The dank, stone-walled confines of the cave offered a cool respite, its solitary lantern casting flickering shadows over the sparse, rudimentary setup. Amidst this dimly lit refuge, Kenshiro lay unconscious on a roughly hewn wooden bed, still bearing the ravages of his vicious battle with Hyogo. Beside his prone form, Mei, her shoulder-length black hair slightly disheveled and the prominent scar under her left dark green eye twitching ever so slightly as she concentrated, worked meticulously to tend to his wounds.
Mei's skilled hands moved deftly over Kenshiro's battered body. She applied crushed herbs with practiced precision, the green paste stark against the deep red of his injuries. Her fingers, stained with the juice of medicinal leaves, carefully placed bandages soaked in herbal infusions. Each piece of cloth was a salvaged remnant, yet clean and infused with tinctures meant to stave infection and promote healing. She occasionally paused to pour a golden, viscous liquid from a small flask into some of the deeper gashes—a potent concoction known to accelerate cell regeneration and partially heal major injuries.
Once satisfied with her ministrations, Mei stepped over to a small, makeshift fireplace where a pot simmered quietly. The scent of cooking meat filled the small cave, a stark contrast to the earthy dampness. Handled with care, she skewered chunks of the meat—game she had hunted just the day before—and added them to the pot. Tomatoes, wild herbs, and a handful of roots joined the mix, stewing together into a nourishing soup. She stirred the concoction thoughtfully, then ladled it into a worn clay bowl. A clay spoon accompanied it, simple yet functional.
As she returned to Kenshiro's side, her gaze lingered on a dandelion that had resiliently taken root near the entrance of the cave. Its vibrancy seemed incongruous against the stone, and it served as a silent testament to life's perseverance.
Abruptly, the tense serenity shattered as Kenshiro's hand shot up, gripping Mei's throat with startling strength. Eyelids snapping open to reveal eyes clouded with confusion and anger, he demanded hoarsely, "Where am I?"
Mei, unflinching despite the pressure on her windpipe, met his gaze directly, her scar seemingly deepening with her steadiness. Kenshiro's voice was a threatening growl as he repeated, "Answer me...where am I?"
In response, Mei's hand gently brushed the one Kenshiro used to hold her, her touch deliberate yet calming. In a voice as steady as her gaze, she simply stated, "Eat."
She brought the spoon towards his mouth, the smell of meaty tomato broth promising sustenance. There was a pause, tension coiling in the scant space between them, before Kenshiro's survival instincts overtook his suspicion. He began to eat, first tentatively, then with increasing fervor, the richness of the food momentarily sweeping away the shadows of his recent battle. The soup, with its hearty chunks and herbal notes, filled him with a warmth that slowly seeped into his limbs.
'This woman.. I feel nothing but peace from her…she's beautiful…almost too beautiful to where it could be a trap…'
Realizing his brashness, Kenshiro's grip loosened, an apologetic roughness to his voice as he murmured, "Sorry," his eyes briefly flickering to the dandelion, and then back to Mei, acknowledging not just the nourishment she offered, but the resilience she embodied.
'She didn't even flinch when I grabbed her. She still wanted me to eat. And that dandelion…I haven't seen a flower in good shape at all like that one, even in the midst of all of this rot. All plants and flowers are decayed and rotten as the rot may have spread through the ground and roots, but this one still stands.'
As peace resettled in the dimly lit cave, Mei set the bowl and spoon down with a soft clink, her face a mask of composure. She resumed her seat beside him, quietly keeping vigil as Kenshiro drifted back into a healing sleep, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the distant drip of cave moisture.
Kenshiro said, "I didn't mean to grab you by the throat. I mean, I did, the last time I woke up around someone I don't know my blood was being eaten by embodiments of rot."
Mei replied, "It's okay."
"…What's your name?"
"Mei."
"….Why did you help me?"
"You were almost dead."
"I see…but you see the rot on me..and you touched me."
"You aren't consumed by it. You're not one of them. You're special."
"Am I now?"
"Yes. What is your name?"
"Kenshiro. Kenshiro Nakamura."
"Nakamura. Kuroyama village?"
"You know about them?"
"All Nakamura's are from that village."
"Right right."
Mei slightly bowed, "Condolences, Kenshiro."
"It's fine. It's fine. Thanks. Just know I'm gonna get my revenge sooner or later."
"Yes. Can I ask you something?"
"What is it?"
"What does the rain feel like?"
"The rain? You've never felt rain?"
"Seen it. Never felt."
And she turned around to look at the dandelion again, and Kenshiro looked at it.
Kenshiro asked, "Has that flower had any water?"
"No. Not since the rot started."
"When did the rot start?"
"5 days ago."
"And it still isn't dead?"
