I am samurai, guardian of tradition.

My daimyo had commissioned me with the task of escorting a shipment of antique chronicles, a deal our shogun managed to negotiate with Dutch traders. I cannot lie, the transaction went as well as expected: uneventful, brief, and tedious. However, as I would come to find, ‘twould be the escort itself which proved challenging. In this regressed period, there were those who sought to eradicate history, insisting on rebuilding the Age of Information and restoring society to its industrial magnificence. To the world, they were insurrectionists, renegades, pirates. To Japan, they were Ronin.

History’s scourge.

In ancient times, Ronin were rogue samurai, wanderers, or gray moralists. In this new era, the word had resurfaced, though with a different meaning. The Ronin were small in numbers, utilizing guerilla warfare tactics and overcoming large numbers with calculated strikes akin to that of a serpent’s: lunge, bite, withdrawal. For those who despised preserving history, the Ronin relied heavily on such tactics as Sun Tzu, Genghis Khan, and Baldwin IV. A cruel irony preservers of history such as ourselves couldn’t foresee their ambush.

They had concealed a pit in the road, one which ensnared our convoy wagon. In our confusion’s turmoil and under the guise of night, they struck. The Ronin were equipped with abominable technology, allowing them to thoroughly utilize the night’s shadows. Their carbine rifles snuffed our lanterns, riddled our horses with bullets, and pelted our ranks. Our armor, though traditional in design, hosted a modern material, shielding us from their barrage. My screaming orders were drowned out by the cries of my brothers, cut down by an advancing force unseen. I drew my katana, directing it to the shifting shadows. Despite the ensuing combat, I refused to act, cautious as to whom I might strike behind the night’s veil. In my hesitancy, a sharp pain found a gap in my pauldron, relieving me of my left arm. I cried in enraged pain, falling to my knees and clutching my blood-soaked stump; I could still feel my missing limb, as though it were attached and in flames.

I cannot recall the events which then transpired. All I remember is shadow, pain, and an abrupt light. Through my dazed vision, I could discern the ravaged aftermath; the caravan of chronicles lay in a pit, ablaze in a raging inferno. The ronin stood about the bonfire, their samurai armor tainted with black-market technology. One such ronin stood over me, my tanto in his hand. His hair resembled bone, its pale strands pulled behind his head in a ponytail. He stroked his bearded chin, offering me the tanto. Though he spoke no words, I understood his gesture.

Seppuku.

Honorable suicide. Some samurai deemed it a suitable alternative to capture: glorified redemption. In ancient times, warriors of old, fearing torture, required a method of taking their life without forsaking their honor for cowardice. The method later developed into a criminal sentence for those seeking the preservation of their family name. Despite this, others took the ritual a step further, such as following their daimyo into the next life despite the government’s dissatisfaction with such a choice. Though samurai I am, I never understood seppuku—not logically. As Ōtori Keisuke said, 「死にたいのであれば、そんなのはいつでもできることさ」 

If it’s dying you want, you can do that at any time.

Or something like that.

Despite my old sentiments, I couldn’t help but consider the ease of my tanto’s relief. I wouldn’t be shamed for it, nor thought of as a coward. My name would carry on throughout history, inspiring generations as those before have inspired me. But… therein lies the issue.

History.

Should the ronin succeed, there shan’t be a scant of history left to guide others. My death would have meant nothing. The death of those before me would have meant nothing. Death itself loses purpose if there are none to remember it.

I shook my head, forsaking the tradition he offered. The ronin shrugged, placing the tanto in my severed hand. To my surprise, the ronin then attended my bleeding stump, patching my shoulder with an illicit medical device. His twisted sense of honor baffled me, but I refrained from complaint. An unusual scar crossed his dark eyebrow, a characteristic my memory refused to relieve. I begged to learn the name of my honored rival, should we meet once more. The ronin remained in silence for several moments before yielding an answer.

「赤い葦」

The Red Reed.

I inscribed it to my heart.

* * *

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The samurai are blind. In millennium's past, the world government sabotaged society, the paper-press concealing their defiled acts under the pretense of AI.  The united world nation drew a blindfold over their countries, crippling society and depriving it of recovery. Without the dependence of technology, the world had no choice but to depend on their respective government’s aid. Their aid came in the form of rudimentary appliances, tools, and ancient records serving as guides. 

My family’s nation recessed to the Edo Period, a time when society divided itself into various classes, all of which fell under those born into power. Our nation wishes to remain in the past, banishing any technological advancement on the penalty of death. Still, death never held sway over the bold.

It never swayed us.

We are Ronin, liberators of ignorance.

