A veil of a soft orange sky blankets over Tachikawa, the very same one that covered it yesterday when noon came to pass. White streaks took away its purity, but not its beauty; the clouds wrote something in the sky, but man was far too busy to understand — most especially today of all days. Hisashi was no different. He treads his path through the town to the marketplace with a heavy basket in hand, but his mind saunters down memory lane weightlessly. The pacing of his legs and breathing both steady, a common indicator of contemplation.
Numbers were always taken into great consideration in battle. An army of ten thousand would lose less than half against an army of a mere two thousand, the former would still have approximately eight thousand or more to spare for the endeavor of capturing a city and making it their own. Homura clearly thought the same, with the number of his men tripling in Tachikawa with each passing day; his banners — decorated with three-legged crows — were like walls, suffocating the town from the rest of the world.
And yet, Sun Tzu would suggest otherwise.
Reliance in numbers alone confers no advantage. The general with but two thousand in his army can find the opposing general knelt before the sharp end of his blade if he truly knew how to wage war — all kinds of war, in every battlefield he could imagine. Besides, an argument can be made that numbers in the thousands were inconsequential. He only ever needs to sever one head to reduce a united army into small bands of miscreants if not into nothing altogether. Hisashi exhales deeply at the thought, much to his regret. The inevitable inhale involuntarily welcomes the smell of rotting flesh into his system. He finally pays them mind — the severed heads of the townsfolk taken by Homura’s men — a calling card to the Demon of Kumitsukawa that called louder with each passing day; the number of heads grew steady as promised, as did the flies that revolved around them. He huffs in silence, hoping to expel the thought along with the rest of the foulness from within.
“Seijun,” he called, reaffirming his grip on the basket of produce whilst making sure none fell from the wicker backpack he had on, “give me your backpack if you feel tired.”
“...”
“Seijun?”
Hisashi looks to his side to find the girl missing. It instantly nailed his furthermost foot to the ground, but his search would not take long as he found that she merely fell behind by a handful of steps. His exhale was as austere as his stroll back to fetch her.
“Seijun.” He calls again, stopping beside her. “The sun is on its way down, and your mother needs these at the stall. Come.”
“...”
Her silence pinched his nerve, but the expression she wore stayed his tongue from sharpening. The proximity at which they stood only made them more susceptible to the foul stench; it surprised him that she was able to withstand it. However, more than the smell, Hisashi finally became susceptible to the details of the heads on display. It was only now that he realized that among the dead was a young boy. He had never seen one so young among them before, or he simply had not been paying attention. It did not take much for Hisashi to connect the dots. He sets down the basket and spares her the horrors by standing before her, pulling her head into his waist. Her small hands took to the fabrics, muffling her whimpers as they embraced her face in his stead.
“Sorry, Sashi-kun…” an apology uttered between sniffles, knowing that she wiped her tears on his new outfit. She pulls back to steal a glance at him.
“Your mother needs you. We should get going.”
Seijun nodded, taking in a deep breath of her own. She too would be filled by the foul stench, but more than that, she filled herself with the motivation to move forward; just as before, something else outweighed the former, and thus, she remains unphased.
Tsuna steps out of her stall to properly capture the street in its entirety. With the sun setting, the shadows were cast and the people were starting to get reduced to mere silhouettes, but the silhouette that had her chewing her lip from within her mouth was not among them. A particularly long stare to one end of the street allows both Hisashi and Seijun to sneak up on her.
“Mama?”
“Oh!” Her shoulders rose in fright, her hand rushing to her chest meekly. But the voice soon came into recognition, and she turned to set her sights on her sweet little girl. “Oh Seijun, you scared me.”
“Ohh… sorry Mama…” Seijun puts her wicker backpack down to accept her mother’s invitation for a warm hug.
Hisashi came into view thereafter, taking her daughter’s basket after having put his own away to allow Seijun the comfort she sorely needed.
“Hello.” Tsuna greeted him. Though the honey in her voice was present, it did not flow as smoothly as before. “Your new clothes suit you.” She smiles.
“Thank you.” Despite finding a great deal of comfort in the clothes she gifted him, a simple nod and two words was all that would express his gratitude.
“I made sure to get a black one. It will help hide any stitches. Plus it will help you blend in.” Her eyes pointed out the abundance of black and gold that clothed the town.
“Where is Papa?” Asked Seijun, burying her mouth in her mother's shoulder.
“He has not come back yet?” She asks in turn, feeling her daughter’s head shake in their embrace.
“Mm… it must have taken him longer to help with the decorations for the festival later..” She pats Seijun’s back. “He will be here, do not worry.” Parting from their embrace, she shines a smile upon her before taking her hand into her own and granting her money. “I think Daddy might want a hat this year. Could you buy him one?”
“Okay.” Seijun’s tone, albeit sour like sudachi, ran smoothly unlike her mother’s; the weight of reluctance weighed her feet down, but she walked onwards anyways.
