The faint light of dawn crept through the cracks in the wooden walls as Kuroi stirred from his restless sleep. His body ached from the days of training, but it was the muffled voices outside that pulled him from his dreams. His eyes barely open, he saw his father already awake, walking toward the door.
The voices grew louder as Taro opened it. Kuroi, still groggy, sat up and strained to hear. A sharp tone, one that carried authority and disdain, reached his ears. Curiosity and unease stirred within him. He crept quietly across the floor, pressing himself against the wall near the doorway to eavesdrop.
Through the small crack, Kuroi saw a man standing before his father. The man was tall and broad, dressed in fine but weathered robes that marked him as someone of importance. His face was hardened, his expression a mixture of anger and contempt. Without warning, the man raised his hand and slapped Taro across the face.
Kuroi froze, his breath caught in his throat. His father didn't flinch. Taro stood there, his one arm hanging by his side, his head turned slightly from the impact. Slowly, he straightened and spoke in a low, calm voice, but Kuroi couldn't make out the words.
The man's anger flared again. He grabbed Taro by the collar and yanked him outside. Kuroi's heart raced as he watched, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and anger.
What's going on? Who is that man? Why didn't Father fight back?
The door creaked shut behind them, leaving the house eerily quiet. Kuroi clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to run after them, to confront the man who dared lay a hand on his father, but he hesitated.
What can I do? I'm not strong enough…
The thought burned in his chest, but then another, more desperate thought pushed it aside.
Father could be in danger.
Driven by a surge of determination, Kuroi ran to his father's room. His eyes darted around, searching for something—anything—that could help. His gaze landed on a small chest tucked into the corner of the room. He had seen his father open it before, using a key that he kept hidden.
"Come on, come on," Kuroi muttered under his breath, frantically searching through the room. He pulled open drawers, lifted mats, and shoved aside anything that might conceal the key. His hands trembled with urgency.
Then, beneath a loose floorboard near the bed, his fingers brushed against cold metal. He pulled it out—a small, simple key.
"There!" he whispered, gripping it tightly.
He rushed to the chest, his hands fumbling as he inserted the key into the lock. With a satisfying click, the chest opened, revealing a sword resting atop a faded cloth. The blade gleamed, even in the dim light, its polished surface reflecting his anxious face.
Kuroi's breath caught. He had seen this sword before, but only from a distance. It was his father's blade, the one he had set aside after losing his arm.
Without hesitation, Kuroi grabbed the sword. Its weight surprised him, heavier than the wooden practice blade he was used to. But there was no time to dwell on that. He closed the chest, shoved the key into his pocket, and ran outside.
The village was quiet, the morning stillness broken only by the distant sound of voices. Kuroi followed the noise, sticking to the shadows as he moved through the narrow alleys. His heart pounded in his chest, each step bringing him closer to the source of the commotion.
Finally, he reached the edge of the main square and stopped, peering around the corner of a building. His blood ran cold at the sight before him.
A group of armed men stood in the center of the square, their swords and spears glinting in the early light. They surrounded the villagers, who were huddled together, their faces pale with fear. At the center of it all was Taro, standing tall despite the odds. The man who had slapped him earlier paced in front of him, barking orders to his men.
Kuroi's grip on the sword tightened. He could feel the sweat on his palms, the trembling in his arms.
Damn it… I can't fight them all. I'd die before I even got close.
He bit his lip, his frustration boiling over. He wanted to charge in, to cut them all down and save his father. But the reality of the situation was clear—he was outnumbered and outmatched.
What can I do?
His mind raced as he crouched behind the building, his breaths shallow and quick. He thought of his father, the man who had raised him after his mother's death, who had taught him the value of hard work and resilience.
If they kill him…
The thought was unbearable. Kuroi's vision blurred with tears of anger and helplessness. He clenched his teeth, his body trembling with the weight of his fear and frustration.
I can't do anything but watch… like a coward.
The words echoed in his mind, cutting deeper than any blade. He tightened his grip on the sword, his knuckles white.
No. I won't just watch.
