if he felt regret, it was buried deep beneath the mask of cold indifference he wore.

  “Reality has always been cruel, my lord.” His voice was calm, as if discussing the weather. “The Kikuchi were already dead. I simply chose to live.”

  The Kikuchi warriors recoiled, some staggered backward as if struck. Others froze in place, eyes locked on the man they had once called their own.

  I stepped forward, my breath unsteady, anger rising inside me like a flood.

  “You planned this,” I muttered, fists tightening. “You led us here to die.”

  Hidemitsu finally turned his gaze to me, his lips twitching in something close to amusement.

  “You misunderstand boy,” his voice smooth, unshaken. “There was no ‘trap.’ The Kikuchi name has been rotting for years, clinging to faded glories. I simply made sure I wasn’t buried along with it.”

  Masanari’s fingers twitched near his hilt. His voice was like a blade unsheathed. “You betrayed your own kin!”

  Hidemitsu exhaled slowly, shaking his head. Something almost like pity flickered in his expression.

  “Kin?” he repeated, tilting his head slightly. “You mistake blood for loyalty, Masanari. The Kikuchi have no future. Clinging to them is like trying to hold onto sand.”

  Harutora’s breath came in shallow gasps. His eyes, rimmed red from grief locked onto the man who had once sworn to protect him.

  “We… we trusted you,” he rasped. “You stood beside my father. My brother. You swore an oath.”

  Hidemitsu gave a lazy shrug. “And what did that oath give me?” His voice dropped colder, “The ōtomo offered me a future. The Kikuchi offered me a grave. That is all there is to it.”

  A retainer at the front took a staggering step forward, eyes wide with horror.

  “You…you sent us to our deaths,” his voice cracked. “All of us. You led us straight to the slaughter. My daughter...” His breath hitched. “She was with the main force. You killed her.”

  Hidemitsu’s expression remained blank. “Shigemasa...Your daughter was never meant to die. The plan was simple,” he admitted. “I was to turn over Harutora once the ōtomo arrived. Nothing more.”

  He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.

  “The hiring of the Kensai-ryū...the massacre at the camp...” He hesitated just for a breath.

  Something flashed across his face. Displeasure, maybe.

  “That was never part of the original arrangement. Why Sōrin ordered it, I do not know. But it does not matter now.”

  Sōrin?

  The Kikuchi warriors shook with barely restrained fury, few reaching for their weapons.

  “I claim no loyalty to the Kikuchi anymore,” Hidemitsu continued. His voice rang through the canyon, “From this day forward, I bear a new name.”

  He sat straighter in his saddle, his eyes sweeping over the remnants of the warriors he had once fought beside.

  “I am ōtomo Mitsukage.”

  Something inside Harutora cracked.

  Then the ōtomo ranks parted again.

  Another horseman rode forward, his presence radiating something that made my skin crawl.

  The man who rode forward was younger than Hidemitsu, but the pressure he carried was suffocating.

  His armor gleamed under the faint sunlight, each plate perfectly polished. The sigil of the ōtomo clan marked his chest, standing out in stark defiance.

  His face was elegant, his features chiseled and refined, but there was something wrong about his smile. It was too controlled, too practiced. It was neither cruel nor kind, just unsettlingly.

  His gaze swept over us like we were already dead.

  My fingers twitched against the hilt of my wakizashi.

  So this is him?

  The man who had ordered the destruction of the Kikuchi camp. The man responsible for the massacre we had stumbled upon.

  Mitsukage straightened in his saddle, a blink of relief in his posture. He turned toward Sōrin, his voice rising. “Lord Sōrin, I have—”

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  Sōrin simply smiled.

  And in one smooth motion, he drew his sword.

  Harutora barely had time to react before the blade flashed.

  A sickening sound filled the canyon.

  Mitsukage's breath faltered.

  His body jerked violently, red blooming across his throat.

