The sky above Tasuke was a lie.
That was the first thought that struck the four travelers as they crested the final hill. A place that had suffered as they'd heard—a month-long siege by a raven curse, followed by a bandit raid—should be crowned with a thick, circling vortex of scavengers. Instead, the sky was unnervingly clear, the silence of the air more chilling than any carrion cry.
The leader of the small group, a man with a weathered face and a hand resting casually on the hilt of his longsword, halted their approach. His name was Saito Kazuo. Beside him, a tall woman named Maeda Aya, her own twin blades crossed on her back, scanned the wrecked village with a practiced eye. The other two, a burly man named Ishida Takeo holding a heavy wood axe and a sharp-eyed woman named Akiyama Izumi armed with a bow, fanned out slightly, their stances relaxed but ready.
They saw the splintered timbers of a gate and the dark, skeletal frames of burned-out homes. But they also saw life: villagers hauling fresh lumber, the rhythmic clang of a hammer on steel, and a makeshift corral holding fifteen healthy, restless horses. It was a scene of fierce, stubborn survival that defied the rumors they had chased.
As they drew closer, an old man with an unbreakable gaze met them on the path. "A fine day, traveler," Elder Roki said, his voice heavy with the weight of recent days, yet steady. "A long road to walk for a view of our humble repairs."
Kazuo stepped forward, his movements economical. "The stories we heard were… conflicting," he said, his voice calm and direct. "In Inaho, we overheard a merchant and his guards. They spoke of no raven siege, but claimed bandits had left Tasuke decimated. We came to learn the truth of the matter for ourselves."
Roki's eyes held a deep sadness, but also a flicker of pride. "The stories are true. We remain." His gaze shifted to the corral. "And the bandits left us their horses. We are selling them to fund our rebuilding. The price is fair, should you have need of a sturdy mount."
The four travelers exchanged a look. It was Izumi who spoke, her voice clear and filled with a sudden, unexpected vision. She pointed toward a gentle slope overlooking the stream, a spot where a great oak had miraculously survived the fires.
"That land," she said, looking not at Roki, but at her companions. "We could build there. A large house, with a stable for those horses. A real home."
Takeo grunted in agreement, his eyes on the villagers working together. "Good wood. Strong folk. Better than sleeping in the mud."
Aya nodded slowly, a rare, small smile touching her lips. "A place to stand our ground."
Kazuo turned back to the elder. "We'll take four of the horses," he said. "But we won't be paying with coin. We will pay with our swords, our hammers, and our hands. If you'll have us, we would like to help you rebuild. It seems you've already done the hard part: deciding to live."
Roki looked at the four armed and capable warriors, at the hope they were offering, and for the first time in weeks, his own weary hope felt a little less alone. "We would be honored," he said. "Welcome to Tasuke."
In the days that followed, Elder Roki became a fixture at the village entrance, a gatekeeper to Tasuke's fragile new beginning. He saw the full spectrum of humanity in the travelers who passed through. Most were merchants who gawked at the devastation, haggled briefly for a cheap horse, and hurried on their way, eager to put the wounded place behind them. A few were predatory, their eyes lingering on the vulnerable villagers before the sight of Kazuo and his armed companions sent them packing.
But then there were the others. A blacksmith who had lost his forge to debt, his eyes lighting up at the chance for cheap land and endless work. A young family fleeing the increasingly dangerous northern roads, seeing a sanctuary in the stubborn defiance of the villagers. One by one, they traded their coin or their oaths for a horse and a plot of land.
By the end of the week, Roki watched as the last of the bandits' horses was led away by a newly arrived carpenter, who was already marking out a plot for his workshop near the blacksmith's new forge. The corral stood empty. The village was still scarred, but for the first time, it felt whole again, its borders secured not just by makeshift walls, but by the new blood and shared will of its people.
A week passed under the persistent, softening rain of the season. Reconstruction was underway, but it was arduous work.
