The Hour of the Pig — Night
In the quiet of the night, it was difficult to miss the stampede of horses that trampled over the silence bestowed onto the village after a hard day’s work. The long faces of the villagers grew longer, knowing that they were now in the company of the samurai. Their cheers scared away the animals, as it did good fortune. Although how could they resist when they have brought back such a bounty for tonight’s feast? Proudly, they watched as the deers and boars got carried away to the kitchen for preparation; one particular samurai felt it appropriate to exhale — his work was done, now the villagers shall do their part. He climbs down from his horse, and with his back turned, he is startled to see a horde of villagers appear behind him.
“AH—” He exclaimed, but realizing who they were, he collected himself quickly.
“My Lord! We need your assistance! Come quick!” Said the unfamiliar villager; the Old Baker blended well with the locals indeed.
The samurai stood there briefly, stealing glances at his men who were just as dumbfounded as him. More than that, they were reluctant — the feast was starting soon. However, if this is not dealt with, then he would never hear the end of it. His deep exhale is succeeded by a burdened sigh; there was work to be done.
“Over here!” Hiroshi called.
Accompanied by a handful of concerned farmers, he beckons a squad of samurai to follow him further toward the river. Fresh from the hunt, the warriors marched onward without their helmets, having believed that no trouble awaited them back at Somukawa— they were wrong. The samurai listened with a skeptical ear while shrouded in a cloak of vexation as the farmers murmur among themselves:
“Is it true?”
“Did he really see her?”
“What did he see?”
“Maybe it was a bear…”
“A bear? Really?”
Despite their clear disdain for the thoughts of the lowly peasants, the samurai followed.
With the water swallowing them up to the thighs, Hiroshi and the rest cross the river; two of the samurai following the Old Baker would nudge each other by the shoulder, exchanging looks that go unnoticed as all eyes were set in front of them — to the forest.
“There!” Hiroshi points into the blackness that the forest created, “I saw her in the woods! I saw a Yūrei!” He stands aside for the samurai to proceed, getting as close as his sense of bravery would allow him.
The words triggered a symphony of gasps that heightened the sense of urgency among the warriors. From here, the samurai all drew their blades and took the lead, one wary foot at a time. While others may refer to it as caution, the frozen foot of the samurai in the lead that kept him from entering the forest may also be regarded as something else. Rather than taking another step, he opted to ask a question:
“You,” he called without ever pulling his sight from the darkness, “What exactly did you see?”
“A woman, white dress, black hair — bloody eyes. She lured some of your men into the forest and I heard screams!” Hiroshi responded, cowering behind the fearful samurai.
The darkness covered most of the samurai’s agitated expression. Inadvertently, the baker’s description had instilled a new option for him and his men, one that included a retreat into the settlement to join the others in the feast. He turned to look at those gathered around them, and with a curse muttered beneath his breath, he steadied his hand; the sooner this is over, the sooner they can join the celebration.
“Stand back.” He tells the peasants, pushing through the forest and passing the threshold that is the tree line — his men follow.
Tap.
Just as the trees filter Amaterasu’s light, they filter Tsukuyomi’s as well. Because of this, his view of the forest grounds were fragmented, but his eyes would adjust as best they could. Only a few steps past the threshold, a hand was raised to signal the squad to halt. He sheathes his sword and kneels to the ground, prompting two samurai to take a step forward and protect their vulnerable ally. Kneeling inches away from a bush, he inspects the ground for any sort of prints.
Tap.
And thusly, he came upon what seemed to be a leaf from the bush that moved on its own.
Tap.
Still operating under the influence of what could be discerned as caution, he pats the ground for a tool and settles for a stick. Taking it into hand, he gently pokes the moving bush, getting no response. A second poke is administered, gaining the same result. Finally, he discards the stick and reaches for the one leaf that seemingly nodded at him in regular intervals. Much to his surprise, his fingers got wet. Though disgust started to settle in him, he proceeded with the inspection. He brought his fingers together, rubbing them. It colored his skin dark, and it smelled like metal.
Tap.
