Makoto had just recovered from cradling his nose after a brutal attack, but was given no time to breathe; he had to cradle himself as ammunition flew past him. It was just the kind of karma he has come to expect, the value of questioning it had come to pass. The ammunition’s trajectory was revealed by the moonlight that came pouring in through the holes in the door, the tatami mats and the walls wished they were as lucky as him, if such a thing could be called luck.

Sitting up, he could only wonder if he could say the same about the little girl.

Moon beams passed her by, just as they passed by him.

A silhouette covered her in what he assumes to be a protective shadow, just as it covered him scarcely.

Finally free of the vines of fear that bound him, Makoto pushed himself up to approach the little girl. Into his arms, he pulls her; he makes sure to turn her away from the gruesome implication that the silhouette imparts. A soft hand brushed the back of her head as he himself went into thought as to who it was outside the door. He finds this as yet another thing of which questioning was moot. Pulling back, he made sure to meet her gaze so as to make no mistake in the transfer of his instruction.

“We need to go, okay? I have a horse” Makoto threw his hand outward slowly, “ waiting outside of town. Can you run?”

It concerned the headman that she did not respond, and perhaps even more so that her cheeks were as dry sawdust; her eyes were that of a starless sky, he knew there was no point in repeating himself. Hence, Makoto sought to carry her instead and make his way out the window. He hung a hand beneath her rear on which she sat on, while the other hand wielded his tanto for their protection. The Headman drops onto the floor, and moves with the weight and subtly of cat’s feet. He made sure to remain behind the houses as the main road was where most of the samurai were.

Each alley he passes is a test and a spectacle; a glimpse of a slaughter that had somehow turned into a battle, and a trial to see if anyone would see him as he dashes across to hide behind the next house in front of him. Thankfully, his speed renders the glimpses as just that, and the trials as successful, seeing as how no samurai has come running through the alleyways in pursuit of him. So as to not risk being seen, Makoto utilized his sensory organs to the best he could. His confusion is then palpable when he hears a galloping horse approaching from within the house that he hid behind. Despite this, he quickly pivots his foot; acting immediately made all the difference in not being flattened by either the wall that fell or the horse that came bulldozing through it. More than the wall in ruins, the horse leaves behind its rider that it had been dragging across the streets for some time now. Makoto could only assume this, seeing as how much damage the samurai sustained to his armor. He prays that the samurai would roll to a stop, and remain lying down.

But karma decides to do him one better yet again.

Though dazed, the samurai puts his feet beneath him while attempting to stop his head from spinning any further. As the dust settles, his face becomes clear, and Makoto finds himself to be in the presence of the same samurai that stood guard at his castle chambers. He is reminded of the pain that throbbed in the arm the samurai twisted, and the grip on his tanto tightened.

Makoto turns to Seijun, and whispers “Stay here.”

He lets the little girl down behind a stack of boxes, and takes his first step toward the samurai that leaned on the wall, dusting himself off.

“Botan.” Called Makoto.

It interested the samurai greatly that of all the things he would hear tonight, it would be his name that was called. The voice came vividly, as did the bitterness that carried every letter. The ringing in his ears did, however, suspend his ability to familiarize himself with the voice, prompting him to look upon he who calls him.

“Makoto-sama.” Said Botan, drawing a dirty smile, reddened by his injuries. Contrary to the usual response, seeing the headman with a tanto in hand only made his smile grew even further.

“Botan, my honor can only be restored by blood. Owing to the fact that you are too much a coward to offer me reparation, I will seek it out myself.” His right hand lifts the tanto.

Had it not been for the pain it caused him, Botan would have expelled a glorious laughter from within. Instead, he settles for a measly chuckle. He proceeds to pull his sword from his belt — scabbard and all, with the blade still in the sheathe — to brandish it in opposition.

“The coward is the man who seeks to duel an opponent in such a sorry state that he could not stand straight on both legs. Then again, a duel necessitates fairness. This is fair enough, for the likes of you, is it not, Makoto-sama?”

The tanto shook in Makoto’s right hand, a detail that would not escape Botan’s eyes.

“If you wish to challenge a samurai to a proper duel, then use this.” Botan throws his sword to Makoto, the latter having to drop his tanto to catch it, but nearly fails in doing so; he had to embrace it, locking it in place with his forearms.

While Botan drew his wakizashi with relative ease, Makoto seemed to struggle; he wondered if he should still slip the scabbard in his belt or discard it completely.

“What are you doing? Pull out the sword!” Botan yelled.

Makoto grips the hilt with his right hand and pulls the sword from the scabbard as instructed. Because he did not simultaneously pull the scabbard away, he needed to extend his right arm further than what was necessary. Having drawn it, he drops the scabbard and places his left hand beneath the right on the handle. Even with both hands at the helm, the sword shivered in his grasp.

“Your footing is wrong.”

