Side Story #29: Nishi’s Eulogy (Masami Version)

<Author’s note: This story takes place during the events of Book 3.>

▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀

Side Story 29: Nishi’s Eulogy (Masami Version)

▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

■■ Tonogasha ■■

“What the fuck happened here?”

Nishi could hardly believe the devastation before her. Tonogasha, the aesthetic town once known for its arts, poetry and outrageous cost of living, was now nothing but sewage and still water. The wreckage looked as bad as it smelled and it reeked of bloated corpses.

The yakuza captain had to wade through hip-high water and past several of such corpses to get further inside the city limits. The newly-homeless welcomed her with wails and pleas for help as some clung to makeshift rafts made from food stalls while others sat atop unsteady rooftops for dear life.

“Like rats on a sinkin’ ship,” Nishi noted, her scowl becoming a permanent feature. Her mood soured even further—which was saying something, considering what she had been through over the past couple weeks. To put it simply: everyone she knew and cared about in the Yamagata-gumi, her yakuza family, was murdered by a single ronin.

All save for one. “Keiko! Damn it, where are you?!”

Nishi was as desperate as she sounded, continuing to yell and swim through the polluted and murky waters. Keiko was the Yamagata-gumi’s princess and sole heir to the criminal enterprise—especially now that Shiroyama was out of the picture. The new wife of the late Lord Yamagata had reorganized the yakuza and not in ways Nishi agreed with.

“That deceptive bitch...turned us into glorified fuckin’ opium pushers! I’ll be damned if Yama-sama’s legacy dies with her!”

A rare stroke of luck came from a man who claimed to play shogi for a living and who had seen Keiko on stage at a kabuki theater. Nishi wasn’t sure which claim was more unbelievable, yet she had little choice but to take him at his word and swim over to where the White Peach was.

Or rather, where it once had been. Tattered banners depicting men in far too much makeup drifted about the collapsed ruins of the theater. The walkway for the actors to enter had somehow survived, and Nishi found herself making the same approach so many famed performers had made before her.

The stage itself was nothing but a heap of rubble—at least at first glance. Upon a second, a desk and table could be found as well as other signs of life. Someone was still living there. Nishi held up her spiked club—a kanabō—over her shoulder in case the occupant wasn’t friendly.

And they weren’t. Though they were more crabby than dangerous.

“That slouch of yours won’t do, sister. And quit with the swagger—unless walking like a man twice your size is part of some comedy routine.”

Nishi jumped back and swung her club on instinct. From out of the corner of the room—or the remains of one, anyway—approached a mess of a middle-aged woman. Her makeup had run, mixed and dried, revealing an elaborate series of wrinkles beneath. She had a pair of warts, too, under a mess of hair that had more tangles in it than a Jijinto sailor’s knot.

“Repulsive, am I?” she asked in a flat tone before taking a seat behind the desk. “That makes two of us. I’m the Headmistress of the White Peach. So tell me: what’s a yakuza doing in my theater?”

“Keiko. Where is she?” Nishi asked, not in the mood to mince words.

The Headmistress didn’t reply right away. Instead, she picked up a paper fan that was riddled with holes and began fanning herself. “Oh yes, that girl. When she first came here, I took her as a strumpet who had gotten lost. Whether all that cuteness and ditziness was an act or the real deal...suppose I’ll never know. Not that it matters, either way. She was hired as somebody’s maid, if I recall. Ige and her exchanged letters—I’m certain he’d know where you could find her.”

“Ige? I’m gonna need more than just his damn name. What does he look like? And how do I know he’s not a fuckin’ corpse right now?”

“Vulgarity,” the Headmistress replied, “is a tool for the lazy and uneducated. Those who fail to convey their meanings through tone and diction...I shall not validate with a response. Ask me again properly and I may see fit to give you an answer.”

Nishi began to chuckle. It grew into a back-buckling laugh as she stood there beneath the pouring rain in the ruined theater getting lectured on the way she spoke. It reminded her of the past—of years ago, when she went by the name Noriko and lived as a samurai’s daughter in Yamato.

“Don’t like how I fuckin’ talk, huh? Here’s what I think about that!”

*WHACK*

In a single, overhead swing, Nishi demolished the desk with her kanabō. The Headmistress cried out as she frantically tried to pull her lower half out from under it, but the weight was too much. She grimaced in pain as the yakuza asked her once more about Ige.

“If he’s alive...he’s most likely gone with the refugees heading North to Hokusei. Now help me out from this rubble at once—you accursed, sadistic brute!”

Nishi cracked her neck and then a smile. “Watch your language.”

■■■■

“Just my fuckin’ luck.”

The yakuza cursed as a fresh downpour of bone-chilling rain fell from the sky. She was woefully ill-equipped to be backpacking across the forests of eastern Hyuga. For starters, she didn’t have a backpack to begin with: she had little more than the sleeveless haori on her back and a map that would’ve served her better as a fire starter.

And though she blamed the map and claimed to have been ripped off by the traveler who sold it to her, she knew—deep down—that the navigator herself was the one at fault.

Nishi was painfully out of her element and hopelessly lost. No amount of cursing was going to fix that, but since it made her feel better she found no reason to stop. The reality was, having grown up in Yamato and spending the rest of her life in Jijinto, living in big cities was all she knew. The yakuza was comfortable around people: crowded streets, noisy vendors and alleyway violence.

Nature was another story.

“Bunch of nothin’ in this backwater shithole,” she grumbled as she huddled under a large oak for cover from the rain. She was no closer to finding Ige—and thus, reuniting with Keiko—than she had been a week ago. All that had changed was that she was many times more hungry, cold, and in need of a bath. She had gotten herself a toothache, too, from clenching her jaw so much.