With his hand hovering over the bush, the leaf did not move. Instead, his knuckles are generously painted with the dark substance. Calling one of his men with a gesture, the torch draws closer to him. Light finally made its way to him, upon which he was elucidated to the red color of the substance that fell on his hand. Both men threw their gazes toward the trees, they would not be left clueless for long. Right where he stands, an immensely heavy object collapses on top of him, bringing him to the floor along with it; the samurai with the torch had the foresight to step out of the way, saving himself the pain and the embarrassment. He was dazed and out of breath for the minute, having felt as if he was rammed by a horse. But when he came to his senses, his chest filled with air.
“AAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” His scream startled his own men.
The torch would be brought closer once again so as to elucidate their culprit. Light did it no justice, revealing to everyone present a headless body.
Frantically, the cowardly samurai pushed the body off and hurried himself back under the safety of numbers. “W-w-we need t-to get the others! We need to go! Now!” He scrambled back onto his feet.
And just as he ordered their retreat into the settlement, the bushes shook amidst the stagnant air — they all shook together.
“F-formation! FORMATION!” He ordered, stepping back as his men rallied into an arrangement that replicated the shape of an arrowhead.
The swords took the frontlines while the archers remained in the back, covering a wider portion of the possible areas of attack. His retreat was more so from a tactical standpoint, granting him time to draw his katana. Now equipped and ready, he takes but one step forth to get in range of their ears.
“Do you see anything?” His eyes shifted faster than his heart could beat.
“Too dark to see…” Responded the furthermost man, trying his best to calm himself.
“Nothing here..”
“None here...”
“Same for me…”
Each man sounded off, clearing their respective posts and bringing their attention away from the tip of their formation. However, the frightened samurai refused to believe them; something was out there. And just as he convinced himself of this, he lifts his index finger and points just above the shoulder of the furthermost man — the tip of the arrow.
“TH-THE-THERE! I SEE IT!” He cried,
“IT’S A CCCKKK—”
The pointed hand turns flaccid and falls upon the arrow tip’s shoulder; droplets of a warm liquid sprinkle on the back of his neck, some staining his right cheek. He was the first to turn around and gaze upon the sharp pieces of metal that entered one side of his ally’s head and exited through another.
So it began, the tree trunks were painted in red, the branches swaying to the morbid symphony of meat being tenderized. The moonlight hid the faces of the attackers; shadows showed no such mercy as they lifted their weapons up and brought them down in a single unforgiving breath onto the unknowing warriors.
The last man stood in a puddle of his comrades’ blood, watching the group of peasants pull tools out of their skulls. In spite of their faces being shrouded in darkness, he knew they were looking at him.
They were all looking at him.
“...GRRRRAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!” He affirms his hold on his katana, and charges forth.
The Old Baker masterfully twirls his hoe so as to swat the katana away with ease. Using the momentum of the twirl, he drives his hoe through the samurai’s jaw with the tines exiting the topmost region of his skull.
The injection of thick metal into his skull immediately caused his eyes to roll into the back of his head; he drops into the puddle upon the Baker’s release, and his exhale signifies a successful execution of the mission.
“Quickly!” Says Hiroshi, looking back at the rest of the group, “Get their weapons, and rally with the others!”
The rest of them discarded their bloody farming tools into the forest, upgrading to tools of warfare. They curled their fingers around the polearm, the bow, and the hilt; they attached quivers onto their backs, and the arquebuses onto their waists. Heeding Hiroshi’s command, they sprint back to the settlement with the winds of war to guide and fuel them.
Hiroshi replaces his hoe with a naginata, testing its weight in his hand with a few flourishes and the sturdiness by striking the ground with its wooden end. For a brief moment, he gazes upon the dead, filling the empty faces of the samurai in his imagination of Kumitsukawa’s darkest hour. And even now, as he stares at the last faces that his people ever saw, he tucks his extremities to his side and delivers a slow bow. Bending at the waist, his tears mix into the dark puddle that surrounds him; Hiroshi maintains his bow despite the momentary quakes borne from an aching heart. His attempts to stop the tears from trickling down his cheek were futile, even with his eyes closed.
And that was when he felt the softest hand cup his face and lightly brush the tears away.