Then, a new figure arrived, walking into the village with the quiet confidence of one who is at home in the wilderness. He was a young man whose gear—worn leather and cloth in muted forest greens—spoke of long miles traveled through dense woods. The emblem of Midorimori, the Verdant Guard, was stitched subtly on his collar.
He requested an audience with the elder, and when Roki met him, the old man's stomach tightened. His first thought was not of hope, but of what new trouble had found its way to his doorstep.
But the scout simply offered a respectful bow. "Elder Roki," he began, "I bring word from Midorimori. Your letter, carried by the merchant Koji, was received. As instructed, we dispatched riders and delivered copies to six of the larger villages in the region."
The scout paused, clearing his throat as a slight flush rose to his cheeks. "The response was… more positive than anticipated. Many have agreed to relocate their people to Tasuke."
Relief, pure and potent, washed over Roki. But the scout wasn't finished.
"He also passed on some... informal replies," the young man said, now looking intently at a spot just over Roki's shoulder. "From the single men. There is an expectation among some... for wives upon their arrival."
The words hung in the damp air. A deep, mortified blush crept up Roki's neck, a stark contrast to his grey hair. He risked a glance at Sayaka, who was standing nearby, having overheard the exchange. Her jaw was tight, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and utter disbelief, her expression silently demanding an explanation for a part of the letter he had never mentioned.
Four months had passed since the night the bandits had tried to burn Tasuke from the world. The Raining Season persisted, its constant, weeping sky bearing witness as the village was not dying, but being reborn. The air, once thick with the greasy smoke of ruin, now carried the clean scent of freshly cut timber and the earthy smell of damp, turned soil.
Tasuke was a hive of grim but determined activity. New homes, their pale wood a stark contrast to the older, soot-stained structures, rose from the mud. A sturdy new perimeter wall, built of stone and thick logs, was slowly enclosing the settlement, a defiant scar against the wilderness. The influx of new residents—families from villages that had truly perished, and single men drawn by Roki's desperate, slightly embellished promises—had swelled their numbers. The sounds of hammering, the shouts of masons, and the cautious chatter of merchants now filled the air from the first blush of Waxing Twilight to the last gasp of Waning.
Elder Roki was the heart of it all. His days were a blur of allocating scarce resources, mediating disputes, and projecting an aura of weary but unbreakable optimism. He spoke often and loudly of the "heroism of the community" in fending off the bandits, a necessary lie to bind them together. But the true source of their salvation remained a carefully guarded secret, a ghost under his own roof.
Yet, legends have a life of their own, and in Tasuke, two very different versions now coexisted. For the newcomers, drawn by promises of land and safety, the story was a simple, heroic myth whispered around evening fires: a guardian angel, a lone warrior who had appeared from the storm to slaughter the bandits. This tale became a second wall around the village, a protective aura that gave the new residents a sense of security.
For the original villagers and the refugees from Higashimori, the truth was a far more complicated and terrifying secret. They knew the woman was no angel. They had seen her command the raven siege that had nearly broken them. They knew she was the same warrior who had single-handedly saved the Higashimori survivors and later cut down fifteen bandits in a display of brutal finality. They also knew the darker rumors that clung to her like a shroud—that she was the one who had burned Hayakawa and the holy temples to the ground. They knew she now resided under Elder Roki's own roof.
And so, they held their tongues. They did not challenge Roki's public story about the "heroism of the community." To do so would be to acknowledge the impossible truth they all shared: that their survival, their very existence, was owed to a woman who was both a savior and a curse. They lived in a fragile peace, protected by a monster they dared not name, their silence a testament to their fear and their profound, unspoken debt.
From Sayaka's perspective, the woman—the myth—was a walking contradiction. In the quiet solitude of Roki's home, she watched No One relearn how to own her own body, and the process defied all logic. Sayaka had expected the shattered shoulder to heal into a useless, knotted mess. Without the intricate surgery she was not trained to perform, the bones should have been crippling. Yet, they had knitted back together with an unnatural speed and precision. The dull ache was still there, but the arm was functional, a miracle that sent a shiver down Sayaka's spine. The spear wound in her thigh was healing more slowly, the deep muscle tissue still mending, forcing a heavy limp, but it no longer seemed to bother her.