Tsuna stood, watching Seijun stroll away to search for a hat. A group of children wisp by her, adorned in black and gold, just like the masks they wore and the toys they chased each other with. They seemed much older than her, and in that brief moment that she captured a mental image of them in the same footing, another image flashed in her head. Seijun was much taller now. Her hair ran longer, and her clothes tightly hugged onto her figure, though she wished Seijun would eat more rather than worry about her weight like she once did. Maybe one of those boys would find that they were worthy enough to receive her bright smile when she turns to look at them, and partake of the recipes that she learned from her. And perhaps a smaller child would run up to her and ask for their hand to be held, just as she cradled Seijun’s hand by brushing her index finger on her palm and massaging her knuckles with her thumb.
As parents would, Tsuna wondered if she would live long enough to see this before her very eyes. But under present circumstances, she was left to wonder if Seijun herself would live long enough to stand before her as such.
“Tsuna,” Hisashi interrupted respectfully, “what festival is this?”
His stark voice pulled her from the depths of her mind, but the sudden nature of this pull was not that which stunned her. She blinked twice, hoping to better grasp the nature of his question.
“Forgive me… but… I am surprised you do not know— the festival is for you.”
“For me?” The symptoms of disbelief transferred to Hisashi, but deep down inside, he knew that a fiasco of this scale had big enough bread crumbs to follow and digest without failure.
“Yes,” she nodded graciously, “but, I think it is more appropriate to say the festival is about you.”
Hisashi’s brow rose sharply.
“Makoto-sama started the festival when news spread of a great evil that had taken root in the province. He said this would help ward off the Demon of Kumitsukawa.” She explained.
“And wearing the color of my armor helps with that?” Hisashi asks.
Despite the solemn nature of his question, Tsuna could not help but crack a smile. But she hides it behind a hand to preserve her modesty. “They believed looking like you might make you leave them alone, that or scare you away.” She raised her hand again just as it started to lower itself to conceal a chuckle this time. “Everyone thought it best to exhaust all options to keep you away.”
“Hm.” He hummed, unimpressed by the logic of it. “You are not dressed for the festival.” Hisashi observed the colors of her clothes. In hindsight, Seijun was also not dressed in either black or gold.
“Black is not our color.” She smiles. “But I am glad it is yours.”
“...Hm.” Hisashi looked yonder to see how they had come to interpret his image.
Clearly, the colors of his armor had been the most striking, seeing as how it colored the town. The details of his menpō were far from accurate, though he supposes this was expected since most of those that had seen him up close were no longer among the realm of the living. His katana, on the other hand, had some accuracy to it; another group of children came running by, and among them, he spotted several of them with a circular tsuba designed with silver clouds. Some even sported a kabuto with a broken datemono, said to have been severed by the Demon’s lord on the night that he fended him off and failed. This is how they saw him, this was the fruit of his deeds.
“Eventually,” she continued, “the local kannushi offered to purify the town whenever the festival was held to ensure that the Demon is kept away all year round.”
“Purify?” He peels away from the group of children, refocusing on Tsuna.
“When night falls, it is said that you lurk in the shadows. So the kannushi leads the townspeople in a parade around town with an effigy of… uh.. you.” She gestured meekly, withholding any forwardness to quell any disrespect she may impart unintentionally. “During the parade, the kannushi purifies the town. The parade ends in the town square where the effigy is… burned…” Tsuna felt the urge to drop her gaze. It all sounded rather objective in her head, but the words came out like a threat. “Because you were—”
“I know.” Hisashi spares her, and a sigh of relief from her was evident thereafter. Convening with himself, Hisashi was now beyond certain. No doubt the festival was to be used for his capture. And if such a charade were to be put up, then the dying breath of his most recent victims carried true words, and consequently, so did the last letter he sent Hiroshi — Homura will be here today.
“But anyways, it seems none of these were effective if you are here now. But if you did not know about the festival, perhaps… it worked for a while? The kann—”
A child’s cries bellows through the busy street, somehow suppressing the noise of everyday life in a single blow into near complete silence. Tsuna turns on her heel, as if by mother’s instinct, but keeps her foot planted upon seeing that the crying child was not Seijun. It was one of the masked children that chased his friends from earlier, and he seems to have bumped into a samurai that was passing by. Veiled in the warrior’s growing shadow, the child continued to pour his tears down his cheeks. But with his eyes closed, he would be the only one oblivious to the samurai’s approaching hand. Tsuna took one more step, but had her wrist restricted by Hisashi himself, pulling her as he simultaneously steps forward in front of her. Hisashi watches the samurai take the child’s mask from them, inspecting it. Without a mask of his own — a mandate levied on them as a tactic against him — the samurai’s amusement was palpable. The mask falls from his palm, and his wicked foot comes on top of it, crushing it instantly. He walks past the child thereafter, his smirk being the only thing that survived the altercation.
