To flee from a battle is nothing short of cowardice, but to flee from a slaughter could only be considered as a worthy strategy. The last standing samurai would not wait to witness The Demon of Kumitsukawa relieve his remaining ally of his head. He bursts into a sprint to safety, his friend’s cries for mercy urging his legs to hasten near beyond his own capabilities. Taking advantage of the Demon’s focus on his prey, he turns the corner abruptly and jumps behind a stack of emptied barrels for cover. The initial attempt to calm his breathing is foiled by the hellish GROWL! that the Demon bleeds into the atmosphere, angered by his vanishing.
“NOWHERE TO RUN!” The Demon declares.
However, the advantage lies with him — the Demon might not know where he is, but the samurai knows exactly where his opponent is. His second attempt at calming his nerves prove significantly greater than the first. His bow is equipped, along with an arrow rested on the string. He holds his strongest breath in his lungs and peeks from the corner whilst simultaneously pulling the arrow back; the last man standing set his sights on the mess that was his friends.
And the warrior from hell nowhere to be found.
“... I can smell you…”
His right ear suddenly buzzes, calling him to quickly turn to his right and aim down the shadows of the alley. Whatever semblance of courage he mustered began to slip faster than his arm’s endurance. It finally dawns upon him that his decision to remain in a knelt position greatly disadvantaged him against an enemy he could not see. He relinquishes his draw on the arrow and pushes himself back up. He receives help from the katana that pins him against the wall and expels a great amount of air from his chest. Properly propped up, he comes face to face with the Demon that made short work of skilled warriors. Who could possibly prepare for hell’s wrath?
“Your head…” The Demon’s foul voice drains the samurai’s courage down his leg. He tilts his head back to peek at him from below his straw hat.
Unable to meet his killer’s gaze, the last man standing focuses on the unholy katana that pierced him. It was a masterful strike — clean in its technique — taking advantage of the sliver of a gap between the neck guard and the chest armor that allowed him to push the blade deep. His right hand assures him of the sturdiness of the blade in its position, along with his fate. But with the last of his fleeting strength, his left hand drives the arrow down into the Demon’s back.
Hisashi pries his own fingers from the hilt of his katana, leaving his prey’s body to stand on its own whilst he silently expelled the pain from the arrow’s strike by way of a steep exhale. A master of the shadows normally conceals the process of his craft from prying eyes, but there were exceptions; Hisashi spots one perched on the roof on the opposite side of the street. Tonight, his only witness bares feathers. Its beak spreads to announce its departure.
CROA—sashi-kun! ‘Sashi-kun!” Seijun tugs on his hand profusely to bring Hisashi back to reality, but more so to bring them through the gathered crowd in the center of town.
Making good on his promise to watch her daughter this morning, Hisashi finally turns away from the same rooftop where his feathery witness stood hours ago and allows himself to be dragged further in. His recollection of the previous night comes full circle as he is beholden to the three heads he had taken that night — alongside the many others he took mere hours before them — displayed atop Tachikawa’s small wooden stage in town square for all to see. Hisashi wondered as to why a stage had surfaced here of all places, but it was a mystery he would need to solve later. The thick crowd separated him from his handiwork, but it would for the best considering the two gentlemen that stood beside the heads — Yasu and Makoto. The latter held his arms in front of him, the former had his hands behind, foretelling their roles in this public display of tyranny.
“Look.” Commanded Yasu, quelling the crowd’s chatter. “Do not turn away, people. This is what plagues us now.”
“DEATH!”
“IT IS HIM! THE DEMON OF KUMITSUKAWA! THEIR FLESH HAS BEEN EATEN!”
“I HEARD THE DEMON SPEAK! HE IS HERE FOR US!”
“NO! HE IS HERE FOR THEM!”
“SILENCE!” The Commander quells them once more in one fatal swoop. “It is him — The Demon of Kumitsukawa. But, make no mistake. We are not plagued by some vengeful spirit or its curse. No, we are being pestered by a fool, one that believes in the same lies he tells.” Yasu casts his hand out to gesture to the Headman. “Your very own headman was visited by this so-called demon. Were you not?”