“Woah, Tatsuya. This should be far enough,” said a voice from nearby. Nishi froze in place before peering over the tree she was braced beside. What she saw was the largest horse she’d ever seen: a chestnut-colored stallion with a black mane. It chewed at some nearby stiltgrass while its rider dismounted.

“A samurai...armored from head to fuckin’ toe,” Nishi observed as the warrior walked towards a pair of bushes for cover. It was hardly a surprise as to what he intended to do back there. Though the yakuza wasn’t much of a rider, she knew having a horse was better than huffing it on foot, and so she sneaked up to the warhorse and mounted it.

She attempted to, anyway. Nishi didn’t know how to use stirrups, and instead heaved herself over like a sack of potatoes. It took quite the effort—especially to do so in relative silence—though the horse didn’t seem to mind. That grass must’ve been particularly tasty.

“Er, um...go,” Nishi whispered, trying to get Tatsuya to move. “Come on—get going. Giddiup, you stupid horse!”

No amount of slapping, kicking or cursing seemed to affect the warhorse, who seemed—at most—mildly irritated. Desperation began to set in as the samurai finished his dump in the woods, and with a whistle the stallion came trotting over to his position.

Spotting the intruder on his mount, the samurai unsheathed his katana and yelled out an order. Not to Nishi but to the beast she was desperately trying to hang on to. “Ayup, Tatsuya!”

“Whaaa?!” the yakuza cried out as the horse beneath her reared up on its hind legs. Nishi was thrown off, falling backwards from a significant height and landing on the back of her neck. She didn’t blackout but was seeing triple long enough for the samurai to disarm her.

Yet even without her club and in the midst of a concussion, Nishi wasn’t a pushover. She reeled back her fist and whipped it across the samurai’s helmet, hoping to break something.

“Shit! Fuck, that hurts!”

The yakuza succeeded—in a sense—breaking her thumb and forefinger. While it was hardly a worthwhile exchange, the attack seemed to daze the samurai long enough for Nishi to make her escape. She ran as quickly as her legs could take her...which was never a good idea in a forest.

She stubbed her toe on a root and was forced down once more, this time coating her arms and legs in mud. The proud yakuza captain knew she looked absolutely pathetic, though that knowledge only served to enrage her further. She bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood as she forced herself on her feet once more.

Though she didn’t make it one step before a circle of rope fell over her shoulders. Before she realized it was a lasso, it tightened and forced her arms against her sides, straightening her out like a limbless tree. She fell as hard as one, too, eating a facefull of mud.

The yakuza, outraged and disgraced, became like a piranha that had been tossed from a river: she flailed, flopped and snatched at the air with her teeth. Tatsuya was afraid to get close to her, but with a solid kick and some talented rope work, the samurai soon had her tied like a hog fit for roasting.

“Keep the damn horse for all I care! Just untie me before you really start pissin’ me off!”

The threat was far from effective and went completely ignored as the armored samurai began to inspect her. As usual, it was the tattoos across her arm that warranted the most attention.

“Are you a spy?” the samurai asked, though his voice was muffled behind his visor. “No...even if you aren’t, these markings brand you as a criminal nonetheless. I shall present you to Lord Shatao at once.”

“Sure, take me to your leader—you talkin’ tin can!”

The samurai obliged her by packing her on the back of his horse. As much as the yakuza wanted to fuss and fight, the idea of falling off the horse a second time had little appeal. Nishi’s defiance was limited to her mouth, which ran through a series of insults until the two of them made it to an encampment.

A perimeter of freshly-cut logs made for a miniature wall around a collection of tents. Men with armor clanked about as they patrolled, bickered and fought amongst themselves, while their horses were never far away. The evidence of their presence littered the ground.

“So you boys are on a little camping trip, is that it? That’s real fuckin’ cute,” Nishi remarked. “Bunch of prickless tin cans rusting away in the rain out in the middle of nowhere.”

The yakuza’s commentary garnered quite a bit of attention, and by the time her escort had arrived at the largest tent in the group, several dozen samurai were in attendance. Among them was a large, bald and bearded man who wore a sinister grin.

“Well, well, Koha-chan. Didn’t think you had it in ya! Your catch ain’t much to look at...but she’s got quite the mouth on her. Make sure you put it to good use!” he laughed along with the samurai flanking him on either side.

“Stand aside, Captain Goro. This criminal is a yakuza, a horsethief, and a potential spy. I am here to present her to General Shatao-sama for sentencing,” the samurai replied. After a stare off between the two, the captain finally yielded and walked away. It was a cue for the crowd to disperse, and once they did, the samurai called ‘Koha-chan’ picked up Nishi and dragged her inside the tent.

The portable shelter looked even larger inside than it did out—though that was perhaps because it was so sparsely decorated. Aside from a rug, a throne and a tea set, there was little more than the fearsome visage of the samurai general inside.

With a white mane from out of his helmet and a matching jinbaori atop his gleaming, crimson armor, General Shatao was formidable indeed. Though he was more than just that to Nishi. There was something about him that put the yakuza at unease—the exact sort of unease she had felt around Shiroyama, the woman who had taken over the Yamagata-gumi.

After a brief introduction was given, Shatao ordered a pair of his guards to untie her. Nishi thanked them by headbutting the first and kicking the other between the legs, before grabbing one of their katanas and flailing about with it wildly. It took eight men to take her down in the end, and even then, she gave half of them cuts and the other half lingering bruises.

Just when one samurai was about to execute her with a katana raised over her neck, Shatao held up his hand. His soldiers each froze in place as their general rose from his throne. He was making some sort of odd, guttural sound that echoed both through his helmet and the skulls of everyone in attendance.