As quickly as he could, Hiroshi opens his eyes and basks in the calm presence of a girl. Her hair was as black as the night, but her dress was as white as the clouds above; she glowed as if the sun sat inside her chest and she smiled with its radiance. She stood in silence, once again wiping her thumb across the Old Baker’s cheek.
“Wh-...who are you…?” Asked Hiroshi, hoping to match his tone with her serene presence.
Her hand leaves his cheek to join the other pair that sat on her lap. Mimicking the Old Baker’s prior action, the girl bent at the waist and bowed, still maintaining her kind smile. The Old Baker reciprocates, but finds that her light slowly begins to fade. By the time that he straightened his back, he was accompanied by none.
Meanwhile at the restaurant...
The Clerk’s step through the threshold from the kitchen welcomes her back into the overwhelming atmosphere of a packed restaurant. Chiyo takes a moment to watch as her family is called to service yet again. Her grandsons served the tables, cooked the food, and cleaned the bowls. The youngest of them, on the other hand, filled the atmosphere with music. He held his shamisen dearly; a happy smile from his grandmother encouraged him to continue. The melody he plays forges invisible strings, tethering the limbs of the maiko that dances in front of the entire crowd. The girl’s dress was the finest that Somukawa could muster. Not a single strand of hair was out of place, and her make-up made her eyes and lips look like cherry blossoms that rested on untouched snow — a simple peasant’s resourcefulness comes a long way, enabling such a grand form of entertainment in such a humble place. Despite the kind smile that she offers, her eyes nervously scan the crowd. And in the distance, she finds her mother; Aimi mirrors her daughter’s smile as best as she could without drawing attention to herself, as if to hold her hand through this bit of hardship. She was partly in disbelief, the ensemble that Aiko had been adorned with made her look as if she was an entirely different person. Yet this would not stop her from showing her support in the form of cautiously curved lips. Not a single step escapes the gaze of the seated samurai, starving the women that sat beside them of the attention they sorely despised. The men did not mind much that the girl’s movements were as refined as uncut grass, they expected nothing less from a small community this far from the capital. All that mattered was the shape and sparkle of her eyes that glanced ever so slightly at them, the redness of her lips and the neatness of her hair; they could no longer hear the slightest sound, such as the beverage that the women poured into their cups.
Chiyo places a tray of fresh drinks on the counter to be served to their hearty patrons; her eldest grandson approaches to curl his fingers beneath the tray.
“Take these to the lieutenant and his guards.” Said Chiyo.
“The li— umm… Which one is the lieutenant?” Asked her grandson.
Chiyo holds onto the boy’s forearm and gently leans closer to him; pointing with a finger would be disrespectful, so she does it with but her gaze, “The lieutenant should be seated at the end of that table, farthest from the door. His guards sit closest to him.” She explained, her words almost lost to the round of applause offered by the patrons to the maiko at the end of her performance.
As best he could, he follows her gaze across the room toward the table in question. The masked men gathered at the end of the table must be those directly under the lieutenant, but the Lieutenant himself seems to be nowhere in sight. Nevertheless, he nods and lifts the tray to deliver the new batch of drinks, passing by both Aiko and his siblings on their way back to the kitchen. The tables were arranged to accommodate entire groups of samurai; every seat filled by a man in armor, the aroma of the food and drinks struck them first while the peasants sat by the wayside, sniffing only what was left in the air.
Kaito, who remained near Chiyo at the bar counter, took brief peeks over his own shoulder. He watches the men of Somukawa do the same, keeping an eye on their wives and daughters who sat by the samurai against their will; the smiles of the women could be mistaken for masks. Nonchalantly, he nods toward the Clerk to gain her attention, but she only closes her eyes and exhales through the nose as a response. With that, she leaves Kaito and makes her way back to the kitchen — a long night was ahead of them.
A lonely samurai seated among his peers watches the new batch of drinks be delivered, he wonders how many times has one of those boys made trips around their table, and how many more before the main course was delivered. Deciding that enough was enough, his hand breaks through the surface tension of individual conversation happening simultaneously, his voice accompanied his hand in calling their attention:
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“We should start already! I am starting to get full from nothing but appetizers and drinks! Who knows how long those fools will take!”
“Where did they go anyway?” Another voice came from somewhere down the table.
