Kokushibo's eyes, sharp and unyielding as the crescent moon he wielded, fixed on the man standing before him.
"Yoriichi…" His voice was low, measured, yet every syllable dripped with centuries of festering resentment. "You were the one who stood between me and everything I desired. I sought only one thing—to become the strongest samurai this world had ever seen. To surpass all others… to stand above the rest."
His hand tightened on his blade's hilt, the faint metallic groan of the grip echoing in the silence.
"But you—" He drew in a slow breath, as if steadying himself against the weight of old wounds. "You were the one who shattered that path before I could reach its end. You were the sun casting its blinding light on my shadow… forcing me to see it for what it was. You made me feel… lesser."
His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck taut with the restraint of a man who had rehearsed these words for centuries.
"Always. No matter how far I climbed… no matter how much blood I shed… you were there. Higher. Untouchable."
And then, the scene shifted—drawn backward into a memory older than lifetimes, where colors were warmer, shadows softer, and the weight of centuries had yet to settle on their shoulders.
The sun was high over the training yard, pouring gold over the packed dirt and the wooden posts that lined its edges. The air shimmered faintly with heat, carrying the dry scent of dust and sweat. Michikatsu's wooden sword sliced the air in clean, practiced arcs, each swing whistling with controlled force. His trainer barked corrections, the voice sharp and unyielding, but Michikatsu answered with only sharper movements—every strike a little faster, a little more precise.
Sweat clung to his brow, tracing slow paths down his cheek. His breathing was measured, steady bursts in time with each swing. He was determined—driven—not just to meet the expectations placed upon him, but to surpass them.
It was then, in the brief pause between drills, that his gaze shifted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small figure standing just beyond the fence. Barefoot. Silent. The boy's dark hair was tied loosely, his face half-hidden in the shade of a nearby post, but his eyes—calm and unblinking—were fixed on him. Yoriichi.
"Come here," Michikatsu called, wiping his face with the back of his hand. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, the kind that came naturally in those days. "Train with me."
For a heartbeat, Yoriichi didn't move. He only tilted his head slightly, as though measuring the request in his own quiet way. Then, without a word, he stepped forward. His small shadow stretched toward Michikatsu across the sunlit dirt, bridging the space between them.
The trainer's gaze flickered between the brothers, curiosity pulling at the edges of his stern expression. "Very well," he said at last, his tone carrying a trace of interest beneath the discipline. "Yoriichi… pick up a sword. Let me see what you can do."
It was the first time Yoriichi had ever touched a katana—though here, in the heat of the yard, it was only a wooden one. He stepped forward without hesitation, his bare feet whispering against the packed dirt. Small fingers closed around the hilt, and for a moment, he simply stood there, the weight of the weapon resting in his hands.
His gaze lowered—not in uncertainty, but in quiet calculation. It was as if he were measuring something unseen, mapping the flow of air, the weight of gravity, the pulse of the world around him.
Then—without warning—he moved.
The stillness shattered. A storm of strikes erupted, each one so fluid and precise that they seemed less like blows and more like a single unbroken motion, split into fragments too fast for the eye to follow. The wooden blade cut through the air with a clear, ringing whistle, each arc driven by an instinct that no training could teach.
Michikatsu's breath caught, his eyes widening as he tried—and failed—to follow the sequence. Even the trainer, a man weathered by decades of combat, was forced backward step by step, the certainty in his posture crumbling under the sheer force of what he faced.
It lasted only seconds, yet it felt like an eternity compressed into a heartbeat.
The final strike came—not savage, but deliberate. Its placement was perfect, its force absolute. The wooden blade touched its mark with such flawless precision that the trainer's knees buckled before he even realized he'd been struck. He staggered once… then fell, crumpling into the dust, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The yard was silent. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Michikatsu stood frozen, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something far heavier. His grip tightened on his own wooden sword, the rough grain digging into his palm. He had trained for years—through blistered hands, aching muscles, and endless repetition—yet in all that time, he had never once landed a decisive blow on their trainer.
And now… Yoriichi, who had never before so much as held a sword, had ended the match in moments. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Only a quiet, terrifying perfection.
The sound of the final strike still rang in Michikatsu's ears, sharp as a bell tolling in the stillness. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but inside, something restless twisted—a feeling he couldn't quite name. It was not pure envy, not yet. It was awe. It was pride. But beneath it, faint and almost imperceptible, was the sting of something colder.
He told himself it didn't matter. That Yoriichi had only been lucky, that it was a fluke. But when he met his brother's calm, unreadable gaze, the words withered in his mind. There was no boast, no pride in Yoriichi's eyes—only that quiet stillness that made the feat seem… inevitable.
That was the day the shadow of comparison first stretched between them—thin, faint, almost harmless. But shadows have a way of growing longer as the years pass, until they swallow the light entirely.
