In the once-thriving village of Kuroyama, a shroud of despair clings to the atmosphere. The ethereal beauty that once charmed its visitors has succumbed to a grotesque transformation. The skies bleed a dark reddish pink glow that tints everything beneath it. Houses lie in ruin, their structures weakened and collapsing under the oppressive weight of rot. The streets, formerly bustling with activity, are now silent but for the echoes of past horrors and invading screams that still reverberate through the air. Smoke rises, merging with the characteristically crimson sky, painting a portrait of a village lost to calamity.

Littered across the once fertile ground are remnants of lives cut brutally short. Bodies, either burned to mere crisps or horrifically dismembered, lay scattered like grotesque sculptures. An ungodly stench of decay permeates the air, a constant reminder of the recent atrocities. Amidst this landscape of desolation, a figure lies prone on the dirt, impaled grotesquely by spears of rot that jut out like accusations.

Kenshiro, once a vibrant soul of Kuroyama, now a broken vessel of pain and misery, gazes numbly at the calamity around him. Tears slip silently down his cheeks, mingling with the blood that seeps from his wounds. Each drop resonates with the whispered screams of his neighbors, his family, his friends—all ravaged in the merciless raid that decimated his village. The visual horrors are overwhelming but it's the lingering screams, the invisible torment, that eat away at his spirit.

'That bastard…'

High above the carnage, an eagle soars—its feathers matted and discolored by the same rot that has conquered the village. Its eyes, encased in sorrow, reflect little of the majesty that once defined it. Small red horns protrude awkwardly from its head, an unholy addition to its once regal bearing. Unnatural and twisted, its wings cut through the tainted air as it embarks on a flight across the provinces.

The eagle's path takes it over landscapes that mirror the horror of Kuroyama. The once lush forests stand petrified, their trees rotted and leaves turned to ash. Rivers run with a sickly hue, reflecting the tainted sky. Every province it passes bears witness to the apocalypse—no life stirs except for the echoing cries of the rot and decay. Eventually, the eagle returns to its nest, hoping for solace or perhaps oblivion. The sight that greets it is heart-wrenching. Its young, once vibrant and a source of joy, now lie motionless, victims of the pervasive rot that spares none. Pain grips the eagle's heart, its cries mournful and echoing through the barren cliffs. Resigned to its fate, the great bird lays down beside its fallen offspring, its breaths becoming shallow and labored. Life's glow dims from its once-piercing eyes as it succumbs to the inevitable, joining its kin in a silent, sorrowful end.

Back in Kuroyama, Kenshiro's mind drifts amidst the fog of pain and loss. He remembers his father's words, spoken long ago when the world was a milder, kinder place. His voice, though weak, carried lessons of undeniable truth about the nature of humanity's warfare, the inevitable carnage, and the relentless decay that followed.

"War," his father had said, "is a monstrous entity, feeding off the souls of the innocent. It leaves nothing but decay in its wake, marring the earth with its insatiable hunger. Remember, son, that the true casualty of war is the human spirit, fractured in the face of relentless grief."

Kenshiro clings to these words, his father's voice a faint whisper amid the cacophony of his pain. Each sentence weaves through his consciousness, offering small solace amid the overwhelming despair. The lessons of war, once abstract and distant, now paint the very reality he endures—a reality marked by loss and unending sorrow. As his life ebbs away, sunk into the cold, hard earth of his homeland, Kenshiro's thoughts wander to his village, to the life it once nurtured. Every memory, bright and vivid, clashes violently with the dark present. It's a mental torment rivaling his physical pain. With each passing second, the voices of Kuroyama's past grow fainter, drowned out by the present misery. Kenshiro's heart, heavy with grief, beats a somber rhythm, a mournful elegy to a village lost, a life wasted in the blind chaos of conflict. 

Kenshiro is a strikingly fierce figure, dominated by a turbulent mix of anger and agony captured in his expression. His thick, disheveled black hair tumbles wildly around a face marked by a significant scar, only partially hidden by a dark eyepatch that lends him an air of mystery and brooding intensity. His muscular physique is clad in traditional samurai garb, primarily in dark tones, accented aggressively with vivid reds that seem almost to pulsate against the backdrop of smoky destruction.