“Y-yes…” Makoto steps forth, but does so in such a way that he would avoid the Demon’s three calling cards.
“The Headman has told me that when this visit happened, he could see flesh. Am I right?”
“...”
“Am I right?” Stressed Yasu.
“Ah-...ah yes…” Makoto replied, haphazardly. Even with his proximity to the Commander and the severed heads, he was much more invested in the faces in the crowd. He doubts that the Demon would not be here to watch this.
Where is he?? He thought. Is he here in the front?? Perhaps in the back?? He suspected. He may not have seen his face, but someone out there must resemble him in some way.
“Care to expound, Headman?” Yasu pried.
“I… He… Th-.. there was a moment, before the candles were snuffed out… I saw his hands. He had… flesh.”
“Flesh,” reiterated the Commander, “on a demon who was supposedly burned to ashes.”
“This is all you have to go on?!” Decried a townsman. “The Demon can take on many forms! It is why he was seen wearing your men’s armor last night!”
“He stole that armor from one of my captains.” Corrected Yasu. “I—”
“Your disbelief will get you killed!” The townsman interjected. “You have no idea the power you so easily dismiss. The Demon is real, and he is here now not because of any of us,” he turns to his fellow townspeople for but a moment, “but for you and your men.” He turns back around and casts a finger against the Commander.
“Is that so?” The curve of his intonation was exemplified by his raised brow.
“Legend has it that the Demon of Kumitsukawa seeks out his fellow samurai for their sins and their flesh. But he particularly favors those in charge. Why else have your men been dying, but none of the townsfolk have been harmed?” The townsman points to the bodiless battalion of men once under Yasu’s command.
“Hm.. Then shall we start with you?”
Yasu needed only to nod, and the man’s knee was obliterated by a gunshot. While this back and forth ultimately rendered them all as fools in his eyes, he at least sees them as smart enough to back away from the townsman to give way for his men to drag him up the stage and kneel him between Yasu and the Headman. In lieu of his naginata, Yasu unsheathes his katana and rests the cutting edge on the man’s nape.
“Makoto” he called, “I will be instating a new decree. Seeing as how my men are more valuable against an enemy such as a demon, we will be using your people to lure him out.”
Despite it being Yasu that calls him, Makoto’s eyes lock with the townsman instead. The latter watches closely how the former’s irises shiver nigh uncontrollably. With every quake, his confidence is lost, and along with it his hope.
“MAKOTO.”
“Y…yes, my lord.”
The townsman’ head sinks, let down by the headman they long since trusted until this day. It sinks even lower, rolling off the stage and down by the feet of the townsfolk, let down by the commander they had long since scorned.
The gasps and cries were loud, but none loud enough to disturb Yasu nor his men.
“For every day that the Demon is not caught and killed, one of you will be executed.” Yasu dips to grab the head he had freshly severed. “His head shall dangle by my grasp, and you will know that if there is anyone to be feared… it is me.”
Hisashi watched vigilantly, eyes and ears wide open to accept this challenge laid out by yet another so eager to take him down. Only this time, the wind that carried those words were different; he could almost actually feel this one. So taken was he that he had not noticed how tightly Seijun held onto her kampo, and yet, there was a hint of fragility. Ever so lightly, he takes the medicine — wrapped in a furoshiki — from her and offers her the hand she wanted to hold onto.
“Time to go.” Whispered Hisashi, taking the lead to set them on the path home with their errand done for the day.
Even after having left the fiasco in the center of town, the feeling thought to linger on him. Either that, or a curse of gloom had been cast upon the entire town. Whichever it was, Hisashi had deemed it unsafe for Seijun to remain outside. He delivers her home swiftly, and there she shall stay while he embarks on his nightly escapades.
It was much easier to conduct tenebrous transactions under the evening’s veil of shadows. Five messengers gathered inside the town’s smithy at the behest of a harrowing choice between obedience or death. While the veil ultimately protected them, it consequently casts a worrisome atmosphere over the five men. It affected some more than others, which would explain why some sat still while others paced back and forth; in part, he hoped the next time he turned about face, there would be a change in scenery.
