'I trained myself to kill. At first it was all about fighting. My village dealt with a lot of raiders, but I had stopped them before they could get too close. Everyone in the village loved me for it, and they would've loved me without me doing anything. That's how close we were. The shared bonds of the ones you loved don't just vanish, not even after Commander Takeda comes in and ruins every fucking thing. I used to be a loving person. When you have someone, surrounded by those who love as much as you do, you feel unstoppable. Now I realize..I can't love anyone too much anymore. Because all that's gonna happen, is that they're gonna go away. And at this point, I can't even love myself. I couldn't even defend the village, I didn't even get to swing my sword at all. How pathetic am I? I had a dream to protect them, and it worked well until Takeda. I'm a failure. Now the only thing left to do is get my revenge quickly, and send myself off with everyone else. That's the only way to end it. What's the point of living if love isn't there…?'
Amidst the rubble-strewn clearing where he had vanquished the rot-beings, Kenshiro steels his resolve, gripping the hilt of his katana as memories of the *Shinsei Giri* linger vividly in his mind. Slowly, he assumes the starting stance he witnessed in the vision—the same broad, balanced posture that the young swordsman had adopted under the watchful eyes of the master.
'Let's test this out for a few seconds. I don't wanna stay here too long, since now I know these pieces of rot are walking around, and I can see that they spread from back there.'
He closes his eyes, letting the essence of the technique surge through him. He recalls the master's precise instructions, the critical alignment of body, blade, and spirit. Opening his eyes, Kenshiro exhales deeply, focusing all his senses and channeling his internal energy towards the imaginary foe before him.
Kenshiro's thoughts are clear, his internal voice guiding him: *Focus the spirit, unite it with the body. Let your will dictate the motion.* He shifts his weight to his back foot, katana raised overhead, mirroring the young warrior's preparatory stance in the vision.
As he initiates the movement, he whispers to himself, *Now, unleash it as one — body, blade, spirit..* With a swift, fluid motion, he steps forward, swinging the katana down in a powerful arc. The air splits audibly around the blade, a clear sign of the force generated by the perfected *Shinsei Giri*. A fluttering leaf splits in two as it crosses the path of the blade, a testament to its precision and power.
Kenshiro repeats the movement several times, each execution smoother and more forceful than the last. The essence of the *Shinsei Giri* now fully integrated into his muscle memory, imbued with the energy of the past masters who have wielded this sacred art. He feels a profound connection, an unspoken communion linking generations of warriors.
'Battle Art…according to my father, Battle Art is an ancient and formidable power system, hidden within the memories of warriors who perished in battle. These techniques, known only to the most skilled and revered fighters, are preserved in the shadows of the fallen. By reliving these memories, an individual can unlock and master these powerful abilities. To access the Battle Art, one must first connect with the shadow of a fallen warrior. This can be done by visiting places where significant battles occurred or touching artifacts that once belonged to the deceased. Upon making contact, the individual is transported into the warrior's memories. This immersive experience is not just a vision but an actual reliving of key moments, including their battles, training, and most defining moments. The mastery of Battle Art sets the warriors apart, granting them abilities that transcend ordinary combat skills. Each Battle Art learned not only enhances their combat prowess but also deepens their connection to the past, honoring the fallen warriors whose memories and skills continue to shape the fate of the world.'
As Kenshiro finishes another flawless execution of the technique, his concentration is abruptly disrupted by the sudden appearance of a crow. Not just any crow – this one boasts a pair of sinister, black horns growing from its head, making it appear as a creature of myth, or an omen of darker times. The bird circles above Kenshiro before descending, a rusty piece of parchment clutched in its beak.
'A bird? Oh, it's a Buekenna crow. Hybrid birds of a bull and crow—I asked my father how the hell that worked, and he doesn't know either. I even asked how the hell that was possible, and I don't wanna imagine it.'
Landing a few feet away, the crow drops the parchment beside Kenshiro and, with a raucous caw, takes to the air once more. Kenshiro, startled by this unexpected delivery, lunges forward, reaching out towards the bird. "Wait!" he shouts, his voice laced with frustration and urgency. But the crow, unheeding of his plea, vanishes into the sky, leaving behind only the eerie echo of its departure. "Come back dammit!"