“I should look for Seijun.” Hisashi said, more of a command for her to stay here where it was safe than an offer of kindness.
Tsukuyomi finally rises to observe one of his favorite days in the year. He sets his sights on Tachikawa, glowing as bright as gold amidst an ocean of black shadows. The waters seeped into the streets, with black fish that swam in every which direction, but among them was a fish that swam against the currents. Hisashi’s search continued, keeping his eyes peeled for the peach that floats in the water. Instead, he catches a porcelain vase in his midst while passing through the town square, Hisashi stops, just as the other fish did, to revere this oddity. Adorned with pristine white vestments and a sense of fragility, the kannushi with his miko stands with Makoto on their wooden makeshift stage.
The festival. Thought Hisashi, finally realizing why a stage had been constructed in the town square days ago.
The headman was probably explaining to the priest that this is where the long line of heads were extracted before they were displayed on the street. His vigilance pays off, seeing as how the samurai warriors stood idle by the sidelines, not wanting to suffer a yearlong haunting should they upset the holy figure in any way.
The priest is here already. Where is Homura? Hisashi thought.
All of a sudden, a small and slender set of digits curled around his hand. Hisashi threw his gaze downward in lieu of a kunai to find an iron jingasa with two horns in the front. The hat itself and the horns were colored black, but the tips of the horns and the rim were colored gold. The hat tipped back to show Seijun beneath. As soon as she had made herself known, Hisashi clenched her hand in his to keep her from getting lost in the current, albeit this current had met a standstill with the kannushi present.
“Sashi-kun.” Seijun calls, bringing the gentleman to kneel before her.
“We need to get you back to your mother.”
“They said there is no parade this year.”
“Who said that?”
“I heard them talking about it.” Seijun pointed, leading Hisashi’s gaze through the bamboo of bodies that obscurely framed Makoto and the kannushi into view.
“What else did you hear?”
“The samurai are bringing everyone to the town square now.” She points outward now. “I saw them.”
Shifting his view, Hisashi peers at the way from which he came, spotting a band of samurai that formed an impenetrable net that hounded the fish into one spot. The torches they held further contributed to the net’s impenetrable nature. If he had to guess, this was happening from every which direction. “Hm.” He hummed. Hisashi lifts the hat from her head and places it on his own. “Stay close, and do as I say.” He stands back up, the quickness of it all discouraging any retaliation she may have thought of.
Hisashi peers back at the kannushi and the headman. The scenery did not change much, until a decorated warrior rode into view on his horse. The size of his helmet’s crest and the accessories he adorned chased away the shadows of doubt. To Hisashi, the newcomer was practically glowing — The Blue Moon shines tonight.
Homura. Hisashi clenched his jaw.
Lord Homura climbs off his steed and makes his way up the stage, but not without pulling on a rope that stretches behind him. Finally, the end of the rope comes into view, as well as that with which the end was tied to. The townsfolk feast their eyes on another samurai, armored from head to toe, whose wrists were bound together helplessly. Hisashi deduced that the parade must have been abolished for Yasu’s antics, and today’s demon bait was to replace the effigy in being ‘freed from his mortal flesh’. They watch Lord Homura place the bait at the very center, knocking him behind the knee to force him down on all fours. All the while, the townsfolk kept their lips sealed.
“Tachikawa.” Homura calls out to the town. Using the silence they offered wisely, his grizzly voice roars all over the square, “your lord has returned!”
His men matched their lords roar with an ear-bursting ovation. It was prolonged by Homura’s waving of his sensu as one would do with an open flame, searing whatever hope the townsfolk had into a crisp.
As soon as his hand drops, so did their voices. Homura continues, “The warm welcome with which you receive me does not go unnoticed. I have come a long way, and along that way, I was… bedeviled… by the thought that I would arrive empty-handed. Luckily, the gods provide.” He gestures to the man at the end of his rope. “I come bearing a gift — an integral part to your celebration.”
The kannushi and the miko had long been concerned about where this was leading to, but with Homura’s speech, they both turned to Makoto for an explanation. The kannushi would be the next among those to be let down by the headman’s lack of compassion. On the other hand, the miko finds that Makoto’s quivering lips told a different story, like a cage being rattled from within. Regardless, his inaction would lead to an outcome most undesirable, and as a spiritual leader, the kannushi would not follow in the headman’s example.
“My sincerest apologies, my lord.” The kannushi bows, and the miko follows suit so as to properly interject. “While I… understand… the lengths we must go through to ward off evil spirits, I must advise against this course.” He gestures to the man knelt on the ground. “A death may bring about more misfortune for the town. I humbly propose that I begin with the purification ritual instead to allow for a yearlong protection against the Demon of Kumitsukawa, to ensure that your coming reign be peaceful.”
The miko could not help but turn her eyes, albeit while keeping her head steady, at Makoto, who seemed to have finally broken free from his stasis. She was left wondering as to why his head shook, and why it did so discreetly.
