Side Story #26: Gensai's Golden Era

<Author’s note: This story takes place before the events of Book 1.>

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Side Story 26: Gensai’s Golden Era

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■■ The Midlands ■■

Central Hyuga was a lush land of bamboo forests, of gorges with criss-crossing rivers between them, and fields ripe for harvesting azuki and soybeans. Centuries ago, villages sprung up and prospered all around the area, over time forming clans with their own distinct culture and heritage. They developed mostly everything on their own—down to even their sword techniques—independent of their neighbors and outsiders most of all.

For them to unite and fight side-by-side meant the situation was bad. For them to call upon the Northern, Western and Eastern clans for help meant it was downright dire.

*VrrruhUMMM*

A conch shell broke the tense silence of the samurai holding position at Kiso River. They wore colors and emblems of all sorts, wearing various types of armor and armaments, too, but more importantly, they were surrounded by an enemy they couldn’t even see. While they had the swords, spears and bows to match any opponent, they hadn’t accounted for shugenja magic.

An unnaturally-dense fog on a dry summer’s day hid the Imperial army’s approach. The Southern samurai who swore their allegiance to Yamato and it’s Emperor waded across both sides of the river under the cover of mist. They were led by a giant of a man called Benkei, who was no mere soldier—though he wielded a naginata atop his horse with profound skill.

He was a shungeja: a magician capable of tapping into the power of the spirits themselves to bring his will into reality. Tying a talisman to his polearm, we raised it up high and twirled in the air, over and over, the fog forming into a cyclone above him. With the mists lifted, the signal was given for the Imperials to launch their attack.

“Don’t let a single one of them escape! Let them know the Mad Lion’s wrath as we rip the manes off their backs!”

War cries and bonsai yells followed. The battlefield was in chaos; there was no organization or designated lines of attack. This would change in the years that followed, as commanders from both sides would grow more skilled and strategic, but as of now, both the Imperial forces and the united clans fought with nothing but frantic desperation.

Having only known peace for generations, these samurai lacked experience in battle. But not all Hyugans had known peace in this era. There were those in one such group who weren’t just raised to fight, but were born in conflict—in a perpetual blood feud against their eternal rival. They were…

“The Takeda! They’re here! The Northerners have come to save us!” came a rallying cry from the overwhelmed samurai. Never before had the sight of four black squares atop a field of red been so beautiful and so fearsome, led by a young samurai who had already gained a legendary reputation.

“Gensai Takeda! The Demon with Golden-Eyes is here!”

Gensai cut through the enemy forces—in quite the literal sense, not so much as pausing his charge as he slayed one Imperial after another. His opponents were called samurai but he found them anything but: they were cowards who couldn’t even hold their swords properly. Even his eight-year old son had better technique than the soldiers he was splitting in two.

His men were right behind them, each of them already a veteran of a dozen battles with the Uesugi. No strangers to war, they showed no mercy to the Imperial soldiers even as they routed in fear for their lives. Even their prideful commander could see the tides turn and ordered their retreat. He summoned the mist once again to hide their tracks.

But Gensai had foreseen the retreat coming, and cut Benkei off where the river was at its shallowest. That Gensai could see him at all in this dense fog was surprising enough for the shugenja; that his eyes emitted a golden light terrified him.

“So you’re their commander...the one with golden eyes, huh? You don’t look so fearsome to me!” Benkei shouted, swinging his naginata around in a display of skill. Gensai gave no reaction but to hold his katana up and ready. Unlike the samurai, the shugenja was atop a steed and had a much longer reach—a deadly combination, one that gave confidence to his charge.

“For the Emper—aAH!” he yelled as he fell forward and off his saddle, rolling headfirst into the stream. Gensai vanished right as Benkei was about to strike him down. The samurai’s speed made him a blur while his strength was enough to cut Benkei in two. Though the shungeja hadn’t been the samurai’s victim.

Benkei looked back and in horror, saw his beloved horse slashed wide open. A giant stallion, cut into two with a single, horizontal strike.

“Who are you...no, what are you?!” Benkei asked as he struggled to his feet, shaking in his sandals. Though he possessed powers from another realm and towered over his opponent, the fearsome commander could do nothing but add his piss to the Kiso River as Gensai approached him.

The lord of the Takeda answered with steel, severing Benkei’s right arm from his elbow. He did so with no more that a flick of the wrist, in a manner one would swat a troublesome fly. For that was what Benkei was, to him.

