Isshin stood at the cliff's edge, the orange glow of the burning city below flickering against his calm features. Smoke curled into the night sky, acrid and heavy, carrying the tang of metal and charred wood. He inhaled once—steady, resolute—before bending his knees and launching himself into the darkness.
He fell for a heartbeat before the grappling hook fired from his prosthetic arm. The cable whistled through the air and caught a jagged outcrop of rock. The line went taut, and Isshin's kimono fluttered like a dark banner as he swung, converting his plummet into a controlled descent. His calloused fingers gripped the rope; his boots scraped the cliff face until he dropped onto the narrow dirt road winding away from the city.
Everything beyond him was ash and flame.
He paused for only a moment, listening: the distant crackle of collapsing timbers, the faint cries of survivors or scavengers, the low rumble of collapsing walls. Then he moved forward, feet quick, eyes narrowed. The scent of smoke and death clung to his lungs.
Halfway down the road, firelight danced on figures gathered around a bonfire. Laughter—hoarse, cruel—echoed against the night. Isshin crouched behind a boulder and watched. Pirates in ragged coats sprawled on crates and barrels, passing sake bottles back and forth. Two of them kicked something on the ground: the broken, bloodied body of a samurai, his sword shattered, armor splintered and stained.
Without a word, Isshin slid his katana free. The steel sang as it left its sheath. Three pirates turned at once—surprised, blinking at the silent youth who appeared as if conjured. In the next instant, two lay dead. Blades slid through flesh and blood, cutting throats before the men could even scream. The third staggered, his surprise giving way to panic; Isshin's blade clipped his jaw and then plunged home. He crumpled to the dirt, and Isshin released his grip on the hilt. The sword hissed back into its scabbard.
He dropped to one knee beside the dead samurai. Beyond the cracks in the man's helmet, Isshin recognized the crest on the shoulder: Ashina. He touched the cold steel of the broken sword. This land—his land—had become a battlefield.
A groan came from the shadows. Another samurai, battered and bleeding, crawled into view. His armor was battered, pieces missing, and fresh rivulets of blood trickled down his forehead. He saw Isshin and his eyes widened, hope mingling with fear.
"Pirates…" the wounded samurai whispered. "They raided at dawn. Took everything—stores, weapons, even the children…" He choked on the words. "They burned the houses, left nothing but ashes."
Isshin nodded once, curtly. He sheathed his katana and stood. The firelight gleamed in his dark eyes as he shifted his gaze back toward the city: streets wreathed in smoke, the walls collapsing, and somewhere inside, what remained of the Ashina families waiting in terror.
He did not pause again. The wounded samurai tried to stand, but Isshin placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"Stay here," he said. "I will come back."
He disappeared into the haze.
---
Inside the ruined city, silence had fallen—unnatural, oppressive. Footsteps crackled on debris-littered cobblestones. Isshin's boots found purchase on cracked stone as he crept through alleys choked with fallen shutters, smashed carts, and overturned market stalls. Bodies lay everywhere: town guards in half-rusted armor, merchants in torn robes, children clutching broken toys. The night air tasted of smoke and fear.
He kept his katana at the ready, senses prickling. In the distance, a shuffling footstep. He pressed himself against a cracked plaster wall and peered through a shattered window. Beyond, a small house stood with its roof caved in. Inside, an old woman knelt beside a wounded samurai. Blood matted her gray hair; one arm was wrapped around the man's waist, the other clutching a tattered cloth to his chest wound.
"They came like demons," she said, voice quavering. "Pirates of the New World—they showed no mercy." Her gaze snapped to the window. "Who's there? Another pirate? Or one of the traitors who opened the gates?"
Isshin did not answer. Her accusation stung—half of him understood, though he did not stop to explain his presence. He slipped away, footsteps silent.
Ahead, the stone steps leading to the castle drew his eyes. Though the walls were cracked and smoke seeped through every crevice, the keep still stood tall—a last bastion. He ascended, stepping over bodies of both samurai and pirate. Each fallen figure reminded him what this place had been: once, a fortress of honor. Now, a tomb.
He came upon a young samurai engaged in desperate combat. The youth wore splintered armor, his face streaked with grime, his sword arm trembling as he parried a heavy blow. Two pirates pressed him hard, laughter in their faces.
Isshin did not hesitate. With a single, fluid motion, he leapt into the fray. His katana flashed in the torchlight as he severed one pirate's shoulder tendons. The man fell, shrieking, while Isshin pivoted and cut down the second with a precise strike to the throat. The young samurai staggered backward, disbelief on his bloodied face.
"Young Lord…" the samurai gasped, wiping sweat and blood from his brow. "They are led by a Warlord. He called himself… Crocodile."
Isshin said nothing. He scanned the battlements above, where moonlight revealed a network of ropes and latches. He drew the grappling hook from his prosthetic and fired it upward. The cable hissed out, catching a roof beam. With a grunt, Isshin swung across the gap, leaving the battlefield behind.