In the deafening silence, one could hear a hair drop.
What more a door being fiddled with?
The eldest among them, set apart by being the only one with a hachimaki with writings on it, was quick to cast a hand that commanded the rest of them to stay still. He raises the same hand to press a lone finger against his lips, cushioning its landing on his graying beard. Without ever so much as a squeak, he rises from the ground and turns the corner to slither toward the front door. The rest follow suit, but lift a few tools for protection. The closer they got to the door, the harder their hearts pounded. Even worse still when the silhouette came into fruition. The door slides open, prompting the rest of them to raise their weapons high. Once again, the authoritative hand of the elder rises as soon as a fellow messenger crosses the threshold. Their eyes lock, a moment passes to allow for either party to breathe seeing as how the newcomer needed a second for his irises to adjust to the dimness.
“Just a messenger.” The eldest announced to the rest in a whisper, pulling their weapons back down. “Close the door and be quiet.” He leads the way back to the cozy corner where they sought to wait; the messengers found the decency in themselves to return the smith’s tools properly.
In an instant, the silent atmosphere returned. The newcomer felt it rude to disturb it, and so decided to follow closely without a single decibel of disturbance. All would come to sit, except for one — the very same one that paced back and forth.
“I have a bad feeling about this…” Said the incessant one.
“...Save your strength for the journey.” Answered the elder.
“I really have a bad feeling about this.”
“Maybe if you sat down, your mind would wander less.”
“How?” Finally, he comes to a stop. “How can you sit there knowing he called us here?” His eyes wandered to the elder messenger’s hachimaki; the words steady and strong were written in bold, it might as well be coal in his inner furnace for all he cared.
“I can because I am chosen. We all are. We are under his protection, and we are here to do his bidding.” A hand is cast sideward to gesticulate at the stack of crates covered in tattered fabric.
The worrisome messenger’s eyes would follow. “Do you have any idea what it is…?”
“No.” He straightens his back on the wall and drapes his eyes with their natural curtains. To further fasten him in his stationary state, he saw fit to cross his arms.
“... Only one way to find out, right?”
Minding his own curiosities, he finds it bothersome that responsibility calls for his eyes to open at once. “I would think twice.”
“Yeah? What do you think I have been doing for the past hour? We have been waiting in this smithy since sundown. Not to mention it is a dead man’s smithy.”
His brows rose high, enlightening his expression for the other to see despite the limited lighting; he was reminded of the beheading that occurred just this afternoon. “Are you afraid his ghost would haunt us here?”
“No—”
“Good, because he would scare the ghost away.”
“That is not—” If he pinched the bridge of his nose any harder, he might spare himself this annoyance. But then again, he would spare himself from seeing the next daylight. “I am going to take a small peek.” He points to the crates behind him. “You can easily stop me if you wish.”
But not a soul in the smithy would even consider moving.
“Just as I thought.” He muttered, proud to turn on his heel to come face to face with the Demon of Kumitsukawa.
“SHIT!”
The ground meets his rear rather harshly, but he prefers it after being mere inches away from the Demon’s sharp teeth. Finally, he joins his fellow messengers in sitting. And it was only now that he understood the value of staying still — although the lesson weighs much heavier for him. In the dead hours of the night, a moving shadow was as terrifying as being within the panorama of a creature borne of pandemonium. It draws a sweat while simultaneously rooting the poor soul in a chill. As such, his sudden presence in the room is comparable to death’s hand traveling up the spine and holding them still.
“Is everyone here?” His words sunk deep into their flesh and crawled into their heads to echo in their minds profanely.
“Y-yes, my Lord…” Said the eldest, approaching to slowly lower his head onto his knuckles as he lays them down on the floor. “I do not hope to offend you, but… may I ask what we are here for…?”
“If you do not hope to offend me, you would do well to accomplish my bidding.” The Demon grips the covers, and with a mighty pull, finally allows the humble moon beams to find the stack of arquebuses — rifles and pistols — that he scavenged from his fallen prey.