“Please consider this recourse, my lord.” Once more, the kannushi bows, with the miko almost lagging on the timing in replicating this gesture.
Homura’s gaze bent them even lower. He hums at the thought. “I cannot possibly hope to challenge your wisdom on the matter. I am a warrior, and you, a priest.”
Bent down, the kannushi could only hear the praise he was given, but it was enough if it meant sparing the poor soul an early trip to the afterlife. A breath of relief exits him in silence, and a smile forms thereafter. If only he could see that the Blue Moon had quickly drawn his katana and used the priest’s perfect bow to bring the blade down upon his exposed nape. His head came off without hesitation, and the miko would come face to face with her master and his lasting smile. Her scream was inevitable, extending far beyond the town and into the forests by the gravity of the horror she was forced to witness. She fell on her rear, crawling into the corner away from the headman and the warlord.
“I am no fool.” The warlord declared. “I am a warrior!”
HAI! The samurai responded in chorus.
“We are warriors, and this is a battlefield!”
HAI!
“I need no opinion from a priest!”
HAI!
“The gods have no place here!”
HAI!
“This land belongs to me!”
HAI!
“Witness what fate has in store for those who think otherwise.”
The Blue Moon grips the bait’s face and relieves him of his mask and helmet.
“GRAH!” Katashi roared, freed of the gag that suppressed him. “YOU WILL NEVER GET AWAY WITH THIS! THIS LAND BELONGS TO US, MURDERER!!” Katashi spat at the warlord’s feet.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
The volume of the crowd’s gasp carried the weight of their wishes against this barbaric act; more than the loss of a life, they would be witnessing the passing of a husband and a father. Heads quickly turned, in search of either the wife or the daughter, but this was a fruitless endeavor. While the former remains unseen, the latter had been veiled by Hisashi’s hand. He pressed her against him, just as he had done before.
“No… no no no nonono…” she gripped onto the fabric of his clothes, desperate to drown out the image of what was to become of her father. Through her grip, Hisashi could feel her shiver. More than that, he could feel her plead.
Hisashi turns away from her temporarily, casting his gaze toward the stage and around it. His attention was caught by a black bird that soared to perch on the roof of a nearby building situated near the stage. To his surprise, his eyes were led to notice a shimmer in the open window below the bird. His focus was returned to the stage where a burst of flames had occurred, causing him to bring Seijun closer into his figure. His hand drew closer to her ear to further deny her the horror. The torch had been lit, and two samurai mounted each step one at a time to get up on the stage and stand before their lord, about to perform a great service. One held a torch, and the other, a jar of oil. In the latter’s pride and preference for threatrics, he raised the jar over his head and slowly tipped it onto Katashi.
PHEW! CRRRKK!
A kunai had flown across the night to pierce the jar from below. With its integrity severely compromised, the oil poured onto the samurai instead. The torchbearer turned skyward, following the direction from which the kunai had come from, bringing his sights to hone onto an open window. Something shimmered amidst the darkness, and it flew right toward him. The arrow flew faster than he could think, and though he failed to protect himself in time, he would be relieved to know that he did not stand at the impetus of its trajectory. Instead, it flew through the torch he held and transferred the flame onto the samurai doused in oil, igniting him brightly and excruciatingly loud.
“OPEN FIRE!” Ordered one of the captains, prompting the squad of samurai near the stage to take aim and unleash a barrage of gunfire that sent the Demon back into hiding and scaring the bird off into the sky.
Thunderous gunfire forced the screams of the townsfolk to finally tear through the veil of silence they held for so long. With it in shreds, pandemonium flooded in. A stampede of frightened townspeople ensued in every which way. They began to push at the line formed by the samurai, the stubbornness of whom were rewarded with punches and kicks thrown their way. But this only egged the warriors to turn their guns toward the townsfolk instead with no unfair preference between man, woman, or child. The sound of thunder no longer only emanated from within, but started to erupt from all over the town square. Safety became scarce, and it was every man for himself.
Amidst the chaos, Katashi jumped to the stage floor to cradle himself, not wanting to be skewered by an arrow or blown away by a gun. He attempts to squirm away inch by inch, but finds that the rope binding his hands was caught on something. He looks back, finding the other end caught beneath Lord Homura’s heavy foot. From behind Homura’s mask, he hid a smile. But while his amusement had set in, he was yet to be satisfied — he will not be denied the fulfillment of his gift. He takes the rope into his left hand and tugs Katashi back into the fold. Homura raises his sword with his right hand and finds Katashi vanishing amidst an explosion of dense smoke. Instead of a bound farmer, he is met by the Demon of Kumitsukawa, swinging the sword he took from the waist of the archer he killed from the window. With Homura’s blade already raised, he adds his left hand to strengthen his grip and blocks the Demon’s attack, locking their swords in a stalemate.
It was unfortunate for him, however, that the Demon held his sword with but one hand.