“Called by the farmers, something about something they saw.” He replied.
“Might be a bear.”
“It could be those thieves we keep hearing about.”
“They take after their captain — Daichi. It has been days since Kumitsukawa and he has not returned yet! We should eat now while the night is young!” Tadashi interjected.
Voices sound off from one end of the table to another, turning heads from here to there. However, their gaze would focus on the warrior who sat opposite of the samurai with his hand raised,
“It would be disrespectful to start without everyone, Tadashi. Even the lieutenant is not here yet.“ His arm rests comfortably around a woman’s shoulder.
“The Lieutenant has matters to attend to, but the rest? What would be more disrespectful, Ginjiro, is allowing the food to go to waste! Can you not smell the food back there? They are waiting for us to start the feast!”
“Hmm, or perhaps you are just jealous because you have no one to pour your drink for you — again.” The score of samurai erupts into laughter; Ginjiro leans to the woman, gently tracing her jawline with his finger while she nuzzles into him in return and reluctance, “I suppose waiting would not be that enjoyable when you are alone.” Ginjiro added.
Tadashi’s hand lowers to point across the table. “Have you not had enough to drink, Ginjiro?”
“I do not mind… as long as she is pouring my drink.” He winks at Tadashi.
The hand that points crumples into a fist that meets with the top of the table, “Food is best eaten while it is hot—” Tadashi’s sentence is cut short by a shadow that seeps into the restaurant’s entrance. As a matter of fact, they would all take notice of this.
A shadow capable of bringing about immediate silence amidst a heated argument could only belong to a person of immense power and charisma. The door is pulled aside, and into the establishment steps the Lieutenant. Aside from his fierce menpō, he was most distinguished by the ornament that accompanied his helmet — it commanded respect, like a crown. The Lieutenant bears witness to the clerk and her grandsons who pour from the kitchen to bow in his presence, welcoming him; his soldiers were wise enough to do the same. He takes the time to gaze upon their table, faces and masks in random order. It seems that his men continue to deplete the village’s supply of rice wine. However, he does notice the relatively scarce population. There were plenty, but seemingly less than he imagined. Luckily, his most personal entourage seemed complete.
“The others have not arrived yet?” The Lieutenant’s voice is the droplet of water that met the ripple of the atmosphere, even the farmers and fishermen took heed of this.
“N-not yet, Lieutenant. We waited for you, but we should not wait for the rest any longer than we already have. I told them that it is disrespectful to keep the food waiting.” Pleaded Tadashi to his superior.
It would take but a moment for the Lieutenant to pass his judgment on the matter at hand. “It is disrespectful to start without the others, but more so that we allow the food to grow cold and lose its taste when we know that our hosts have slaved away for us. It is time that we accompany our drink with a proper meal.”
Tadashi glances at Ginjiro with a corner of his lip pointing upward.
“That being said, tonight,” the Lieutenant speaks again, “we celebrate. We stand strong against countless battles and we have had countless victories. Losses will always be present, but none of them were in vain.”
His men nodded accordingly.
“We deserve this feast. We deserve this drink…”
While the Lieutenant spoke, Tadashi started to feel thirsty. And having no one to pour his drink, he opts to do so himself. One after the other, he finds the containers to be empty, leading him to search the table. Beyond the reach of his fingers, he finds a lone container still filled to the rim. He could not rise, nor could he reach over the table like a child; a silent curse escapes his lips before he realizes that the cup sits inches away from his squad’s commanding officer. He could ask him to pour the drink, yet was he brave enough to disturb his superior who intently listened to their Lieutenant’s speech? The sweat slides down from his top knot, but is dried with a wipe of the hand.
“Habiki-dono...” he calls out to him quietly, “...Habiki-dono...” he calls again.
Ever so slowly, Habiki turns his head without ever saying a word toward the tree that bent the wrong way. The stare through his mask, combined with a silence which Tadashi saw as a manifestation of his superior’s being annoyed, froze him in place. Yet if he were to remain frozen, then he would spend the entire evening in this shameful state.
Tadashi lifts his cup with both hands, “C-could you please pour me a drink…?”