***
On the lower battlements, Isshin landed lightly. Below, half the keep had already fallen; shattered shutters and broken siege ladders lay strewn across the courtyard. Inside the keep, the high wall bore a jagged crack, a gaping wound torn by fire and steel. Isshin launched the grappling hook again, this time aiming for a broken section of wall near the top. The hook caught in a fissure, and he hauled himself up.
He slid through the narrow opening and dropped into a wide, vaulted hall. The air was still, cold, and thick with the scent of death. Dim torchlight flickered across marred tapestries and upturned chairs. Bodies of samurai officers lay scattered on the floor, their visages frozen in final agony. Beyond them, an old man in ornate robes sat slumped against a pillar. His breaths were ragged, each one drawing a fine line of blood across his lips.
"Isshin…" the old man rasped, lifting a hand in greeting, though his eyes were clouded with pain. "You've come."
Isshin knelt, bowing his head. He reached for the old man's hand, feeling the trembling weakness therein.
"I am dying," the old man said, voice low but firm. He reached to his side and, with effort, drew a long Katana named Shura from its sheath. The blade was deep red—crimson as fresh blood—and its length seemed to swallow the torchlight, reflecting a savage glow. Isshin recognized it at once: the Clan's ancestral Shura, forged many generation ago. This was the symbol of true leadership.
"Take it," the old man whispered. His voice shook as he spoke. "You are the head of the Ashina now—my nephew, my last hope. My brother… the former clan leader Ken… is gone." He coughed, blood flecking his chin. "Go… through the hidden way. I will hold them back. Go, Isshin. Lead the clan."
Isshin's heart thumped in his chest. He accepted the Shura with trembling hands, its weight a reminder of the burden now upon him. The old man's gaze flitted to a dark archway half-hidden behind a tapestry.
"Protect the main family, your family" he added, voice fading. "The branch family… they are no more."
Isshin nodded. Without a word, he turned toward the archway. Torchlight danced off the crimson blade as he passed the old man, who was already pulling himself to his feet—one final, defiant stand.
He stepped through the hidden doorway and descended a narrow staircase hewn into the stone. Each step creaked. The damp air smelled of earth and decay. Torches in iron sconces cast flickering shapes on the walls: ancestors' faces on carved panels, silent witnesses to centuries of Ashina history.
At the bottom, he emerged into a vast crypt: rows of tombs lined the chamber, each carved with the names and dates of Ashina lords long fallen. Miniature altars held battered helmets and swords, offerings of incense now extinguished. In the center, a handful of pirates, rough and heedless, rifled through the tombs. Their crude lanterns illuminated the ornate faces carved into stone.
They looked up as Isshin appeared at the entrance. Surprise froze them for a heartbeat; then their laughter bubbled like poisoned water. One raised a crooked dagger.
Isshin did not hesitate. He stepped forward, raising the Shura. In the brief torchlight before steel met steel, the pirates, the red blade moving as if alive. The first pirate lunged, and Isshin's Shura sliced a clean arc through the air. Flesh parted, and the pirate's arm fell to the floor like a broken branch. The man screamed, dropping his lantern; the flame guttered. The next pirate swung a club, but Isshin met it point-to-point, driving the man back and feinting—his Shura sweeping in low. The blade found a joint in the pirate's armor, and a single thrust ended the fight.
Three more charged. Each fell in turn beneath Isshin's precision: throats cut, limbs severed, steel meeting flesh and bone. Their cries echoed off the stone walls, then died. Torches guttered in the chaos, plunging the chamber into darkness before warm light returned as new lanterns were struck. Isshin stood still, breath steady, the red blade slick with blood.
He sheathed the Shura and paused to steel himself. One name remained on his tongue: Crocodile.
He continued down the winding passage. The air grew tighter, heavier, as if the walls themselves pressed in. At the final turn, a figure emerged from the shadows—a man tall as a sentinel, one hand gone, replaced by a gold hook that caught every flicker of torchlight. His face was scarred, his eyes glinting with contempt and amusement.
"So," the man said, voice low and rough, "One of you Still lives." He stepped forward, boots silent on the stone. "This island, tucked away in the sea, hides a secret—a confluence of currents. During the right season, the Sea Kings come to lay their eggs. Control them, and you control the ocean."
The figure of Crocodile paused. Isshin's grip tightened around the Shura's hilt. He remembered his father's voice—how the Ashina had sworn to guard this land. His jaw set.
"I know of your alliance," Isshin said, voice steady, "spans three of big shots pirates. You believe you will rule the New World."
Crocodile's lip curled. "Ambition is a flame that consumes all. With my allies, I will rid the seas of fools and kings alike—and the Pirate Era will belong to us."
Isshin shifted his stance, the Shura's broad blade gleaming red. "Then it ends here."
He charged.
Crocodile met him with the golden hook raised, sparks flying as hook met Shura. Isshin forced the warlord back against the damp stone wall. Each blow shook the corridor; sand dust rained from the walls. The passage shuddered behind them. Crocodile snarled, stepping back as the stone beneath him cracked. He vanished into a swirl of sand, the ground giving way in a collapsing whirl.
Isshin lunged to the safe edge, heart pounding. There, as the sandstorm raged, he saw only the warped outlines of the Warlord.