It was laughter, Nishi realized.

“Your tenacity...it’s impressive,” he said, slowly making his approach. Each footstep seemed to break the earth beneath it. “I have a plan...a tournament...for each village in my domain. You would serve well...in such a competition. You may join it...on your own terms...or on mine. The choice is yours.”

Nishi—to her credit—thought about it for a good, long second before looking up at the looming, imposing samurai and cracking a smile.

“Here’s an even...better idea. How about you...go fuck yourself!”

■■ Tanimura Village ■■

“Smell that shit? It’s everywhere! One of you prickless clowns better take this damn blindfold off me, or your mother will wish she’d have…”

Nishi had spent the past couple days blindfolded and gagged. Now she was only the former, though the stench of dried horse droppings made her gag all the same. The Shima samurai had dumped her off in a village called Tanimura, where she was—supposedly—supposed to help out the villagers fight in some sort of tournament.

“To hell with that! Once these idiots get these bindings off me, I’m hittin’ the road!”

And that was the idea, anyway, until she heard a familiar accent. One of these clowns—the one that had recently faced off against General Shatao and lost decidedly—was from the South. It reminded her of someone she swore to kill. Though the chance of this being the same ronin who had slayed her fellow yakuza was...

“How can you speak down to anyone—you’re ink-branded by Shiroyama.”

...it was more likely than Nishi expected. The yakuza kept quiet and kept her breathing steady as she stood still and waited. No ronin aside from her eternal enemy would know Shiroyama by name. Nishi’s chance at revenge for her fellow yakuza was standing just outside arm’s reach.

“You two and your playful banter! I got a feelin’ you’ll be best pals in no time!” said a man called Hatch in a cheerful voice. He was oddly familiar—though Nishi couldn’t place him. It didn’t matter. All that did was that he got rid of her bindings. “Ah, a Jijinto sailor’s knot. Hold still, and I’ll get this off you in a jiffy.”

Nishi did hold still, until the moment her arms were free. Once they were, she took off the blindfold and came face-to-face with her enemy: the dead-eyed assassin who had ruined her life.

“Ronin scum! For my boys—I’ll kill you, you samurai bastard!”

*glok* *sching*

Nishi wedged her foot into the weakest of the lot—a young man she’d find out later was Ige—and yanked his katana free. She wasn’t a swordfighter but she could swing as strong as a man twice her size, and did so against the ronin who was caught completely off-guard.

Wielding nothing more than a wooden training sword, the would-be sword instructor was put on the defensive. One mighty, reckless blow after another sent them spinning, and it was all they could do to brace themselves against Nishi’s relentless onslaught.

The yakuza wanted blood and was going to get it: a failed attempt to dodge away from her bull rush ended up with the ronin caught between Nishi’s shoulder and the barn door—the latter of which broke open, sending the two of them out of the shed and into the village proper.

Bloodied, dazed, and covered in mud, the ronin could hardly find their footing as a crowd of villagers rushed in. Not to stop them, but to spectate.

“Come look, you goat-shagging rice-pickers!” Nishi yelled, stirring up the crowd. “Not every day you get to watch a samurai die!”

To make well on her claim, she charged forth and swung her katana—though she was holding it upside down. This turned a lethal slash into a non-fatal one instead, as she hit the ronin with the back end of the blade. It broke a rib but little more, and Nishi was far from satisfied.

The faces of all her yakuza companions ran through her mind as she prepared the finishing blow. Though among them, most clear of all was Keiko’s. In fact, it was so clear that she could’ve sworn one of the women from the crowd looked just like her. And of all the faces in Hyuga, Keiko’s—inked up in cherry blossoms as it was—wasn’t the sort to get lost in the crowd.

“Nini-chan?!” Keiko cried out to her dearest friend.

“Keke-chan!” Nishi replied, her voice shifting into something softer. Almost pleasant. “I thought you were dead! What are you doing here—and what are you wearing?!”

As the two embraced, kissed and cried, the yakuza’s adrenaline faded. The battle wasn’t over: it was put on a temporary pause. Revenge would have to wait until after the two sisters caught up with each other. While Nishi was the same as she had always been, Keiko had changed—and not just in appearance, though that frilly, foreign black dress with a white apron was certainly a fashion statement.

“With Shiroyama dead, it’s time to come back home,” Nishi said as the two took a walk around a flooded rice paddy. It wasn’t much to look at but not much was out in the country. “We have to get our asses back there before the other gangs start takin’ our turf. Damn Shinto monks already picked the place clean...we’ve got a lot of rebuilding to do.”

Keiko had been mostly silent during their stroll thus far—at least when it came to plans for the future. She had spoken at length about her time in Tonogasha and her stint as an actress, and even more of her time as maid to a foreign lord called Roderico. Apparently there had been an entire murder mystery involved, too, though Nishi wasn’t interested in that.

“Well, say something, would’ya? You’re the princess of the Yamagata-gumi! The future of our family rests on your—”

“Gomenasai,” Keiko said, bowing low with her eyes glistening. Several teardrops fell into the mud before she raised her head once more. “It’s just...in my time away from Jijinto, though it’s been odd and sometimes scary...the experiences I’ve had, working with others like Ige-kun and Borgia, I…I don’t want to be a yakuza anymore, Nini-chan! I don’t want to sell drugs and run whorehouses! I want to help people!”

“The hell are you talkin’ about?! Being a yakuza ain’t just about business and you know that! We’re a family, and we’re—”

“I’m sick of it!” Keiko yelled. “I wish to be a proper lady someday...an upstanding citizen, who others can look up to and adore! I don’t want to be some feared queen of the underworld! The ronin...regardless of what you think of them, they’re proof that no matter who I am or where I come from, I can change! We don’t have to go back to being criminals, Noriko!”