The messengers all rose like flowers in the dawn’s presence, each seeking to peek into the crates and ascertain what they thought them to be. But that which was most obvious, their brows sought to ask for; the stern shadows answered for them, reflecting that which was conspicuous. Taking the lead, as he has done, the elder takes his share of the arquebuses and places them into his wooden backpack. Inside the crates, they would all find folded parchments — one for each messenger. The fact that the mythical warrior wrote something was fascinating, but bound were they to their duty never to read a document entrusted onto them.
“Where shall we take these?” Asked the elder whilst the rest followed in his example.
“Somukawa.” He says, tossing the cover to the side. “Find Machida, Hiroshi. He will—”
His decisive left hand severs his thought on its way to grabbing onto the elder’s shoulder and pushing him to the side, clear of the sword he pulled with the right hand. The arrow might not respect the window pane’s presence, but it would a katana; it splits upon contact, halved as close to perfection as possible — a good draw will make for a good cut.
“GET DOWN!” Commanded the Demon, kicking the blanket onto the majority of the messengers that jumped away from the moonlight and into the shadowy floor.
He stands his ground, ready to counter the barrage of arrows he knew would follow suit. There was always an opening to them, a flaw in the tactic of volley fire consisting of arrows. And there he would have stayed if not for what seems to be hundreds of explosions that set off in the distance. His quick thinking to leap into the shadows spares him from the same fate as the wall of the smithy — mercilessly peppered with a hundred holes. Hisashi watches its destructive potential, only to be further convinced of its value to their cause if they are to win a battle against a trained army. More than that, his findings on its weaknesses were also affirmed as the silence settled in. He moves quickly, pulling the blanket away from them to find that the elder shielded them all, even the one that led them there; he could see the newcomer tucking himself tightly amongst the rest. There was no time to point fingers, he must deal with the hand he was dealt.
The elder’s act of bravery and kindness is rewarded by the gods by making sure that he was spared. Free of the blanket’s cover, the elder’s gaze meets with the Demon’s if but for a brief moment as the latter turns on his heel to provide divine intervention.
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The elder rises to his feet and points to their escape. “Get to Somukawa at all costs!”
More so than the sense of urgency that laced his words, it was fear that got them back on their feet. Whether it be fear of the Demon or the new murder weapons that their enemies commanded, it was fear nonetheless. Across the hall they run, exiting through the window on the opposite end of the smithy. The weight of the weapons weighed on the six messengers greatly, diminishing their near superhuman abilities to sprint. Under the current circumstances, the consequences prove fatal. They come to a near skid as a band of samurai warriors pour into the streets from an alley to keep them at bay with their polearms. But with their weapons honed in on the six messengers, they could not stop the rampaging riderless horse that plows through them with ease. Between those heavy steps is an unmistakable crushing sound. It weakened the knees of the newcomer, but he was advised against succumbing to it by the worrisome messenger who loops his arm around his to toss him further.
“THERE!” He shouted, pointing towards an open alley.
As they were about to enter, their momentum is significantly quelled after a samurai is sent flying through a window and blocking their path. His attempt to roll himself back up is inevitably and effectively stopped by a kunai that invades his flesh and severely damages his knee cap. Left in an excruciatingly stagnant position, the Demon appears to sink his blade from the jugular down to the waist; his body is kept erect only by the presence of metal.
None of them are wearing their helmets and masks. He thought, examining his kill. Looks like posing as one of them is no longer an option.
His ungodly presence was duly noted with more samurai coming to pour into the alley, blocking their exit. The messengers watch the Demon pull his sword from the corpse and make quick work of an entire squad of samurai, weaving masterfully through each and every one to leave behind a trail of his work.
Some fell with his touch.
Some without.
No matter how many guns they fired, the Demon was unaffected.
And if not even their firearms could stop him.
What more their swords?
The last man is smart enough to wait for him to get closer before he pulls the trigger, only to miss by a hairline — but not for a lack of trying — and have his hand kicked away whilst the Demon inserted his sword between his eyes. Having felled the last of them, he turns around, stepping aside to show the messengers a clear path carved out of flesh. All that was left now was to take their attention away. And thus, the Demon vanishes into the shadows.