Habiki’s mask erased his eyes from view, leaving Tadashi to ask a favor from a soulless man. After much anticipation, the full container is finally taken and tilted over Tadashi’s cup to pour the much needed refreshment — not a single drop wasted. The receiver’s head bows in gratitude, low enough that his top-knot meets the peak of his form, but not so much that he no longer sees his cup, nor the hand that pours for him. Habiki’s hand tilts further, and it is then that Tadashi catches a glimpse of an uncharacteristic spot just beneath the other’s thumb. Alas, with the drink completely poured, Habiki’s hand retracts to set the container down and return to his person. Tadashi offers his thanks once more and twists his body into the right direction to drink; as his cup rises, so does his brow. While his thoughts had just begun, the speech was nearing its end.
“Nevertheless, I stand by my word: We may have come from a small village — a small province — but we are of the same quality as any other warrior out there, and we have proven it time and time again. The fruits of our labor have not gone unrecognized. A powerful clan has finally made their move, and they want us to be on their side. We will be fighting alongside a clan whose very name commands respect. Soon, we shall be among them. We will be among those whose names both commands respect and instills fear. We will break bread with the mighty, and sit amongst the victors. And soon, we shall have a table of our own.”
Murmurs of their agreement to his sentiments began to bubble.
“I sincerely apologize to you all for making you wait.” The Lieutenant bowed deeply, and would offer the same show of remorse for his actions toward the owner of the restaurant. He straightens his posture once more, “You see, the gods themselves have also recognized us. Before I came here, I was given a gift. While most of you had immediately gathered here, I was beckoned into the woods by a spirit. I was told that my leadership is to be rewarded, having kept such a mighty band of men so strong and united against all odds. As a token of its appreciation for such a show of purity and power, the spirit gave me this.”
The Lieutenant lifts a sack from behind him, its bottom reddened with fluids. He could swear he heard stomachs growl at the sight of it. They inched closer, hoping to get a glimpse of what it could be. If it had blood, was it game? Did the spirits offer a bounty? Perhaps a boar of divine proportions? Beef of the most succulent kind? Perhaps it was a piece of a deity? What would divinity taste like? The Lieutenant could practically hear their thoughts, and so to calm their curiosities, he swung the sack onto the very center of the table. Eager to catch this prize, Tadashi nearly leaps onto the table, throwing his arms outward to allow the sack to fall neatly into his grasp. Excitedly, he dips both hands into the sack and retrieves their most awaited gift — a human head.
In a fit of rage, the samurai rise up, drawing their swords against their esteemed Lieutenant who was unphased by all the commotion. To their dismay, their visions spun and their legs became comparable to twigs supporting boulders atop them. They attempt to pull themselves together, but one after another, they begin to collapse. Tadashi looks around to find himself among the few blades of grass that stood at their most erect. He momentarily locks eyes with Ginjiro, who is unable to even swing himself onto his knees, let alone grip his weapon.
“Tch!” Said Tadashi in frustration,
The Lieutenant recognizes the look on their faces quite well. The beverage took away their ability to stand. However, the element that disabled their ability to hold their swords straight was none other than fear.
“WHO ARE YOU?! WHERE IS THE LIEUTENANT?!” Tadashi spoke harshly against the impostor.
Ever so calmly, the Impostor raises his hand to point a lone finger toward the head that sat closest to Tadashi. He did not hold his scabbard, nor did he rest his thumb on the handguard, for none of them were fast enough to close the distance before he could equip his weapon. “Do you not recognize your Lieutenant when you see him?”
“This— You…. YOU ARE A MONSTER!” Tadashi’s hands shook with eagerness like a kettle with a flame beneath it.
“No, I am a demon.”
Tadashi takes his first step out of the line, ready to charge and swing his sword at the Lieutenant. The moment his sole was fully planted on the ground, supposedly to launch himself forward, another blade made an advance by passing through from behind Tadashi’s neck and out his mouth. The inaccuracy of the attack wedges the cutting edge of the blade between Tadashi’s lower teeth. Disbelief once again plagues the entire room; they watch as the blade is pulled out of the orifice, allowing Tadashi’s body to collapse on the floor in front of his killer.
The man holding the bloodied blade wore their armor and colors — Habiki-dono.
