The Kurokage struck in perfect synchronization, five shadows moving as one.
Three descended on Sir William, two on Moro.
Steel met steel in a blur of motion. William's claymore roared through the air, its weight cleaving the morning light. He parried a pair of Shinobi with short daggers, sparks flying as their blades skittered off his armor. The third leapt high, twisting mid-air, fingers flashing through intricate hand signs.
"Fireball!"
A surge of orange light burst from the Shinobi's palms, slamming into William's chestplate. The explosion sent him stumbling backward, smoke rolling off the scorched metal.
William gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing behind the visor. He raised his sword again, unfazed by the heat. The next Shinobi rushed him—silent, precise—but the knight's claymore caught both blades in a single, powerful sweep, knocking his attackers off balance.
"Outnumbered, perhaps," William growled, "but never outmatched."
Despite being surrounded, the knight held his ground like an iron tower, his strikes wide and devastating. Every swing forced the assassins to retreat a step, recalibrating their rhythm. The Kurokage moved like smoke, but William fought like a storm—each impact thunderous, each motion measured.
On the other side of the field, Moro's blade moved faster than sight. He weaved between two Shinobi, each strike a flash of light and steel. His katana carved arcs through the air, every movement clean, minimal, efficient.
But the Kurokage were no ordinary foes. Their reflexes were sharpened to inhuman precision. They matched his every step, vanishing and reappearing like phantoms.
One came from above, dropping with twin tantos aimed at Moro's throat. Moro pivoted, cutting upward in a single motion the assassin's mask split clean down the middle, the body hitting the dirt before the head did.
The second Shinobi was already behind him. Moro turned too slow. The man's boot struck his ribs, hard enough to lift him off his feet. Moro hit the ground, rolled, and came up swinging, his blade slicing through the air where the attacker had been a heartbeat before.
They circled one another, fast and silent. For the first time in years, Moro felt something stir in his chest not fear, but exhilaration.
"Fast," he muttered, gripping his sword tighter. "Good."
The Shinobi lunged again, but this time Moro anticipated the movement. He sidestepped, caught the man's wrist, and drove his sword through the assassin's chest in one fluid motion.
Blood hit the dirt like rain.
Moro exhaled slowly, scanning the field. William was still fighting, his armor blackened, his sword glowing faintly red from heat. The Kurokage moved like wolves around him, adjusting tactics, preparing their next strike.
From the ridge above, a sixth Shinobi one who'd held his position until now slung a weapon over his shoulder. The metallic click echoed faintly through the smoke.
"MOVE!" he barked.
The three Kurokage fighting William disengaged instantly, leaping clear in perfect unison. A split second later, a white trail screamed through the air
The rocket slammed into William. The explosion tore through the field, sending a shockwave of heat and dirt outward. The blast hurled the knight like a ragdoll, his shining armor catching the sun one last time before he vanished into the treeline.
Moro shielded his face from the blast, the shockwave rattling his bones. Smoke rolled across the clearing, thick and acrid, the air tasting of metal and ash.
He dropped his guard for a fraction of a second and that was all the Kurokage needed.
From the haze, a dart hissed through the air and sank into his neck. Moro flinched, yanking it free, but his vision was already warping the world twisting at the edges, color draining from everything but the blood on the ground.
The last thing he saw before darkness took him was the masked leader stepping out of the smoke, staring down at him through those cold, glowing eyes.
"Ogawa will be pleased."
A perfect day beneath the twin suns of Orion. The air shimmered gold, the fields alive with sound, the distant crash of waves, the chirp of insects, the hum of peace.
"Now, Moro," a voice called. Strong, firm, but patient. "Step forward, then a vertical slice. Step, and slice."
Kael Ashin stood tall in the grass, a sword at his hip and pride in his eyes. His son, no more than ten, mirrored his movements with all the seriousness a child could muster.
"Like this?" Moro asked, bringing his wooden blade down.
Kael chuckled, shaking his head. "Good form. But with power like that, you couldn't hurt a fly."
Moro frowned. "Ahh, Mom! Tell Dad to stop making fun of me!"
From the hill nearby, a woman's laugh carried on the breeze—soft and melodic. She sat on a blanket, silver-white hair glinting in the sunlight, eyes the color of the sea.