His left hand flew in from behind the lingering smoke to drive a kunai into his armpit. Its presence weakens Homura’s hold on his katana. Hisashi takes the opportunity to drive his knee into the old man’s stomach and flip him over his shoulder to slam him into the ground, effectively disarming the warlord and reducing him to just another injured victim. He almost felt sorry for him, hearing him wheeze. It seems like he knocked the wind out of him and spared none as a courtesy.
But his ears perked up the longer he heard him wheeze.
Hisashi kneels beside Homura and rips his menpō away from him. In that instant, the grizzly and hoarse voice that struck fear into the hearts of the town melted into a mellow voice, mostly garbled by the strike to the stomach. Hisashi inspects the back of the accessory, seeing letterings carved into the wood — a wind spell that allows the wearer to change their voice, the very same type of spell he uses. Without the mask, he was also beholden to the man’s face — he was barely older than Hisashi. As the stones of realization sank to the bottom of his ocean, Hisashi heard a faint laugh. It served as the backdrop to the chaos that slowly became audible to him as the gray curtains of his smoke bomb were pulled back, revealing the mayhem that had ensued. Their screams mixed in a sinister symphony of slaughter, accompanied by gunfire and the cleaving of flesh. The townsfolk were reduced to fish, speared and suffocated inside the net cast by their oppressors; they scattered, hoping to subdue as many as they could, or snuff them out in the process.
“A fool…” says the Impostor, his words competing against his blood-filled coughs, “will light any fuse… ckk— and chase that flame… like a fl—..”
Vehemence twists the kunai injected into the impostor’s side, cutting his breath short, and consequently, his death poem. A set of hurried footsteps ran along the stage, calling Hisashi’s attention to the here and now, spotting several samurai on their way to cleave him. He tugs the kunai from the impostor’s side and throws it on his hand’s way up. The slightest shimmer that the metal of the kunai reflects calls for a block, but one that was wasted on misdirection as the Demon slithers inward like a shadow and cuts down the samurai with a swift slash through his belt and into his stomach. Another rushes in after him, prompting the Demon to raise his sword above his head for an upward strike. The samurai makes the right decision to equip a high guard stance, meeting the opponent’s downward strike before it ever touches his head. Alas, it proves unfortunate that his attention above him limits his attention below as the Demon sweeps his feet and drops him to the ground. Hurried attempts to return to his footing were futile when a blade cleaved his face in two. Pulling his sword out, Hisashi watches the last body fall out of alignment with the impostor, the charred corpse, and the other samurai that charged at him.
His objective then became clear: cut the net, free the fish.
The perimeter around the town square was wide enough that the chaos was yet to fully spread across, but inevitability looms like clouds. South of the stage, voices competed in volume; the townsfolk raised their voice to proclaim freedom, but the samurai raised their weapons as a response. The men quickly stepped forward, forming their own line to safeguard their wives and children, but the samurai forces remained steadfast.
“We do not want trouble! We simply want to go home!” Explained a man.
“Stand down, and there will be no trouble.” The samurai kept them at bay with but his hand.
“What right do you have to keep us here?! This is our town!” Shouted a man.
The show of aggression calls for his gun to be hoisted up and aimed at them. “This land belongs to Lord Homura, peasant.”
“Please!” Pleaded yet another.
Ever so gently, the townsman reaches for the muzzle of the gun in an attempt to tilt it downward and away from the children. But the samurai pulls his weapon back and takes a swing at the peasant instead, forcing him to the ground.
“DADDY!” A voice pierced from the crowd behind them, but her father could not speak with a cracked lip. He could only raise his hand in protest.
“BACK!” The samurai brandished his weapon. “STAY BACK!”
While the townsfolk were forced to obey this oppressive command, a lone rock seeks to defy it. It soars through the flurry of arms and hits the samurai in the nose. The force behind it, doubled by its weight, drew blood in an instant, and along with it, his rage. He swings a kick into the downed peasant’s ribs, turning him onto his back that he might see the black abyss that is the barrel of his gun.
BANG!
The gunfire was loud enough to shatter the ferocity that constituted the expression of the townsmen in their protective line, revealing the docile and obedient interior beneath. Slowly they backed away, stretching their arms sideward to take their families with them. But soon, their families would push back, an involuntary reaction to the spreading chaos that drew closer. Far behind them, people poured in from every which way in search for a way out. Desperation had led them to exhaust all possible options, regardless of how high the possibility of success was.
“Hey.” Called a samurai. “Get back!”
“My lord, it is not us! More are coming in from the back!” The line slowly moved forward, closer to the samurai. Try as they might to stop, the soil itself opposed their advance, and yet it continues.
“Please just let us go!”
“Let us go!”
“Stop pushing!”
“MOVE BACK! MOOOVEEE BAAACCKKK!”
“HEY! HEEEEYY! HEE- AACCCKK!”