Being called by her birth name flipped a switch in Nishi. Rage enveloped her as she felt betrayed by the one she loved the most. Keiko was more than just a princess: she was Nishi’s one and only friend.

And now she was a foot off the ground and struggling for breath as the yakuza captain raised her by the neck. “Don’t you dare call me that name! What’s this ronin done to you, Keke-chan?! You screwing ‘em, is that it? Fucking the samurai bastard who killed Daisuke and the others?!”

Keiko wouldn’t get a chance to respond before Nishi tossed her into the rice paddy. Disgusted, angry and heartbroken, Nishi stomped off not unlike the angry teenager she once was. She felt once more like the daughter of a samurai in a family she didn’t belong in.

And the family where she thought she did—the Yamagata-gumi—was gone.

■■■■

There were all manners of ways to handle grief: drinking was certainly one of them. Though it was a far cry from The Canary, Nishi found a reserve of rice wine in one of warehouses. After convincing a farmer to let her have some, she quickly proceeded to get drunk at a record pace.

No one seemed to mind her public intoxication, or if they did, they were too fearful of her to say something. The one exception was a girl in a red silk kimono. She approached the yakuza with a look of concern.

“You’re Nishi-san, aren’t you? My name is Masami Hashimoto. I wanted to...to apologize on that baka’s behalf,” she said, bowing deeply. “What they did in Jijinto...I know it was unforgivable, but the yakuza...they were under a spell of Shiroyama’s! She is—or rather, was a demon! She was using magic to twist their minds under her control!”

“Magic spells, huh? Am I supposed to believe you’re—*hiccup*—some kinda shugenja? Little young to have graduated from the Academy, ain’t ya?”

Masami’s ears perked up. “Why yes, I did graduate under some unusual circumstances! To be honest...I can’t quite recall my graduation well at all...but I do miss my friends very much! But I’m surprised you know of the Academy, Nishi-san. Could it be that a relative of yours is—”

“Forget about it,” Nishi said, quick to change the subject. Though she was drunk, she wasn’t about to ask about Fumihiro, her younger brother who had gone to the Academy to become a shugenja. That was a different life...one where a samurai sold off his daughter to pay for his son’s tuition.

“Is something the matter?” Masami asked, oddly intuitive for a girl her age. She took a seat beside the yakuza, surprising Nishi with her courage. As desperate for someone to talk to as the drunk yakuza was, she wasn’t about to shoo her away. Instead, she offered the bottle—which the underaged shugenja was quick to refuse.

“Eh, stuff’s no good anyway,” Nishi grinned as she downed the rest of it in a single gulp. She tossed the empty bottle into a nearby tree, shattering it, before popping open the cork in a fresh one. “Keke-chan...I mean, Keiko told me about you. Apparently that ronin is your bodyguard, and you’re all on some special, secret quest—somethin’ like that. Sounds like a bunch of bullshh…”

Nishi wasn’t sure why, but she found it hard to curse in the kid’s presence. There was something about Masami—a mixture of optimism and innocence, probably—that made her keep her ‘bullshit’ to herself. The shugenja seemed to have noticed this, too, and began giggling.

“You two are very similar, in a way. Neither of you are as bad a person as you’d like to believe.”

The pair continued to chat for a while longer, mostly about the ronin and what it meant to be a bodyguard. It was during one of Masami’s many complaints on their companion’s behavior that Nishi noticed a cut across the shugenja’s chin.

She grabbed her by the collar and brought her in closer to inspect it, letting out a rancid, alcoholic breath into Masami’s face. “This sure ain’t’ah paper cut, kiddo,” Nishi said, slurring her words. “That’s from a katana...did they do this to you?! Told ya’ that ronin’s no good! I’ll gut ‘em as soon as I sober up!”

“No, please don’t! This isn’t their fault. It was someone else who...what I mean to say is, please don’t mention this cut to them, Nishi-san! It would only upset them, so please—don’t say anything!”

The yakuza didn’t understand what the shugenja was going on about and being five bottles in on fermented rice water sure didn’t help. But she knew enough to hold back a grin and give the kid a promise. Even if it was an empty one.

“Why, your secret’s safe with me, kid.”

■■■■

“Great job, Nishi,” the ronin shouted from across the dojo. “You made Ige cry. Again.”

In the yakuza’s defense, it didn’t take much for the kabuki stagehand to start shedding water. Nishi wasn’t entirely sure what she was still doing in Tanimura—‘practicing’ with this ragtag group of idiots—but keeping Keiko safe through this tournament seemed as good a reason as any to stay.

Venting her frustration on Ige was just an added bonus. The brat had an obvious crush on Keiko that made Nishi want to crush his skull in, so she held nothing back during their training bout.

“Of course I made him cry,” Nishi laughed. “I want a challenge, not a bedwetter!”

And while it was true that the yakuza enjoyed challenges, there was something else she enjoyed even more: revenge. Even if it had to be served with a wooden practice sword.

“Hatch and Keiko, pair off,” the ronin-turned-teacher ordered. “Kohaku, help Ige. And Nishi…we’re having a rematch.”

The so-called sensei could hardly finish their sentence before the yakuza barreled towards them. Though her rage didn’t burn quite as hot as it had before, Nishi’s swings came just as fast. The difference was that—this time—the ronin was ready for her.

“Your swings are too wide and obvious,” they lectured while dodging her strikes. “You need to place that left hand lower, to use it for leverage. This isn’t a club to smack people with.”