Gensai picked up the shugenja’s arm and tossed it back at him, giving his declaration in a voice of unquestionable authority:

“I am Gensai Takeda! Take this back to your lion Emperor. Tell him that he has chosen dangerous prey!”

The Imperial forces retreated thereafter with what few survivors they had. The bolstered clan forces wanted to pursue the enemy further, though Gensai ordered them not to. “Let them lick their wounds. We’ve secured the river—that’s all that matters. Now allow me a moment alone to reflect on the battle.”

Gensai waited until he was alone to withdraw the right hand he kept hidden inside his kimono. It was shaking as it always did after using that fearsome power—more than that, the flesh was blackened as veins bulged down his arm. It would settle down in time, Gensai knew, but this was the reason the swordsman didn’t engage in lengthy battles.

“To kill...whatever this curse is, it desires nothing more. Joukei-chan, if only I could hear your voice. None but yours can calm this monster within me.”

Joukei was the wife he had left behind in Hokusei. She was a wonderful woman and a patient one, too, to put up with a husband who traveled for months on end to train and challenge sword schools across Hyuga. She had been afflicted with a sickness just a week prior to Gensai leaving for war. He hadn’t wanted to leave her side, yet the central clans were desperate for aid.

Gensai grit his teeth as the tremors grew and as his arm began to flail as if amidst a seizure. Embracing this power within him was always easy—it was the ‘letting go’ that was becoming increasingly difficult. It was a power that had been with him since he was a boy, since those dark weeks trapped within Toi Mine with the others.

The samurai shook off those thoughts, thankful to be interrupted by one of his messengers. This one was from the rear convoy. “My apologies, Gensai-sama, but there is an issue with one of the caravans. They found a stowaway.”

“An enemy spy? A shinobi?”

“No...it’s your son, sir.”

■■■■

A month had passed since the Takeda arrived in the Midlands, aiding in the defence of the other clans. They had brought manpower and skilled swords enough to push back the Imperial forces, yet a lack of supplies were quickly becoming an issue. The Emperor had focused his efforts on cutting their supply routes to the east and west, and as such, they could only rely on the northern passages to keep themselves fed.

Ichiro—Gensai’s son—was munching on stale rice balls while on lookout duty towards their northern flank. As there was little to no chance of an attack from that direction, it wasn’t so much of a duty as it was a punishment considering an eight year old was of little use on the battlefield. His father had said as much with far less kinder words, striking him four weeks earlier.

The boy nursed the bruise on his right cheek. While it had long since healed and no physical pain remained, the sting of disappointing his father remained. Ichiro had wanted to help and follow in his father’s footsteps, but he was shunned for jeopardizing their clan’s future and worrying his mother, Joukei.

“But Mother is ill...it isn’t like they would let me visit her, anyway. And what good does it do me to sit around the mansion all day while Father is at war? How else am I gonna learn to be a proper samurai like him some day?”

Ichiro was so busy moping that he nearly didn’t see the white banners nor the samurai in matching armor approaching his position from down the road. Their numbers were in the hundreds; the sight alone was enough to freeze the boy in fear. Doubly so when he saw that their emblems were of two swallows kissing.

“Uesugi!” the boy yelled as he ran, running to his father to warn him of the enemy. “They’re here to attack us from behind!”

■■■■

Gensai was at a meeting: one of the countless councils he had the obligation to sit on among the other clan heads. The group had decided to call themselves the Azuniki Alliance, a combination of Azuma (East), Nishi (West), and Kita (North). As for which word was used first, second and third...it had taken the group two weeks of lengthy debate to decide.

That was how productive these meetings were.

“Their main encampment is in’a heavily wooded area. I ain’t able to commit my horses to such’a...brazen frontal assault,” Haramusa Nanbu said, repeating what he had said days and weeks prior. The lord of his clan, Haramusa was a samurai whose horsemanship was without equal; he represented the Westlands in the Azuniki Alliance. The horses his calvary road into battle were one-and-a-half times the size of the enemy’s and many times more fierce.

Gensai considered him a just man, if a bit naive and difficult to understand given his accent.

“I know where their encampment is—that fort used to be mine, damn it!” yelled Nobuharu of Clan Oda. His lands were the most recent to be razed by Imperial forces. Nobuharu’s family was large as were his forces, too, though both had been trimmed short in recent years. Gensai had much more respect for the lord’s deceased brother, Nobunaga, who had possessed the lion’s share of his family’s intellect.