Kenshiro turns his attention to the parchment, its aged edges curling and the material itself bearing the marks of long passage through time and elements. As he unrolls it carefully, a mix of anticipation and anger furrows his brow. The cryptic nature of this delivery gnaws at him, the departing crow a puzzle that refuses to be solved.
'A random hybrid crow and dropped off some old paper, straight to me? Why me? Is someone watching me?'
With a heavy sigh, Kenshiro smooths out the parchment on the ground before him, preparing to uncover the secrets it might hold. Alone once again, he feels a stinging mix of isolation and the heavy responsibility of his destiny, the ancient Battle Art now part of his armory against the shadows encroaching upon his world.
Unrolling the parchment with a blend of reverence and urgency, Kenshiro's eyes quickly adjust to the faded, intricate linework of the map sprawled before him. The paper, brittle and stained, still held the bold strokes of mountains, rivers, and the delicate markings of roads and trails. It was a map of his homeland, now marred by the spreading blight of the rot that seemed to pulse darkly even from the ink.
"They even marked places with rot, so it's updated, i'm definitely being watched somewhere."
Kenshiro traced his finger along the drawn mountains—thick, jagged lines representing the formidable Minakami Range, which acted as a natural fortress to the north. "Minakami... guardians of the north," he muttered, recalling tales of warriors who trained in solitude, mastering the silent howls of snowy winds as others mastered the blade.
'So that place is overrun with rot as well? I've seen what rot does to people it fully consumes, turning them into some kind of embodiments. I guarantee that place is full of them.'
His gaze flowed down to a network of rivers, intricately weaving through the land like life-sustaining veins. The largest, the Kurogane River, cut across the terrain, a once-thriving trade route linking countless villages. Its banks were now likely deserted, if not overrun by the rot, a somber fact that tightened Kenshiro's jaw with renewed bitterness.
As he observed the map, scattered notes caught his eye, etched hastily with a sense of urgency that echoed through time. A small dot labeled 'Hibana Village', nestled by the foot of Minakami, bore a scribbled note: "Last stand of the Hibana clan, now overrun." Kenshiro's heart panged with sorrow; he had once admired the Hibana, famed for their firework displays that symbolized prayers to the heavens.
Further east, his finger stopped at 'Yurei Woods', marked ominously with a shadowy blot and a side note: "Silence reigns, spirits wake." Kenshiro shivered slightly, memories of whispered stories about those woods, where spirits were said to linger, trapped and mourning. Now, those spirits were likely overshadowed by darker entities, a thought that made him clench his fist in resolve, and beasts overrun by rot cause chaos.
Toward the south where the land softened and the earth was generous, lay 'Sakura Grove'. It was once a place of beauty where cherry blossoms painted the landscape pink every spring. The note read, "Blossoms bleed, crimson stains the ground." The poetry of the note did little to mask the horror it depicted, and Kenshiro felt a mournful ache for the lost beauty of Sakura Grove.
'That's where my mother and father got married. Now it's ruined.'
Kenshiro lifted his gaze to survey each name, each note, with a growing fire within him. He spoke softly, more to himself than anyone, as if reaffirming a vow long made, "This land, rich with history and life, now festers beneath the creeping shadow of rot. Each place, each memory now a battleground."
'This land is in an apocalyptic state now. Nothing but rot, beasts, and embodiments of rot, and also Takeda. What is going on?'
Glancing to the northwestern stretch of the map, he noticed markings for the 'Shimmering Plains', vast fields that once shimmered under the sun with golden wheat. The note there was curt, desperate: "Fields barren, villages vanish in the night." Kenshiro knew those plains well, having traveled through them in more peaceful times when laughter could still be heard from the farming villages.
As Kenshiro prepared to fold the map, his eyes caught a final note scribbled near the edge, next to a small, almost indistinct mountain path leading to an area unmarked, save for an ominous circle. The note read, "Here lies the source." The words struck a chord in Kenshiro's heart; it was a call, a directive almost, leading him toward perhaps the heart of this darkness.