“Fuck you!” Nishi yelled and redoubled her swings. Her frustration was evident in her fury. “You weren’t this fast yesterday. Masa-chan gave you some shugenja magic to help, I bet!”

It would seem that the shugenja’s name was the magic word to break the ronin’s composure. Though the glare it earned her was downright frightening, Nishi much preferred fighting this version of the ronin: the heartless assassin who killed her men.

Not the one that pretended to be a teacher who cared about their students.

“Stay away from Masami,” the ronin said, backing their words with a knee strike to Nishi’s gut. The yakuza could only grin as any and all illusion of a ‘sparring match’ was thrown out the window.

“I got between a bear and their cub, did I? The kid said you were her bodyguard—pft! Give me a fuckin’ break.”

“Shut up,” the ronin replied, the two clashing once more. Though the swordmaster had better technique and superior foot placement, Nishi’s brute strength made it a fair fight. At least until after what she said next.

“Masa-chan has a cut around her neck, said it was from a katana. Made me promise not to tell you.” Nishi shook her head and yelled, “You’ll be the death of that girl, ronin!”

Something snapped—and it wasn’t just the bokken. Nishi was well accustomed to losing one’s temper, but what the ronin lost in that moment was something far greater. It was as if every ounce of humanity her opponent had vanished in a single moment; in its place was a beast that pounced on her and tore her apart like a starving wolf atop its prey.

Nishi was pinned, helpless and—though she would never admit it—scared. She took a punch to the teeth, to the jaw, and to the eye before Kohaku was able to pull them off her. The diligent samurai brandished their katana and pointed it down at the beast with a look one would give a monster—not a sword instructor.

“Class is dismissed!”

And while it was, Nishi was in no condition—physically or mentally—to leave. Her eye was certain to be blackened and her tooth—the one that had ached her earlier—was hanging on by a painful nerve ending. ‘Sensei’ had taught her something, all right.

“Fuck,” Nishi spat, a wad of blood shooting out of her. “So that’s what you really are. That’s the monster who cut my boys to ribbons!”

The ronin had since been taken away by Hatch and Kohaku, while Keiko had run off in search of medical supplies. Nishi found herself alone with Ige, who had the unenviable role of consoling her.

“Ah, Sensei can be scary sometimes, can’t they?” he said, breaking into a nervous laugh. “But you’re scary, too...I mean, in a good way! No duel on the kabuki stage is half as intense as your battles, Nishi-senpai!”

The yakuza winced—both from the pain of her nearly-dislodged tooth and from being called this brat’s ‘senpai’. As if she was his upperclassman. “Look, Ige. Take your pity party somewhere else. So I got my ass beat, so what? Shit happens. This ain’t the White Peach.”

Mentioning the kabuki theater had turned out to be a mistake as it prompted Ige to recount a story of hardship and overcoming obstacles. It was as sappy as it sounded.

“...the financial situation being as dire as it was, all us stagehands, the staff—even the actors and actresses, too—had to work late nights making masks to help sell tickets for the performance. None of us could do it alone, so we had to work together like a family in order to save the theater. When it was time for...ah, I’m sorry, I’ve gone on for awhile, haven’t I? But us students...in this tournament, we’re sort of like a family too, aren’t we?”

“The hell do you think you know about family?!” Nishi yelled, her patience well past it’s limit. “I’m the captain of the Yamagata-gumi, you prickless brat, or at least I was until your precious Sensei fuckin’ slaughtered ‘em! They were my family—and they ain’t comin’ back. And let me tell you somethin’ about yakuza skins.”

Nishi proceeded to strip, causing Ige to blush and look away in embarrassment. The yakuza grabbed him by the hair and forced him to look. “Plenty of collectors out there would pay a handsome bit of ryō to have this up on their mantle,” she said, showing off a dragon in a field of cherry blossoms. It was a beautiful tattoo that must’ve taken weeks to get finished.

“The corpses of each of my brothers...I had to burn ‘em myself—had to rent out a whole fuckin’ wagon to get them out of the city. Then I had make a fuckin’ fire and turn ‘em in to ashes—in the pouring rain! So don’t you tell me about sacrifices for your family! And don’t you dare pretend that I’m part of yours!”

Ige gulped and apologized fiercely, tears welling within his eyes. Keiko arrived just in time to misinterpret the scene, and scolded Nishi for bullying the stagehand.

“Whatever,” Nishi said, spitting out a second wad of blood. This time, her tooth came out. She picked it up and clenched it within her fist. “Mark my words: this whole tournament’s a mess. And I ain’t got no intention of getting roped up into it. You hear me?”

■■■■

“Quit jerkin’ around and untie me, you prickless rice pluckers! Chikushō!”

Nishi was at the bottom of a dogpile consisting of her fellow classmates: Hatch, Keiko and Ige to be precise. They were tied up around the ankles in some half-witted training exercise courtesy of their interim instructor, Kohaku. The drill was supposed to help with their teamwork—which was sorely lacking.

Though that wasn’t the only thing that was sore. Bruises aside, everyone’s feelings were raw after what had happened last night to Kuniko. The quintessential village girl with a gentle smile and an even softer demeanor...Nishi had never liked her, yet she wouldn’t wish what that young woman went through upon her greatest foe.

The Shima samurai were bastards who were going to pay for their crime: Captain Goro chief among them. This had become personal, not just to Nishi but to everyone in Tanimura. Hatch was the first one up from the pile, the most serious and hellbent to improve. His resolve—even though his hands were cut to shreds and his katana had to be tied to his palms—was a source of inspiration to the rest of them.

That didn’t mean Nishi had to enjoy the lesson, though. Especially when the farmers started hitting her with sticks each time she fell.