“INTO THE WOODS!” Yelled the worrisome messenger, a wise strategy to lose their pursuers despite also raising the possibility of losing one another. And yet, it was better than running with the moonlight fully upon them.
He takes the lead away from the elder, who seemingly began to lead his own half of the group; he became privy of this idea as he looked over his shoulder to find that a number of them had gone missing. There was no time for him to worry, nor to look for them. Off into the forest they go, the town shrinking behind them.
Hisashi could hear them, calling out to their brothers in arms that the Demon of Kumitsukawa had been spotted here, or there, or wherever they thought that the shadows looked back at them — the ones cast by the town, or perhaps even their own. Either way, it was an advantage to him; he shall allow them to continue their chase while he went on his own. Finally reunited with his mighty steed, Hisashi races after the band of horses that he caught pursuing the elder’s group out of the town.
Even with their strengthened legs, two were no match against four. He could hear them closing in, the soil being crushed under the horse’s weight, and the distance being shortened with each passing second. There were too many feet to count.
Each step was deafening.
But a voice breaks through from behind them.
“HE IS BEHIND US! HE IS UCCKKK—”
The elder, unable to spare himself from the curiosity, casts his gaze back to find one of them falling off his horse. His resolve grew stronger, knowing that they were protected. With a mighty cry, he pushes on and takes the rest of his group along with him — steady and strong.
One by one, the samurai fell with arrows through the throat, courtesy the Demon that chases after them on his own horse. The last one came into view, but his fingers continued to clench the arrow on the string, waiting for the trees to part wide enough for him to fire. But a rustling in the leaves above calls his aim elsewhere, although far too late. A fully-armored samurai warrior descends upon him, sinking the sharp edge of his naginata through his hat and into the Demon’s shoulder; its entry prematurely releases the arrow, while its maintained presence there allowed the warrior to steer the shot away from himself.
Hoping to spare himself the preserved sensation of the blade gliding against his bones, the Demon delivers a swift kick to the warrior’s chest that sends the both of them off of Hayato’s back. The former saves himself with a combat roll, using its momentum to bring him to his feet immediately to watch the latter lift himself up from a crouched position. From beneath his hat, Hisashi forgoes the opportunity to commit his enemy’s armor to memory, save for the noticeable menpō he wore designed like a beak. Instead, he peeks at the wound on his right shoulder. It cries for him, a wound with a depth capable of housing the same darkness that he torments men with.
“That looked like it hurt.” Even if it were slightly muffled by the presence of a menpō, Hisashi knew who it was underneath.
“I would advise against drawing your sword,” says Yasu, “that is unless the Demon of Kumitsukawa is a true abomination.” He lightly tipped his naginata forth, pointing to the Demon’s left hand. He approaches, the weight of his steps seemingly heavier than any horse that came rushing through these woods.
Hisashi hides his eyes darting from left to right in dire search for an escape, but he could not hide his torso’s rise and fall to compensate for the agony he was in — better this than to scream. The attack was expertly planned, a deep cut to the elbow to keep him from using his sword properly; he can respect a master of combat and war, even as his own blood watered the grass beneath him.
“Nothing to say, Demon?” Yasu leans forward over the defeated man, hoping to hear even the slightest squeak or wail. But nothing would come through, “Very well.”
Yasu lifts his naginata into a two-handed grip and drives it downward to end the myth once and for all. The bladed end meets Hisashi’s flesh, but at the wielder’s disadvantage. Quick reflexes allows Hisashi’s left hand to slither past the blade, gaining a mighty grip on the polearm while sacrificing a deep and long cut from his thumb to his forearm in return. He tugs Yasu down towards him, towards the kunai that he summoned. Its tip plunges into the small weak point between the armor’s chassis and the skirt, allowing Hisashi to deliver his own lethal attack and plant his metal into Yasu’s abdomen.
“Death is upon you. Innocent blood marks your soul. Your head will be mine.” Whispered the Demon. While his kunai pierced Yasu’s flesh, his eyes pierced his soul.