The physical recovery was mystifying, but the change in her spirit was what truly unsettled Sayaka. In the first few weeks, every approaching footstep had put No One on high alert, her good hand ready to strike, her eyes constantly scanning for threats that weren't there. Now, that guarded, cornered-animal defensiveness had withered away, replaced by a strange, quiet acceptance. The daily struggles of feeding her or helping her bathe, once fraught with tension, had become passive routines.
Lately, there had been even more progress. Now that her shoulder had mostly healed, she had taken to eating and bathing on her own, favoring her left arm but managing with a quiet determination. Sayaka had patiently, painstakingly, taught her how to hold chopsticks correctly, and after weeks of refusal, had finally convinced her to drink the hot, bitter green tea she prepared each morning.
No One never smiled—her face remained a mask of hardened neutrality—but the paranoia that had radiated from her like a fever had broken. The constant, on-edge tension was gone. Watching her now, sitting quietly by the window and sipping her tea, Sayaka saw not the terrifying warrior from the legends, but something far more fragile and confusing: a person, slowly, hesitantly, learning to be human again.
During the first cycle of High Twilight, known as the "Luminous Veil," when the sky solidified into hues of tarnished gold and pale silver, a moderate downpour swept across the village as No One left her room. She moved silently through the house, her clear intent to find what was missing. She opened every door, peered under every table. Sayaka, pausing from her meal preparation, watched her.
"What are you looking for?" she finally asked, her voice gentle.
No One stopped, her burgundy eyes fixing on Sayaka. "Weapons."
The word was flat, a simple statement of fact. She continued her search.
Sayaka sighed, a weight settling in her chest. The truth was simple, if harsh. "They are gone," Sayaka said quietly, avoiding her gaze. "After the fight... Roki inspected them. He said the blades were chipped and cracked beyond repair. They were more a danger to you than to any enemy." She took a breath before delivering the final, softer blow. "He had them discarded. For everyone's safety." She turned back to the table in the main room. "Sit. I will fetch Roki so we can eat."
No One didn't respond. The invitation was meaningless. She walked to the entrance, a slight limp favoring her right leg, and slid the shoji open. For the first time in four months, she saw the outside world.
She stood motionless in the doorway, a ghost in a charcoal-grey kimono, taking it all in. The shouts of men, the splintering sound of trees being felled, the rhythmic clang of a hammer on steel—it was a village being born from its own grave. It was nothing like before, yet it was larger and filled with a determined, desperate life. From across the muddy square, the smoke and heat of a forge beckoned, a promise of steel and fire.
"Wait!" Sayaka called out, but No One was already moving.
"Weapons," she whispered to herself, and stepped out into the rain.
Her limp was pronounced at first, but as she moved, her muscles seemed to stretch and settle, her gait becoming more steady, fueled by a singular purpose. She pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the forge. Inside, a burly man stood with his back to her, arranging tools on a bench.
"Welcome," the blacksmith said without turning. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
No One didn't answer. Her eyes scanned the walls lined with swords and axes, counters displaying knives and daggers. She approached one wall and lifted down a simple, practical katana. Its blade was a clean, gleaming silver in the lantern light, its hilt wrapped in practical black cloth. She tested its balance, the weight a familiar comfort settling in her left hand. Satisfied, she turned and walked out.
The blacksmith waited patiently for a response, but hearing only the soft closing of the door, he turned. He saw a young woman limping away with one of his finest swords.
"Wait!" he shouted, his voice a furious roar. "You need to pay for that! Thief!"
