> Spring, Mountain Pass, Border to Satsuma – 1551

The feast was over.

Only hours ago, the Kikuchi warriors had crowded into a roadside tavern, sake cups raised, voices loud with fleeting mirth. But the laughter and warmth had vanished with the passing hours, leaving behind a silence so thick it felt alive.

A drab sky stretched overhead, dull and sunless, hinting at rain that refused to fall.

Crows circled against this gray backdrop, their calls echoing across the winding mountain path. No breeze touched the trees, no leaves stirred.

Even the horses seemed hesitant, hooves scraping on damp earth as if they sensed the unseen dread that lay ahead.

I kept close to the rear of the column, cloak pulled tight around my shoulders.

The Kikuchi warriors marched with slow determination. Some were on foot, knuckles white where they gripped spears or swords. Others rode stiff in their saddles. Their eyes spoke of exhaustion and a looming fear, the kind born from too many battles lost.

Harutora took the lead, sitting tall atop a weary horse. When he spoke, his voice carried through the hush like a command and a plea all at once.

“We march not to mourn... but to live. If we fail now, then they are truly lost.”

A handful of men glanced around uneasily. Most stared ahead, their eyes set.

They weren’t just soldiers. They were fathers and brothers, driven from lands once theirs. I couldn’t help the ache in my chest as I watched them.

They walk like ghosts.

Harutora cleared his throat as if gathering courage, “Stay strong,” he called back, forcing a thin edge of hope into his tone. “We’ve overcome worse odds before… and we’ll do it again.”

A few soldiers nodded, though their faces remained tight.

One near the front said quietly, “Yes, my lord,” but it sounded more like a prayer than an answer.

I studied them in the pale daylight and felt my throat constrict.

Is this what it means to fight for a cause that’s already lost?

Suddenly, one of the men stumbled.

He froze, wide-eyed, breath caught in his throat. The soldier beside him stopped too, face going rigid.

“What... what is that smell?”

Before anyone could answer, a shift in the air brought it crashing over us—rot and decay, dark and ancient, like meat left to fester in the sun.

It clung to my tongue, made my stomach churn. I gagged, struggling to keep the bile down.

I’d smelled blood before. I’d spilled it. But this was different. It felt wrong, like the air itself was diseased.

Masanari’s horse snorted, dancing to the side. He tightened the reins and exhaled, gaze hardening.

Around us, no one spoke; they all knew what we were about to find.

We pressed on, steps quickening despite the dread that gnawed at our insides.

Fear drove us forward. The rancid stench thickened. The crows overhead cawed louder, as if mocking our haste.

We crested the final stretch of the path. Harutora guided his horse around a bend, and we followed, boots crunching on damp gravel.

My heart thudded against my ribs.

We were too late.

◆◇◆

Below us, the Kikuchi Main Camp lay in ruin.

Torn tents and broken wagons littered the ground. Bodies sprawled in ugly shapes—some men, some women, even children and elders who should never have been on a battlefield.

Blood stained the earth in dark patches. A few scorched corpses twisted as if they’d died screaming. One body clung to a shattered spear, locked forever in a final act of defiance.

The stench made bile rise to esophagus, but I swallowed hard to force it back.

I think I’m going to be sick.

A Kikuchi soldier let out a sharp gasp, eyes widening in horror as he spotted a familiar face among the dead. He dropped to his knees beside the body of a middle-aged woman, features contorted and blackened by flames.

“No... Mother... no, no, no!”

His voice broke into sobs that tore through the silence. He grasped her scorched hand, as though holding it might bring her back.

Another warrior stumbled to a corpse half-covered by debris. “Otō-san!” he cried, voice trembling with disbelief. “Wake up, please!” He tried to brush dirt from the man’s face, only to find the eyes staring blankly at the sky. A strangled moan escaped him. “Don’t leave me here...”

Harutora dismounted, nearly falling as his legs gave out. Tears streaked his cheeks. He took a shaky step, then another, scanning the devastation with trembling lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice raw. “I’m so sorry... I should’ve been faster.”

He knelt by a fallen man who still clutched a half-burnt Kikuchi banner. Harutora bowed his head, tears dripping into the mud.

