The air was thick with anticipation and the musky stench of impending war. Kenshiro found himself standing amid a vast gathering on a grand hillside outside the Aokigahara Estate. Hundreds of Shiranui clan members, warriors of great repute, were assembled, their eyes fixed on Katsuhiro who stood elevated before them.
Katsuhiro's voice resonated with power and poise, coursing through the hill's expanse, "Today, we stand not just as warriors of the Shiranui, but as guardians of our honor and defenders of our deeds. Remember, the true essence of a warrior does not merely lie in the combat but in the art—the Battle Art, which we have perfected through generations."
Below, the horizon teemed with the formidable forces of Commander Takeda, of the Akatsukigahara province, his ranks a mix of stoic samurai at the forefront and relentless foot soldiers armed with matchlock guns—an invention that changed the face of warfare in feudal Japan, wielding death with black powder and lead.
"Commander Takeda…he fought this family?" Kenshiro asked himself an obvious question with an obvious answer.
As the enemy approached, a tense alliance held the lines alongside the Shiranui—the warriors from the neighboring Hachimaki estate, known for their ferocious loyalty and unmatched combat strategy. Their flags fluttered heroically against the morning sky, emboldened by the unity against a common foe.
Katsuhiro stepped forward as his clan and their allies braced for the onslaught. His voice thundered across the battleground, "Battle Art: One Thousand Blades!" With the declaration, an astonishing spectacle unfolded; dark red afterimages burst forth from Katsuhiro's being at blinding speeds. Each afterimage wielded the same legendary blade as Katsuhiro—a blade forged by the mythical Tsurugi smiths, known for its unbreakable edge and sinister hue.
These phantom warriors, extensions of Katsuhiro's own spirit and mastery, descended upon Takeda's troops with ferocious precision. Each spectral strike was a death sentence—samurai bisected before they could swing their katana, foot soldiers cleaved in two amid their futile attempts to fire their guns. The ground quickly became sodden with blood, a chilling tableau of crimson and carnage.
Commander Takeda, witnessing the devastating efficiency of Katsuhiro's mystical technique, felt a creeping dread. His army, although numerous and well-armed, was being decimated by the relentless afterimages that seemed to spawn without end. With each fallen soldier, the morale of his troops faltered.
Realizing the futility of his ambition against the supernatural prowess of Katsuhiro, Takeda signaled the retreat. Horns sounded a mournful retreat as his forces, those who survived, turned in disarray, their spirits shattered by the horrific losses they endured.
As the echo of the last enemy footfall faded, the hillside was reclaimed by a solemn silence. The Shiranui and their Hachimaki allies stood amidst the devastation, their hearts heavy with the price of victory, yet unyielding in their resolve to protect their lands.
Kenshiro, within the memory, experienced the sheer magnitude of Katsuhiro's power and the deep-seated honor that shaped his actions—a legacy of not just mastery over swordsmanship but also over the art that dictated the very essence of battle.
As the memory ebbed, Kenshiro found himself back outside the shadow of Katsuhiro, the lesson of the past etching itself indelibly into his spirit, understanding more deeply the path laid out before him—one paved with blood, honor, and an unwavering commitment to the warrior's code.
'That was the start of it all then…Commander Takeda wanted power, because he would lose, and lose…and lose…the rot wasn't on him during his battle against the Shiranui…meaning this happened before he somehow was fused with Shikorin the deity of rot..'
As Kenshiro emerged from the depths of Katsuhiro's memories, a sudden and acute pain seared through his chest, staggering him. The warrior fell to his knees, gasping, his fingers digging into the earth as if to anchor himself in the swirling chaos that now enveloped his spirit.
"Aghh…AGHHH!"
He was thrust without warning into a dark, sprawling void. Before him, an endless array of his own spectral forms stretched into infinity, each afterimage mirroring his confusion and concern. They stood, a silent army within the void, their presence both formidable and mystifying. Kenshiro, amidst this ghostly legion, felt a stirring of some latent power, a force he was both part of and apart from—a manifest destiny he was only now beginning to comprehend.
Reality snapped back with a jolt as vivid and powerful as a lightning strike. In Kenshiro's right hand, materializing as if conjured by the very tempest brewing in his soul, a new katana began to form. This was no ordinary blade. It glowed ominously, cloaked in black flames that seemed to lick the air with a life of their own. A deep red hue bathed its edges, and intricate runes, glowing fervently red, etched themselves along the length of the blade, spelling binding oaths of warfare and honor.
The katana's formation was a spectacle of elemental fury. Black flames twisted and writhed as if attempting to escape the steel confines of the blade, only to be pulled back into the intricate dance of creation. Steam hissed off the blade's surface, an eerie mist that spoke to the raw power contained within this formidable weapon—a sister blade to that once wielded by Katsuhiro, imbued with the same destructive essence.
The Black Katana, called the Kurokage Katana.
Kenshiro, soaked in sweat from the intensity of the blade's manifestation, slowly stood. His hands, now steadied by the weight of his new weapon, tightened around the hilt. He inspected the blade, observing the way the runes seemed to pulsate with a sinister light, each throbbing glow an echo of the power coursing through his veins.
A rumbling, like the march of a thousand thunderstorms, rolled over the landscape. It was accompanied by an cacophony of roars, screams, and howls—a discordant symphony of bloodlust and rage. Kenshiro's eyes narrowed as he turned toward the source of the noise. What approached was a nightmarish horde, an amalgamation of beasts, humanoids, and grotesque hybrids, all bathed in a dark reddish-pink rot that pulsed with malignancy.
Among them were towering beast-men, their muscular forms grotesquely twisted, claws dripping with rotten reddish pink venom. Lumbering beside them were bird-like creatures with serrated beaks, their feathers matted with the rot that seemed to corrupt every cell of their being. Crawling horrors, with too many limbs and gnashing teeth, skittered feverishly towards Kenshiro, their bodies a grotesque testament to the unnatural forces at play.
Kenshiro, a wry smile playing upon his lips as he anticipated the impending battle, positioned himself squarely in their path. With the weight of his new katana in one hand and his trusty old blade in the other, he felt an unprecedented surge of power.
"Let's test this out," he muttered, almost casually, his voice a calm amidst the storm of approaching death.
His stance solidified, a warrior's poise that spoke of countless battles fought and survived. "Battle Art: One Thousand Blades," he declared, his voice rising with the invocation of the ancient technique.
In a crescendo of fury and light, an explosion of black shadows and red energy erupted around Kenshiro. From him, a multitude of red afterimages burst forth, each wielding a copy of his sinister new katana. Like specters of death, they launched into the oncoming horde.
The battlefield became a tableau of carnage. Each afterimage moved with lethal precision, their blades arcs of destruction that severed limbs and cleaved bodies in half. Blood rained like a macabre downpour as the afterimages danced their deadly ballet, each movement choreographed by the centuries of combat knowledge that flowed through Kenshiro's veins.
The air was filled with the scent of ozone and iron—a metallic tang that mingled with the eerie ethereal glow of the battlefield. The rotted beasts fell in droves, their bodies torn asunder before their vile intentions could find purchase.
Kenshiro, amidst the chaos, was the eye of the storm, his smile undimmed by the gruesome work of his phantom brethren. His heart raced with the thrill of the fight, his spirit alight with the fierce joy of a warrior fulfilling his destiny.