He stormed outside, but the words died in his throat. In the open space, the girl had dropped into a low stance. Her display was an impossible contradiction—a battle between the raw agony of her injured body and the innate, fluid mastery of her art. She moved with her left arm, the swings clean and sharp, the blade whistling through the rain. Each movement was a slight overcorrection for her limp, each parry a precise calculation. It was not the dance of a healthy warrior, but the brutal, efficient practice of a broken one.
Just then, Roki hurried into view, his face etched with alarm. He saw the scene—the blacksmith, the sword, the girl—and strode forward with purpose.
"Ah, Elder Roki, fine timing!" the blacksmith exclaimed, his anger returning. "This woman has stolen my sword! She either returns it or pays for it!"
Roki held up a hand in a calming gesture. "I will handle this, Daichi. Let her keep it. Rest assured, I will see you are compensated for the blade." He approached No One, interrupting her practice. "That's enough," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Come back inside."
No One paused, her blade still. She looked at Roki, her expression unreadable, then at the sword in her hand. With a final, reluctant glance, she gave a single, curt nod and limped back toward Roki's home, the familiar weight a comfort she had missed more than she had realized.
The blacksmith, Ono Daichi, stared, his anger completely gone, replaced by a profound, humbled awe. He whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain, "She's the reason... isn't she? She is the one who saved Tasuke."
Roki turned back, his expression grave. "Yes," he confirmed quietly. "But you will speak of this to no one. Her presence... is a complicated blessing. She means well, but..."
"I understand," the blacksmith said immediately, his voice now full of a fierce, protective respect. "I won't say a word. And... there is no charge for the sword. Consider it a gift."
A few days later, during the "Veil of Shadows," the second cycle of Waning Twilight, when the last tarnished golds of the sky were being extinguished by deep strokes of indigo and charcoal, and a light mist clung to the new timbers of the village, the fragile peace was shattered by the arrival of a lone figure from the south. He moved with the quiet, swift confidence of a predator, his worn, green-hued gear blending with the perpetual twilight of the woods. He was a scout from Midorimori, his face etched with the urgency of his task, but his body showing none of the fatigue of a lesser man. He carried an official, wax-sealed scroll for Elder Roki.
Roki met him in his home, his heart pounding with a cold dread. He broke the seal and read. The words were not a threat, but a promise of alliance. Midorimori, impressed by Tasuke's resilience and the strategic value of a northern bulwark, had formally recognized them. They were sending a small contingent of slayers, not as mercenaries, but as advisors, to help train a local militia. They were also extending a trade agreement, ensuring a steady supply of resources.
Sayaka wept with relief. This was everything they had hoped for. Their future was secure.
But Roki felt no joy. He read the final lines of the letter, and the blood drained from his face.
"...To that end, our patrols will also use Tasuke as a northern outpost in our most vital hunt. Our sources confirm the outcast from Akamura, the monster known as Kinichi Kimiko, was last seen in this region. She is a vessel for a demon lord's power and is to be considered the highest priority threat to the stability of the Shadow-Wood. Any information regarding her whereabouts is to be reported immediately. Any who harbor this creature will be considered an enemy of the Verdant Guard and a traitor to the cause of humanity."
The scroll slipped from his trembling fingers. The aid he had so cleverly secured had just become a death sentence. The slayers were coming. And they were hunting the girl sleeping under his roof. Tasuke was no longer just a village struggling to rebuild; it was the hiding place of Midorimori's most wanted enemy.
A few days had passed since No One's silent reclaiming of a katana. The moderate rain had often given way to lighter drizzles, but the sky remained a perpetual bruise. After her public display at the forge, Roki had made his instructions clear: her training was to be done inside, out of sight. He could not risk the fragile peace of the village by exposing the newcomers to the terrifying truth of their "savior."
So, her recovery became a secret kept within the thin paper walls of Roki's home. She spent every cycle she wasn't resting practicing in the small, cleared-out storeroom he had given her. Her movements were slow and painful at first, the enclosed space a poor substitute for an open field. She stumbled, her body protesting its mending, but caught herself, correcting her balance with the same sharp instinct that had saved her countless times before. Every imperfect swing, every wince of pain as she pushed her stiff right shoulder, was a silent step towards regaining what she had lost, hidden from the world.