With the first blood spilled, the rest of the Lieutenant’s Commanders break from their roles and unleash their fury upon the unmasked members of the platoon. The confusion gave them time to attack, the enemy left unable to discern friend from foe. Chaos was inevitable, with fists being thrown and swords being plunged into bodies. The farmers and fishermen join in battle, brandishing their tools from beneath the tables and clothes, and flanking the enemy from every direction. While the Lieutenant’s men swing high, the common folk swing low, bringing the enemies down onto the floor to be mauled by metal.
Aimi sneaks past the commotion and delivers her own vengeance upon an enemy samurai who wished to plunge his sword into Habiki-dono; the tip of her sickle plunges into the man’s top knot, causing his eyes to roll into the back of his head as he loses all consciousness and falls onto the ground lifeless thereafter.
“Are you okay?” Aimi asks the Commander whose eyes she would never forget.
“I am, thank you.” Replied Minato from behind the mask; at this proximity, his eyes were visible enough for him to exchange his wishes of safety for her. It would only be for a split second for they could not squander this moment.
Tonight, it would not be water or soil that dirtied their sickles, but the blood and gizzards of men.
As the mayhem unfurls, Chiyo was quick to reach from behind the bar with hopes to save her youngest grandson who hid behind nothing but his instrument. Her retreat is stopped by a spinning sickle in flight, compelling the elderly woman to embrace the boy with hopes of saving him rather than saving herself. She opens her eyes with relief, finding the tool to have wedged itself only into the wall mere inches away from them. However, with eyes open, she could see that they were far from safe with a bloodied enemy samurai now setting sights upon them. The boy bears witness to the deranged ensemble of the enemy — the bloodlust in his eyes and the tight grip on the blade — and could not help but be overwhelmed by fear. For him, there was no other course of action than to bury his face into his grandmother’s chest; what else could Chiyo do but accompany the frightened child?
Slithering through the reeds of the battlefield, the samurai approaches with his katana raised, hoping to cut down the woman and the child in one fell swoop. With the blade lifted upward, he brings it down upon them. Rather than slaying the two civilians, the blade collides with a wooden pole that Kaito erected horizontally for their protection. Unfortunately for the fisherman, the strike was strong enough to slice through the pole and cut through his shoulder — strong enough to dig into the flesh, but not enough to sever his shoulder entirely. The samurai glares in frustration, and Kaito reciprocates with eyes sharper than his blade; he grits his teeth viciously to hold them both in place, the wooden pole may not have stopped the sword, but his bones did. And as the metal grits into his calcified tissue, Kaito lets out a loud cry of pain and ferocity. Captivated by the frightening display, the enemy samurai is blinded to the blade that slashes away at his heel from behind, causing him to drop to his knees and defenselessly be left to the mercy of the Demon of Kumitsukawa. Just as swift as the cut to the heel, Hisashi finishes the opponent by quickly skewing his brain, puncturing it from one ear through to the next. As soon as their safety had been guaranteed, Hisashi and Chiyo were quick to bring her grandson and the injured Kaito into the safe cover of her bar counter.
“Take him to the kitchen, and hide.” Ordered Hisashi after briefly analyzing both the amount of blood that stained his clothes, and the depth of the wound itself by parting the cloth that covered it.
“I can still fight! This is nothing!” Protested Kaito, attempting to shake the pain off from his shoulder, but only managing to produce more of it; the sharp pain shuts down his left arm, pushing more blood to gush out and trickle down his chest.
There was no longer a need for Hisashi to justify his order. Chiyo herself takes the charge of pulling both her boy and Kaito into the safety of their kitchen, leaving Hisashi to return into battle. Although Kaito’s heart begged to stay, he knew better than to oppose the Demon or Chiyo. He could only watch as the battlefield grew smaller until the heat of the battle could no longer be felt, only imagined.
The concept of time was lost upon those ridden by bloodlust, as if a second only passes once an enemy falls lifeless on the ground. It took a few seconds for the silence to ebb, soon to be followed by the realization that all their enemies now lie on the floor either dead or dying.
“Aimi? Aimi!” Called Minato, relieving himself of his helmet and mask.