“Ojiue,” he gasped, turning to Hidemitsu, “how... how could this happen? They... they were our people.”

Hidemitsu stood behind him, fists trembling at his sides, eyes narrowed with fury. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be,” he muttered. A vein throbbed in his temple. “We were supposed to protect them...Harutora.”

Harutora’s sob caught in his throat. “I-I failed.”

Masanari remained mounted for a long moment, scanning the scene with grim resolve.

Finally, he swung himself off the saddle, dropping onto bloodstained earth. His expression was carved from stone, but a tremor in his hands betrayed his shock.

Everywhere I looked, I saw heartbreak.

A soldier recognized his wife’s body, hair singed away, features barely recognizable. He let out a wail so piercing, it cut my heart in two.

Another found a child—too small to be on a battlefield—lying in the mud with wide, lifeless eyes. He collapsed beside the tiny form, voice fading into choked sobs.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep looking.

These were families. Not just warriors, but people with names and dreams.

My chest burned with anger, and my eyes stung with something close to tears.

Koharu slid her hand into my sleeve. She trembled but her voice was steady, “This isn’t over.”

A hollow dread churned in my gut.

Who could do this?

Harutora pressed one hand against the ground, the other covering his face as he tried to stifle his sobs.

“They believed in me...” he murmured. “I was supposed to lead them to safety, not this...”

Hidemitsu shut his eyes, jaw tight. “My lord, there’s nothing we can do for them now.” But his words quavered. Anger or grief, I couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

Masanari walked among the bodies, pausing here and there, head bowed. He said nothing. In the silence, I heard men calling out names—brothers, wives, fathers—only to be met by the stillness of the dead.

I forced my gaze across the camp. Flies buzzed in dark corners, feeding on spilled blood. Torn banners flapped weakly in the faint breeze. The crows circled lower, cawing with grim impatience.

They never stood a chance...

Some Kikuchi warriors choked on their own sorrow. Others breathed ragged curses at an enemy not present to strike.

Grief and rage mingled in the air, almost suffocating.

Harutora wept.

I sometimes forget that he is a child as well.

His shoulders shook with ragged, uneven sobs, his hands digging into the blood-soaked earth as if he could anchor himself to the past. His breath hitched, chest heaving, face contorted with raw grief.

Masanari’s jaw tightened. His stare swept over the broken bodies, the shattered camp, the Kikuchi men still staggering through the wreckage like lost souls.

Then his patience snapped.

“That’s enough.” His voice cut through the heavy air like a drawn blade.

Harutora flinched, his tear-streaked face snapping up in shock.

Masanari strode toward him, his boots crunching against the dirt, stopping just short of where Harutora knelt. “If you want to cry, then cry later. If you want to mourn, do it after you’ve led the ones still breathing.”

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Harutora’s lips parted, but no words came.

Masanari’s amber eyes burned with fury. “You are their leader. You’re supposed to be the one they look to for strength. But look at you.” He gestured to the Kikuchi soldiers behind them, some still wailing over the fallen, some standing frozen in their grief. “They need a leader. Not a boy drowning in his own sorrow.”

Harutora’s hands clenched into fists. “I—”

Masanari didn’t let him speak. “If you can’t lead them, then lay down and die with the rest. But don’t waste our time with tears when there are still people who need you.”

The words struck like a slap.

Harutora’s breath came fast and uneven. His gaze darted across the field of corpses, to the men still alive, to those who now watched him, waiting, needing something...anything.

His sobs quieted. His throat bobbed.

Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet.

His voice trembled, but this time, it carried.

“We have to move.”

The Kikuchi warriors stirred. Some looked hesitant, still lost in grief. Even if it hurt, even if the weight of loss still clung to them, they understood.

Masanari exhaled, tension still tight in his frame.

Then, without a word, Hidemitsu turned on his heel and strode toward the edge of the overlook.

Harutora knitted his brows, his breath still uneven. “Where are you—”

Hidemitsu didn’t stop.

His voice came low and bitter. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.”

And then he was gone, descending the cliff path without another word.

Harutora swallowed hard but didn’t call him back. His gaze turned back to the men before him.

“We’re leaving.” His voice still held the waver of sorrow, but the command was there.

◆◇◆

We left the ruins behind.