The memory dissolved like mist, and the present returned. Kokushibo—no longer Michikatsu—stood before Yoriichi, the same burning hate and jealousy in his eyes.
"I will show you," Kokushibo said, each word shaped by centuries of tempered pride, his voice deep and resonant like a war drum in the dark, "what I have achieved in all these long years. The heights you once denied me… the power you could never imagine. Tonight, you will witness it."
The moonlight caught along the edge of his blade as he took a slow step forward, his presence bending the air itself. The battlefield's rhythm shifted, the ground seeming to lean toward the moment that was about to come.
Yoriichi's senses stirred—not with fear, but with the quiet, unshakable awareness of one who had faced death countless times. He felt the air ripple, the faint vibration of muscle and steel preparing to move. He knew the strike was coming. He could have met it before it began.
Yet… he did not move.
His gaze softened, and in that softness there was a depth that battle could not touch. Beneath the stillness of his expression, his heart held something that had never faded through all the endless years—a love that had endured beyond betrayal, beyond bloodshed. A love for the brother who now stood as his enemy.
When he spoke, his voice was low, unshaken, and free of the venom that might have been expected.
"I pity you, brother," Yoriichi said quietly. The words carried neither mockery nor triumph—only the unyielding weight of a truth too heavy for even time to erase.
From behind, a voice tore through the stillness—fierce, urgent, and carrying the weight of a warrior who knew death was already reaching for them.
"Yoriichi!"
Rengoku's call was more than a warning—it was a demand to move, to live. His footsteps pounded against the earth as he closed the distance, flame-lit determination burning in his eyes.
Kokushibo's head tilted slightly at the sound, though his gaze never left Yoriichi. A slow, curling shape touched his lips—something caught between a smirk and a snarl. It was the expression of a predator who knew the kill was inevitable, an unspoken acknowledgment that no one's intervention would matter.
His voice dropped to a low, almost reverent murmur, as though announcing the name of a sacred execution:
"Moon Breathing… Third Form…"
The crescent-moon blade shifted in his grip, catching the pale light as if the night itself had been forged into steel. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the ground, rippling like dark water around him.
"…Loathsome Moon, Chains."
The moment Kokushibo's words fell, the air tore apart.
The storm of crescent blades surged forward—relentless, unending.
Rengoku's teeth clenched as he saw Yoriichi still rooted in place, his sorrow holding him prisoner.
Flames erupted along his blade, the heat distorting the air around him.
"Flame Breathing… Fourth Form—Blooming Flame Undulation!"
He swung his katana in a continuous, flowing arc, the motion rippling like waves of fire. The blazing curves rose and fell, colliding with the oncoming crescents in a dazzling clash of heat and cold light.
For a heartbeat, the moon's fury met the sun's heir.
The chained blades split against the flames, but Kokushibo's technique was not so easily broken. The arcs of moonlight twisted, curved around his defense, and struck from impossible angles. One carved across Rengoku's forearm, another ripped through the fabric at his ribs, blood soaking into his uniform.
Still, he refused to yield.
"Yoriichi!" he shouted, forcing his burning swings to widen, trying to shield him from every direction. "If you stand still—you'll be cut down!"
More crescents slipped past. Shallow cuts burned along his legs and shoulder, yet the flames only roared higher. With one final surge, Rengoku's blade blazed in a spiraling slash, dispersing a cluster of crescents and buying a breath of space.
The battlefield was awash in drifting embers and slivers of silver light.
In an instant, the whole field was swallowed. The ground, the air, every gap between earth and sky was carved into by those deadly crescents. They whirled and curved unpredictably, their jagged trails tearing apart stone, splintering trees, and slicing through the very darkness as if the night itself were made of paper.
The storm of moon blades began to fade, their silver trails dissipating into the night—but the damage had already been done.
Yoriichi's focus, so steady moments before, broke when his gaze fell on Rengoku. Blood streaked the Flame Hashira's haori, his breathing ragged, his stance held together by sheer will. The fire in his eyes still burned, but his body told a different story—one of pain he could not hide.
Yoriichi's expression shifted, a flicker of shock breaking through his composure. He stepped forward, voice low but firm.
"Do not interfere," he said, his tone carrying no anger, only the weight of inevitability. "Step back, even for a moment. Tend to your wounds." His gaze softened briefly, the edge of his voice turning almost gentle. "Until then… I will be certain of him."
The words fell into the still night, heavy with finality.
Kokushibo's grip on his blade tightened, the moonlight coiling faintly around its edge like a serpent preparing to strike. Across from him, Yoriichi's hand settled on his own hilt, the air around him rippling with the quiet heat of the rising sun.
The battlefield stilled. The wind hushed. The world itself seemed to lean forward.
And in that frozen heartbeat, it was clear.