Fire erupted from the maw of the Bake-kujira, a torrent of flames that swept across the shoreline, incinerating everything in its path. The flames swallowed hundreds of boats and samurai and fishermen, turning the night into day for those on land. The fishermen who had fought so valiantly moments before were reduced to ash in an instant.
All who cried were silenced by the fury of the ghost whale.
Only the four disciples of Miyamoto Musashi and some fifty men were able to escape. A majority were back on land. Blasted, escaped, whatever means it took.
Land was better than water for the samurai. While far from one another, the five great samurai could coordinate.
And yet, as if its fire was not enough, the Bake-kujira's very presence seemed to bring with it death in another form—a sickness, a plague. Those who survived the fire and swam in the waters began to cough, their skin paling, their eyes bloodshot.
For those on land, it was the same.