Yasu delivers the kick to grant himself distance, but in doing so, grants the Demon his freedom. A puff of smoke erupts from the ground, and as it vanishes, so too has his foe. There he stands, left only with a tale to tell and the injury to prove it. Realizing this, Yasu raises his polearm mere inches from the ground and plants his frustration into the soil forcefully.
Such a sour seedling can root deeply, disturbing the peace in a constant throbbing that was bound to reach far and wide. Seijun’s eyes fluttered open, an incredible feat considering their weight at this hour in the evening. Her reason to return to sleep was superseded by a noise that originated from behind their house. Rodent control was her responsibility, though it had been a long while since she’s seen any. Regardless, the little girl sets out to get to the bottom of her disturbed slumber. Armed with a small pick in one hand and a lantern in the other, Seijun finds herself in the presence of a brooding figure hunched over in a seated position. Its sudden appearance under the lantern’s watchful gaze froze her momentarily, but she thawed herself quickly and raised her pick.
“Careful not to hurt yourself with that.”
The voice disarmed her almost instantly. “‘Sashi-kun?” She called.
His efforts to spare her of his gruesome state by turning ever so slightly failed greatly with the lantern in hand.
“Turn off the light, and come here.”
Little Seijun did as she was told, emptying her hands to sit with the bloodied swordsman. The shadows that coated him did her no favors in allowing her to assess the damage he had sustained, and yet, she could tell he was one cough away from dying… again.
“Wh-... what happened to you…?”
“I will tell you what you need to do, and you will do exactly as I say. Pull my right sleeve dow—”
“No.” Seijun crossed her arms. “Not until you tell me what happened to you.”
With this marking the second time that he was caught off-guard, Hisashi raises his left hand and sternly points back to her home. “Leave.”
“I just want to know what happened!”
“And I told you to do exactly as I say.”
“I will, just tell me really quickly what happeeeened.”
“Leave.”
Please! I just wa—”
“Leave.” Hisashi reasserts the stern quality of his pointed left hand.
The combination of the staggering silence and his piercing gaze knocked the wind out of her, with which she was supposed to plead once more. “I just wanted to know…” Onto her feet she went, “You are a bad person.” and off she goes.
Her steps grew heavier with each pace she took away from him, rocking a tear into accumulation.
“Wait.”
His voice rooted her, keeping her tear in its place, cozied in the corner of her eye. She turns to find him peering at her from the darkness in which she left him.
“Do as I ask, and I will tell you a story.”
“... About what happened a while ago…?”
Hisashi shook his head, “Something better.”
“...What…?” Seijun’s feet turn toward him.
“Do as I ask first.”
“... You promise?”
Hisashi, turning ever so slightly for her to get a better view, raises a straight pinky in the air. Such a display weighed heavy on Seijun’s mind, as indicated by her head tilting to the right as she approached him.
“What is that?” She queries.
The swordsman surrenders his current gesture for but a moment, switching to an open hand to invite her own hand atop his. Upon her compliance, he arranges for all her fingers to bend into the coziness of her palm with the exception of her smallest finger. With it extended, he wraps hers with his.
“What are you doing…?” A gentle giggle borne from the strangeness of it all escapes her lips, but she remains enthralled by it, seeing as how her pinky remains clenched.
“A gesture,” Hisashi says, “to symbolize a promise between two people, one that is as unbreakable as the red string.”
“Red string?” Yet another heavy bit of curiosity that tilts her head.
“An invisible string that connects us to the people we are fated to meet.”
“Why is it there? Why a string?”
“Do as I asked and I will tell you.”
Hooked by the lip like a fish, Seijun frees her hand to help Hisashi’s right arm out of his kimono ever so gently; her hands were tempered well, a mark of her parents’ upbringing that Hisashi continuously observed. With his torso now free, Hisashi takes the piece of cloth he had tucked away for this very occasion — spares by which to clean himself up with. He soaks a piece with water, but on its way to the wound, it was swiped by the little girl who crumbled at the sight of his trembling hand. Her courage dictated where she starts, which was why she thought it best to start cleaning the trails of blood around his chest first. She looks to his eyes for a reaction — something to guide her — and finds only surprise with a hint of satisfaction. Alas, she continues, and so does he.