'Everyone is gone…all of them! That bastard…Commander Takeda and his group…everyone through the was a true hero. Takeda serves as the Daimyo of the province of Akatsukigahara, a vast and strategically crucial region here in Japan. As Daimyo, Takeda commanded a formidable army, renowned for its discipline, tactical prowess, and unyielding loyalty. His forces were among the most feared and respected across the land. Fuck all of that now. Even with all his achievements…everything he's done to help the different provinces and sects, he did this?! I want my revenge..but it's over me isn't it? Fuck. He'll regret it then if I don't get to him!'

He took a deep breath, and it released slowly, and he paused, his eyes stuck, his heart stopping.

'So much rot everywhere…did he do this too?'

….

Jaede's eyes flutter open, the sting of light momentarily disorienting him. He finds himself in a small minka, a traditional Japanese folk house, with its aged wooden beams and thatched roof casting eerie shadows in the dim light. The air is thick with dirt and an unsettling, musky odor that invades his senses profoundly, making each breath a struggle.

'Where the hell am I?'

As his vision clears, Kenshiro sits up with a slow, agonizing effort, his senses sharpening to the dire circumstances of his reality. With a jolt of sickened horror, he notices dark, twisting patterns of rot claiming patches of his own skin, a grotesque map of his recent torment. His heart pounds painfully against his chest as he surveys his surroundings.

'Rot's on my arm?! And I'm alive?'

"Shhhh, young boy."

Kenshiro turned to the right, and he was wrapped in a scene teetering between the mundane and the macabre, a woman and two young children dine nonchalantly at a low, wooden table. 

Kenshiro asked angrily, "Who the hell are you?"

The woman, with long braided black hair and dark red eyes, replied, "We saved you."

"How? Answer me.."

"I understand your anger. You're quite a surprise to be alive."

"How the hell did you save me?"

"You saved yourself, it seems that rot has a reverse effect on you."

"Tch. I don't even know what the rot is. I don't even know what's happening. That bastard commander Takeda slaughtered the entire village, left no survivors, I want his damn head."

"Ah, him. His name rings through here a lot."

"Do you know where I can find him? If you do, tell me. Now."

"You weren't the only village. He's like you, consuming the rot with reverse effects. Those who are consumed by it die over time depending on how strong they are."

Kenshiro stared at her, and looked down at her and her children's bowls of whatever red shit was in their wooden bowls.

"What are you eating?" Kenshiro asked, looking at a weapon that was hanging on the wall.

The woman answered, "Nurtrients."

Kenshiro noticed that their meal is far from ordinary. They each hold bowls filled with a thick, crimson liquid—his blood, Kenshiro realizes with revulsion. His gasp of horror slices through the heavy air, attracting their attention.

'It's too thick and the wounds on my chest are clean and bandaged as well, and if it's true what she says, the blood In their bowls is full of rot.'

Kenshiro asked, "Is that my blood?"

The woman replied, "Yes. It's supplying us greatly."

Upon noticing his awakening, the family's features begin to contort grotesquely. Their eyes bulge and blacken, their mouths twist into gnarled frowns, and their skin bubbles and morphs into a discolored reddish dark pink tapestry of decay. They transform into embodiments of rot, humanoid figures with flesh as dark and textured as the bark of a dying tree, their hands sharpening into rotten blades with rotten flowers growing out of their eyes and ears.

'What the hell are they?!' Kenshiro gasped.

Adrenaline surging, Kenshiro's survival instincts take over. He leaps towards a rusted katana mounted on the wall, its rusty jagged half broken blade a silent witness to many past battles. As he grips the handle, the touch of cold steel grants him a fleeting surge of confidence and fear. He twists his body just in time to dodge a lethal swipe from the nearest rot-being, feeling the whoosh of air as the bladed hand cuts nothing but distance.

With a fierce shout, Kenshiro twists and drives the katana forward, stabbing into the twisted hand of the grotesque mother-figure. As she screeches in a piercing, inhuman wail, Kenshiro follows through with a powerful kick, aiming at her head. The impact is violent, her head snapping off to get flung across the room, crashing through the old paper-covered windows and out into the gloom. The room shakes slightly with the force of the blow, and tiny particles of decayed flesh and rot splash back, painting the walls and floor in a grim fresco.