Kuroi took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He couldn't fight them head-on, but maybe there was another way. He scanned the square, looking for anything that could give him an advantage. His eyes fell on the edges of the group, where the armed men seemed less focused.
If I can create a distraction…
The plan began to form in his mind, shaky and desperate but better than nothing. He wiped his tears away, steeling himself for what was to come.
Father… hold on. I'll find a way to get you out of this.
With renewed determination, Kuroi adjusted his grip on the sword and began to move, his heart pounding with every step. Kuroi's body froze, his legs refusing to move as if the earth itself had shackled him. His chest heaved, and his breath came in shallow gasps, each one burning his lungs. His arms felt like lead, the sword slipping slightly in his trembling grip.
He fell to his knees, the weight of fear and helplessness pressing him down. His vision blurred as tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and unrelenting. His mind screamed at him to stand, to fight, to do something—anything—but his body wouldn't obey.
The scene before him unfolded like a nightmare he couldn't wake from. The leader of the group, his voice cold and commanding, raised his hand. A samurai stepped forward, his blade flashing in the morning light.
"No…" Kuroi whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos.
The blade came down, swift and merciless, cutting through the air and into flesh. A villager's scream was abruptly silenced, their body crumpling to the ground. Blood sprayed across the dirt, the crimson staining the once-quiet square.
Kuroi's stomach churned as he watched another life snuffed out before his eyes. His tears blurred his vision, but he couldn't look away. The screams of the villagers, the cries of children, the relentless clash of steel—it all blended into a cacophony of horror that threatened to overwhelm him.
"No… stop…" he murmured, his voice trembling.
But the slaughter continued. One by one, the villagers fell, their cries fading into silence. The children's screams were the worst, piercing and filled with terror, until they too were silenced.
Kuroi's nails dug into the dirt, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. He wanted to scream, to charge in with the sword and end it all, but his body wouldn't move. He was paralyzed, trapped in a prison of his own fear and despair.
And then he saw him.
His father, Taro, stood amidst the carnage, his one arm hanging at his side. His face was calm, almost serene, as he faced the leader of the group. There was no fear in his eyes, only acceptance.
"No…" Kuroi whispered again, his voice breaking. "Father… no…"
The leader gestured, and a samurai stepped forward. The blade rose, glinting in the light, and for a moment, time seemed to slow.
Kuroi's heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. He wanted to move, to scream, to do something—but he was frozen, his body refusing to obey.
The blade fell.
Kuroi's breath caught in his throat as he watched the sword cut through his father. Taro staggered, blood blooming across his chest, but he didn't fall immediately. He turned his head slightly, as if searching for something—or someone.
Their eyes met.
For a brief moment, Kuroi saw his father's gaze, filled not with anger or regret, but with something else. Something that looked like forgiveness.
And then Taro fell, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Kuroi's world shattered.
"No!" he screamed, his voice raw and filled with anguish.
His body finally moved, but it was too late. He stumbled forward, the sword slipping from his grasp as he fell to the ground. His hands clawed at the dirt, his tears mixing with the blood-soaked earth.
"Father!" he cried, his voice breaking. "No… no… no…"
The group of samurai turned toward him, their expressions cold and unfeeling. The leader's gaze lingered on Kuroi for a moment, a flicker of recognition crossing his face.
"Leave him," the leader said, his voice low and commanding. "He's no threat."
The samurai hesitated, but they obeyed, turning away from Kuroi and beginning to leave the square.
Kuroi didn't care. He didn't care about the samurai, the blood, or even the pain in his body. All he could see was his father, lying motionless on the ground.
He crawled to Taro's side, his hands trembling as he reached out. "Father…" he whispered, his voice broken.
Taro's eyes were closed, his face peaceful despite the blood that stained his clothes. Kuroi's tears fell onto his father's chest as he clutched the lifeless body, his sobs wracking his entire frame.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…" he cried, his voice muffled against his father's tunic.
The village square was silent now, the air heavy with the stench of blood and death. Kuroi's cries were the only sound, echoing into the empty morning.
And as the sun rose higher in the sky, Kuroi knelt there, clutching his father's body, his heart shattered into pieces.