Harutora rode at the front, tears still drying on his cheeks. Masanari walked beside him, face carved from stone. The rest of the Kikuchi trudged behind, haunted by what we’d seen in the camp.

I stayed near Koharu. Her hand tugged occasionally at my sleeve, reminding me she was still there.

My breath felt too loud in the silence. My chest still ached with a mix of anger and sorrow.

We should’ve come sooner. We should’ve stopped it.

A few of the soldiers glanced back, probably thinking of Hidemitsu storming off on his own. No one dared mention him. Not yet.

We followed a narrow path that dipped between jagged cliffs. The gray sky hovered over us, heavy with unfallen rain.

Each footstep fell dull against the damp ground. Even the crows seemed quieter here, wheeling overhead in eerie loops.

Suddenly a figure caught my eye, something slumped in the grass off to one side.

At first, I thought it might be another Kikuchi we’d missed. But a twist in my gut told me no.

Masanari raised a hand, signaling us to stop. A few warriors stepped forward, uncertain. One nudged the body with the toe of his boot, then recoiled as if struck.

“It’s not one of ours,” he said, voice hushed.

I moved closer, ignoring the rancid undertone of stale blood. The armor looked... different. Sleeker?

The chest plate was lacquered black, marred by a gruesome slash. A faint emblem glinted against the metal.

“Look at the crest,” another soldier whispered.

Masanari knelt, pressing two fingers against the dead man’s neck, even though it was obvious the corpse had gone cold. He turned the body over.

The insignia on the armor caught the weak daylight: two intersecting katana in a tight circle.

He exhaled slowly, then stood. “Kensai-ryū.”

I frowned, stepping around a warrior to get a better view. “Kensai-ryū? Who the hell are they?”

The name hung in the air. Some of the Kikuchi looked like they’d just glimpsed a ghost.

Masanari’s lips thinned into a grim line. “They’re warriors,” he said softly, “who exist only to test strength. In their eyes, weakness is the greatest sin.”

Koharu shifted beside me, peering at the corpse with that eerie calm of hers. I could see a gaping wound at the man’s side, the dried blood caked around it.

The fight must’ve been brutal.

So even these Kensai-ryū can die.

One of the Kikuchi swallowed hard. “If they were near our camp... could they have done all that?”

My stomach twisted. The memory of the charred tents and dismembered bodies flared in my mind.

"They just go around butchering people for fun?” I snapped, heat rushing to my cheeks. I hated this sense of helpless fury.

Masanari glanced at me, then at the dead warrior’s blade. It was still sheathed, its grip stained a deep red. “For them, ‘fun’ might be too simple a word,” he said. “The Kensai-ryū test themselves by cutting down anyone they deem unworthy. That’s how they prove their strength.”

My knuckles tightened. Monsters. The warrior in me understood skill, but this? It felt like cruelty for cruelty’s sake.

Harutora’s gaze flicked to the corpse, then back to Masanari. “If the Kensai-ryū had a hand in what happened to our people...” His voice wavered, thick with leftover sorrow and rising anger. “We have more to worry about than the Ōtomo.”

A warrior near the front set his jaw. “Then what do we do now, Lord Masanari?”

The question lingered. We all stood there, wind pressing in on us. I heard the shuffle of boots and the uneasy snort of a horse. Even the crows had begun to circle overhead, as if waiting for scraps.

Masanari exhaled. “Move him off the path,” he ordered quietly. “We continue to Satsuma.”

Two men stepped forward, lifting the body by the arms and ankles.

A thick dried line of blood flaked away where the corpse had lain. I looked away.

Another reminder that death can find anyone.

No one argued. But a heavy silence settled as we started moving again.

My mind whirled with questions. Were these Kensai-ryū truly the cause of that massacre?

I kept my gaze straight ahead, hand resting on my wakizashi.

As we marched away, leaving the Kensai-ryū warrior’s corpse for the crows, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the path ahead was growing darker.

If even men like these are getting killed, what else is out there?

My heart thudded, and I tightened my grip on the hilt. I won’t be weak, I told myself.

Not in a world where monsters carve their names in blood.

◆◇◆

We pushed deeper into the mountain pass, the air felt thick, clinging to our skin like damp cloth.