'They want me to come there. I'm smart enough to realize they want me to head there, it's where they are I bet. Was controlling the bird a sign of a Battle Art?'
Kenshiro rolled up the map with a determined gesture, tucking it securely into his belt. With a deep breath filled with resolve, he launched forward, his feet barely touching the ground as he darted through the desolate, rot-infested landscape that his beloved homeland had become.
'I'll keep it. Wherever they want me to go, I'll go. Why? How can I trust them? I can't and won't ever trust anyone, but I yearn to see someone else, I need to talk to someone, enemy or not. Any piece of human contract helps my case for my revenge.'
The terrain transitioned quickly as he moved, his speed unique with a heavy dash — from the crumbling ruins of what used to be thriving towns, now reduced to ghostly shells, to the treacherous inclines of the Minakami Range. Even here, the rot had spread its tendrils, a once-majestic range now hosting dying trees whose bark bled with a dark, viscous sap. Kenshiro's eyes remained focused, each footfall precise, dodging fallen branches and unstable rocks slick with decay.
'I'm already inflicted with the rot, I don't even need to dodge it. Even that rot woman back there was surprised I was still alive, and I was being affected by the rot like everyone else. I'm just…embracing it or whatever.'
Descending into the dense forest of Yurei Woods, the air thickened, a vile miasma that twisted the very essence of nature. Here, Kenshiro encountered his first beast, a massive bear once the king of this forest, now a grotesque version of its former self. Its fur matted with patches of dark reddish pink rot that pulsed under its skin, its eyes glowing with a haunting, frenzied light. The corrupted bear pawed aggressively at a smaller creature, a one-time fox now equally deranged and mutated, their skirmish a dance of madness.
'Of course that happens. I gotta avoid it. Fighting them is suicide. I'm not strong enough yet.'
Kenshiro crouched low, using his agility to maneuver through the underbrush, keeping his presence masked by the natural sounds of the chaotic fight.
As he cleared the woods, the land opened up to reveal the Shimmering Plains, now nothing more than a barren wasteland. Here, herds of what were once majestic deer sprinted in erratic patterns, their bodies distorted with bulbous growths, their movements sporadic as if driven by an inner turmoil. The sight of a lone crane, its wings tattered and one eye glaring with malevolent intent, punctuated the perversion of this once-harmonious ecosystem.
'Everything was affected.'
Kenshiro kept his pace, a silent specter against the desolation, his mind focused on evasion. Every rustle of his movement was calculated to blend with the wind's mournful howls, every breath a silent prayer to remain unnoticed. When a pack of wild dogs, their bodies swollen and discolored, burst forth in a tangle of snapping jaws and rolling, rotten flesh to attack a lumbering, oozing form that might once have been a wild boar, Kenshiro used their distraction to his advantage. He vaulted with grace over a fallen, hollowed-out tree covered in rot, his silhouette briefly outlined against the cursed sky before disappearing into the next cover.
The journey was not just a physical trial but a gauntlet for his spirit. With each step, Kenshiro battled the despair brought on by the land's devastation. Yet, his resolve didn't waver. His path required not strength of arms this day, but the swiftness and cunning of the fox, the silent depth of the bear, the resilience of the deer.
Swiftly, skillfully, he navigated the transformed landscape, the memory of the map burned into his mind guiding him towards the vague yet compelling destination marked only as 'the source'. Each avoided conflict, each silent evasion, brought him not just closer to his goal but deepened his comprehension of what awaited him at that mysterious, circled destination. The heart of the rot, perhaps, and the heart of his burgeoning destiny.
Under the crimson-hued sky, Kenshiro continued his relentless passage through the desolate landscape, each stride taking him deeper into the heart of corruption and chaos. The landmarks he passed echoed stories of a once vibrant culture and heritage, now mere shadows of their former glory.