"Kael," she said teasingly, "if you keep making fun of my baby, I'll hurt you."
Kael grinned and looked back at his wife. "Last time you said that, this kid was born 9 months later."
She smiled, shaking her head, watching as their son tried the motion again this time firmer, more confident.
"Better," Kael said. "One day, you MIGHT even be better than me."
The boy turned, beaming up at him. "Promise?"
"Promise."
The sunlight grew warmer. The sky deepened into white. His parents blurred at the edges, their laughter fading like an echo caught in the wind.
The warmth of that sun vanished.
Moro's eyes fluttered open to darkness a damp, suffocating cold pressing against his skin. The smell of rust and mildew filled the air. Water dripped steadily somewhere beyond the bars, echoing.
He groaned, lifting his head. Chains rattled. His wrists were bound to the wall, the iron biting into raw skin. A single lantern flickered overhead, its weak light casting long, trembling shadows across the stone.
He tried to move pain shot through his side, the aftershock of the tranquilizer still dulling his muscles. Every breath burned like he'd swallowed smoke.
"Where…" he muttered, voice hoarse. "Where the fuck am I?"
The only response was the low hum of silence.
Then softly, from the neighboring cell, a voice.
"You're in the belly of Ogawa's fortress."
Moro turned his head toward the sound.
A woman sat cross-legged in the dimness of the next cell, her posture calm, almost meditative. The faint light caught the bronze of her skin and the reflection of gold in her eyes. Strands of long black hair fell loosely across her shoulders.
"You shouldn't move too fast," she said gently. "They used Kurokage venom. It slows the blood, weakens the nerves. You'll feel like your body's made of stone for a while."
Moro leaned his head back against the wall, breathing out through his nose.
"Feels like I got hit by a cannon."
A small, amused smile touched her lips.
"That's about right."
The two sat in silence for a moment, the sound of dripping water between them.
"What's your name?" Moro finally asked.
"Isuna," she replied. "And you're THE MERCILESS Moro Ashin."
Moro's eyes flicked toward her. "I must be a celebrity."
Isuna tilted her head slightly, studying him through the bars.
"You are," she said. "In the worst kind of way."
Moro let out a quiet chuckle that turned into a wince. The laugh echoed faintly against the stone walls.
"You should be grateful you're still breathing," Isuna replied evenly. "Ogawa doesn't usually keep trophies alive."
Her voice carried a strange calm like someone who'd already escaped death once before. Moro noted the steadiness in her eyes; she wasn't broken, just waiting for the right chance.
"So," he said, lowering his tone, "how long have you been here?"
"A few days which is Long enough to count the guards' steps," she answered. "Long enough to know when they change shifts."
Moro leaned forward as far as his chains allowed, the iron groaning.
"I take that as you have a plan outta here."
Isuna looked at him through the bars, her expression unreadable.
"A few pieces of one," she said quietly.
She pointed toward the corridor where a faint light flickered.
"That tunnel leads to the upper storage chamber. Beyond that, the waste ducts. They dump the refuse into the river below the fortress."
Moro tilted his head, listening.
"And the keys?"
"Kept by the warden. He passes by every few hours. The ring's big heavy. You can hear em before you see him."
Moro smirked faintly.
"Sounds like we've got everything but freedom."
"Freedom isn't given here," Isuna replied. "You have to take it."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"When the next shift changes, we move. Quietly. You draw the guard's attention, I'll get the keys."
Moro nodded once, his eyes glinting in the dim light.
"Guess we'll see how merciless I can be without a sword."
Isuna's lips curved into the faintest smile.
"No worries," she said. "We'll get our weapons back too."
Moro glanced at her, amused. "You sound sure of that."
"I am," she replied. "Ogawa keeps the weapons of every prisoner he admires. He's probably got yours displayed like a prize."
"Then I'll be sure to thank him before I take it back."
Far beyond the fortress, the forest still smoldered. Smoke coiled, glowing faintly in the dawn. Among the roots of a fallen tree lay Sir William—armor cracked, blood seeping into Orion.
Footsteps approached carefully, crunching over ash and branches.
"Sir William?" a voice called softly. "Sir William, are you okay?" The old man from the eatery knelt beside him
The knight stirred, his head turning weakly toward the man. Coughing blood, His voice came out rough, strained.
"Help…"