  His fingers trembled as he reached up, touching the wound as though he could hold himself together. Blood bubbled from his lips.

  Sōrin didn’t spare him a glance. He lifted his crimson streaked katana slowly, then ran his tongue along the blade, tasting the blood with a quiet almost thoughtful satisfaction.

  Mitsukage’s lips parted. He tried to form words, but the blood drowned them.

  Then he fell.

  His body crumpled against the earth with a dull thud.

  Silence crashed over the canyon.

  The Kikuchi warriors stood frozen, horror written across their faces. Masanari remained rigid, his fingers still hovering near his hilt.

  I swallowed against the dryness in my throat.

  ōtomo Sōrin exhaled, sounding almost bored. As though disposing of Mitsukage had been no different than swatting a fly.

  He turned his gaze toward Harutora, his faint smile returning.

  “A shame,” he mused. “For a man so eager to betray his own clan… I expected him to last longer.”

  He flicked his sword idly. “And ‘ōtomo Mitsukage’?” His lips curled in amusement. “Pathetic. Even his name was stolen.”

  The canyon held its breath.

  Mitsukage’s body lay collapsed in the dirt, his essence seeping into the earth.

  The ōtomo soldiers stood in rigid formation, silent and waiting.

  The Kikuchi warriors had not moved, though I could feel their hands tightening on their weapons, their breath coming in shallowed gasps.

  But the Kensai-ryū...they only grinned.

  Even after witnessing the ruthless execution, they remained unfazed. No fear. No hesitation. Only the eerie stillness of men who thrived in the presence of death.

  Shigure was the first to break the silence.

  His laughter echoed through the canyon, casual and unbothered as if we weren’t all standing on the edge of a slaughter.

  He rolled his shoulders, resting his weapon casually against one shoulder. His red eyes gleamed with amusement.

  “You expect me to believe you rode all the way here just to watch us do your work?” he mused.

  Sōrin’s smirk widened. He flicked the blood from his blade and sheathed it with an air of casual disinterest. “Oh no,” he said lightly. “I came to ensure it is done properly.”

  Then he tilted his head, scanning the gathered warriors.

  “Because no one is leaving here alive.”

  The words settled over the canyon like a death sentence.

  Masanari inhaled sharply. Harutora’s breath hitched.

  And then the realization sank in.

  This wasn’t just about wiping out the Kikuchi.

  The Kensai-ryū had been marked for death too.

  Some of the warriors exchanged glances, lips curling into knowing smirks.

  One man exhaled, loosening the ties on his gauntlets. Another rolled his shoulders, muttering something under his breath.

  The was no outrage, just the quiet understanding of men who had danced with death too many times to fear it now.

  The ōtomo formation tightened, the air thickened with unspoken violence.

  Masanari and Harutora exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them. There was only one path forward.

  Harutora swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand tall. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, but when he stepped forward, his voice was steady.

  “Kensai-ryū.” he called, his words carrying through the canyon. “You are warriors who live by strength. And now, you have been betrayed by the same hand that fed you.”

  Now he wants to stand tall? Now he wants to lead?

  A few of the Kensai-ryū chuckled at that, but none interrupted.

  Harutora continued. “The Kikuchi have suffered the same fate. We were lured here to be erased from history. We have no reason to trust each other, but we have every reason to fight together.”

  Shigure stretched his arms as if waking from a pleasant nap.

  “Ahh, a noble alliance between traitors and madmen,” he mused, grinning. “I like it!”

  Shigure turned to me, his grin widening as if this entire slaughter was nothing more than an amusing story being told around a fire.

  “What say you, little mongrel?” his voice laced with mockery, tilting his head. “Does this alliance make your blood boil? Or are you still too busy seething at your cowardly masters?”

  My jaw clenched. Tch! “They’re not my masters,” I spat, my voice full with contempt. “I don’t follow cowards.”

  Shigure let out a short barking laugh, "Hah! Now that's an answer I can respect."

