A deadly silence shrouded the environment around them. Levon's father, Hisame Blackthorn, the Shadow Fang of Taketsuru, unsheathed two great swords tainted in a dark red hue, as if forged with blood rather than metal. The great shinobi drew his cursed swords from an ancient, carving-etched cloth that served as their sheath—these bloodthirsty weapons, passed down for generations, carried an ominous legacy.
No one in the Blackthorn lineage knew the true origin of the swords. There were whispers, of course—stories passed down through generations about blades forged from the claws of the 7th Hex Demon. But like most family legends, the truth was far stranger than the myth.
The real story began decades before Levon's birth, in a time when the world seemed darker and more brutal than it is today.
Back then, the 10th successor of the Blackthorn line was a man named Kiri. Levon's great-grandfather had earned a reputation that made kings nervous and enemies sleepless. So when desperate rulers from across the land came begging for help, they knew exactly who to call.
The problem was Hachi.
If you lived anywhere within five hundred kilometers of the Yama Empire, you'd heard the stories. Hachi wasn't just cruel—he was something else entirely. A monster wearing human skin. This wasn't the kind of tyrant who simply taxed his people into poverty or executed political enemies. No, Hachi took pleasure in destruction for its own sake.
His cavalry moved like a plague across the countryside. They'd ride into villages at dawn, and by sunset, nothing would remain but smoke and ash. Men, women, children—it didn't matter to Hachi. He saw them all as entertainment. The few survivors who managed to escape would speak of his laugh, how it echoed across burning fields as he watched families torn apart.
One by one, the neighboring rulers fell. Some tried to negotiate. Others gathered armies and met him in battle. All of them eventually found themselves kneeling in the dirt, begging the Blackthorn clan to save what little remained of their kingdoms.
The clan elders didn't hesitate. They sent Kiri.
* * *
The night Kiri struck, Hachi's army had made camp in a valley between two hills. Thousands of soldiers, their horses, supply wagons—it was like a small city spread out under the stars. Sentries walked their posts, completely unaware that death was already moving among them.
Kiri worked his way through the camp like a shadow given form. One guard would simply stop breathing. Another would step around a tent and vanish forever. By the time anyone noticed something was wrong, half the outer perimeter was already dead.
Inside his silk-lined tent, Hachi stirred from sleep.
Maybe it was instinct, or maybe he'd simply lived long enough to recognize the smell of blood on the wind. Either way, his eyes snapped open just as the screaming started outside. Through the translucent fabric of his tent walls, he could see shapes moving in the darkness—and the spray of blood catching moonlight like water from a fountain.
Hachi rolled toward his weapons. Two katanas, their hilts worn smooth from years of use, lay within arm's reach beside his sleeping mat. His fingers had just brushed the nearest grip when a boot came down hard on his wrist.
The sound of bones breaking was sharp and clean in the quiet tent.
Hachi's roar of pain and rage was cut short by the whisper of steel through air. Kiri's blade took his right hand off at the wrist, so fast and clean that for a moment, Hachi just stared at the stump in confusion.
Then the pain hit.
With a sound that was more beast than man, Hachi threw himself sideways, his massive frame—nearly seven feet of solid muscle—crashing into Kiri and sending the assassin tumbling across the tent. Blood was streaming from his severed wrist, but Hachi barely seemed to notice. He grabbed one of his katanas with his remaining hand and came up swinging.
The fight that followed was unlike anything Kiri had experienced before.
Most men, when cut, slowed down. When hurt, they became cautious. When bleeding, they weakened. Not Hachi. Each wound seemed to fuel him, each drop of blood making him more dangerous rather than less. Their blades met again and again, the ring of steel echoing through the tent while shadows danced on the walls.
Kiri was skilled—perhaps the most skilled swordsman of his generation. But Hachi fought with the raw fury of something that had forgotten it could die. Slowly, inevitably, Kiri found himself being pushed back.
Then Hachi shifted into his fighting stance, and Kiri knew he was in trouble.
They called it the Storm of Blades—Hachi's signature technique. Kiri had heard stories, but seeing it in person was something else entirely. The katana in Hachi's hand became a blur, striking from impossible angles, each blow flowing into the next without pause or hesitation.
Kiri's sword began to chip under the assault. His hands shook from the impact of each parried strike. He could feel his weapon failing, could see the hairline cracks spreading through the steel. In seconds, maybe less, his blade would shatter completely.
That's when desperation made him bold.
Instead of backing away, Kiri made his move. With his left hand, he struck Hachi's sword aside in a desperate parry. In the same fluid motion, his right hand drew the short knife from his thigh and drove it deep into Hachi's throat.
For a moment, everything went still.
Hachi's eyes went wide, staring at Kiri with what might have been surprise. Blood bubbled up around the blade's edge and ran down his neck in dark streams. Any normal man would have collapsed. Any normal man would have died.
Hachi just stood there, the knife jutting from his throat, and smiled.
Even Kiri—who had killed more men than he could count—felt a chill run down his spine. What kind of monster was this?
He tried to withdraw his sword and finish the job, twisting the knife deeper as he did. But Hachi was already moving. With casual strength, he threw Kiri's sword aside, grabbed Kiri himself with his good hand, and drove his fist into the assassin's face.
The world exploded into stars and darkness. Kiri felt his feet leave the ground, felt himself flying backward through the air. When he hit the ground, he could taste blood in his mouth and feel consciousness slipping away like water through his fingers.
That's when the dart hit.
One of Kiri's brothers—hidden outside the tent all this time—had finally gotten a clear shot. The dart struck Hachi in the side of the neck, and within seconds the powerful narcotic began to work. It was a drug strong enough to drop a war horse, specially designed to paralyze even the most resilient targets.