'The rot spread 5 days ago, and I'm just now seeing it, that means the source of where it started has to be far away. Even though Takeda slaughtered my village, I don't believe he made the rot appear there when he came. It was already coming that way…'
Emerging from the shrouded comfort of the room, Kenshiro's senses were immediately assaulted by the raucous clangor reverberating through the cave's stony corridors.
'Banging?!'
Kenshiro stood up, saying to Mei, "Stay here, whatever happens—."
Before Kenshiro could go out, Mei grabbed his hand softly, looking into his eyes, and he looked in hers, and Mei said, "There are no enemies here. But.."
"But?"
"You're a warrior, a fighter. Maybe one day we can stand under the rain together? Please.."
'Stand under the rain together? What does she mean by that? I know she said she never felt the rain before, how is that even possible? Is there another meaning behind it? Does it connect to the flower as well?'
Kenshiro said, "Once I understand what that means, then sure."
'I never had a close and intense interaction with a girl like this, this is the first. Especially someone who's not in my family.'
The repetitive banging of steel echoed ominously, guiding his cautious steps forward. The hallway, dimly lit by scattered lanterns, revealed doorways to other mysterious chambers, each exuding an aura of deep, enigmatic secrets.
As he passed one peculiar room, abuzz with its own haunting energy, his curiosity was piqued by an odd sight—a bald wooden puppet with four articulate arms, each limb moving with an eerie autonomy. The puppet's face, painted with a permanent expression of melancholy, turned towards him as he paused in the doorway. From its carved lips came a voice, soft and tinged with elusive sorrow, "Can I help you…?" He was designing another set of puppets like him, like a family of them, and even a bed, a table, a wooden kitchen, and more.
'A moving puppet? And it doesn't seem to be controlled by anything…what is that?'
Startled yet intrigued, Kenshiro took a moment to observe the unnatural sentience before him. However, deciding the puzzling figure held no immediate answers—or threats—he continued onward, leaving the sad-faced puppet to its silent solitude.
'First there's a girl with a dandelion, and a sentient wooden puppet..what is this place?'
Echoes of his footsteps mingled with the metallic symphony led Kenshiro deeper into the cave's labyrinthine belly, each step drawing him closer to the heart of the ceaseless din. Finally, he entered a large cavern that served as a makeshift blacksmith's workshop. The space was alive with the sights and sounds of fervent craftsmanship—not perfect, but impressively adapted to its subterranean reality.
The blacksmith's den was a chaotic harmony of fire, metal, and sweat. Forges belched fiery breaths, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls. Tables littered with tools and weapon parts showed the blacksmith's relentless labor: swords awaiting sharpening, shields needing repairs, and new projects barely begun. Runes with a deep red glow adorned several pieces, their arcane symbols pulsating slightly as if containing living magic.
At the heart of this orchestrated cacophony stood an old man, his figure bent but unbroken by time. White dreadlocks fell in unkempt cascades about his shoulders, and a long beard, equally white, trailed down his chest. His skin was weathered like old leather, etched with the tales of countless years. The most striking feature, however, was his eyes—pure white with dull gray pupils, sightless yet somehow piercing.
The rhythm of his work—a ballet of hammer meeting metal—halted abruptly as he sensed Kenshiro's presence. Turning his head slightly in the direction of the newcomer, he set his hammer down with a resounding clank against the anvil, the sound reverberating through the space.
"You're finally awake... youngin'," he said, his voice a gravelly echo that filled the cavern. His tone, while gruff, carried an undercurrent of welcome, as if he'd been expecting the visit.
A blend of sweat, metal, and the earthy musk of the cave filled the air, wrapping around Kenshiro like a blanket woven from the raw essences of creation and destruction. The heat from the forges painted his face with warmth, reflecting the fiery lifeblood of the blacksmith's trade.
Before Kenshiro could gather his thoughts or utter a single inquiry, the atmosphere in the cavernous workshop shifted abruptly. The old blacksmith's demeanor transformed from welcoming to unexpectedly aggressive. With a deft movement belying his blind condition, he reached behind him, grasping a handful of recently forged weapons.
In a breathtaking display of power and precision, the blacksmith hurled the weapons at Kenshiro. The air filled with the whistling of metal as axes, swords, and maces spun dangerously through the space between them. Kenshiro, taken aback, reacted instinctively. His body moved with acrobatic agility, dodging and catching the heavy weapons one after another. Each catch echoed through the cave—a testament to his mastery and quick reflexes under pressure.
'This old bastard! I knew it was a set up!'
Just as he adjusted to the volley, the final weapon—the pièce de résistance—was his own katana, glinting ominously as it spun towards him. Kenshiro's eyes narrowed, focusing on the blade as it approached. In a fluid motion, he let the katana slide along his leg, stopping it midair with the sole of his foot. With a quick twist and a forward flip, Kenshiro redirected the katana back towards its sender.