'I gotta leave…'

As Kenshiro stands panting, his weapon dripping with dark, tainted, rotten blood, the shocked, rot-infested children lurch towards him with howls of rage. The clamber of their feet on the worn wooden floor and the feral gleam in their transformed eyes signal the beginning of a brutal battle—a desperate fight for survival in a world lost to rot and ruin.

'Is this what it's like to be consumed by the rot…? How come I'm not like that?! How does that fool Commander Takeda connect to this? To me? Why did he destroy the village?….Damn it all! All of them! All of it! I might as well kill everything to get to that bastard.'

'But that's not who I am, am I? Now it is. Everyone in the village, the only ones I was ever close to and loved, I'll join them after I kill Takeda.'

As Kenshiro stands braced for battle, the rot-infested children—now grotesquely metamorphosed into full-grown embodiments of decay—advance with a menacing gait. Their skin pulses with a sickly red and pinkish glow, the rot vivid and deep, akin to festering wounds on a battlefield. Faces, barely recognizable and heavily decomposed, feature hollow, darkened eyes from which sprout twisted, rotten flowers, their petals blackened and curled. Sharp, bladed arms, resembling rustic scythes, sway rhythmically as they prepare to strike, ready to harvest the life left in their prey.

Kenshiro's first move is a swift sidestep as the nearest rot-being lunges towards him, its bladed arm slashing through the air where he stood moments before. Responding with equal ferocity, Kenshiro swings his katana in a wide arc, aiming for the creature's neck. The blade meets its mark, slicing through the decayed flesh with a sickening squelch, dark blood spraying into the air. The second adversary attacks from behind, hoping to catch Kenshiro off-guard. But Kenshiro anticipates the move, ducking low and rolling forward. He pivots and delivers a low cut to the creature's legs, toppling it momentarily as it screeches in rage and pain. With a fluid motion, Kenshiro leaps into the air, dodging a double strike from the regrouped rot-beings. Mid-flight, he executes a spinning slash, landing a deep gash across the first creature's torso, releasing a spurt of putrid blood that stains the wooden floor.

Regaining their footing, both opponents simultaneously slash at Kenshiro with devastating swipes. Barely evading death, Kenshiro's gi is sliced at the shoulder, blood seeping from a fresh wound. Gritting his teeth, he charges forward and drives his sword through the abdomen of one assailant, the katana emerging covered in gore. As the stricken rot-being crumples, its ally shrieks with fury and blindsides Kenshiro with a forceful backhand, sending him crashing against a wall. Rubble and dust fill the air as Kenshiro struggles to stay conscious, blood dribbling from his lip. He counters swiftly, regaining his stance with resilience. With intuition guiding his blade, he executes a slicing cut that severs the attacking limb of his opponent, leaving it flailing its remaining arm in frenzied anger.

Both beings now circle Kenshiro menacingly. He feints left, then rolls right, dodging another lethal strike. Springing up, he propels himself against the nearest wall and kicks off it, launching himself above the creatures. In midair, he lands another blow, this time decapitating the second rot-being entirely. Its head rolls grotesquely on the floor, a silent scream etched on its rotten face. Landing heavily, Kenshiro doesn't pause. The sole remaining adversary is upon him quickly, relentless. He parries a swipe and counters with a brutal thrust, embedding his katana deeply into its side. Retracting the blade causes a shower of dark blood to arc beautifully across the dim light of the minka.

The creature, now heavily wounded but still dangerous, manages a harsh slice that catches Kenshiro across the chest, a gash opening wide across his torso. Pain flares white-hot, but fueled by adrenaline, Kenshiro ignores it, focusing on his enemy. With a roar of effort, Kenshiro swings his katana in a low, sweeping arc, aiming to dismember the creature's legs. The successful cut sends it toppling, its rotting cries filling the air. He leaps onto the fallen foe, slamming the katana down into its chest with all his might, securing the blade firmly through the creature, pinning it grotesquely to the ground as dark fluids pool around them.