This fragile, secret peace was shattered late in the final cycle of Waning Twilight, when the last vestiges of indigo in the sky were consumed by a deep, starless charcoal. A heavy rain hammered against the roofs, turning the village paths to thick mud. Through the downpour, the sound of horses, heavy and deliberate, reached the new perimeter wall.
Three figures dismounted near Roki's home. Even under the rain-soaked cloaks, their forms were lean and strong, their movements economical. The dark green hue of their gear was unmistakable. Three demon slayers from the Verdant Guard had arrived.
They approached Roki's door, their footsteps splashing in the mud, and requested to speak with the elder. They sought shelter for the night after a long, arduous day hunting demons in the surrounding forest.
Roki, hearing the heavy, deliberate footsteps outside, opened the door before they could knock. The three demon slayers stepped inside, water dripping from their green-hued gear and filling the small entranceway with a sudden, tense energy. They were grim-faced and wary, their eyes scanning the unfamiliar space.
"We were hired by the elders of Kawaakari," the lead slayer explained without preamble, his voice low and tired. "The threat we were contracted for extended further east than they knew. We've been clearing out the nests in the surrounding woods." He gestured vaguely back out into the rain. "A scout can be sent back to settle the compensation with Kawaakari later. For now, we're exhausted. All we need is a place to rest."
Roki felt an immediate unease settle in his gut. Demon slayers in his home. With her here. He forced a smile, trying to appear welcoming. "Of course, of course. Come in, dry off. I can show you to a room." He guided them down the hall, deliberately choosing the one opposite from No One's room, hoping to keep them separated, to keep her presence a secret for just a little longer so they wouldn't disturb her needed rest.
No One, in her room, her body aching from practice, caught the sounds—new voices, heavy footsteps, the distinct metallic tang of demon slayer gear, unfamiliar presences within the quiet safety of Roki's home. Suspicion, sharp and immediate, pierced through her exhaustion. She grabbed her katana, which now lay beside her shikibuton, and pushed herself up, ignoring the protest of her injured leg and shoulder. Clutching the sword, she made her way silently down the hall towards the sound of the voices.
In that moment, as Roki was gesturing down the opposite hall, the three demon slayers turned, their eyes falling upon the figure emerging from the shadows. A noticeable limping woman in a simple kimono, carrying a katana in her left hand. Sayaka, who had followed Roki out, saw No One and gasped, her face flooding with concern and worry. She reached out a hand. "Oh, dear! You shouldn't be out of bed! Let me help you back to your room!" But her words died as No One's eyes, burning with cold suspicion, locked with one of the demon slayers in the center.
And his eyes, sharp and professional, locked with hers. His gaze dropped to her forehead, then widened in shock. Recognition, stark and absolute, flashed across his face.
"That insignia!" one of the other slayers shouted, pointing a trembling finger.
"It's her, no mistaking it!" another confirmed, his voice tight with alarm.
The man No One locked eyes with, the apparent leader, his face hardening with grim resolve, spoke without hesitation. His voice was cold, carrying the weight of authority and a chilling finality. "She is a threat to the Shadow-Wood and must be put down. We have strict orders to kill her on sight."
With a sharp hiss of steel against scabbard, the demon slayers drew their katanas, their movements swift and coordinated. They began to approach No One, fanning out slightly, their eyes fixed on her, blades ready. No One, despite her limp and her injuries, held her stance, her blade fixed steady at the one in the center while she side-stepped, a slow, pained movement, to prevent them from surrounding her.
Roki and Sayaka, caught between No One and the armed slayers, cried out in protest. "No! Wait! She saved us!" Roki yelled. "You can't!" Sayaka screamed. But they only got in the slayers' way. One of the slayers, frustrated by their interference, shoved Roki hard through a fusuma panel. Splintering wood, a cry of pain, and Roki fell to the ground in a tangle of torn paper and wood.
