The wind blew gently over the battlefield, sweeping soot and silence into the broken bones of Tsu's once-feared Kajin- ryu. Blood pooled in the crevices of shattered stone. Bodies lay still beneath the crimson sky.
Asaki knelt beside Ishikawa, her fingers trembling as she clutched his hand. His pulse was faint—there, but barely. His face, once sharp and defiant, had grown pale. Kurasa lay beside him, its blue light dimmed to a cold steel grey. The broken half of Kurayami smoldered not far away, silent.
"Ishikawa," she whispered. "It's over. You did it…"
But the silence was broken.
A ragged breath hissed through broken lips.
From the pile of blood and flesh a few feet away, something stirred.
Takayasu Nakajima twitched.
His fingers clawed against the stone, nails cracking. His body bent in spasms. Blood poured from the gaping wound in his chest, but the golden eyes—dimmed, yet burning—opened once more.
"No…" Asaki whispered, stepping back.
Nakajima's body, slick with blood, shifted like a dying beast. He coughed thick crimson onto the dirt, teeth bloodstained, eyes burning with the final embers of madness.
"I… will not… fall… to a ronin and a girl…" he gurgled.
He stumbled forward on one knee, dragging his body toward Ishikawa. One of the broken rings of Himeno rolled under his palm.
Asaki's breath caught. Her hand flew to the small gatana tucked at her side.
"You bastard…"
Nakajima raised his head. "You… little… witch…"
And then, with all her fury and fear condensed into a single breath, Asaki stepped forward—
—and drove the blade into his left eye.
The point pierced through socket and brain.
Nakajima froze, his mouth locked open in a soundless scream.
Blood sprayed. His body spasmed.
Then it collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
The seven rings of Himeno scattered into the dust.
Asaki stood over him, chest heaving, blade trembling in her hand. Her fingers were slick with blood, her eyes wide. "Stay… dead…"
Silence returned.
This time, it stayed.
Three Days Later — Deep within Chōsu Territory
The chamber of the Black Pavilion gleamed with polished obsidian and lacquered gold. The scent of smoke and perfume lingered. Outside, the wind howled across the cliffs of Chōsu, but within, the only sound was the soft clink of ceramic against wood.
Vice-Captain Okii Miruku sat in a reclining chair, sipping sake from a golden cup. Her armor, slim and ceremonial, hugged her graceful frame. Her silver hair was cropped short like a soldier's, but her nails were long and painted obsidian black.
"So," she said, voice smooth as silk. "The Captain of Tsu is dead."
Before her, a massive sliding door parted.
A figure entered.
Captain Aza Kabuki of Chōsu.
Short and thick, his bare chest rippled with muscle, tattoos of writhing demons crawling across his skin. His black kimono hung open, lined in scarlet silk. He dragged a great halberd behind him, its edge chipped and red.
"The bastard got what he deserved," Aza said, cracking his neck. His voice was like gravel soaked in alcohol. "Nakajima was a rabid dog."
"But a useful one," Okii said, swirling her drink.
Aza dropped onto a velvet cushion with a sigh, scratching his beard. "Now the rabid dog is dead. And the ronin who killed him? A whisper in every village."
"A symbol." Okii's tone sharpened. "And symbols spread like plague."
The door creaked again.
A shadow slinked in.
Sumire Kazatoshi, the Koga shinobi.
She was small—barely five feet tall—with her hair in twin buns. Her kimono was cut scandalously short, tied with black threads. A chain whip curled at her hip, and her eyes sparkled like ice. Despite her petite frame, every movement she made felt coiled—like a serpent ready to strike.
"You summoned me?" she asked sweetly.
Aza chuckled. "Sumire-chan. Heard you're fresh off a job in Sagami. Still got your fangs?"
Sumire smiled. "I kept them sharpened."
Okii raised a brow. "We're sending you into Tsu. Scout the ruins. Retrieve any records of Nakajima's dealings—and find this ronin. If he lives, I want to know where he sleeps. Who he trusts."
"And if I find him?" Sumire asked.
Aza's grin turned cruel. "Make sure he doesn't sleep again."
Sumire bowed, vanishing into the shadows like a breath exhaled.
Meanwhile — Outer District, Tsu
The house was small, wooden, hidden beneath an overgrown garden where cherry blossoms bloomed out of season.
Inside, Ishikawa lay on a futon, bandaged from shoulder to hip. His breathing was steadier now, though pain etched deep lines on his sleeping face. A damp cloth sat on his brow.
Asaki sat beside him, her hands folded in her lap. Her clothes were still stained with Nakajima's blood. She had not left his side since that night.
Kurasa leaned against the wall, wiped clean. Kurayami's broken pieces lay wrapped in cloth, resting beside incense sticks that burned slowly.
Asaki whispered to him every few hours, telling stories of her childhood, or the friends they'd lost.
"He called himself a god, you know," she murmured. "But in the end, he died like any man."
She paused, her voice cracking.
"You should've died too…"
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"But you didn't. Because you're too damn stubborn."
The door creaked.
An old man entered—one-eyed, hunched, draped in priestly robes. It was Shirokuma, an exorcist and physician who owed Ishikawa an old debt. He carried a bamboo cane and a pouch of herbs.
"His body heals slowly," the old man said. "But his will is... inhuman."
"Is that a good thing?" Asaki asked.
Shirokuma looked at the sleeping warrior. "In times like these… it may be the only thing."
Asaki glanced outside, where birds circled above the ashes of the Black Guard's tower.
"He killed a demon," she said.
Shirokuma nodded.
"But demons," he said, "tend to bring more of their kind."
Elsewhere — Fortress Ruins, Kajin-Ryu Secret Bunker
Beneath the earth, lit by torchlight, Toshizu Arai sat in silence.
His torso was wrapped in thick bandages. His arm hung in a sling. His breath was hoarse and shallow. Pain radiated from every inch of his body.
A single stool supported him. Across from him, mercenaries moved like shadows—Kajin loyalists, soldiers who had fled the fall of Tsu. Men who still carried Nakajima's mark.
"Captain's dead," one murmured.
"He died standing," another whispered.
Arai coughed violently, blood spotting the floor.
Sumire Kazatoshi stood behind him, leaning on the wall.
"You'll have to lead them now," she said.
Toshizu laughed bitterly, choking. "I can't even stand."
Sumire twirled a throwing needle. "Then kneel. But you'll give them hope. Or at least revenge."
She stepped closer, her voice low and sweet like poisoned tea.
"Because if you don't… I'll kill you myself."
Arai didn't reply.
He just closed his eyes.
And saw Ishikawa's blade again.
To Be Continued