The Headman’s gaze instantly dropped, finding his left foot ahead of the right; he alternated his feet immediately and placed the sword ahead of him, assuming the basic stance with a middle guard — chūdan-no-kamae.

The Samurai assumed his own stance, with the wakizashi placed above his own head in a high guard — kasumi-no-kamae. “Something feels out of place, does it not, Makoto-sama?”

“I will cut you down.” Spat Makoto.

“A proper cut requires a proper stance,” Botan remains still, “your flaws will betray you.”

“Be quiet!” Makoto takes a strong step forward, raising his sword above to faint a strike, but it was read too easily. On top of that, the distance that remained — along with the distance taken — was nowhere near threatening.

“Such a fate is unimaginable, but inevitable,” Botan remains steadfast, “especially if the weak branch seeks to carry more fruits than it should, or bear a fruit far too heavy for itself — such is one’s nature.”

Though much dirt stands between them, several of Makoto’s nerves had already been struck. He shakes these projectiles off, hoping to find an opening in his opponent’s high guard stance; he inches even closer whilst reaffirming his grip on his sword.

“I must commend your gift for theatrics, Makoto-sama. But here you stand on a battlefield, not a stage.” Botan gestured to him with an upward nod. “You can drop the act.”

Makoto had been rather obedient; he found no reason to suddenly stop now. He renews the breath in his lungs and shifts his entire stance. The left hand rises above the right on the hilt, and the left foot takes the lead from the right foot on the ground. Botan’s red smile returns, and he takes his first step forward before reaffirming his stance.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“The tree with weak branches stands tall.” He tightens his grip on his sword, a result of his being certain of his duty and finally having cause to carry it out. “What an abomination.”

Both sets of feet take their steps as soon as the insult was punctuated.

Both swords sing as they were swung with conviction, but only one sang the song of victory.

The slightest delay in his swing allows Botan’s sword to pass him by, and his approach on the left foot introduces him to an advantageous opening. Makoto swings his sword after narrowly evading the other’s attack and administers a cut that stretches from Botan’s right eye to the left corner of his lip. However, untrained in the use of a katana, the strike fails to kill his opponent. Crouched, Botan braves through the pain of having lost his eye and aims to swing his sword at Makoto’s gut with but one hand instead. Its path is impeded by a musket ball that enters Botan’s wrist before the blade could even sever the fabric of the headman’s clothes.

“I got him!”

“You may be more of a marksman than a messenger, Aoto-san.”

With the wall gone, the voices echoed within the house and out the hole that the horse had made. Makoto finds that the shadows were pulled back to reveal the shooter accompanied by a familiar face. His eyes grew wider than when realization set in that Botan’s attack was effectively deterred by gunfire.

“Hiroshi-san,” Makoto called the name out loud, a name he whispers in his thoughts whilst in prayer, “is that you?”

The call of his name pulled his attention to the last man standing. “My god— Makoto-sama.” Hiroshi immediately jogged, meeting the headman with a hearty embrace that kept the cold air at bay. He pats his back, an act gladly reciprocated in a fashion just as cheerful, if not more than.

The weight of Makoto’s hand was made heavier by disbelief, but with each passing second in their embrace, the weight vanished. The headman pulls back to gaze upon the blessing he did not know was upon him — upon eyes he thought had long been lost to the abyss, only to ever be seen again through memory. “Do my eyes deceive me?” He wondered. “How is this possible? Lord Homura burned Kumitsukawa to the ground.”

Hiroshi beams with delight. “A little fire in the kitchen is of no consequence to a baker.”

Makoto gestures to Hiroshi’s polearm with the katana he held in his left hand, “Is this what you cut bread with these days?”

To which Hiroshi does the same, “Is this what you use to collect taxes?”

On such a cold night, the warmth of a friendly interaction was enough to pull any man to sit. If only they had time to do so.

“Excuse me, Hiroshi-sama.” Aoto interjected, pulling the rod out of his gun’s barrel and completing the reload process. “I regret to intervene, but we still have not found them.”

“Right, yes.”

“Them?”

“A husband and wife. It is imperative that we find them, but I do not know where to begin looking for them in all of this.” Hiroshi briefly explains, turning to Aoto thereafter. “Rally with Sota and the others..”

Seeing this, Makoto turns his attention to Botan’s lifeless corpse as he goes deep in thought, to a depth where noise could no longer reach. And it is there that he finally remembers, and pivots his foot to look back at the stack of boxes. His heart sank, but it would sink much lower upon finding that the little girl vanished.