He reached the 'Temple of Fallen Stars,' a spiritual site that once drew pilgrims from distant provinces. The entrance gate, partially collapsed, bore the scars of the rot, its once golden carvings now tarnished and dripping with a malodorous black substance. The fluttering remnants of prayer flags, each color a plea to the heavens, were now fading under the oppressive weight of decay. Kenshiro hesitated only for a moment to acknowledge the sorrow of the place before moving silently through the corrupted arches.
Beyond the temple, the path narrowed, winding through a series of devastated monuments. Statues, once proud and fierce representations of guardian deities, stood defaced and mutilated. The vibrant paints and precious gems that adorned them were pilfered, leaving behind ghostly figures weeping streaks of rot. Kenshiro's steps were soundless, but his heart thundered against his ribs — a dirge for each desecrated effigy he passed.
Emerging from the avenue of shattered guardians, Kenshiro entered what used to be the thriving camp of the Kashori tribe, known for their formidable hunters and exquisite metal work. Now, it was nothing but a graveyard of aspirations. Blackened totems stood sentinel over abandoned tents, the fabric of which was coated in the dark, sticky blight. Weapons, once masterfully crafted and imbued with tribal honor, lay discarded, their edges dulled and corroded. As he moved, his eyes caught glimpses of the tribe's banners, now limp and stained, the emblems of lion and hawk barely discernible beneath the muck of decay. Halting abruptly, Kenshiro focused on a peculiar sight at the camp's edge — a lone shadowy figure, stark against the desolation, standing unnaturally still as if caught in a moment long past. It emanated a faint, pulsating glow, an aura of locked time and contained skill. His instincts whispered of an opportunity, a chance to salvage a fragment of the past to aid his dire present.
'A shadow…Battle Art?! I need it..'
Approaching cautiously, Kenshiro could feel the electric thrum of energy emanating from the shadow. It was an echo of a warrior, possibly a great hunter of the Kashori, frozen in the instant of perfecting a Battle Art. Reaching out, he touched the shadow, his fingers tingling with the surge of a trapped storm.
Instantly, the world around him blurred, and the air crackled with the energy of a memory fiercely alive. He found himself swept into the vivid scene of the past, standing amidst the same tribe camp, now vibrant and bustling, witnessing the shadowy figure in flesh and blood — a master hunter, his face set with concentration and resolve.
'I'm in the memory…my heart's thumping…I can feel the excitement. Is it from me? Or the person's memories?'
As he melded into the hunter's shadow, the memory tightened around him, ready to unveil the secrets of a forgotten skill. The scene held, poised on the cusp of revelation.
In the pulsing heart of the memory, the air was thick with tension and the coppery scent of blood. Kenshiro watched as a man — rugged, with shoulder-length brown hair matted with blood, stood defiantly in the center of a clearing. He wore nothing but a simple grass garment, his body a canvas of scars and fresh wounds. His eyes, brown like the fertile earth of Akatsukigahara, burned with a fierce, unyielding light. In his hands, he gripped a staff, its surface marked by the trials of countless battles.
'This guy…he's half naked. It's normal for tribes here, but damn I don't wanna see his ass cheeks.'
The silence of the scene was abruptly shattered by the approach of armed soldiers, the elite forces of Commander Takeda. The men were disciplined and moved with lethal precision, their armor clinking softly with each step. They surrounded the man, their weapons drawn, their intent clear.
'Takeda's men!'
"You are charged with crimes against the province of Akatsukigahara," announced the captain, his voice firm and devoid of emotion. "Commander Takeda decrees that you are to be taken alive and brought before him to answer for your actions."
The man's laugh was bitter, resonating with defiance. "I bow to no man," he declared, his voice gravelly. "Nor will I be caged like some beaten dog. Guess you're all screweeeeeed up in the fucking head arent ya?"
The tension escalated as the soldiers tightened their circle. Without warning, the man's demeanor shifted; his eyes glowed a deep, ominous red as he brandished a small hatchet from behind his back. The weapon was clad in runes that shimmered with the same red light, pulsating with an ancient, menacing energy.