“Hit me again and I’ll shove that stick right up your ass! Gah!” Nishi swung at one of the men with all of her might. The momentum took the group down once more, this time prompting Kohaku to call for a pause in training.

“Not out of mercy,” Nishi observed as the prudish samurai headed off on a stroll with the ronin. He was all but skipping even under all that armor. “Got it bad for the teacher, huh? Talk about boardin’ a sinking ship.”

The yakuza shook her head as the farmers undid the knots around her ankles, thanking them with a foot to the face. Masami arrived with a set of tea and a forced smile. She exchanged pleasantries and her stomach did, too—it was growling.

Nishi’s followed suit, as did Hatch and Ige’s. Everyone was hungry. The tournament was tomorrow and yet none of them could take their minds off food. The shugenja gave a sly, smug look when Nishi said as much, which prompted the yakuza to interrogate her further.

Turned out Masami was weak to tickles.

“Ah-haha, ah—okay, okay! But you mustn’t mention this to that baka. Promise, this time!” the shugenja said, suddenly becoming stern and outstretching her pinky finger. As silly as such a promise was, Nishi was proven to be untrustworthy and was compelled to do likewise.

Once the two shook fingers, Masami revealed that the farmers had a plan in the works for an early, overnight harvest, complete with a party the next morning to send off their heroes. Apparently, she, Kuniko, Borgia and Ige had been conspiring about this idea in secret for the past several days. Now, after what had happened to the farmer’s daughter, raising each other's spirits was more important than ever.

“So this party you’re puttin’ on…” Nishi said, cracking her neck, “...anything I can do to help?”

■■■■

The yakuza captain may have never regretted anything more than offering to help. Instead of putting up tables or streamers—you know, like what you did for any normal sort of celebration—she had been tasked with helping the farmers for the harvest. She gained both a newfound respect and a crack in her back from bending over and cutting stalks for the better part of a night.

But to be honest, Nishi appreciated a chance to get her mind off the tournament. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep, anyway, not with her nerves on end as they were. While she was no stranger to combat, she had grown attached to her fellow students all the same.

She had gotten closer to the farmers as well—at least in a physical sense, as all one-hundred and fifty-three occupants of Tanimura were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder into the barn-turned-dining hall. Ige had gone to great lengths to fashion it into a kabuki stage, with production values far beyond anything the yakuza expected.

*PON*

*PON* *PON* *PON*

The stagehand thumped a makeshift drum before shouting in a booming voice fit for theater. “Introducing...the hope and pride of Tanimura—the students of the Ronin School of Swordfighting!”

The door to the front of the shed was opened, and behind it was a very sleep-deprived and bewildered sensei. The ronin was as rattled as a skeleton—and was beginning to look like one, too, though that issue was soon to be resolved. On the table in front of the farmers were bowls stacked with rice, freshly harvested, heated, and smelling like heaven.

Even if they were a tad unripened, it was going to be the best rice Nishi and the rest of the ‘Tanimura Champions’ had ever eaten.

Though before they dug in, there was a ritual to perform. Nishi put on her tailor-made haori jacket with the team’s name stitched on the back of it, the cloth dyed in an indigo shade of blue. The tailor in this case was none other than Kuniko who looked upon the champions with eyes red from fresh tears on a face rigid with determination.

Her presence was a reminder of what they were fighting for.

Each student took turns being introduced and paraded around like a hero. Ige’s skills in kabuki were on full display as he embellished each of them—as if they were renowned samurai from the Golden Era. Even Nishi got an applause, albeit a muted one.

When it was her turn to speak to ‘Sensei’, however, her words were far from flattering.

“Don’t get it twisted, ronin. I’m only here for the rice,” she said, before grabbing the sword instructor by the collar and bringing them in close. Her next words were meant for them and them alone. “I’ll make this clear. There’s only two fucked-up killers on this team, and they’re looking at each other.”

The ronin nodded. “Then let’s do what we do best.”

■■■■

“Sensei,” Ige asked, “is...that them?”

The kabuki stagehand’s uncertainty was warranted as the Tanimura Champions watched a group of old men wielding pitchforks wobble up to the fighting platform. Hatch thought it was a joke and said as much, though Nishi had seen enough dead men walking to recognize the look on their faces.

These old geezers had accepted death.

“Our village is Aokimura, up the river from yours and a week’s walk from…ah, I suppose it doesn’t matter,” said their leader. He wore a regretful, wistful smile. “We can’t afford to lose our young men, and we refuse to let our children die in our place. All we ask is that you remember us as sacrifices for them.”

The ronin nodded to acknowledge their nobility—if not in standing, then in character—and unsheathed their sword. That was when Nishi realized something was off: the sword instructor’s hands were shaking while their eyes…

“..they’ve gone soft. Somethin’ ain’t right here,” Nishi thought, feeling a fresh sense of unease. That sensation would only grow as the ronin failed to execute their opponent; instead of a quick, clean kill, their right arm had gone numb at the last possible second. They tripped backwards much to the audience’s entertainment, while the farmer twisted about on floor like a worm squirming in its own blood.

“Nishi!” the ronin yelled, and it was all they had to say for the yakuza to swoop in and send her spiked club across the farmer’s jaw. Though his brains were scattered across the combat arena, at least he was out of his misery.

Her next target was her so-called sensei, who she grabbed by the haori and pulled in forehead-to-forehead. “Where the hell is the ronin who killed all my boys in Jijinto? We sure could use ‘em right now!”

“I…I just couldn’t! My arm, it wouldn’t move, I—”

Nishi tossed them to the ground. She couldn’t stand weakness, and seeing it in the face of the one who had single-handedly ended the Yamagata-gumi...it shamed their memory. She didn’t know what was wrong with the ronin—only that the monster inside them was nowhere to be found.