In an ocean of black, gold, and navy blue, it was easy to spot something as pristine and white as the moon itself wisp by. Seijun’s attention was hooked on this oddity, her feet hooked along with it. So bewitched was the little girl that her feet were compelled to move, superseding the prior instinct to stand still — alongside the headman’s instructions to stay put — despite the clear risk of being caught and butchered. The little girl quickened her pace, seeing glimpses of this figure of purity move in haste and shrink with each passing second. The houses blocked Seijun’s view, but this would not persist as a problem as the chase ultimately led them to the town’s outskirts. Without any obstruction to her view, Seijun was able to set her sights on what seemed to be a woman with a pristine white top and a bright red hakama. Seeing the woman whole, her memory was pieced together swiftly — Seijun recognizes her as the miko from earlier. She looked to be struggling, as if her wrist had been caught on something. Squinting her eyes, it was then that Seijun could see navy blue armor hidden under the veil of the night.

A samurai clasped down on her wrist, pulling her toward a horse whose lead was tied to a tree. However, with both the horse and the priestess writhing, control slowly slipped from the samurai’s grasp. A fresh round of gunfire spooks the horse onto its hind legs, scaring the samurai enough to let go of the lead and hold onto that which he believed to be most valuable instead. And so, off the horse ran, leaving the samurai with the priestess. Though the words were lost to the distance between them, Seijun could hear the desperation in how she whimpered; perhaps she wished she had the strength of the horse to scare him and run off to freedom. The samurai’s yells brought her to tears, compelled to step back and away from him. But the tree stood in her way, and she was left to watch as the samurai approached. She would have otherwise closed her eyes, if not for the sighting of a little girl that she caught a glimpse of behind the samurai’s shoulder. The priestess blurted out what she saw, her mentioning of it was enough to stop the samurai in his tracks to maintain her purity for just a bit longer. Relief came upon her like rain, seeing as how the samurai still had a sliver of a conscience in him. The warrior turned to see the little girl behind him, and his expression shifted from night to day in an instant. He lowers himself onto his knees, resting his hands on his lap.

“Hello there.” He greeted, bending at the waist slightly. “Are you lost? It is dangerous to be here at this time..”

While the priestess was stunned in disgust to see the duality by which the samurai wielded with mastery to advance his agenda, Seijun was mostly amazed to meet the first among the samurai to treat her with such kindness. The former felt her stomach churn to see the samurai reach out to her with an open hand.

“Where are you parents? Were you separated?” He tilts his head downward, but maintains her as the object in his eye. “I can bring you to them.”

The priestess would protest, if not for the thought that the same hand could tenderize her flesh with ease. Instead, she pantomimes her warnings, shaking her head and waving her arms profusely. These acts would quickly come to cease when the samurai takes a brief moment to peer over his own shoulder. Hence, without her to intercede, the little girl drew ever closer.

“There is nothing to be afraid of, I will help you.”

In no time at all, Seijun stood before the kneeling samurai who recognized the stark look in her eyes. The hand he reaches out with was curled to wrap around her, pulling her into a comforting embrace. He hoped to pat the sorrow out of her, but was careful to do it considering her significantly small frame compared to him.

“You are safe, little girl.” He whispered, hoping to mask the sinister tone that came with his full breath. “I am sure we can find your paren—...tttssss…”

The last letters of his trickery seep through both his teeth and the slit that came into existence on the floor of his mouth. Having been dragged through an entire town that erupted into battle, the priestess recognized the sound of a man choking on his own blood without failure. She gasps as soon as she did, covering her face when the sound of flesh being torn ensued thereafter. The samurai pulls back, but in doing so, his tongue is parted down the middle.

He tastes his own blood as it gushes out of both holes.

He tastes the metal of the blade that protruded into his skin.

He tastes the inevitability of his own death.

His eyes shiver at the thought, to have been felled in that instance, without a sword in his hand.

Even then, he still had some strength in him. And yet, no matter what he told himself, his limbs dared not move. The little girl’s neck was bare; he could easily wrap his fingers around them and squeeze the air from her lungs, but his arms never moved an inch. What was inevitable indeed came soon enough, and the samurai fell lifeless to paint the grass red, just as he did the little girl’s hands. Her arms drop at last, and the rain follows suit. Unlike the priestess, Seijun was a step away from the tree’s shade. Water found her easily, and she bathed in it without hesitation.

“There she is!”

Seijun recognized the headman’s voice in spite of the rain. But to her surprise, he was not alone. Another old man ran with him. Washed by the tears of the gods, Makoto’s eyes widened to see that the little girl held his tanto with a mighty grip. While the headman tended to the little girl, the baker approached the frightened miko. Her chest rose and fell quickly; Hiroshi could only imagine her heart was racing in the same pace as a bee’s wings.

“Are you alright?” Hiroshi asked, but gained no response in return.

The priestess does not seem to acknowledge his presence, both her eyes still trained on the little girl and the samurai that laid motionless at her feet — still attempting to grasp exactly what she had witnessed.

“...What happened here?” He asked.

Finally, she detaches her hand from the bark that she dug her nails into and points at the little girl. “....She killed him…”