“Legend has it that when we are born, we have a string in our little finger.” Hisashi traces hers with his left index finger, “Through it, we are tethered to the people we are supposed to meet — fate.”
“Why is it red…?”
“I… do not have an answer to that.”
“If it is a string… can it be cut?” Seijun made sure to pause to ask her question, only resuming after it was complete.
“No.” Hisashi retrieves his hand, gripping onto his knee to steady himself. “It cannot be cut. That is why a promise sealed with the little finger is thought to be unbreakable.”
“Why can it not be cut?”
“Because fate is inevitable.”
Seijun paused once more, but said nothing, drawing a sigh from the swordsman.
“It means no matter what, it is bound to happen.”
She nodded thereafter, watching the drops of water leave from the wet cloth as she pressed it onto his skin. It followed an irregular path, on its way down, but it went down nonetheless. “Fate…” She reiterated, as if to thoroughly capture the taste of the word.
“Take your parents for example. Their meeting was fate. Against all odds — distance and differences — they met, fell in love, and had you.”
“Does that mean that their string is severed now? Like… is it done?”
“Not necessarily. Now that they live together, fate has more in store for them — together. I suppose it is there for as long as they live.”
“...So death is the only thing that can sever fate?”
His silence was obscure, but as it always does, the eyes reveal what is kept hidden within. Seijun smiled as she saw it, reveling in her victory before proceeding to clean his wound properly. Hisashi, on the other hand, was more astounded at the fact that he had not thought of it. Rather than tasting the thought in his mouth, he inspected it in his hand, rolling an invisible thing against his fingers resting on his lap. After a brief moment, he concluded that the reason her thought came as a surprise to him was because he had not thought of death in a while.
Why should I? He thought back then, when clarity finally came to him, visited him in the cold and damp cave he took refuge in during his first years on the run. It would have been otherwise foolish, comparable to a fish who longs to walk among horses. However, regardless, she was right. Death imbues finality into things once ever-changing.
“...So, did we meet by fate?”
She was his next visitor, peeking from the rim of the dark cave. Hisashi turned to see her there, and the sight of her stopped his fingers from rubbing against each other. It was refreshing to see a face in such a cold and damp place. He was nigh helpless to stop her from meekly inching closer to sit with him, eagerly waiting for an answer to a question he just barely missed.
“I suppose so.” He admits, albeit rather quietly.
“There.” Seijun wrings the piece of cloth free of the reddened water that it absorbed. Now free of blood, she could clearly see the wound that was inflicted upon him, and imagine the damage sustained by his seemingly immortal robes. “I think you need new clothes, ‘Sashi-kun.”
“No.”
“Mama and I stitched your clothes, you know. She told me you were smart to wear dark ones, it hides the stitches. But I think this will make too big a stitch…”
The heat of his reluctance exits through the nostrils. “We will see.”
Seijun nodded. “Well, I helped you. Now I want my payment, ‘Sashi-kun.”
“That you did,” Hisashi looks as close to his own shoulder as he could, comforted by the look of an already healing scar, “so listen and listen quietly, or I send you back to bed. Understand?”
Once again, she nodded.
Hisashi exhales to temper the breath in which the story would be told:
Being a samurai, once, meant that Hisashi was both well trained and well educated. His mastery of the fine arts reveal themselves to the little girl as he paints the images for her as vividly as he sees them in his own mind, and he does so with but word alone.