“Minato!” Aimi answers with a raised hand, standing on her toes to be seen better. She rushes through the product of their slaughter to grant her dear husband a loving embrace, grateful that they were both spared from being sent to the Yomi.
Without the slightest shred of shame, Minato openly embraces his wife. His arms fully wrapping themselves around her while he buries his nose in her hair to breathe in her existence and the loving thought that they can continue their lives together as a family. Looking around, it seems that everyone else had the same idea, thankful that they survived such a bloody ordeal. However, at the corner of his eye, Minato finds a group of villagers gathered by the corner at the back of the restaurant.
Hisashi tilts his head downward to replace the mask he wore with that of his own, discarding it amongst the fallen enemies. The used mask drops into the puddle of blood that slowly crept toward his foot like shadows when the sun sinks. The ripples soon seize, granting him a sinister view of himself shaded in red. Certain words resonated within him, words he had been struggling with for some time now. His focus took him away from realizing that someone approached him.
“Uhm… excuse me, m-my lord… one of them survived and… he begs to speak with you…” Minato’s hesitation mostly stemmed from the fact that he did not know how to call their savior.
Nevertheless, the Demon treads through the restaurant to where the villagers crowded to. Against the wall, there knelt a lone enemy samurai with both swords still sheathed, and his head hanging low in shame. The crowd parts to grant the Demon passage and to allow the enemy samurai to gaze upon the face of the feared myth. Much to Hisashi’s surprise, he recognizes the young man as the same samurai that he and Hiroshi met at the gate; he watches the younger man immediately cower and bow in his presence. One could construe it as an act of great respect for the Demon, but everyone else saw it as an act of fear.
“I am sorry.” The young man’s words took a turn that the crowd did not expect, but no such reaction would be seen from Hisashi. “I am sorry… for the crimes and hardships we have caused you. I did not take part in any of it, I swear. But… I…—” he pushed himself up to gaze upon them all, still knelt, “—... did not do anything to stop them either.” As his words flowed, so did his tears, wetting the open palms that sat upon his lap. “What you did here is—... I-I know my fate should not be any different from theirs, but please — I beg you, my lord — allow me to regain my honor. That is all I ask.” He pleads with the fullness of his heart.
And with the request having been given, the people look upon the Demon to see his decision.
Hisashi towers over him, staring deeply into his eyes just as the man stared back into the darkness of where the Demon’s eyes should be with the same breadth and depth. Though his lips did not part, his silence spoke in volume. And the young man, regrettably, lowers his head in shame with more tears to follow the ones that already wet his lap. His shoulders quake, his chest rose and fell uncontrollably, but he tried. Despite this, a deep inhale is taken through the nose; the air exited through the mouth steadily, along with that which made him shiver.
“W-wait… I-... There are more of us… in the next town over…” he swallowed, “I… I understand th-that you have to do this, but… there are those better than…— than me. Please, show them mercy, my lord…”
Hisashi draws his blade and swiftly brings it down upon the young man’s neck as soon as his lungs are emptied. The head falls forward, but the body rests upon the wall as if to preserve the knelt position.
The Demon swings his blade sideward, sheathing it thereafter.
With the matter ended, Hisashi turns on his heel to face the villagers who watched the execution. It was moments like this that Hisashi finds the truth in the piece of wisdom that told of the eyes being the windows to the soul; though they could not peer into his, he could peer into theirs. He finds a familiar thing — mortification — and a woeful thing — comfort. And he could not discern which of the two he loathes more.
Such a display would definitely create a splash in the moment. However, the orchestra of clashing metals and warcries soon ebb into the restaurant from outside — the night continues.
“Go, Somukawa is not free yet.”
Obedient to the Demon’s bidding, but more so privy to the idea of freedom, the villagers nodded and took to the streets with their bloodied tools and newly acquired weapons fit for a slaughter. Minato, who embraced Aimi away from the morbid affair, slowly calls to her with but his touch to leave and join the rest in battle.
Hisashi would have followed suit, if not for the head that coincidentally rolled into a position that allowed the young man to gaze upon him from beyond the living. He stares into the tearful eyes of the man he decapitated, if only for just a moment, just to see his reflection in such a sorrowful frame.
He looks away.