The sentry's breathing matched the forest rhythm—slow, steady, unaware. Jin crouched in the oak's shadow, thirty paces downwind, counting heartbeats. His own pulse hammered against his throat.
The Mongol wore leather lamellar, practical for patrol work. A curved saber hung at his hip, undrawn. Confident. His attention fixed on the path ahead where it bent toward Hiyoshi village. Where forty families slept behind wooden walls.
Jin's fingers found his tantō's handle. The blade whispered from its sheath, steel that caught no light. His uncle's voice echoed from memory: 𝘍𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺. 𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘋𝘪𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭.
The sentry scratched his neck, shifted position. Still watching the path. Still breathing.
Jin moved.
Five steps across pine needles that might as well have been broken glass. Each footfall measured, tested, placed with surgical precision. His breathing stopped. The world contracted to this moment, this choice, this necessary betrayal of everything he'd been taught.
The tantō found the gap between armor plates. Slid between ribs like opening a door. Pierced lung, heart, hope.
The sentry stiffened. A wet sound escaped his throat—not quite word, not quite scream. His hand jerked toward his saber, fingers spasming against the hilt.
Jin caught the body as it fell. Felt the man's weight, his warmth, the final shudder as life departed. The sentry's eyes stared at nothing, wide with surprise. He'd been young. Maybe twenty-five. Maybe younger.
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴.
Jin's hands shook as he dragged the body deeper into the underbrush. Pine branches scraped against leather armor. The dead man's saber tangled in the roots, had to be worked free with careful pressure.
The patrol would pass this way in moments. Eight men following their established route, expecting their scout to signal the all-clear. Expecting normalcy in a world that no longer permitted it.
Jin arranged the corpse behind a fallen log, covered it with deadfall and fern fronds. Natural concealment that might hold for hours. Long enough for the patrol to pass, for the villagers to wake safely, for this moment to become just another necessary compromise.
He wiped blood from his tantō on the dead man's sleeve. The steel cleaned easily—good metal held no stains. The memory would prove less cooperative.
Hoofbeats approached along the path. Jin pressed himself against the oak's trunk, feeling bark against his back, breathing shallow and controlled. The tantō vanished into its sheath with practiced silence.
The patrol emerged from morning mist like ghosts themselves. Eight Mongol cavalry, leather and steel and casual confidence. Their horses picked careful steps along the uneven ground.
"Batbayar?" The lead rider called softly. "Position report."
Jin held his breath. Waited. Let the silence stretch until it became its own answer.
The patrol leader gestured to his men. They spread into search formation, hands drifting toward weapons. Professional soldiers recognizing wrongness when they encountered it.
But Jin had chosen his killing ground well. Dense forest limited their movement. Thick canopy blocked aerial observation. The hidden body lay downwind, beyond scent detection.
After ten minutes of fruitless searching, the patrol reassembled. The leader's face showed frustration beneath his lacquered helmet.
"Probably chasing a deer," one rider suggested. "You know how Batbayar gets about hunting."
The leader nodded reluctantly. "We'll collect him on return sweep. Village reconnaissance takes priority."
They rode past Jin's position, close enough that he could smell horse sweat and leather oil. Close enough to hear one man humming under his breath—some song from the steppes, melancholy and far from home.
Human voices. Human concerns. Human lives he'd just made more precarious by murdering their comrade.
The patrol disappeared toward Hiyoshi village. Jin waited until hoofbeats faded completely before emerging from concealment. His legs felt unsteady, as if the forest floor might betray him.
He looked toward the hidden corpse. Young face. Surprised eyes. Blood on autumn leaves.
𝘍𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺.
Jin had struck from shadow instead. Taken life without offering his own in exchange. Violated every principle Lord Shimura had taught him.
But the patrol had passed. Eight armed men continued their reconnaissance instead of stopping to investigate. The element of surprise remained intact. Forty families in Hiyoshi village would wake to another morning.
Jin drew his katana, examined its unblooded edge in filtered sunlight. Family steel, blessed by generations of honorable ancestors. Still clean. Still pure.
He sheathed the blade and drew the tantō again. Blood-wet. Stained with necessity. The weapon he'd actually used when honor failed.
His reflection wavered in the steel—distorted but recognizable. The face of a man who killed from shadow. Who chose efficiency over dignity. Who measured victory in saved lives rather than personal honor.
The Ghost's face.
Jin cleaned the tantō on his sleeve, sheathed it beside his ancestral blade. Two swords for two different wars. One for the samurai he'd been trained to be. One for the killer circumstances demanded.
The forest whispered around him, pine needles sighing in the morning breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a patrol searched for their missing scout. Somewhere closer, a village prepared for another day of survival.
Jin turned toward Hiyoshi, leaving the crossroads of choice behind. His steps fell silent on the forest floor—old skill applied to new purposes.
The Ghost had drawn first blood. Nothing would ever be the same.