Seijun is introduced to a valiant samurai, one that trained relentlessly day and night to become the best of his peers and to serve his master without failure. The fruits of his training was sweeter than even he could ever imagine, as he became beloved by all those who he protects with and without his sword. The gods looked upon his village with favor. They considered it a breath of fresh air to have a patch of land teeming with peace and harmony amidst their neighbors who were frequently ransacked by fear, death and agony. The lord he served was responsible for this paradise. He colored the grass greener, the skies bluer, and the sun brighter and warmer than anywhere else, the samurai was merely charged with keeping it that way. But even the sun sets on paradise, and the village mourns the passing of a good lord, seemingly the last of his kind. The valiant samurai nearly fell to a life of dishonor, but was caught by the hand of the lord’s son who assumed his father’s duties. Little did the samurai know that the hand that caught him merely wanted to have the pleasure of ushering him into the dishonorable life himself. The sword the people rallied behind was used against them, and the valiant samurai was left to wash their blood off his own blade. Try as he might to speak against the cruelty, the samurai is vehemently reminded that the only thing keeping him from falling into a life of misery was his new master. Three years came to pass, and by then, even the sun hid whenever the samurai strolled through town. One evening, the new lord would entrust a task upon his most trusted samurai.
“I have received word that pirates have taken over a ship and docked at the nearby shore.” He said. Hisashi points far. “Find them and kill them.”
Set out on a task of protecting his village from pirate scum, the valiant samurai rides off into the night and lays waste to the docked pirates at shore. He approaches the last pirate, but was stopped by their sudden decision to whisper prayers and apologies. This stunned the samurai, long enough for him to ask:
“Who are you? Why have you come here?”
“MERCY!” Cried the cowering man. “We are voyagers! Sailors! We come with spices to trade!”
The horror of his deeds swallowed him whole; while the heavens wept a melancholic blue tear, his blood dripped with a sinful red color. Angered by his new master’s sick game, the valiant samurai rode back to the castle and made his way to the lord’s chambers. There he stood, waiting for him with a sly smirk and a handful of words. But the samurai’s lips remained sealed. Instead, he draws his sword and slays the wicked master. The full weight of the body fell to the floor, but the samurai had never felt lighter. But even then, something still weighed heavy on his shoulders. He had killed one sinner, but another remains — himself. Kneeling onto the wet carpet, he draws his wakizashi and drives the blade into his abdomen to regain his lost honor. Although there was pain, death would not take him. Rather, Death would meet him.
The Shinigami meets the valiant samurai, and with them face to face, the latter pleads to die and be taken away from his crimes. But the former only pitied him, and instead, bestowed upon him his final task.
“You have sent hundreds of innocents to their deaths. Atone by sending the guilty to theirs.” The Shinigami grabs a hold of the wakizashi and reverses the cut, leaving his mark in the form of a scar that shall act as the samurai’s reminder. “Evil is in the hearts of men. Find them all and end them all, Only then will you be free — only then can you rest.”
Determined, the valiant samurai flees into the night in search of those with evil in their hearts. The shimmer of his dishonorable blade was the last thing evil men ever saw before it stopped their hearts from ever beating again — vanquishing evil permanently.
Hisashi leaned back to take a breath, finding yet again that death truly was the final chapter to all things. And yet, it lies so far away from his reach. The distance was palpable to Seijun who noticed how far off the swordsman gazed. Seijun would be the first to speak seeing as how her thought was just right in front of her.
“The samurai…” she declared, “why did he keep following the lord’s son if he was bad?”
Hisashi turns to her, seeing that the depth of her curiosity rivaled the depth of his troubled ruminations. “It is a samurai’s duty to serve his master. To do one’s duty is to be honorable.”
“No they are not.” She shook her head vigorously. “All they have done is hurt people.”
“They are not all the same.”
“They all hurt my mother.”
Stumped by a lone child was the seasoned warrior; he could never hope to teach a little girl of the complexities of morality in the world. Hence, Hisashi gives her something worthy of a child’s attention. Hisashi leans close, ensuring that not an ounce of his breath is wasted. “They may wear the armor, and they may carry the sword, but I see no samurai here.”
The little girl’s gaze fell as a puzzled look came upon her, and the swordsman knew his plan had been a success.
“Go back to bed, before your mother finds you.”
Hisashi watches her carry her puzzle back to the house, but he was not without his own, puzzles that he will stow away for a later time. He rises from his seat, collecting his things whilst his clothes hang from his waist. From the angle where he stood, the moonlight in the water reflected back to him his dim image; he would say that the darkness was doing him a favor. Nevertheless, he remains firm in his resolve.
He sees no samurai here.