The soldiers charged, their weapons a blur of steel and intent. But the man, now with the hatchet in hand, moved with supernatural speed, his movements a dance of death. The first soldier barely had time to scream as the hatchet found its mark, cleaving through armor and bone with equal ease. Blood spurted, painting the grass a stark, vivid red through the soldiers neck.
Another soldier lunged, his spear aimed with precision, but the man spun, the hatchet extending in a deadly arc, severing the spear's shaft and continuing through the soldier's head. The battlefield was chaotic, filled with the cries of dying men and the clash of steel.
Yet even as he fought with the strength and fury of ten men, the man was not unscathed. From the treeline, a barrage of poison arrows flew, thudding into his flesh with sickening accuracy. Each arrow bore deep, its toxin spreading through his veins like wildfire.
Despite the pain, the man's onslaught continued. He disarmed another soldier, using the man's own sword to impale him before turning to face yet another assailant. His movements were fluid, his techniques brutal and efficient — a terrible beauty in the midst of carnage.
"I won't go down!" The man exclaimed.
As more arrows pierced him, his strength began to wane; his attacks grew slower, less precise. Blood frothed at his lips, and his breaths became ragged gasps. Tears mingled with the blood on his face, not for the pain, but for the inevitability of his fate.
With a final, defiant cry, he swung his hatchet with all the remaining strength he could muster, taking down two more soldiers. But his energy spent, and he stumbled, his knees buckling under the weight of his injuries. Poison coursed through his body, his skin paling as death crept upon him.
Falling to his knees, the man dropped his hatchet. It clattered to the ground, the runes fading as his grip loosened. He looked skyward, a silent plea perhaps to the gods who had forsaken him or a curse upon those who had damned him. He was dead.
Kenshiro watched, clenching his fists, thinking, 'He fought with everything he had left…he didn't want to go with them. He definitely knew Takeda was corrupt. Even though this man probably did bad things, Takeda is no different from one who does bad things at all.'
It was then that Commander Takeda arrived. Young and almost ethereally beautiful, Takeda's presence was commanding, his dark red eyes scanning the carnage with a dispassionate gaze. His white silk robe, immaculately designed, fluttered gently in the breeze, an obscene contrast to the violence that surrounded him. Notably, a small patch of rot marred the skin of his neck, a blemish on an otherwise perfect facade.
Kenshiro saw him, his anger boiling, his fists clenching to the point where his hands bled. His veins popped, he wanted to kill him, but he couldn't do it in a memory.
'Takeda….'
Walking up to the dying man, Takeda shook his head, tsking softly. "You fool. I could've used you," he murmured, his voice laced with a mixture of admiration and regret. "With that Battle Art of yours, I would've killed you before I had gotten the rot so I could have it. Why? Maybe I'm selfish. If I have my sights set on something, I will have it."
As Commander Takeda turned to leave, his gaze inadvertently locked with Kenshiro's, pulling him abruptly from the memory to face the haunting eyes of the Daimyo.
Gasping at the shock of the transition, Kenshiro recoiled, his senses flooding back to the present. The memory faded, leaving behind echoes of power, pain, and lost potential. The hunter's shadow, now dim and insubstantial, seemed to nod in silent acknowledgment of the lessons imparted.
Kenshiro steadied himself, his heart pounding with the intensity of the experience. He knew he had witnessed a pivotal moment, a turning point soaked in blood and shrouded in sorrow. The implications of what he had seen were profound, reshaping his understanding of the battles that shaped this land. Heart racing and mind reeling, he prepared to face what lay ahead, forever changed by the specter of a man who had fought and died with the valor of a forsaken hero.
"He looked at me….he looked right at me…! How?! In a memory!"
'Calm down…calm down Kenshiro…I can't get too worked up here. At least try not to. But I did learn a new Battle Art. In this wretched land, I have to be grateful for the good things at least.'
A memory of his happy village crept in his mind, and his heart almost stopped, but he instantly forced himself to stop thinking about their smiles, and stood up, saying, "I..have a long ways to go."