The blade whistled through the air, aimed precisely back at the blacksmith. Demonstrating an eerie calm, the blind man caught the middle of the blade with one bare hand. Blood trickled down the steel, but his expression remained unflinching, a small grimace the only sign of discomfort. Droplets of blood fell to the ground, stark against the dusty floor of the cavern.
"Youngin'," the blacksmith began, his voice steady and thick with experience, "my blindness ain't a disability—it's a different kind of sight. Being unable to see sharpens the other senses. Sounds, air shifts, even the intent in a person's breath—becomes my eyes."
"You tried to kill me! I should finish you off."
He then recounted a pivotal chapter of his life, "I once served as a samurai under Commander Takeda. My skills were honed not just in battle, but in navigating the world without sight. However, when I realized Takeda's ways were corrupt, guided by greed rather than honor, I chose to flee. Turned my craft to smithing—creating, not destroying, brat."
After this intense encounter, the old man's demeanor softened again as he gestured towards a rugged wooden bench near one of the forges. "Let's sit, youngin'. We got more to talk about than throwing blades at each other," he said with a hint of a rueful chuckle.
'This old geezer, what does he want from me? I can't even trust him, but he's giving off a different vibe from everyone else I encountered.'
Taking their places on the bench, the flickering fire from the forge casting reflective patterns on their faces, the scene closed with a moment of contemplative silence, setting the stage for a deep exchange of stories and perhaps, wisdom. Filaments of smoke danced upwards, mingling with the stale air of the cavern, as Kenshiro and the blacksmith prepared to bridge their worlds with conversation.
As Kenshiro and the old blacksmith settled onto the rough-hewn bench, the warmth from the nearby forge cast an ambient glow over their rugged features. The blacksmith's hands, marked by the toils of his profession, shuffled restlessly before he turned to Kenshiro with a more introspective expression.
"The name's Kanbei," he said with a nod. "I forged weapons and strategy in service of the Akatsukigahara province—a land that once thrived under wise leaders before the era of Takeda. It's a place of fierce beauty and strategic import, nestled between the protective embrace of northern mountains and the abundant southern plains."
Kanbei's eyes clouded over as he reminisced, "Akatsukigahara was not just a battleground but a vital conduit for trade and culture. Its fortresses stood majestic, guardians against invasion, and its fields were golden with crops. We had silver mines in the north that were the envy of provinces far and wide, bringing prosperity and envy alike."
Shifting slightly, Kanbei continued, "Before Takeda, leaders like Daihachi and Noburu had a hand in molding its fate. They were men of honor, interested in the welfare of the land. But when Takeda took command... things started to change."
Kanbei's voice dropped to a somber tone, "I was close enough to see the subtle onset of rot even before it became clear to all. It wasn't just the land that suffered, but the soul of our commander himself. Takeda, who was trained from birth in the arts of war and governance, who led with such brilliance in expanding and defending Akatsukigahara, began to shift. Such a shitty situation."
"You see, youngin', Takeda wasn't always the vessel of decay people whisper about now." Kanbei paused as if measuring his next words carefully. "His early days were marked by grand achievements. His defense against invaders in storied battles like the Crimson Fields, and his strategic brilliance during the Siege of Tenryu Castle were all tales sung by our minstrels. He was a patron of the arts, our culture flourished like spring after a long winter. Academies, temples, and shrines sprouted under his patronage."
"But," his gaze hardened, "it was in his unending ambition where I saw the first shadows fall. In those later years, there were murmurs, whispers of him seeking forbidden powers, talking to shadows that weren't there, as though driven by an unseen force. I knew then that it was time for me to leave—to flee before the rot took hold completely."
Kanbei sighed, the lines of age and wisdom marking his weathered face, "I saw the corruption seeping through the very earth of Akatsukigahara. The land that was once a beacon of prosperity and might under wise rulers turned under his reign. And though I left, it seems the tide of his darkness could not be stemmed."
As the old blacksmith concluded his tale, the flames from the forge flickered, casting long, dancing shadows behind them. The room was filled with a heavy silence, as if history itself was listening, waiting for what comes next in the storied lands of Akatsukigahara.
'This man was close to Commander Takeda. Yet, I'm not pissed at him. Hyogo was close to Takeda, and I killed him, even though he attacked. But this old blind geezer attacked me as well, and I even tried to kill him, but I don't feel any hostility towards him. Am I getting too comfortable? What happens if I slip up and he tries to get me again? He could've done it while I was asleep …so he must have another motive.'
Kenshiro asked,"Why did you pull me in here?"
"My granddaughter Mei found you. On the verge of death, you had fought a loyal soldier of Takeda, meaning you are strong. That anger you have, the anger I feel inside of you, it's like a darkness corrupting your soul. Vengeance..it feels like."