Those in our nation remaining in unquestionable power call themselves shogun and their enforcers, samurai. The shogun relinquish their power to no one, their word being absolute: old men ruling a young world. Though I detest them, I do not despise their servants, the samurai, for I once served among their ranks. I had fallen prey to the shogun’s deception, serving their preservation of tyranny. That is, until my eyes were open to plots unseen. I now roam Japan, opening the eyes of the people as my brothers had opened mine. Yet despite the undeniable truth, there are those who refuse to bend. They are unlike the reed, for they remain upright, their hard heads snapping in the breeze of our blades. Only on rare occasions, do their sheer numbers overcome our tactics and modern firepower.

The results are rare, but always disastrous. 

Such was the circumstance I found myself in, my brothers wounded, but alive. With our forces bleeding out, we retreated into the mountains, crawling and limping alongside a river. Following its course, we were graced with a village of rice farmers. Pink petals of aging sakura swirled about our bloodied company, the sweet scent clearing our heads. We collapsed to our knees, helpless to the encircling mob.

「浪人」

Ronin, they called us, though lacking any polite connotation. Me and my men could have overcome their numbers with our carbine rifles, but we were already dying and saw no point in taking them with us. Killing of innocents, however misunderstood, never resonated well amongst our collective conscience. Bowing our heads, we offered them our various wakizashi and katanas, begging they smite us down in honor. They were in no mood to humor our requests, retrieving loose bricks and stones to pulverize our skulls. I nodded, prepared to accept my fate until a single voice silenced the horde; a young farmer stepped forward, his eyes bearing a weight as heavy as the simple garments swaddling his shoulders.

「彼らを助ける」

The village peoples’ crude bludgeons clattered against the streets. Before the next sakura petal hit the earth, their hostility vanished, lacking any sign of returning. They carried us to their medical huts, dressing our wounds with herbal techniques thought to be lost. The young farmer who saved us paid special attention to me, being sure my needs, whether I knew of them or not, were always met. Grateful though I was, I couldn’t help but question his motives. The young farmer smiled and gestured to a shirasaya mounted against the hut’s bamboo wall. He explained that he would let my brothers go, but I, as their leader, must grace his hospitality with lethal combat. The young farmer claimed to hate me as much as he respected me. He wished for me to duel him, to settle our rivalry in honor. Though I knew not of what rivalry he spoke, I consented. I asked him for an hour, but he told me to rest; my death at his hands was to be one of honor.

I gratefully complied. 

Since then, he left me somewhat alone, observing my actions from a shadowed distance. Naught but four days had passed before he approached me once more. The sun had long set and a building storm serenaded the night with thunder. The young farmer offered me my katana and infrared optics, his one request being we duel without armor. Unaware of what physical prowess he might wield, I accepted my effects and the technological advantage they offered.

I followed him outside, my brothers trailing behind. I warned them against interfering, for my duel was the price of their preservation. The young farmer nodded in agreement as he sheathed his katana. I stood opposite of my opponent, bowing before drawing my blade. I lowered my goggles, studying my opponent through the sheets of billowing rain; his legs were crouched and his katana yet to be drawn. Despite this, the farmer nodded once more, signaling the start of our duel.

I humored no mercy.

My sword raised overhead and I lunged, a burst of lightning illuminating my advance. The electrostatic flash overloaded my receptors, briefly depriving me of vision. In those seconds, I slashed my sword where I last thought his body to be, relying on nothing but pure instinct. My blade sliced through fabric and buried its tip in the earth.

I gasped, my groans muffled by the rumbling roll of thunder.

Sight gradually returned, fighting through swarms of blue spots; my opponent stood over me, his sword stained red from my stomach’s gore. I tore off my night optics, confused as to how my opponent avoided the strike. Blinded though I was, I should have at least struck his shoulder, but… ah… his arm; the sliced fabric once concealing his shoulder now revealed a grotesque stump.

I could not claim what I had already taken.

The young farmer knelt to my eye level, hand on my shoulder. He expressed a deep respect for me and wished he could spare me, but he could not; I had taken his brothers and only in my death, could their spirits know peace.

I understood, offering the young farmer my sword and asking him to bestow a swift farewell. He accepted it with a solemn nod, promising the well-being of my own brothers. I raised my hand, requesting but one final boon: that he might also heed their words and consider our motives. The young farmer paused before nodding slowly, vowing to humor our perspectives with open ears. I tasted blood in my soft smile, bowing my head in acceptance. As he raised my katana overhead, I could hear him whisper under his breath:「さらばレッドリード」

Farewell… Red Reed.