Hachi's movements slowed. His vision blurred. But somehow, impossibly, he remained standing.
One arm gone. Throat pierced. Poison coursing through his veins. And still on his feet.
Kiri forced himself upward, fighting through the dizziness. There might not be another chance. With the last of his strength, he launched himself into a spinning kick that caught Hachi behind the knee.
For the first time in the fight, the giant stumbled.
But Hachi's rage burned hotter than the poison in his blood. With a bellow that seemed to shake the very tent poles, he regained his footing and charged like an enraged bull. His remaining fist swung toward Kiri's head with enough force to cave in a skull.
Kiri whistled—sharp and shrill.
The tent flaps burst open as twenty assassins poured inside. They moved like water, flowing around Hachi from every angle. Twenty blades found their mark almost simultaneously, piercing the giant's body from shoulder to thigh.
Finally—finally—Hachi fell.
He hit the ground with a stomp like a heavy big boulder, blood pooling beneath him as his breath came in ragged gasps. But even then, dying in the dirt with a dozen wounds, his eyes never lost their fire.
Kiri stood over him for a long moment, breathing hard. Then, in a gesture that surprised even his own men, he placed his sword on the ground beside Hachi's body.
For an assassin, a sword was everything—identity, livelihood, honor all forged into steel. To leave it behind was almost unthinkable. But this man, this monster, had earned that much respect. Few had ever fought so hard against death itself.
* * *
The journey home should have been simple. They'd traveled this route before, knew the landmarks and safe places to rest. But the desert had other plans.
The sandstorm came out of nowhere—a wall of wind and grit that turned day into night in seconds. Kiri shouted orders over the howling wind, telling his men to drive their blades into the ground and hold on. But nature doesn't negotiate with assassins, no matter how skilled they might be.
When the storm finally passed, Kiri found himself alone.
The silence was deafening after hours of screaming wind. He called out for his brothers, but only his own echo answered back. Slowly, carefully, he began to search.
That's when he saw it.
The rock—if it was a rock—stood about six feet tall, roughly his own height. Most of it was buried in sand, with only the top portion visible above the dunes. What he could see was pale, almost white, with strange vein-like patterns running across its surface like dried riverbeds.
Something about it felt wrong.
Kiri approached cautiously, the way he might approach a sleeping predator. There was an energy emanating from the thing—subtle but unmistakably dark. It made his skin crawl and his instincts scream warnings.
He should have walked away. Should have kept searching for his men and let this strange object remain buried. But curiosity—the curse of intelligent men everywhere—got the better of him.
Using his remaining blade, he began to clear away the sand around its base. The work was slow and tedious, but gradually more of the object became visible. It wasn't a rock at all, he realized. The texture was wrong, and those vein-like patterns were too regular, too organic.
It looked almost like...
Like a claw. A massive, ancient claw.
Against every instinct he possessed, Kiri reached out to touch it.
The moment his skin made contact, pain exploded through his body. It felt like liquid fire racing through his veins, like every nerve ending had been set ablaze at once. His hand came away bloody—the surface had cut him somehow, though he couldn't see any sharp edges.
The world began to spin. His legs gave out beneath him, and he found himself gasping for air that wouldn't come. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, and the last thing he remembered was the taste of copper in his mouth.
* * *
Consciousness returned slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
Kiri woke to the familiar smells of the medical wing at clan headquarters—herbs and incense, clean linens and healing salves. Soft candlelight flickered on stone walls, and somewhere in the distance he could hear the murmur of voices.
"Ah, you're awake."
The voice made Kiri's blood freeze. He turned his head, ignoring the spike of pain the movement caused, and found himself looking at the last person he'd expected to see.
His lord sat in a simple wooden chair beside the bed. Not a servant, not a healer, not even one of the clan elders. The ruler of their empire—the man they'd all sworn to serve with their lives—was keeping vigil like a concerned father.
Kiri tried to sit up, to bow properly, but gentle hands pressed him back down.
"Peace," his lord said softly. "You've been through enough. Rest is what you need now, not ceremony."
"My lord," Kiri managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't understand. Why are you—"
"Because you matter to me," came the simple reply. "More than you know. More than any mission or contract or political necessity. You are precious to me, Kiri Blackthorn."
The words hit harder than any physical blow. In a world where assassins were tools to be used and discarded, where loyalty was measured in successful kills and failed missions meant death, such care was almost incomprehensible.
"The others," Kiri said after a moment. "My brothers. Are they—"
"All safe," his lord assured him with a gentle smile. "They've been waiting in the main hall for two days now, taking turns checking on you. They'll be relieved to hear you're awake."
Relief flooded through Kiri's chest, but there was still one more question burning in his mind.
"The stone. That... thing I found in the desert. What was it?"
His lord's expression grew thoughtful. "We found you unconscious beside what looked like a bright red rock, yes. But we thought it best to leave it where it lay. Some things are better left undisturbed."
Kiri nodded slowly, but his lord could see the questions burning in his eyes. The way Kiri's fingers drummed against the bedsheets, the distant look that crossed his face—it was clear that his mind had already returned to that desert, to that strange red stone they'd left behind.
Some mysteries, his lord knew, had a way of calling people back.
* * *
Generations later, when those same mysterious forces would be reborn in steel, the air itself would remember that ancient power.
As the blades left their sheath, the stench of destruction permeated the air. Levon's instincts dulled, the weight of imminent peril pressing upon him. Yet, with unshaken courage, he tightened his grip on his weapons and took his stance.
The wind whispered through the towering Yurei Pines of Aokigahara. A single leaf, detached from its branch, swayed and drifted toward the ground.
As it touched the earth, the warriors clashed.
One fell to his knees, the other leaned on his sword.
Such was the sight to witness. Such is the swift nature of a shinobi battle.