“AAAGGGHHHCCCC—”
The line of townsmen were offered as sacrifices ordained by greed of those behind them, pushed into the polearms and swords of the immovable samurai barricade and skewed like dumplings in rows. Their cries mixed in with that of the children’s, but theirs were diluted by gargling on their own blood. With the first line of defense simultaneously torn down, a mixture of men, mothers and children were next.
Surrounded were they, overwhelmed by the panic and pandemonium behind, in front, and around them. They could not help but watch their impending doom draw closer, or rather, it was them that inched closer to it. With nowhere else to look, they throw their gaze skywards, where there was nothing but stars
and a passing shadow.
The shadow fires his last arrow into the foot of one of the samurai warriors before discarding the bow, pinning him to the ground. Unable to pivot, the samurai could not see that the shadow had landed right behind him to claim his life by driving a sword through the nape and out the mouth.
“THERE HE IS!!!”
They turn, gazing upon their impending doom.
Standing behind them, The Demon of Kumitsukawa pulled his blade back for another strike, and those within his reach were felled with a single swing of his sword; clean cuts to the exposed throat drained them instantly, and their bodies dropped before they were totally emptied out. He avoids retaliatory fire by throwing his iron hat to the left to rob a few teeth out of the samurai’s mouth, and leaping to the right to insert himself between enemies and engage them in extreme close-quarter combat — rendering their guns useless. He weaves in between them masterfully, striking their weapons away to deliver the killing blow as quickly as he could.
But, numbers were not at all without their value.
His next swing was successfully blocked, allowing the enemies to raise his hands and drive a knee to his stomach. Any attempts to counter seemed to result in his arms getting caught on something repeatedly, continuously leaving him open to be punched and kicked. Instantaneously, a hand grips his collar from behind and pulls him to the ground. On his way back up, a yari twirls to strike his katana out of his hand. A foot quickly follows, knocking him back down. The yari’s pointed tip rested on his chest, while the rest of the men followed suit, encircling him with the barrel of their guns trained on him as well.
The samurai holding the polearm nudges one of the guns away from the Demon’s face.
“Keep his head untouched. Lord Homura will grant me my own province for it.”
SPPROOOCHHH!!
Hisashi watched a hole suddenly appear between the samurai’s eyebrows. Another man’s shoulder sparked when his armor plating gave in. Another had his neck pierced. The entire squad of samurai had been gunned down, filling the floor with blood to mix into the disbelief that Hisashi sat in. But the explanation would not take long, most especially since it rode on the back of a horse.
Its neighs were familiar, instantly bringing his shoulders into its first relaxed state since he began running around in a mad dash to take out as many enemies he could on his way to cut the net open. He slowly pushed himself up and watched black and gold sashimono pierce the horizon. Hiroshi and all of Somukawa arrive — armed, armored, and ready. Upon the Old Baker’s command, his soldiers would create a path to escort the citizens to safety while simultaneously feeding reinforcements back up into the heart of the town square; the walls of this path is made evident by the soldiers adorning armor they scavenged from the fallen samurai — lacquered in black and decorated with gold.
“I brought your weapons, all of them.” Hiroshi dismounts Hayato and approaches the Demon who seemingly marches onward and reaches for an iron hat to put on. His attention falls not onto the hat, but onto the pile of bodies from whence he got it. “ I… Hisashi, I—”
“There is still time.” Hisashi cuts past the inevitable sorrow. “More civilians are trapped inside the square and need a way out. The east, west and northern streets are barricaded too.” Hisashi walks past him and mounts Hayato.
“I understand.” Hiroshi nodded firmly.
“One more thing.” Said Hisashi, fastening his katana to his belt and leading Hayato past the threshold of dead bodies. “I need you to find two people, a man and a woman — Katashi and Tsuna. He is wearing armor that looks like mine, and she is not wearing black.”
The Old Baker’s brows folded following the arch of a question mark, lost as to the purpose of this particular task in the midst of the chaos.
“Find them, at all costs.”
The tone in Hisashi’s voice told him more than enough. He nods firmly yet again. Alas, he could not escape the gruesome sight to behold — a line of corpses, indicating the precipice of bloodshed. Stepping beyond this point gave only two options — kill or be killed. “Homura… He is a monster, he will pay for this.”
Hisashi stops, turning over his shoulder. “He will. I am his monster.”
And with that, Hisashi leads the charge into the fray. With him in full view, the soldiers of Somukawa sprint behind him without hesitation, carrying weapons, sporting his colors, replicas of his mask, and bellowing hearty war cries to strike fear into the heart of their enemies. These cries permeated the chaos in the town square, and soon enough, all eyes were on them. The first to come into view were the tall and striking banners flying with orange lilies as their emblem. Directly below them were an army of demons led by the Demon of Kumitsukawa himself. Mounted on a powerful steed, Hisashi bursts through the line of men that saw fit to stand in his way. The black and gold swarmed into what was once a solid ocean of navy blue; demons hacked, slashed and shot at them from every which direction, the chaos playing well into their hand as they spread across the field like wildfire.Under the masterful guidance of a seasoned rider, Hayato narrowly dodges anyone that seemingly stood in their path. With reinforcements having arrived, he was no longer the sole target of gun, sword, or otherwise. Their training became evident soon enough, seeing as how random samurai warriors would drop without ever so much as a touch from him.