  Harutora met his gaze, unfazed. “Alone, we die. Together, we stand a chance.”

  Damn it all, he's right but if we survive this, he’s going to answer for it. I'll make sure of that.

  The Kensai-ryū murmured amongst themselves, but Shigure didn’t need their approval. He was already laughing, rolling his shoulders like a man stretching before a good fight.

  “Fine, fine,” he said, extending a hand. “I’ll humor you, boy-lord. But remember, our law is clear—only those who can prove their strength are worthy of survival”

  Harutora hesitated for a moment before grasping Shigure’s hand. The last time he had placed faith in the Kensai-ryū's so-called law, they had turned on him without hesitation.

  But in this particular moment, he had no other choice.

  He grasped Shigure's hand.

  A new pact was forged in blood and desperation.

  Behind Shigure, the Kensai-ryū warriors erupted into cheers, their roars echoing against the canyon walls. Some slammed their fists against their chests while others drew their weapons with eager grins, savoring the promise of carnage.

  Masanari stepped up beside Harutora, his voice low but approving. “You’re learning.”

  Shigure turned, cracking his neck. Then his red eyes flicked to me.

  He grinned as he clapped a hand against my shoulder hard enough to make me stagger. “Don’t die too quickly. You still owe me a real fight.”

  I gripped my wakizashi, ignoring the dull ache in my limbs.

  “Just stay out of my way” I muttered.

  Shigure’s grin only widened.

  And then, the battle began.

  The canyon exploded into chaos.

  Seventy warriors against two hundred.

  The ōtomo surged forward in a wave of polished steel and thundering hooves. Their war cries echoed off the cliffs, clashing against the roaring Kensai-ryū warriors who met them head-on.

  Swords flashed. Spears thrust. Blood splattered across the dirt.

  Masanari led the charge, his blade a silver blur as he carved through the first rank of soldiers. Harutora rode beside him, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he swung desperately.

  Shigure was a demon.

  Laughing, grinning, his red eyes alight with bloodlust as he weaved through the enemy, cutting men down with a fluid grace that bordered on inhuman. Each strike was a dance, each kill effortless.

  I fought like a cornered animal.

  Blades rang out in a furious chorus. I dipped low, narrowly avoiding an oncoming spear, twisting as I drove both wakizashi deep into a soldier’s ribs. His body jolted, a strangled gasp escaping him before I tore the blades free. Hot blood sprayed across my face, but I barely registered the warmth.

  Because something was wrong.

  Koharu...

  I can’t see her!

  She had been behind the rock when the fighting started, crouched in the shadow and hidden. But now—

  I whirled, slashing wildly at an enemy that lunged too close. My breath came fast, too fast. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. The battlefield blurred...flashes of steel and bodies collapsing.

  But no sign of Koharu.

  My chest tightened.

  She’s small. Too small for this battlefield. If she’s caught in the open—

  I shoved the thought away, throat raw as I bellowed over the noise.

  "KOHARU!"

  A soldier lunged at me from the side.

  I whipped around just in time, my wakizashi snapping up in a desperate cross to catch his blade.

  Metal screeched as his weight crashed against mine, my arms straining under the intense force. Gritting my teeth, I twisted sharply, driving my knee into his gut. He choked out a breathless grunt, just enough of an opening.

  In one fluid motion, I wrenched free and slashed my blade across his throat.

  Masanari’s voice rang through the chaos.

  "Hold your ground!"

  Harutora panting, drove his sword through a mounted enemy before tearing it free in a spray of red.

  "We can’t hold forever!" he shouted, voice raw.

  Shigure’s laughter cut through the battlefield, wild and vicious. He was drenched in blood, his grin sharper than his blade. He turned mid-slash, his sword carving a deadly arc through another ōtomo soldier’s chest.

  "Who said anything about holding?!"

  But I wasn’t thinking about them anymore.

  I had to find Koharu.

  And I had to do it fast.

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