Jin heard the sound before he saw its source—a low keening that might have been wind through broken timber. But wind didn't carry such weight, such human grief. He followed it through the ash-choked streets of Azamo, past bodies that had grown cold in the dawn air.
The sound led him to the village shrine.
A man knelt in the courtyard beside a small form. His back was to Jin, shoulders hunched beneath a torn and salt-stained kimono. Dark hair hung loose around his face. He swayed slightly, like a drunk or a dreamer.
The child beneath him was the one who'd asked about sword lessons. Chiyo. Her wooden doll lay scattered in pieces nearby.
Blood soaked the stranger's sleeves where he cradled her. Fresh blood, still wet. It painted his hands crimson to the wrists.
"You're too late." The man's voice carried no emotion. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge Jin's approach. "Always too late."
Jin's sword cleared its sheath in one smooth pull. The ring of steel cut through the morning silence. "Who are you?"
The stranger continued rocking the child's body. Her small fingers clutched at his sleeve with the desperate grip of the dead. "They called for help. Did you know that? They always call for help."
"What did you do?" Jin stepped closer. The tip of his blade found the space between the man's shoulder blades. "Answer me."
"I watched." The stranger's laugh held no humor. "I hid behind trees like a coward and watched them die. Just like before. Just like always."
The scar across the man's chest was visible through his torn kimono—three parallel lines cut deep into flesh. A traitor's mark. Jin had heard of such things, punishment for samurai who betrayed their lords.
"You're rōnin." Jin's grip tightened on his sword. "Masterless. Dishonored."
"Yes." The word came out flat. Final. "And you're Lord Sakai. The last of your line. The one who was supposed to protect them."
Jin's blade pressed forward. A drop of blood welled where steel met skin. "You killed her."
"No." The stranger finally looked up. His eyes were dark pits in a face etched with exhaustion. "I killed her the moment I chose to hide. The moment I decided my life mattered more than hers. The spear was just... completion."
The child's fingers tightened on the stranger's sleeve. Death hadn't loosened her grip. If anything, it seemed to hold faster, as if she understood that this broken man was all she had left of hope.
"She saw me," the stranger whispered. "Reached for me. Knew what I was." His scarred chest rose and fell. "They always know. Always trust us to save them."
Jin studied the scene with trained eyes. The blood pattern on the stranger's kimono—spatter from proximity, not spray from action. The way he held the child—protective, not predatory. The tracks around the shrine told their own story. Boot prints. Many of them. Foreign make.
"Mongols did this." Jin's voice lost some of its edge. "Not you."
"Does it matter?" The stranger's laugh was broken glass. "Dead is dead. Failed is failed." He looked down at the child. "How many more, do you think? How many more will reach for us before we learn?"
Nobu nickered from somewhere behind Jin. The horse had overcome its fear enough to follow, though it stayed well back from the shrine. Even animals knew when a place reeked of too much death.
"Put her down." Jin's sword remained steady. "Step away."
"Why?" The stranger's voice carried genuine curiosity. "So you can do what? Arrest me? Execute me? Add another failure to your collection?"
"You don't belong here."
"Neither do you." The stranger met Jin's eyes. "If you did, they'd still be alive."
The words hit like physical blows. Jin felt each syllable, each accusation. Thirty-seven bodies. Thirty-seven people who'd trusted House Sakai for protection.
"I was—"
"Somewhere else." The stranger shifted the child's weight. "Doing something else. Something more important than keeping your people alive." His smile held no warmth. "We're the same, Lord Sakai. Failures with swords. The only difference is you still believe your honor matters."
Jin pressed the blade deeper. Another drop of blood joined the first. "My honor is all that matters."
"Tell that to her." The stranger looked down at the child's face. Her eyes were closed now, peaceful. "Tell her how your honor will bring her back. How your duty will rebuild her home. How your family name will resurrect her father."
The keening sound started again. It took Jin a moment to realize it came from the stranger's throat—a wordless expression of grief so raw it seemed to strip flesh from bone. The man rocked faster, clutching the child against his chest like she might disappear if he let go.
"She trusted me," he whispered. "They always trust us. Why do they trust us?"
Jin lowered his sword slightly. The stranger posed no threat—not to him, maybe not to anyone except himself. But the blood on his hands told a different story. The blood that painted him guilty in ways that went deeper than steel.
"What's your name?"
The stranger looked up. His eyes held depths that Jin didn't want to explore. "Does it matter? Names are for people who matter. Who make a difference." He gestured at the burning village. "I'm just another ghost in a world full of them."
The child's grip on his sleeve hadn't loosened. If anything, death had made her hold tighter, as if she knew that letting go meant falling into darkness with no one to catch her.
Jin sheathed his sword. The motion felt wrong, incomplete. Like leaving a sentence unfinished.
"Put her down," he said again. But the command carried less force now. More request than order.
The stranger shook his head. "Not yet. Not until..." He trailed off, staring at something Jin couldn't see. "Not until I figure out how to carry them all."