Onward he rides back to where he stood with the stage in view moments ago. He aids his fellow demons by mowing down the enemies in his path along the way to even the odds. Hisashi equips his bow and arrow and fires a round of shots at whoever was unfortunate enough to fall in his sights, difficult as it was that the head was his best chance at efficiently using his limited number of ammunition. As soon as he empties his quiver, Hisashi slithers down his saddle to grab an enemy’s kanabō, and with the speed and momentum in which he rode, swinging the club at the enemies below thoroughly sent them flying off into the afterlife — armor and bone likened to egg shells.
But even this would have its limit.
His next swing shatters both the weapon and the samurai’s skull, inadvertently saving Tsuna from her attacker. Quickly, she rose up, catching a glimpse of the Demon as he rode away into the distance.
Discarding the broken piece of wood, Hisashi taps Hayato’s side. “Back to Hiroshi.” He commanded.
He stands on Hayato’s back and leaps onto the eaves of a house, making his way inside. The wooden interior and the shoji reduced the chaos outside as but a play of shadows. Even still, Hisashi approached with caution, making his way downstairs. He heads straight to the doma, leaping into the dirt and facing one of the wooden panels. Moving it away, he finds Seijun. Her hands fought hard to keep the horrors away, she even closed her eyes hoping it would help. And between her right hand and her right ear, he finds her still clenching the kunai he had given her. Hisashi was struck with a fit of hesitation for but a brief moment. As soon as his hand wrapped around her small wrist, she quickly pulled away to reel for an attack. But the moment their eyes met, hers softened with familiarity to see a friend — not a monster.
“Sashi-kun!” She exclaimed, nearly jumping out of her makeshift hiding place to embrace him. “You came back for me…” Whispered Seijun, muffled by his shoulder.
Hisashi took his time in this embrace, hoping to forget that for a brief second, she looked at him the way everyone else has. He pulls away so that he may meet her gaze yet again. “Stay close,” he grips her hand holding the kunai, “and do not let go of this.”
Seijun clenched her jaw just as her hands clenched the kunai. She nods and follows Hisashi’s lead outside. It came as a surprise to her, how badly things had gotten since he hid her in the house. She would not falter in following him closely, but there was so much to look at, so much to look out for. They invaded her senses like a siege;
the orchestra of flesh being punctured like a cushion, ripped like paper, smashed like a fruit, partnered with the bones that snaps in two, wedged themselves into her ears;
a sharp tang of iron attacked her nostrils borne from the abundance of blood around her, prolonged exposure lathered her tongue with a metallic taste;
her eyes were forced to consume the image of her neighbors peppering the floor like fish scales on a butcher’s chopping board.
The echo of gunfire pushed her next step back into place. In an instant, she casts her gaze downward, covering her ears with her hands. Her hands did spectacular in keeping the gunfire out, but they manifested as ripples in the puddle she unknowingly stood in. When the ripples cleared, she found herself accompanied by her reflection. Despite it still being warm, a chill traveled up her spine and froze her in place. From amidst the chaos, a hand reaches in and grabs Seijun by the forearm, yanking her into the unknown.
“Seijun! On my signal, run to that house!” Hisashi pushed and off any body that found its way in his path, clearing a path for both of them. “Seijun?” But as he turned to find her, she was no longer there.
Not beside him.
Not behind him.
He dodges an incoming polearm and severs the man’s jaw with a quick draw of his sword, kicking him back into the depths of the fighting. Hisashi immediately turns on his heel and marches back, releasing yet another handful of sinners from their mortal shells along the way. He stops before his foot plunges into a puddle of crimson, finding a trace of red footprints that leading into the street — into the thick of the battle. Helpful as they were, it was no use tracking footprints like this. Instead, Hisashi returns to the rooftops from whence he gains a bird’s eye view. With it, he spots movement down below, like a snake slithering through tall grass. Locked on this trail, Hisashi dashes and traverses through the rooftops. His hunting skills were exemplary, following Seijun and her captor to the town’s castle with relative ease. He treads the eaves and climbs into Makoto’s chambers, this being the most familiar room to him given his last visit. As expected, the room was empty. As a matter of fact, the entire castle should be empty.
He spares his weight in making his way to the door so as to not give his location away, but Seijun’s captor did not have the same foresight as their footsteps broadcasted their location to him. Hisashi detected hurried steps coming up the stairs, but they slowed on their way to the third floor. A silhouette climbs up the stairs and stands before the door. Hisashi could recognize the build of the captor to be none other than the headman, wrapping his arm around what he could surmise as Seijun, possibly to keep her from screaming. Makoto was not necessarily a name on his hit list, but this had certainly earned him his place.