Fatal error.
Something snapped within No One. Roki. The first human to show her consistent kindness. Shoved aside like dirt. No One screamed, a raw, visceral sound of rage and protective fury, and lunged for the slayer who shoved him with all her might, her injured body momentarily forgotten in the surge of adrenaline. He tried to parry, raising his katana reflexively, but her attack was a sudden, brutal burst of speed and force. She flung him to the ground with a violent shove and twist, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
Sayaka screamed, a sound of pure terror, and rushed towards Roki, who lay stunned amidst the broken fusuma. The other two demon slayers, seeing their comrade go down and the unexpected ferocity of the injured woman, immediately rushed at No One, their katanas aimed, the confrontation erupting in the narrow confines of Roki's home.
Thunder cracked above the thatched roofs, the rain hammering down in sheets, drowning out all but the sharpest sounds as tension shattered the stillness inside Roki's home.
No One's katana trembled not from fear, but from the vibration of her own rage, a raw, potent energy that warred with the agony in her broken body. The three demon slayers moved in unison, trained and efficient, predators cornering their prey. She saw them, not just with her eyes, but with the cursed gift—the split-second shifts of weight in their heels, the almost imperceptible twitches of muscle before a strike. Time bled into a chaotic storm of white-hot flashes—so many strikes, from so many angles, too many warnings for her injured mind and body to process individually. Her foresight was overloaded, the flashes overlapping in a dizzying, terrifying blur.
Flash.—A blade arcing towards her head.
Flash.—A thrust aimed at her chest.
Flash.—A low sweep at her already injured left leg.
She saw herself dying in ten different ways in the space of a breath, glimpsing the consequences of movements she couldn't fully evade. Her instincts screamed, and her body tried to react, twisting, stepping back, a brutal pantomime of capability—but her physical limitations meant she couldn't keep up with every warning. Still, they found openings.
Clang. Steel met steel as she parried the first vertical slash with her left hand, the impact jarring her arm up to her aching shoulder. Twisting her blade with a wince of pain, she deflected the second's follow-up strike. She spun, her limping gait throwing her balance, narrowly avoiding the third attacker's thrust as the shoji behind her exploded outwards in wooden splinters. Roki's home, his sanctuary, was becoming a battlefield.
She sidestepped again, slower than she should be, pain radiating from her left thigh with the movement. She countered a low sweep with her katana, the weight awkward in her left hand, then ducked just as a punch grazed the top of her head. Her world became a brutal dance of predicted harm she couldn't fully escape.
Flash.—A knee slamming into her ribs, bone grinding.
Flash.—Another strike hurling her into a wooden beam, the impact a jarring agony.
They were fast. Coordinated. Her body, bruised and broken, couldn't keep up with the onslaught despite the storm of warnings.
A knee smashed into her ribs, sending a fresh wave of searing pain through her side, launching her crashing through a fusuma panel, the paper frame collapsing beneath her. She hit the floor hard, gasping, the impact rattling her teeth. A moment later, another strike, a brutal kick, hurled her into a wooden beam with enough force to steal her breath and worsen the ache in her already fractured ribs. Blood dripped from her mouth, warm and salty. Her breathing came ragged, shallow, her body bruised and battered—but her grip on the katana never loosened.
"You shouldn't have touched him!" she roared through clenched teeth, pushing herself back onto her feet despite the screaming protest of her muscles. Her eyes, burning with fury, locked onto the slayer she'd flung earlier. He had recovered and surged forward, his face grim, katana raised. No One met his blade mid-swing, their swords locking in a shower of sparks, steel ringing out through the rain. She kicked his knee with her good leg, a desperate, painful movement, forcing him to stumble, then twisted away, but another slayer came from behind, seeing the opening. Elbowing her spine, a sharp, brutal blow, and slamming her to the floor in a heap.
