Katsuo's eyes opened to orange light dancing against his skull. The taste of seawater still burned his throat, but something else cut through it now—smoke, thick and acrid. He pushed himself up from the rocks where unconsciousness had taken him. His limbs felt like waterlogged timber.
The screaming came from everywhere at once.
Through the trees ahead, flames licked at wooden walls. Azamo village burned in neat, methodical sections. Soldiers moved between the buildings with practiced efficiency—not the wild destruction of raiders, but the calculated work of conquest. Their armor caught the firelight, foreign designs he'd seen in intelligence reports from the mainland.
Mongols.
Katsuo tried to stand. His legs gave out. Salt water had leached the strength from his muscles, left him hollow as driftwood. He crawled toward a pine tree, using its trunk to pull himself upright. The bark bit into his palms.
A woman's scream cut through the smoke. High, desperate. It ended abruptly.
𝘔𝘰𝘷𝘦. The command echoed from his training, from years of conditioning. 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘭. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵. But his sword lay somewhere on the ocean floor, and his body could barely support its own weight.
Katsuo pressed himself against the pine. Through the branches, he watched soldiers drag villagers from their homes. An old man stumbled, fell. A spear point found his back. He didn't get up again.
𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. The thought tasted bitter. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘨.
A child ran between the buildings. Maybe eight years old, her kimono torn, dark hair streaming behind her. She clutched something against her chest—a wooden doll with painted features. Two soldiers gave chase, their boots heavy on the dirt path.
The girl stumbled. The doll flew from her arms, hit the ground, bounced once. She scrambled toward it on hands and knees. The soldiers closed the distance.
Katsuo's hand moved to his hip, found empty air. No sword. No knife. Nothing but the shame burning across his chest where the scar marked him 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘢. Disgraced. Traitor.
𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥. His former master's voice, cold as winter rain. 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯?
The first soldier raised his spear. The child looked up, eyes wide. She opened her mouth to scream.
Her gaze found Katsuo through the trees.
Those dark eyes locked on his. Recognition flickered there—not of his face, but of what he was. The way he held himself despite his weakness. The bearing that years of training carved into bone. 𝘚𝘢𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘪.
She reached toward him. One small hand extended through smoke and flame. Her lips moved, forming a word he couldn't hear but understood.
𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘱.
Katsuo closed his eyes.
The spear fell. The child's scream died in her throat. When he opened his eyes again, she lay still beside her broken doll, one arm still reaching toward his hiding place.
The soldiers moved on. New screams rose from deeper in the village. Smoke stung his eyes, but tears came anyway. Hot, shameful drops that carved clean tracks through the ash on his cheeks.
𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺-𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸. The count updated itself in his mind with mechanical precision. 𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺-𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱. 𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺-𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.
He slumped against the tree. The bark scraped his back through his torn kimono. Below, the village burned with methodical thoroughness. The Mongols knew their work—which buildings to torch, which to spare for supply storage. Which people to question, which to silence immediately.
A group of soldiers emerged from a house, dragging a man between them. The village headman, his ceremonial robes torn and bloodied. They threw him to his knees in the central square. One soldier produced a curved blade, tested its edge against his thumb.
Katsuo watched. He counted each cut, each question shouted in broken Japanese. Watched the headman's resistance crumble, watched him point toward hidden grain stores, toward families cowering in root cellars.
𝘐𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘙𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯. 𝘗𝘰𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥.
The tactical part of his mind catalogued the operation's efficiency. The human part screamed at him to move, to act, to die with honor rather than live with this weight.
But his legs wouldn't carry him. His hands couldn't hold steel. And somewhere in the ocean, twenty chained men fed fish because he'd chosen mercy over duty.
The headman stopped moving. The soldiers left his body in the square and moved toward the buildings he'd revealed. New screams rose—families pulled from their hiding places, separated with brutal precision. Old and weak killed quickly. Young and strong bound for slavery.
Katsuo pressed his face against the rough bark. The smell of pine sap mixed with smoke and death. His body shook—not from cold or exhaustion, but from the weight settling into his bones. Another failure. Another choice that saved no one.
The sounds of slaughter faded as the soldiers completed their work. Boots marched past his hiding place, heading back toward the coast. Back to their ships and their next target. They left the village burning, a message written in ash and blood.
When silence finally came, Katsuo emerged from the treeline. His legs held him now, though each step felt like walking on broken glass. He made his way through the smoking ruins, past bodies that stared at nothing.
The child lay where she'd fallen. Her doll nearby, its painted smile cracked but intact. Katsuo knelt beside them, his scarred chest tight as a fist.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The words meant nothing. Less than nothing. But they were all he had to offer the dead.
Above, crows began to circle.