The ashes of Mirumoto Castle were still warm, even weeks after the burning. The rain turned the ashes into a warm grey mud, and steam rising from the mud gave the ruins of the castle the appearance of some spectral realm of the dead. Wraiths swirled and danced in the wind where once the Mirumoto Guard had watched the southern slopes. The naga had a strange way of killing, terrifyingly precise. A single arrow to the heart, a spear to the throat, a dagger through the eye. No wasted effort, no maimed limbs or hacked-apart torsos, no rivers of blood. The hundreds of Mirumoto bodies scattered in the ruins seemed only sleeping, their wounds scarcely noticeable. The broken castle seemed more bloodied and butchered than the corpses.
The one living samurai in the ruins stared without seeing. Mirumoto Tetsuhara had always been ready to die, to give his life in glorious and meaningful battle for the honour of his Clan. He had been as ready to die as any samurai. Now, as the wind blew ashes into his face, he wondered if he was ready to live. His home was destroyed. His family was dead. His clan was doomed. There was nothing left.
He looked north, to the Mountains. Somewhere up there, a week ahead, were the naga hordes. Thousands of snake-men consumed by one purpose, one mind. Rumours were few, but some said the naga had some terrible grievance against Hitomi, but what could justify this war against the Dragon. Not even during the worst excesses of the Clan War had there been such slaughter, such genocide. My family is dead, a voice within him reminded him, There is nothing left.
He drew his wakizashi, and looked deep into the steel. He recalled a tale his grandfather had told him when the swords had been passed on, about seeing Togashi Yokuni in the castle one midwinter. “His face was masked, and his voice most strange, but his wisdom spoke for him. I cannot remember what he said, but it was…he explained…it was as though I saw some terrible and wonderful vision, that cannot be expressed, cannot be told, only experienced” Grandfather had said, tears brimming in his eyes. Tetsuhara had never understood, and now never would. Togashi Yokuni too was dead, the Mirumoto were dead, the Clan was dead. There was no hope, nothing left.
Dragon falls from sky
Heralds Winter’s endless rule
A broken sword
Someone laughed. A deep, oily laugh, mocking and humiliating. Tetsuhara’s focus shattered, he looked around in shock. A figure moved in the shadow cast by a ruined wall. Not a naga, thought Tetsuhara, naga do not laugh. A scavenger….a ratling…some unquiet spirit. His soul filled with fire that the passing of the Mirumoto should be so profaned. He drew his katana, and stepped into the first stance that his forefather had taught. The shadow ran again – a big man, dark.
Tetsuhara charged, determined to rid the ruins of the intruder. With inhuman agility, the intruder scrambled atop the blackened remains of the foundation stone. The dying sun shone on his tattooed skin. Tetsuhara recognised him. The Rogue, the Heretic, the Fallen One. Kokujin the souleater. So this is my fate thought Tetsuhara to rid the dragon of its one shame, to pass on unsoiled and with clear kharma. He looked into the empty eyes of the Ise Zumi.
“Prepare to pass onwards, Kokujin. You have no place in these lands, and your life is forfeit.”
“No place?” replied the horror “you are a very foolish man, and you know nothing about nothing. It would perhaps have been better if you had the made the cut, samurai.”
Without warning, Kokujin leapt from his perch atop the wall. Tetsuhara slashed with his katana, but the Ise Zumi twisted in the air, passing between the blades and landing on his back in the mud just behind Tetsuhara. Strong hands grabbed Tetsuhara’s belt from behind, pulling him backwards. Kokujin toppled the samurai, then kicked him with both feet as he fell, sending Tetsuhara flying into the wall. Within a breath, the Ise Zumi was on top of him, his hands reaching for Tetsuhara’s wrists. The two rolled, locked in combat. Kokujin’s fingers dug into the wrists, pinching nerves. The swords dropped. Kokujin pinned Tetsuhara and drew back his right hand, preparing to deliver the killing blow. Tetsuhara had one chance.
He focussed his chi on a single punch. His fist slammed into Kokujin’s jaw with all the force of Tetsuhara’s soul behind it. Kokujin fell back, stunned. Tetsuhara kicked free and clawed at the wall, pulling himself upright. He picked his swords up and charged Kokujin. The Ise Zumi was incredibly fast, incredibly agile, but unarmed. The two danced a fast and deadly dance amid the ruins and the bodies. Five times Kokujin came close enough to try to grapple Tetsuhara. Five times a shining sword drove Kokujin back, and the last strike drew blood, dripping black and steaming.
Kokujin stepped back, then drew a wickedly sharp bone needle from a pouch at his belt. He held it like a dagger, and charged. Tetsuhara snapped his wakizashi up, stopping an attack from above, and simultaneously slashed out with his katana. Somehow, Kokujin dodged again, Tetsuhara pressed the attack – and stumbled on a body.
A cry rent the air, a child’s cry. Tetsuhara glanced down. He had nearly tripped over the body of a woman, a noble by her clothing. Her throat had been cut, but somehow she had hidden her baby from the naga. The child was red-eyed and weak, but miraculously still alive. It looked at Tetsuhara indignantly and started to cry angrily, a full-throated Mirumoto shout. Tetsuhara’s hopes rose. If one child survives, if one sword is wielded, if one still has honour, than the family are not dead and we can rebuild. If we have our honour, we have everything we need. Tetsuhara’s spirit rose up and gloried. Spring sunlight drenched the ruins.
Kokujin’s blow was unexpected, dishonourable, and effective. Tetsuhara crumpled like a origami samurai in a thunderstorm. The child wailed louder.
“He made me to find the best, the strongest. He needed them for what is coming, for the dark times and the broken times. He said I had a hungry soul, and he would use me like a falconer.”
The tattoo was nearly done. Tetsuhara’s eyes glowed with yellow fire as he beheld the Vision that Kokujin glimpsed darkly, the Vision that kept Hitomi ’s heart from succumbing to the cold of stone.
“A few survived, I think…. Shinkunin was looking for the hidden place…maybe they will come back for you. Maybe one day you will be strong enough…but your fate is your own.”
Kokujin stood, slinging Tetsuhara’s body over his shoulder. He turned his face to the north, towards Sleeping Mountain, the High House of Light. Behind him, the child wailed hungrily. The rain began to fall again.
The corrupted one paused, turned, and laid Tetsuhara’s daisho next to the child.
“Once again I serve you, old worm. Diligence is its own reward.”
Laughing, Kokujin set off up the mountain. His laughter was almost loud enough to drown out the child’s cries.