Katana in hand, Muji stopped short as the crowd of fearful people suddenly vanished with the light.

What was left behind was an intricate scrawl of red runes across the wooden floor forming a large circle. Blood.

Behind him, flames spread and smoldered, smoke filling the space. His opponent had magical talent.

And this, he thought, looked back to the runes. Also magic then, he told himself, his face deadpan. It was all he could do not to shred every object in the room with his razor sharp blade.

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“Where are they, Muji-sama?”

He gave no explanation. “They’re gone.”

The Masked Demon had lost the prisoners. Sakuraichi would be very displeased. He would offer to take his own life for this grievous failure as soon as they got back.

He watched as enemy warriors poured into the northern grounds, their bodies tiny silhouettes in the night, save for the burning orange glow of the fires caused by the ryu no me explosions.

“It is time to leave,” he said, sheathing his katana with a smooth motion. “Ike!” The general’s men bowed to the order, quickly falling into step with him.