The masked samurai held his ground, his body a blur of movement as he parried the relentless strikes that came at him from every direction. Steel clashed with steel, each blow ringing through the night, illuminating the forest with sharp bursts of sparks. But despite his skill and precision, the sheer number of opponents began to weigh on him, their attacks coming faster, stronger, and with no mercy.
One samurai swung down with a vicious overhead strike. The masked warrior met it with his blade, locking them in a deadly contest of strength. Their faces were inches apart, breath mingling as they strained, each fighting to overpower the other. He sank into a low stance, his knees bent, his arm raised high to deflect any strike to his face. The edge of his mask glinted under the scattered moonlight filtering through the trees.
But he wasn't fast enough to block every assault. One of his attackers saw an opening, darting in with a swift, slicing cut across his side. The blade tore through his silk robe, and a shallow wound opened along his ribs, searing hot pain flaring up as blood soaked into the fabric.
The samurai hissed, his jaw clenched against the pain, but he couldn't falter—not now. His hands were figuratively tied, his options shrinking with every swing. With every strike, his breath grew sharper, but he kept his guard up, muscles tense and unyielding.
With a rasp cry he pushes the samurai off, his sword following the path to his chest in a quick follow up strike, slicing him down the middle. The wind picked up in the forest, grazing his wounds that he clutched as the others started to close in
His mind assessed the battlefield with clarity—counting the number of assailants, noting their positions and footwork. He knew he had only one chance to turn the tide.
Feigning a stumble, he let his stance waver just enough to bait his attackers into a rush. Two of the samurai closed in, eager to strike. As they lunged, he dropped low, spinning and slicing his blade upward in a precise arc that found its mark in one attacker's thigh, severing tendons. The samurai crumpled, his cry cutting through the night.
Without hesitation, he sprang up, catching the second assailant mid-strike. He twisted, disarming the samurai with a flick of his wrist before bringing his blade down with brutal accuracy. Another opponent fell, and he could feel the others falter, exchanging uncertain glances, rattled by the swift loss of their comrades.
Now breathing hard, the masked warrior tightened his grip, drawing on his remaining strength. Three attackers remained, circling him warily. He met their eyes, his own gaze blazing from behind his mask, challenging them to make their move. One by one, they attacked, but he moved with precision—sidestepping, parrying, and deflecting each strike with deadly efficiency.
Their bodies painted the grass that danced with the calming winds, the masked samurai finally dropping his blade with a sigh of relief.
"Dropping you blade? You're asking to be killed aren't you?" A familiar voice cut through the silence, the Samurai turning around and grabbing his blade with practiced efficiency to see Mirai, his katana already to his throat.
"What are you doing here…" He muttered, grunting as the blade dug deeper into his neck.
"Just to talk," Mirai murmured.
"Then why the blade." the masked samurai pondered, his aggravation calming yet he still remained on edge.
"Reassurance." The young samurai stated, his gaze dropping to the opponent's hand, watching as he reluctantly lets go of his weapon in surrender.
"You should be at the village protectin—" His words came to a stop as he took in the young's samurai's appearance, the wheels slowly spinning in his brain. "Your demon blade is awake—"
A blue transparent screen appeared before Mirai's gaze, cutting their conversation short for a mere moment.
[Copy had sustained critical damage! Copy had sustained critical damage!]
"You're right…" Mirai muttered, his expression now unsure and conflicted as he slowly retracted his blade.
"I came to help you, although seems like you've taken care of things already–" Mirai said, looking at the death of the samurai around him, his head turning back towards the masked samurai.
"Why–" He pondered, though his words did not hide his gratitude.
"Because your wife told me everything, your family misses you." Mirai murmured, his blade slowly going back into his sheath. "And I made a promise to them, a promise that you'd be back safe and sound."
"Honestly with all that rambling about being a skilled swordsman, I don't see it at all," The young samurai retorted, a small smile to his face in contrast to the masked samurai's desheveled state.
"I–" He goes to speak, alas, his wounds caught up to him as he tumbled to the ground.
"You should rest, i'll take care of it from here," Mirai reassured, before his eyes more error screens began to pop up, catching him by surprise.
They were dilating in size and blaring wildly in hopes to receive his attention, the urgency of it all catching him off guard.
"I better hurry–" He murmured before setting off.