The ship died screaming.
Katsuo Hayashi pressed his face against the splintered planks as another wave hammered the hull. Salt spray cut his cheeks like thrown gravel. The merchant vessel that had carried him from the mainland groaned—timber against timber, rope snapping with gunshot cracks.
Lightning split the sky. In that white instant, he saw Tsushima's black cliffs rising from the foam like the ribs of some massive corpse. And beyond them, darker shapes riding the swells. Foreign ships. Too many to count.
"Hold fast!" The captain's voice shattered against the wind.
Katsuo's fingers found purchase on a rope thick as his wrist. The scar across his chest throbbed—three parallel lines that marked him as 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘢, the disgraced one. The ritual scarring had burned less than this storm's bite.
A mast snapped. The sound punched through the howling air, and suddenly men were screaming. Not the storm's voice—human voices, high and desperate. The deck tilted. Katsuo's stomach lurched as the world turned sideways.
Water rushed over the rail like a black fist. It grabbed his legs, his waist, tried to peel him from the ship. His grip tightened until his knuckles cracked. The rope cut his palms. Blood mixed with seawater, making his hands slick.
Another lightning flash. The foreign ships loomed closer now. He caught the curve of their hulls, alien and predatory. Mongol vessels. They rode the storm like wolves.
The deck bucked. Katsuo lost his footing, slid toward the rail where black water waited. His fingers scrambled for anything solid. Found nothing. The ocean opened its mouth.
Then his shoulder struck wood. A broken spar, thick as a tree trunk. He wrapped his arms around it as the ship tilted past the point of return. Water poured through the hatchways. The screaming stopped—not because the men had found safety, but because the sea had found them first.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴.
The thought hit him like a physical blow. Below deck, in the ship's belly, twenty men sat chained in darkness. Rebels, the mainland authorities had called them. Farmers who'd spoken against taxation. Merchants who'd traded with the wrong lords. Their families had wept as the chains went on.
Katsuo had drawn his sword once during the voyage. Not to threaten the prisoners, but to cut their bonds. His hand had frozen on the hilt as his superior's voice echoed in his memory: "𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘮, 𝘏𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪. 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧."
The scar on his chest had throbbed then, too. A reminder of what mercy cost.
The ship rolled completely. Katsuo's spar broke free, carrying him into the churning black. Water filled his mouth, his nose. Salt stung his eyes blind. He kicked toward what he hoped was up, but the storm had swallowed direction. Up and down meant nothing here.
His lungs burned. Pressure built behind his eyes. The scar felt like it was tearing open, spilling his old shame into the sea.
𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘯. 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.
Lightning again. For a heartbeat, he saw the surface—a silver membrane stretched above him. He clawed toward it, boots heavy as anchors. His chest wanted to burst.
Air exploded into his lungs. Sweet, storm-torn air that tasted like life. The spar bobbed beside him, loyal as a horse. He grabbed it, let it carry his weight.
The ship was gone. No trace remained except scattered debris riding the swells. Men's voices called from the darkness, but the wind scattered their words. One by one, the voices stopped.
Katsuo turned toward the cliffs. The black rock seemed impossibly far, but the current was carrying him closer. His arms had gone numb. His legs felt disconnected from his body. Only the scar remained real—a brand of fire across his chest.
Lightning revealed the truth in pieces. The foreign ships hadn't been damaged by the storm. They moved with purpose, cutting through waves that should have shattered them. Their crews worked with practiced efficiency. This wasn't accident—it was invasion.
And he was drifting straight toward them.
A wave lifted him high. For a moment, he rode its crest like a bird. The Mongol fleet spread below him—dozens of vessels in formation. Troops lined their rails. Weapons gleamed wet in the lightning. They were ready for war.
The wave dropped him into its trough. Water closed over his head again. When he surfaced, gasping, the ships had shifted. Closer now. He could hear voices carried on the wind—foreign words with hard edges.
His spar struck something solid. Rock, slick with seaweed. The current had carried him to Tsushima's shore. Komoda Beach stretched to his left—black sand that looked like spilled ink. To his right, tidal pools reflected the lightning like scattered mirrors.
Katsuo dragged himself onto the rocks. His legs wouldn't hold him. He crawled instead, fingers finding cracks in the stone. Each movement sent fire through his muscles. The scar felt raw, exposed.
He reached sand and collapsed. Salt water drained from his nose, his mouth. His body shook—not from cold, but from something deeper. The screams from below deck echoed in his skull. Twenty voices calling his name. Twenty men who'd trusted that a samurai's honor meant something.
Thunder rolled across the island like war drums. In its echo, Katsuo heard other sounds. Splashing. Voices. The scrape of boats against stone.
They were landing.
He forced his eyes open. Through rain and spray, he saw the first boats cutting through the surf. Mongol soldiers jumped into the shallows, shields high. Their movements spoke of discipline, of conquest planned and executed.
Katsuo tried to stand. His legs folded. He tried again, using the cliff face for support. Stone cut his palms, but he climbed. One handhold at a time. One breath at a time.
Behind him, boots splashed in the tidal pools. Foreign voices grew louder. The invasion had begun.
His vision blurred. The cliff spun around him like a prayer wheel. Blood from his palms left red smears on the rock. The scar across his chest burned with each heartbeat.
𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴.
The screams followed him into darkness. They would follow him forever.