My clothes still reeked of blood and ash, and the stench refused to fade. Each step forward brought a grim sense of purpose: we had to move on, no matter what.

The path started to narrow, cliffs looming on either side. Rocks jutted out at odd angles, forcing us into a column formation. I could hear the Kikuchi warriors around me murmuring in hushed tones.

The ground was slick beneath our feet, and the sky above hung low and gray, but I could almost taste the tension building.

A few steps ahead of me, one of the soldiers stiffened. He inhaled quickly, as though catching a scent on the wind. “…Horses,” he whispered, barely loud enough to carry.

My pulse quickened.

I glanced at him, then looked up. Another soldier turned, eyes darting across the ridgeline.

A faint sound reached us, the soft creak of leather and the metallic shift of armor. It was distant, yet unmistakable.

We rounded a bend. The mist clung to the slopes, and I saw them: dark silhouettes on the ridge.

They stood motionless at first, shapes carved from stone. But as my eyes adjusted, I realized they were men on horseback.

Fifteen riders blocked the road. Behind them, I counted at least forty or fifty more, possibly even more than that.

They stood in perfect silence. No mocking calls, no demands. Just waiting.

A ripple of alarm ran through the Kikuchi ranks. A man near me swallowed hard, fingers tightening on his spear.

Another soldier let out a quiet, disbelieving sound. “…No way.”

“Who are they?” came a shaky whisper.

Masanari exhaled through his nose, voice flattening with intent. “Hold your ground.”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The men around him felt the authority in that simple command. They slowed, weapons gripped tighter, forming a rough defensive line.

Despite the grief that hung over them like a storm, they snapped to readiness. Survival instincts flared, and I felt my own heartbeat hammering in my ears.

I noticed my hand had already settled on my wakizashi’s hilt. My body was moving on its own, fear and adrenaline blending into a cold focus.

They’re not moving… not speaking… just… watching.

Then one of the soldiers at the front sucked in a breath, eyes widening. “T-That crest…”

Another soldier followed his stare. His Adam’s apple bobbed, voice cracking. “That’s them.”

Them…? I tensed, straining to see what they saw. And then I spotted it.

A crest emblazoned on lacquered armor at the head of the formation...two intersecting swords in a tight circle. The same emblem we’d discovered on the dead warrior.

One of the Kikuchi stumbled back, fury and sorrow twisting his features. “Those bastards… they’re the ones who did it.”

His voice wavered between rage and dread. A charged hush clamped down on us all. I felt the tension crawl across my skin, heard the loud pounding of blood in my ears.

So these are the Kensai-ryū.

But they gave no sign of recognition, sitting on their horses like statues. Everything felt too still, like the moment before lightning strikes.

Masanari’s posture shifted, sword arm loose yet ready. “Harutora-sama,” he murmured, just loud enough for those nearby to hear, “give the order. We can’t stand here forever.”

Harutora’s throat bobbed. His eyes looked over the mass of riders, recalling the horrors we’d left behind. For a second, I thought he might freeze again. Then he took a slow breath, fighting the tremor in his hands. “Kikuchi, stay here” he called, voice shaky but determined.

His eyes flicked over the still, silent wall of Kensai-ryū riders. The Kikuchi warriors around him looked on, shoulders taut with anxiety.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Harutora nudged his horse forward.

“My lord—!” A Kikuchi soldier’s alarm rang out, voice cracking with tension.

Another retainer half-raised a hand as if to stop him, fear evident in his eyes. “Harutora-sama, please!” he begged. “You don’t know what they’ll do!”

Harutora did not look back.

He simply guided his horse ahead, his posture showed neither panic nor hesitation.

Masanari broke the hush, his words edged with quiet authority. “Let him go.”

The others turned to him in disbelief.

One soldier began to protest, voice rising with desperation. “But—!”

Masanari cast a single, steely glance in his direction, and the protest died instantly.

No one else dared speak.

The only sounds were the drip of moisture against stone, the distant caw of crows, and Harutora’s horse moving steadily toward the waiting Kensai-ryū.

I gripped my wakizashi, pulse hammering in my ears. What if they strike?

Yet still, Harutora pressed on, a lone figure in the quiet gloom.

And all we could do was watch.