Exhausted and injured, Kenshiro retrieves his katana, stumbling away to gain distance. The creature, surprisingly resilient, pulls itself along the ground toward Kenshiro, dragging its maimed body with terrifying determination. Kenshiro prepares for the final confrontation, his blade held defensively as he assesses the slowly approaching threat. As it lunges, he sidesteps and brings the katana down in a powerful, slicing arc, severing the creature's remaining arm.

Seizing the moment, he delivers a flurry of blows, each one more desperate than the last, hacking at the rot-being until it is nothing more than a dismembered, twitching mass on the blood-soaked floor. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, Kenshiro stands over the remnants of his foes. His body screams in agony from the multitude of wounds inflicted upon him. With grim determination, he grips his katana with both hands and, in a final act of defiance and survival, drives the blade through the hearts of the two bodies, ensuring their permanent demise. The house groans and shudders around him, a testament to the ferocity of their battle.

"…I won't stop…I'll take everyone."

Breathing heavily, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Kenshiro gazes down at the dismembered, rot-infested husks before him. His heart pounds ruthlessly against his ribcage, a mix of fury and sorrow swirling within his chest as memories of his devastated village surge through his mind—visions of those innocent faces, now gone forever.

Gripped by a vengeful wrath, Kenshiro bends low over the bodies of his enemies. With both hands clenched tightly around the katana's hilt, he drives the blade repeatedly into the rotting carcasses, each stab punctuated by a heart-wrenching cry that echoes through the abandoned mountain landscape. "I won't stop..." he growls through gritted teeth, each word a harsh whisper of pain and anger. Tears streak down his dirt-streaked face, mingling with the blood that splatters up from the mutilated remains.

As exhausting sobs wrack his body, something unexpected happens. The katana beneath his firm grip begins to glow with an ethereal light. Kenshiro's hands start radiating a soft white aura, their tremors calming as an otherworldly tranquility envelops him. Staring in bewilderment, he watches as ancient, glowing white words emerge along the blade, pulsating with an unearthly energy. The katana thrums with power, and a sudden force pulls Kenshiro into a whirlwind of visions.

"Enter The Shadow." The word says.

He finds himself standing in a vast, serene temple garden, the location vaguely familiar—it is the mountain surrounding the village, lush and untouched by time. Sunlight bathes the verdant landscape in a golden hue, and the air is filled with the calm, steady sounds of nature. In the midst of this tranquility, Kenshiro sees a young man being instructed in the art of the sword by an older, wizened master. The young swordsman is attempting to perfect a particular strike — a slash of immense power and precision, known as a Battle Art.

'Another temple…? Where am I?'

The master, a stern, yet encouraging figure, explains the gravity of this technique. "This Battle Art, known as the *Shinsei Giri* — the Divine Slash, holds the essence of our ancestors' strength. Passed down through many provinces and generations of shinobi, it harnesses the wielder's life force to deliver a devastating blow, capable of cleaving both darkness and malevolence."

'Battle Art? Something my father always mentioned…the ancient skills from other warriors that others can learn…'

Kenshiro watches intently as the young swordsman repeatedly attempts the technique, each failure more frustrating than the last. His movements are initially rough, lacking the fluid grace required. However, as his determination deepens, his form improves, and there is a profound shift in his aura. Finally, with a powerful cry, the swordsman executes a perfect *Shinsei Giri* — the blade singing through the air, leaving a visible trail of light in its wake.

The ground trembles slightly under the force of the slash, and even the blossoms flutter down from the trees in slow, spiraling dances as if in celebration. The master nods in approval and pride, a broad, knowing smile crossing his weathered face.

As this memory solidifies within Kenshiro, he feels an overwhelming sense of connection; the lineage of warriors who had wielded this blade before him fills him with a renewed strength. The name of the slash, *Shinsei Giri*, echoes in his mind like a solemn vow.

He was back to reality, and he dropped to his knees, looking down at his Katana.

'Shinsei Giri…I know how to do it. Easily. This is the result of Battle Art...skills I can get from shadows of the fallen of touching their weapon that they honed with their own Battle Art…How many can I gather in this fucked up place before I rip Takeda's head off..?'