"You—."
"Shhh. I understand where it comes from. Regret, grief, mourning, shame."
"….I.."
'Regret, grief, mourning, shame. I regret not being strong enough to defend the village, making me even question my own capabilities…I was the only one there who could fight, no one else knew how because they felt if they didn't take part In learning how to kill, then violence would not follow them. Like some sort of taboo. But I saw the dangers that came with being a weak village, and I cared about everyone too much, so I took it upon myself to learn to kill, and I've killed many raiders. I had so much weight on my shoulders, I regret ever training. Makes me wonder if me learning how to kill cursed the entire village? That's where the shame ties in…is it my fault? Did I cause them to die? Even if Takeda came, did me learning how to kill a man drag him there? That's the main reason why after I get my revenge, there's nothing else left to do besides join everyone. I can't live with this sort of shame and agony. I fucking hate it.'
Kanbei gripped Kenshiro's hand with unexpected strength, his wise eyes piercing into the younger man's. "Look at everything now," he murmured thickly, his voice laden with memories and forewarnings.
"Wait!"
In a sudden rush, Kenshiro's vision soared, and he found himself seeing through the piercing eyes of a crow flying high above. A chilling breeze carried him over the sprawling landscape of Japan, now a post-apocalyptic canvas painted in hues of reddish dark pink—the rot that once began as whispers now screamed from every corner.
Below, the mountains stood desolate, their once majestic peaks scarred with the corruption that seeped from their crevices. Kenshiro's avian gaze swept over different lands once vibrant with life but now suffocated under the weight of decay. Temples that stood as pillars of faith were now crumbling, adorned with tendrils of rot that danced like macabre decorations in the wind. Abandoned villages and provinces stretched out as far as the eye could see. Houses lay in ruins, their once bustling warmth silenced by the cataclysm. Through the twisted landscapes roamed beasts and creatures—animals consumed by the rot—turned into grotesque versions of themselves. With horrific detail, Kenshiro watched as these creatures caused havoc, attacking even those with formidable weapon skills. Samurai and warriors, once symbols of strength and honor, fell prey to these monsters, their skills futile against the overwhelming darkness.
As the crow continued its flight, Kenshiro saw the monuments of old, each a testament to the rich history and culture of Japan, now shrouded in decay. The landscape was a hauntingly eerie beauty—terrible yet mesmerizing in its desolation. Finally, the vision brought him over a gigantic platform dominated by the seven-headed dragon, Ryujin. The area around it was vast and terrifyingly beautiful, with the rot manifesting in an almost artistic manner around this monument of power. The dragon's heads, each a symbol of its immense strength, were entangled in thick vines of corruption, its eyes glowing with an unholy light.
Kanbei's voice echoed, a somber narration to the unfolding horror, "Each place we see, once flourished under the rule of wise leaders and was later touched by Takeda's ambition. From the fields of Akatsukigahara to the mines in Yamatsuki, his influence set the foundation of prosperity but ended in this ultimate corruption. As Takeda delved deeper into darkness, he frequently spoke of Ryujin. It was an obsession that perhaps led him to this dire pact."
Kenshiro's heart thudded painfully as the crow circled above the monstrous figure of Ryujin. Kanbei's next words were almost lost in the rush of wind, "That creature... that is who he mentioned in his fits of madness, talking to himself as though driven by an unseen force. Ryujin, the seven-headed dragon, now a symbol of Takeda's tragic legacy."
As the crow finally swooped down, returning Kenshiro to his own senses, the echo of Kanbei's narration lingered in the air, and the old man's grip loosened. The scene around them was just the humble forge again, but the weight of the vision lay heavy on their shoulders. Kenshiro stared into the flickering flames, haunted by the spectral vision of the world consumed by rot and a dragon that bound a once great commander to an eternity of darkness and decay.
Kenshiro, breathing heavily, asked, "What was that?!"
Kanbei responded, "The very thing that will lead to your vengeance."
Kenshiro was more focused now that he heard that word.
Kanbei explained, "But there's an issue, youngin'. It won't be easy. There are many steps you have to take to get to where Takeda is."
Kenshiro stood up, "You know where he is?!"
"Yes. He's in Paradise, his own palace, larger than an entire continent. It's not so simple as going there and wreaking havoc. The barrier outside of Paradise has to be destroyed in order to gain entry, and not even 50 techniques of battle art can break through it. There's certain conditions and weapons that have to be crafted and artifacts that need to be farmed In order to break it."
"Well let's go get them! Lead the way! Use your super smell-."
Kanbei bonked Kenshiro in the head, making him smash to the ground.
Kanbei scoffed, "You young fool. You will not find anything of the sorts in this area. Only through the Temple of Assassins, who are far away, will you be able to break the barrier to Paradise."
"Temple of Assassins….?"