Sayaka screamed in the distance, her voice a raw sound of terror amidst the storm, cradling Roki's unconscious body. No One's vision blurred from the pain of hitting the floor, of the blow to her spine, but her resolve hardened. They wanted her dead. That much was clear the moment their swords were drawn—but laying hands on Roki, the first human to show her consistent kindness, had sealed their fate.
She twisted onto her back, ignoring the agony, just as a blade dropped toward her chest, a killing blow.
Flash.—Steel piercing her heart, her last breath stolen…
She barely rolled in time, her injured body clumsy, the wood beneath her splitting from the missed blow instead of her chest. Her katana, still gripped in her left hand, sliced upward, a desperate parry that carved a gash across one attacker's arm. He hissed, stumbling back, but didn't falter, replacing his grip.
Another barrage came—slashes, thrusts, high and low strikes in synchronized fury. No One blocked most, her parries jarring her already broken body, dodged others with slow, painful movements, but her body simply couldn't keep up with the speed and coordination of the slayers, the sheer volume of flashes overloading her foresight. She took hit after hit.
A roundhouse kick slammed into her side, likely cracking more ribs, and launched her clean through a wall of the house. She crashed into the muddy, rain-soaked courtyard, landing in a heap, soaked and gasping, the cold mud chilling her bruised and screaming muscles.
Unwilling to let her recover for even a second, the center slayer rushed through the splintered opening he had just created. Before she could even get her feet under her, a full-body tackle slammed her down, pinning her in the muck.
They rolled violently in the rain and mud, fighting for leverage. Her katana slipped from her grasp in the mud and skidded out of reach. The slayer mounted her, pinning her down, pressing a knee into her chest, his fist raised to cave in her face.
No One twisted sharply, ignoring the pain in her ribs, elbowed him in the throat, and scrambled behind him in the mud, adrenaline flooding her limbs. She yanked his mask from around his neck, and took his wakizashi from his belt with her left hand, and reached into his pouch with her right hand—feeling a spherical object... a poison bomb.
Flash—A boot slamming into her spine, sending her sprawling back into the mud, searing pain...
The brutal warning flared in her mind, the impact moments away. Her body, pinned and aching, was too slow to twist away, her right hand still fumbling in the slayer's pouch, closing around the bomb. Pain exploded from her spine as a boot crunched into it, pitching her violently down into the rain-soaked mud. The second slayer had followed them outside, mud and blood caking her armor.
No One rolled to her feet, masked now, poison bomb in hand. The slayer lunged, katana aimed low. Flash.—Steel piercing her leg, severing an artery, bleeding out in the mud… No One dropped the bomb at her own feet, a desperate, split-second decision, and backflipped through the rain, barely avoiding the stab as the slayer's blade swished through the air where she had been.
Hissss—the bomb exploded at the slayer's feet in a choking cloud of violet gas, thick and visible in the heavy rain.
The two unmasked slayers began coughing violently, their eyes red and watering, bodies stumbling, incapacitated by the gas. No One surged forward like death incarnate through the dissipating gas, the scent sharp in the rain. One slash—deep into the first attacker's throat with the wakizashi. He gurgled and fell, collapsing into the mud. Another—a clean line across the second's gut. She didn't stop there. She screamed as she carved, her wakizashi flashing again and again, fueled by rage and the need to end this quickly before the gas dispersed or the last slayer recovered.
Now only one remained—the one who shoved Roki, his face hidden by his mask. He had managed to don his mask in time but staggered, the poison slowing his reactions, making his movements sluggish.
He parried her first strike with the wakizashi. Then the second. They clashed over and over, steel ringing out through the storm, the sounds echoing across the devastated village.
She ducked under his swing and rolled through the muck for her katana, her hand closing around the familiar hilt. Grabbing the hilt, she rose, mud clinging to her kimono, and met his next strike with both blades—wakizashi in her left hand, katana in her right—twisting into a brutal flurry of offense.
