บท 1: Bloodshed
"You truly think that stealing from our lordship would be wise?" A man in a yellow kimono spat, his hand resting deliberately on his blade, before a restrained man who seemed to be at the edge of his rope. His clothes were battered and torn, and his green eyes pierced through brown, sandy hair with an intensity of bloodlust, despite the blades pressing down on his neck.
The dark blue sky hovered over them both as a cold silence began to set in. He bore no response or reaction, his stone-cold features irritating him even more.
"Tch—" The samurai gripped his sword, slowly unsheathing the blade, watching as it shimmered under the moon's embrace. The hostage's reflection glimmered within the katana's edge until it was fully drawn, the tip facing the ground.
"Clearly you don't know who you're dealing with," he announced, running his hand through his fiery red hair, his brown eyes glaring down condescendingly. "I am Haruki, a high-ranking samurai here in Hizen!"
He whipped the blade forward, pressing the tip against the prisoner's temple, blood trickling down his face, but he didn't so much as wince; his eyes remained focused.
"Knowing that, I ask you this once and only once—" His eyes narrowed at the man before him, taking in his disheveled appearance. "Do you yield?"
"If you grovel for forgiveness, I might spare you now; the Daimyo wouldn't have to know." A smirk was etched on the samurai's face, pleased with his threat, only to be met with saliva on his sandals.
"I'd rather die than grovel to you," the man finally spoke, his words laced with an unwavering promise that struck a nerve in Haruki. His anger got the better of him as he waved off the other two samurai, causing them to step away from the prisoner who knelt before him.
Haruki's drawn katana flashed against the ground as the tip was slowly raised to face the moon.
"Then you will die!" he roared, and with one swift motion, the blade came down as fast as it could, staining the dirt roads with crimson.
There's said to be a story, one long lost in ancient history before I became a samurai…
"I said no!" a young boy shouted to his twin brother. Both carried hair as white as snow, but their eyes bore no soul, as black as a void itself. They marched into town, strapped with limber on their backs to return home.
"Why not?!" the brother pondered, desperation clear in his voice. "It would only be for a little while!"
"Mom expects us back right away, and we're already late, alright?!" he snapped, hoping his tone would get the message across. "Who knows what she'll do if we spend any longer than this?"
His brother's face scrunched into a scowl, his attention grabbed by the sound of murmurs and whispers. His gaze traveled to a crowd lined up against the roadside, their eyes panning across three samurai who sat straight on their horses; their hooves moved rhythmically against the dirt roads, accompanied by the sound of shaking armor.
The boy stopped at the crowd, his curiosity getting the better of him as he leaned his head to the side to get a better view.
"Mirai!" his brother called out to him in annoyance, watching as the boy squeezed through the crowd despite the limber on his back.
"For the love of—" Mirai's brother swore under his breath, walking back to get a hold of his wayward brother.
"Woah…" Mirai gasped in wonder as he watched. Their pristine uniforms glistened under the sunlight. Facing straight ahead, one of the samurai met Mirai's gaze under the hood of his helm; bright purple eyes shimmered in the shadow of his adornments.
A sense of unease washed over the little boy as they locked eyes, an uneasy feeling washing over him even after the man had returned his gaze to his leader's back.
"Mirai, come on!" His brother grabbed his wrist, snapping him out of his daze and pulling him away from the crowd.
Though his brother may have pulled him from his thoughts, worries still festered within, his mind occasionally wandering to the bad feeling he once had.
The mysterious samurais made their way to the shogun's throne room. The floor was painted dark red to match the walls, with pillars of gold and obsidian running down the middle up to the throne.
"What brings you here?" demanded the shogunate from his throne. He was an elderly man, his eyes laced with caution toward the group that stood before him, even as they took their knees.
The one at the lead, a slightly muscular samurai, had tanned skin that shone even past his armor, with eyes of yellow hues staring up at the king from under his helm. His features were hidden, but there was no doubt that his face was rough.
"We propose a battle to you, shogun," he spoke, his words echoing through the empty halls of the throne room. His guards stood at the ready, hitting the ends of their staffs against the wooden flooring as a warning.
"We bear the name of Akai Kiba, we have no leader," the man announced, his voice gruff and filled with intent, raising his head to bear his full face to the shogun. A man seemingly in his late thirties, shallow scars lined his face, with a gaze all too used to the battlefield. "Though in this we lack, our power is tenfold!"
"I suggest you just give up the throne—" he continued, the other two samurai standing to their feet once more, their hands resting deliberately on the hilt of their blades.
"For if you don't, this village will be engulfed in flames of gold, only to be rebuilt from the ashes,"
"And your head mounted on a wall." At his words, the guards drew their naginata, lunging toward the man on his knees, only to be blocked in an instant by one of his comrades—a man with a purple gaze and a wicked smile that could only bear ill intent. Their struggle of strength lasted mere moments until they both were pushed back, the samurai sheathing his blade once more.
"You truly believe a couple of headless chickens like you can defy the shogunate?!" one of the guards roared, their anger clear from their words as he tried to strike again, his actions stopped by the commands of the shogun.
"Don't make me laugh. What could you possibly possess that would make me fear a man of few?" the shogun pondered, his gaze down upon the group.
"We carry one of many of the demon blades; its power is far beyond the comprehension of a feeble man such as yourself," the foreign samurai spoke, standing up before the shogun, his hands now resting on the hilt of his katana. "Give up the throne, and spare many their lives."
"A demon's blade… Myths to frighten children—you expect the shogunate to quake at such folly? You mock me!" the shogun thundered, his voice filled with more amusement than anger, though a trace of irritation lingered beneath his laughter.
"Perhaps it's the shogun who needs such childish warnings. It seems even a child is wise enough to fear our power," replied the samurai, his words sharpened with contempt. The shogun's eyes flared, burning with sudden hatred at the group standing boldly before him.
"You dare to insult my intelligence and my authority—very well! If it's a fight with 'barbarians' you desire, I'll grant it." He spat, the edges of his voice hardening to a growl. "But for now, begone!" He waved his hand in a dismissive arc, signaling his guards, who stepped forward, faces stern as they moved to escort the group from the throne room.
"Of course, shogun," the yellow-eyed warrior muttered, dipping his head just slightly. He and his men turned, their silence a challenge in itself as they departed without another word.
The shogun's gaze remained fixed on their retreating figures, eyes dark and brimming with malice, an anger so potent it blinded him to any reason, any caution. He would be ready. Soon enough, they would realize who truly held power in this land.
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