As the memory slowly dissolved into the ethereal wisps of the past, Kenshiro watched the fading shadow elegantly disperse into the sky, its final moments a spectral ballet of light and darkness. The intensity of the encounter still throbbed in his veins when he felt a presence behind him, close enough to share whispers yet silent as the falling night.
KATHOOM!
Suddenly standing back-to-back with Kenshiro was a figure, as if materialized out of thin air. Clad in mismatched pieces of armor, the colors muted, earthy — browns and dark greens, the man projected a sense of rugged experience and calculated calm. His hair was dark gray with pieces of rot on it, and was tied back loosely, strands escaping to frame a face that bore the markings of many battles. This was no ordinary soldier; this was a man forged in the furnace of countless conflicts, a loyal servant of Commander Takeda. He was named Hyogo, known among the ranks for his acumen and loyalty. His eyes were closed with tears of blood stained on his face that were red and also was covered in rot, and had scars all over his cheeks alongside his old wrinkled features of a veteran warrior.
Kenshiro, caught off guard and frozen in shock, could only listen as Hyogo spoke, his voice cool and collected. "It's curious, how someone already marked by the rot, as you are, can interact so deeply with a Battle Art from such a potent memory. Most would be overwhelmed, destroyed even," he mused, a hint of genuine puzzlement in his tone.
Hyogo continued, explaining his own role in the grand tapestry of Commander Takeda's schemes. "I was tasked with observing the shadow, ensuring no one accessed the Battle Art it held. The Runes of Vigor," he paused, choosing his words carefully, "They are not merely tools of enhancement. They hold the potential for something close to immortality, in the right hands. My duty wasn't just surveillance; it was prevention—preventing the wrong hands from seizing such formidable power. When Takeda wants something, once he has his eyes set on something, he wants it. Maybe he's selfish. But I won't tell him that up close."
Kenshiro, still silent, noticed a distinctive tattoo on Hyogo's arm as he gestured animatedly — an emblem unmistakable in its significance, representing a deep-seated allegiance to Takeda.
"Hey…Take me to Commander Takeda," Kenshiro finally spoke, his voice a barely audible rasp, strained with the intensity of his recent ordeal.
"And if I don't?"
"…I'll kill you."
Hyogo's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing Kenshiro's request, before he abruptly turned, facing Kenshiro in a swift, fluid motion. Their gazes locked, a silent challenge passed between them, and in the next heartbeat, their blades clashed with a ring of steel that shattered the quiet of the evening.
The impact was colossal. Kenshiro, despite his prowess, was blasted backward, sliding on his feet, his nose bleeding from the sheer pressure of the encounter. Hyogo, unyielded and imposing, advanced toward him, dual katanas gleaming ominously in the fading light.
'Tch! He's strong!' Kenshiro thought. 'Takeda wasn't being sarcastic when he said once he wants something, he'll have it. He stationed one of his loyal soldiers to watch over the Battle Art memory so no one else could take it. But I took it, because he thought I wouldn't be able to because of the rot, so he didn't stop me when entering the memory…'
"Battle Art: Twin Dragon," Hyogo announced, his voice resonating with a warrior's resolve, as the twin blades seemed to come alive, swirling with an almost serpentine grace, a deadly dance of sharpened steel, surrounded by a shadow-like aura. "Now that I have failed to stop the Battle Art from being taken, you and I must fight to the death. Even though…if I win, I lose anyway. Takeda will give me the same fate that I deliver to you."
'Commander Takeda beloved one day he'll be rotless, and he'll be able to come back for the Battle Art and take the Runes Of Vigor, so I was stationed here to protect it until he completes his mission. But I failed here, I never seen one conflicted with rot take a Battle Art, as it's forbidden, it's been tried a hundred times before, but they exploded in death. I made a mistake. I have to at least kill this brat here to restore honor within myself, for I know Takeda will not accept my failure.' Hyogo thought.
As the twin katanas arced through the air, poised to strike with lethal precision, it's like time froze, the tension palpable, the outcome hanging suspended in a breath held too long. Both warriors stood, bound by the imminent flurry of a fight that would test the very limits of their formidable arts.