“This is pathetic!” Shatao roared. He wasn’t referring to them, but to the farmers who were kneeling in prayer for their fallen comrade. “If you do not fight, Aokimura, I will salt your fields…and drench them with blood!”

The battle ensued even though it could hardly be considered one. Of the few highlights was Keiko’s spear technique—in particular, her throwing accuracy. Her toss had landed...well beneath the navel of one of the farmers. It prompted a roar of laughter from the crowd who watched the old man flail about with a lance where his crotch ought to be.

The rest of the fight was just as vulgar. While Nishi, Keiko and Kohaku were hardened against bloodshed, the same couldn’t be said for Hatch and Ige. The former knocked his opponent out with an elbow to the neck—but the crowd wanted more. General Shatao ordered that he execute the farmer.

He hesitated. At least until the ronin nodded their head.

Nishi didn’t have to ask whether or not that was the first man Hatch had killed: the evidence was on his face. He looked dead inside and out, with only thoughts of Kuniko to keep him on his feet. No doubt the scenes of that night were replaying through his head over and over. Nishi could sympathize; that fight at the yakuza mansion was never far from her mind.

As if the ordeal wasn’t traumatizing enough, when there was just one farmer remaining, Shatao made it even worse.

“The boy with the Shinsengumi blade. He must fight alone...or Tanimura is disqualified!”

Every samurai in the Shima barracks began to chant for Ige—in mockery more so than encouragement. The young man was shaking in his sandals, needing a few private words from his teacher to settle him down. Nishi wasn’t sure what advice the ronin gave, but sure enough, the yakuza stagehand performed for all to see.

“AhhhH!”

And what a bloody performance it was. It was a clumsy series of strikes paired with howling screams as if Ige himself was the one being stricken. Any and all semblance of proper form and technique was thrown out the window as the young man’s fear transformed into a furious barrage of slashes.

His opponent was mauled; cut a hundred different ways, he could do nothing but spout blood all over his assailant. The unfortunate farmer likely died from blood loss before any fatal strike had landed. Nishi and Kohaku shared a glance and a nod before pulling Ige off him.

The kabuki stagehand-turned-killer was still drunk on adrenaline and high on bloodlust, and rammed his head into Nishi to get himself free. Ige looked around in search of another opponent, and when there wasn’t any, he hurried over to his sensei and shouted with glee.

“Hah, Sensei! I did it! And it was so easy! Haha!”

■■■■

Handling grief with liquor was a recurring theme with Nishi, who found that the samurai stationed at the base had a far better supply of the stuff than the farmers in Tanimura had. It also helped that the samurai took to her as some sort of celebrity—they actually seemed to enjoy it when she cursed at them, so she obliged them all they wanted so long as they kept the saké flowing.

She had the blood of several farmers on her hands, both literally and figuratively. Nishi hadn’t expected to be so affected by off-ing a few old geezers, but she was. Watching the naive and gentle stagehand devolve into a psychotic murderer sure didn’t help her mood, either.

“Takes after his sensei all too well,” she thought, as she downed another gulp. And as if thinking about them was enough to summon them, the ronin appeared in her presence. They were hardly a sight for sore eyes...but even still, it was a relief to see them all the same.

“Nice of ya’ to join my fan club, Sensei! You’ll fit right in with the—*hic*—rest of these pathetic virgins!” Nishi downed a swig and threw the bottle. “Even Ige-kun popped a cherry back there. He’s a real—*hic*—man now!”

“How about you stop being lewd and tell me what you actually mean. And don’t waste my time pretending to be drunk.”

Nishi cursed under her breath. It took an alcoholic to know one, and—sure enough—with the yakuza’s tolerance it would take a lot more than this for her to be acting so tipsy. With a shrug and a sigh, she decided to drop the act.

“All right, everyone fuck off!” she yelled, then had to do so once more before the crowd dispersed. It was rather odd for the samurai to be taking orders from an outsider—let alone a yakuza—but that was the sort of presence Nishi had.

After they were gone, she flipped her teacher a rude gesture with her finger. “I ain’t talking about pricks getting wet, ronin. I’m talking about hands getting bloody—you know, killing. Somethin’ I thought you were good at!”

Nishi’s intention was to rile the ronin up. In that regard, her words backfired. The ex-assassin slumped and lowered their head. Regret was laced in their every word.

“I’m sorry I got you into this mess.”

“Pft! I stepped in this shit myself, but you can be damn sure I’ll ram my foot into any bastard who gets in my way. That includes a useless sensei like you!” Nishi spat, again trying to provoke her sword instructor. Anything sort of emotion would be an improvement from the mopey sap standing in front of her.

“I’ve lost the Jigoku Ittō-ryū, my sensei’s style. Ever since I was young, I relied upon that inhuman power. It was the source of my strength and skill, and without it, I—”

“Your sob story got an ending?” Nishi yawned. “I don’t give a shit-and-a-half about your style—hah! You sound like a woman off looking for clothes! Style, give me a break!”

Nishi stepped forward and grabbed the ronin by the collar. “Here’s your style! It’s a smelly old haori that’s a size too big for you! It looks like crap, but you can be damn sure that freckled broad back home put her heart into the stitches, you, you…”

For the first time in her life, the yakuza hadn’t any words to say. She wouldn’t dare let any out for fear of sobs coming out along with them. Her eyes began to burn as she thought about Kuniko and the other farmers, too. Decent, suffering folk who put on a party on their behalf. Who celebrated her—a yakuza who had considered herself alone in the world.