Her fury gave her strength. Her pain gave her speed. Each movement was a testament to her iron will battling her broken body.
She feinted with the shorter blade, then spun behind him, a limping, brutal pivot, and pierced through his ribs with the katana. His scream was drowned in thunder. He turned to slash at her—but she was already moving.
One arm—gone, severed by a clean strike from the wakizashi.
Second arm—gone, taken by the katana's edge.
He dropped to his knees in the mud, defenseless, his face a mask of disbelief and agony.
She walked behind him, no longer rushing, each step a wince of pain. Her katana rested against his neck, its steel slick with rain and his own blood.
"This... is for Roki."
And with one clean stroke, his head fell forward into the mud, his body collapsing.
No One stood there, swaying, blood dripping from her blades into the mud, her mask hiding the hollow, pain-filled look in her eyes.
Ignoring the throbbing agony, No One walked back inside, her steps slow and heavy, leaving the carnage and the storm behind. The house was a wreck—splintered wood, torn paper, overturned furniture. The air inside, thick with the smell of rain, blood, and fear, was eerily still after the thunder of the fight. Both weapons in hand, she moved through the devastated living area.
She approached the place where the last slayer had shoved Roki. Sayaka knelt there, cradling Roki's unconscious body, her face streaked with tears, her voice a low, trembling murmur of prayers that the nightmare was truly over.
No One stopped before them, the silence broken only by Sayaka's soft sobs and the steady drumming of rain on the damaged roof. She was soaked from the heavy rain, the blood that bled from her own open wounds mixing with mud on her ripped kimono, coating her arms and legs. She was a figure of destruction, tracking mud and water into the devastated home.
She knelt slowly, wincing as her injuries protested the movement. She laid down her katana and the wakizashi on the muddy floor beside her, the steel hitting the wood with dull thuds. She then bowed her head to Sayaka, a deep, respectful bow, her black hair falling forward, hiding her face. She couldn't find words. Her throat ached, her voice was raspy, and what could she say? She knew she was responsible for the destruction of their home, for bringing this violence to their doorstep. Guilt, a cold, unfamiliar weight, settled in her gut.
Sayaka's prayers faltered as she saw No One kneel, saw the blood and mud, saw the bow. Her eyes, wide with terror and grief, fixed on the figure before her. Relief that the fighting had stopped warred with horror at the scene and concern for Roki.
"It... it's over?" Sayaka whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible above the rain. She looked from No One to the bodies outside, to the wreckage of her home, then back to No One. "What... what have you done?"
No One raised her head slowly, her mask hiding her expression, but her silence, her bowed posture, spoke volumes. She didn't deny it.
Sayaka looked from the unconscious Roki to the injured warrior kneeling before her, covered in the grim evidence of the fight. Her voice, though still trembling, held a trace of the exasperation No One remembered. "Look at you," Sayaka murmured, tears still flowing. "You're bleeding all over my floor." It wasn't an accusation, just a weary statement of fact amidst the absurdity of it all. Sayaka carefully shifted Roki's head, her focus still on him.
No One took a ragged breath. She looked at the damage, at Sayaka's tear-streaked face, at Roki's still form. She couldn't fix the destruction she'd caused, not with words. Actions. That's what mattered.
Ignoring the sharp protest from her ribs and thigh, she pushed herself up, swaying slightly. Ignoring her own bleeding wounds, the cuts and gashes stinging under the cold water and mud, she turned and walked away. Her steps were slow, uneven, towards the back of the house, towards the bath. She needed to clean the blood and mud, to strip away the external signs of the carnage.
Sayaka watched her go, a figure of blood and mud limping through the wreckage of her home, leaving the dropped weapons behind. Her voice, a mix of bewilderment and reluctant acceptance, followed No One. "Where are you going? What are you doing now?"
No One didn't answer. The sliding of the shoji to the bath area was her only reply.