Hisashi waits for the wood of the door to part in the very slightest before stabbing his sword through the shoji paper. To secure his kill, he drags the blade downwards diagonally and pulls his blade back to deliver a swift kick. But upon tearing the paper with his foot, he finds nobody tumbling down.
As a matter of fact, his foot hit nothing but paper.
As if to add insult to injury, laughter emanates from behind him.
“Chasing shadows?”
Seijun wriggled and writhed with the hope of freeing herself from her captor’s grasp, but her release was entirely out of her control. With an arm wrapped around her mouth, she could not scream either, and was rendered helpless as she watched Hisashi vanish behind the shrubbery of violence. Eventually, a door slides into view and cuts her off from the slaughter that continued to pervade, and sweet release was finally granted. The little girl pushes her captor away in an instant, and rushes to the door. She wedges her fingers in between to fling it open, but a larger hand maintains that the door be closed.
“Wait!” Said her captor, a masculine voice carrying the order.
To her surprise, she finds her captor to be the Headman.
“Makoto-sama?!” But her surprise lasted for but a second as she continued to claw the door open. “I have to go! Sashi-kung is out there!”
“No!” He lunges at her, wrapping his arm around her waist and hoisting her up and away from the door. “It is far too dangerous! We must stay inside.” Makoto brings her to the center of what he could only surmise to be a small house of a merchant.
“But my friend is out there!” Seijun continued to wage war with the headman, scrambling for a way to slip his grasp.
“He will not survive!! None of them will!!”
Makoto takes her by the wrists, and holds them close so as to keep her from clawing at him. However, he seems to have put a stop to her entirely; he watches her shoulders soften, alongside her expression.
“None of them will survive this,” he continued, “but I can get you out — out of the town.” Makoto nodded, “I can get you to safety. I just need you to follow me.”
“JUN!”
“JUUUN!”
“SEIJUN!”
“SEIJUUUNN!”
Both heads turned in unison, both eyes trained on the silhouettes that were cast by the moonlight on the shoji paper that constituted the door. Makoto needed not to guess who it was that hollered outside. But with his eyes away, he could not see her head on its way to ram his nose. Hardheadedness prevails, and the little girl sprints away from the headman to throw the door open. Moonlight and violence come pouring in, but so did the clarity in Katashi’s call for his little girl.
“JUNN!”
“PAPA!”
Katashi instantly turned, facing the way of the merchant’s home to find the door open and Seijun standing just across the threshold. Judging by the look in her eyes, he could see a confusion mixed with the feeling of elation she felt seeing him; it was inevitable considering this was the first time she would see him in samurai armor, let alone wielding a club. But Katashi would not complain, there was no better way to protect his daughter than to be armed and armored.
“TSUNA! I FOUND HER!” Katashi plants a firm foot before swinging his club behind him, connecting with the head of a samurai that sought to run after his beloved wife.
She ducks under her husband’s attack and sprints the remaining distance to embrace Seijun once more.
“Mama!” Seijun chirped, succumbing to the warm embrace.
“Oh Seijun…” she whimpered, feeling the tears well up on the sill of her eyes. But she fought them, not wanting to sprint with a distorted vision. “We are leaving, okay?”
“I still have the money you gave me.”
Confused, Tsuna pulled away, watching Seijun pull out the money she had given her to buy Katashi a hat — still whole, without a deduction in the slightest. She broke into a smile, pulling Seijun back into her arms and peppering her forehead with kisses that rivaled her little girl’s gesture in sweetness. Her mother’s reaction was all but clear to her, leaving Seijun dumbfounded. She watches as Tsuna folds her little fingers for her, clenching the money she was given for the hat.
“Keep it safe.” Tsuna bestowed upon her daughter her undivided gaze. ”You can give it to me after all of this is done, okay?”
“Okay, Mama.” Seijun nodded, illuminating their dim expressions with a smile as she tucks the money back into her person.
Tsuna takes Seijun’s hand and takes their first step back to Katashi who fought with the strength of ten men, an attribute he gained after years of working the field. But a farmer’s hard work stands no chance against a storm, and this was an undisputed truth. Thunder struck loud, but Katashi’s fall to the ground was much louder.
“KATASHI!” Cried Tsuna. The instinct to sprint came immediately; perhaps if she made haste, her song could save him, but the cry she bellowed drew the attention of the dark clouds toward her. She need not see to know the storm was upon them.
Swiftly, she turns them around and pushes Seijun back into the merchant’s home. Her nails dig into the wood of the door and closes it with a BANG! The paper is peppered in holes in the blink of an eye, some of them falling inside the figure of the silhouette that she knew all too well.
A silhouette she knew all her life
The silhouette grew darker as the figure leaned on the door and slid down to the ground in a slump, and there, she sat guard.