But she wasn’t alone. She was fighting alongside those who cared about her. And hell—even if they didn’t, they needed her. And that...that was more than Nishi thought she would ever have, after burning her comrades and watching their faces melt upon the pyre. She had to be strong, and she’d be damned if this ronin—of all people—would see her cry.

“Thanks, Nishi.”

■■■■

The fight against General Shatao’s best samurai was the worst battle Nishi had ever been a part of. There were a multitude of reasons for this, all of which blurred into a single, waking nightmare. Getting riddled with arrows—including one that had lodged itself into her leg—amidst the thickest fog the yakuza had ever seen...all while hearing the disembodied screams of her comrades...it was too much.

And as for the finale: the fog had lifted just in time for them all to watch Ige plead for his life. He got no mercy from Captain Goro, who decapitated him while the boy cried for his sensei in his final breath.

It was enough to haunt Nishi for the rest of her life. However long that would be, she didn’t know, as she stood bruised and battered in the samurai general’s throne room. It wasn’t at all like Shiroyama’s—there wasn’t a golden saké fountain, for starters—but the feeling of dread was just the same.

Keiko was in the infirmary, with wounds Nishi could only pray she’d recover from. The remaining ‘Tanimura Champions’ hardly fared any better: Hatch struggled to stay on his feet as his hands bled along with the large, nasty cut across his face. It was a wound given to him not by any samurai, but a ronin. The ronin, who stood like a specter—an empty husk—over Kohaku’s body.

The proud samurai wasn’t dead, but he was certainly humbled as his sensei kicked him relentlessly, sparing him not an ounce of mercy. This was all done at the behest of General Shatao, who looked upon his new subjects while gurgling out the same, guttural laughter Nishi had heard when they first met.

The only one who dared to stop them was a girl in a red silk kimono. Masami had entered the competition in disguise as Borgia thanks to a magical spell. But now, all illusions were shattered—including the shugenja’s relationship with her bodyguard.

“S-stop this immediately, you baka! That’s an order! I—” she was cut short when her once-protector shoved her away, hard enough to reel her backwards into a fall. It didn’t sting nearly as much as the betrayal did.

When the ronin spoke, their words were colder than ice. “I don’t…take orders from a kid.”

“You heartless bastard, how dare you hurt Masa-chan!” Nishi yelled and charged at the ronin, forgetting about the arrow wound to her leg. She collapsed in a furious yet pathetic heap, at the mercy of the one who she dared hope was worthy of redemption.

“You should’ve…died in Jijinto,” they replied, as if to prove her wrong.

That was the last Nishi could hear and all she could think before a searing pain made her mind go blank in agony. The ronin had plunged the scabbard of their katana into her arrow wound, adding insult to injury. The yakuza was in such pain that she couldn’t even begin to form the right curses—let alone shout them.

What happened next, Nishi only knew from hearing about it from the others afterwards. Apparently, Shatao was so pleased at the ronin’s obedience that he summoned them forward to kneel before him. He even took off his helmet, revealing some sort of mutation involving a bird’s beak and feathers.

To be honest, Nishi thought they had all gone crazy, but the result was the same regardless of her opinion: Shatao was dead, betrayed by the ultimate betrayer. Victory was theirs...if you stretched the definition of ‘victory’ far enough. Hatch now wore the armor and name of the deceased general while a wounded Kohaku stood at his side.

The yakuza wouldn’t forget the look on the ronin’s face as they passed her by, nor would she forgive them for all they had done. Nishi had every right and reason to hate them—to despise them, and yet at that moment she saw in those eyes a look she had so often seen in herself.

“You’re tryin’ real hard to be the villain here, aren’t ya? Well...consider it a fuckin’ success!”

■■■■

When the group returned to Tanimura the day after, the reception was as mixed as the group itself. Hatch and Kohaku had to stay behind while Keiko remained bed-ridden at the infirmary to heal. Their sensei was gone—which meant only Nishi was there to represent the Tanimura Champions.

Though that wasn’t entirely true.

“Ige...didya’ want one last look at this shithole you helped save?” Nishi asked to the hemp sack she was holding. It didn’t contain a pound of potatoes but the head of the fallen champion. “No, wouldn’t want to scare them, would ya? Considerate to a fuckin’ fault, I swear.”

Nishi smiled and chuckled, swallowing down her sorrow with a series of gulps. She was flanked by farmers at either side of her and surrounded by the hundred-some other occupants of the village. They were there for a funeral for a young man who had answered the call and paid the ultimate price.

Presiding over the burial was none other than Masami, who led the prayers with tears flowing down her cheeks. Beside her was her sister and future wife of the Emperor: Lady Amaterasu. As far as kabuki stagehands went, Ige would get the most royal send-off of them all.

Yet it wasn’t Masami who gave the eulogy. She was too overcome with grief to say anything more. Borgia, the dwarf, didn’t know what to say and neither did Toshie—the ninja who stood in a stoic silence overlooking the grave.

This was something only Nishi could do.

“I told Ige he was weak,” she said, breaking the silence. “Said he was a wimp—a loser. Not that he needed my help, but I did everything I fuckin’ could to make him doubt himself. And he was so damn pathetic! Gettin’ blisters and swingin’ like a little...a little…” Nishi cut herself off and choked down a cry. “You know, I used to think strength was about throwin’ a punch or swingin’ a sword. But the real shit—true strength—it ain’t about that.”

Nishi wiped her face clean and scowled as another’s came to mind: the ronin’s. It was them that her next words were meant for.

“You wanna know what real power is? Look around you! The effect you have on others...the people who care about you...that’s how strong you fuckin’ are! And you can say whatever you want about Ige, but…

...he sure as hell wasn’t weak!”