“Whatever action we take...it must be done promptly. My men are on their last bags of rice,” replied Shatao Taira, representing the East. His infantry were among the greatest armored in Hyuga, following in the fashion of their lord whose armor was said to be impenetrable. Perhaps more importantly, his lands were among the most fertile for rice—their supplies having kept the alliance fed thus far. But with their supply line cut, it was only a matter of time before everyone starved.

“As much as I hate to agree, Nobuharu is right. The timing was ripe weeks ago—we must strike now or never!” replied Motonari of Clan Mori. “I’ve heard rumors that the Mad Lion’s shugenja general, that Benkei, was seen on the frontlines again—with both arms attached! Perhaps you didn’t cut as deeply as you thought, Lord Takeda?”

Gensai didn’t dignify the remark with a response, so Lord Nanbu spoke for him. “Must’ve been that doctor of there’s. I hear tell he can stitch together pieces of men and make a fresh new one. Could just be rumors, though.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gensai said, opening his eyes for the first time since the meeting began. “To overextend now would be foolish at best, disastrous at worse. With rations as tight as they are, a forward advance is unwise. What they want above all else is control of the Kiso...let them sit in their bamboo forests a while longer.”

Of all the lords, Gensai was by far the greatest swordsman; he was a legendary duelist among both his troops and their own. As such, his words commanded more respect than most. And though his words were reasonable, they weren’t popular among the other alliance members.

“You speak...as if we have time to linger, Gensai-san,” said Lord Taira. “Is there perhaps...something you aren’t telling us? It is not wise to keep secrets between friends—or allies, for that matter.”

Gensai gave no reaction, though he noted that the heavily armored samurai was among the more insightful of the group. In truth, the Takeda did have plans: but not ones he could disclose with the others. The reality was, the greatest threat the Azuniki Alliance faced was from the inside; clans defecting to the Imperial forces were becoming more and more common. The Emperor offered no shortage of incentives.

“It isn’t a matter of if one among you will betray us, but when,” Gensai thought, peering across the table.

The meeting was then interrupted by a boy—Gensai’s—who claimed the enemy were marching right towards them. “It’s the, the Uesugi! They’re here, Father! They’re gonna kill us!”

Everyone at the table looked towards Gensai, who once again gave no reaction. Following Ichiro’s plea was a heavy set of footsteps and guards yelling for their owner to stand down. They were pushed aside and made to cower as the frightening visage of the large, brown-haired samurai came into view.

Gensai was the first to greet him. “It’s about time you showed up, Izō.”

“Couldn’t let you hog all the glory! Not too late to join this little club of yours, is it?” the head of the Uesugi bellowed, his laughter growing as he looked over each of the lords at the table. “These your retainers, Gensai? Hardly a swordsman between them! Ghahawhaw!”

The other clan lords rose from their seats in varying amounts of rage. They weren’t used to such blatant displays of disrespect—especially not from a supposed ally. Gensai raised a hand to keep them from unsheathing their katanas and sending themselves to an early grave.

“Calm yourselves. He is simply trying to garner a reaction from each of you. Even a dull-headed Uesugi recognizes he’s in the company of lords.”

“Pft,” Izō spat, “I was never much for talking. Once you and your pals are done tossing wind in here, let’s continue where we left off. Assuming you still have the will to fight, Gensai.”

■■■■

The clashing of steel echoed over a creek far away from the camp and nearby patrols. Gensai and Izō exchanged blows using blunted katanas—more likely to maim than kill, but still far too deadly for two clan heads to be using in a practice duel. Though this was beyond a training exercise: their fighting was intense, so much so that they had to do so in private so that their retainers wouldn’t intervene.

To hold nothing back, to fully test your skill against another—that was all that mattered to a swordmaster.

“As quick and focused as ever,” Izō said, recovering from his missed lunge. “I’d have thought you’d be more distracted, given what’s happened. But you’re the same as you’ve always been.”

*CLANG*

The two clashed, forcing their weight down upon the other. In matters of brutish force, Izō had a stark advantage: he was the taller and heavier between them. His style of swordsmanship focused on dominating his opponent with his superior strength; for Gensai to explain it in a word, it was overbearing. 

The Takeda retreated and recovered his breath. “What are you talking about? What has happened?”

Izō showed a look of surprise before he settled on his usual, wicked grin. “So they haven’t told you...well, better for me then. Give me the best fight you can, Gensai! Don’t you dare grow dull!”

*schwing* *clink* *shwop*

The fighting intensified, and it was becoming clearer that Izō was the attacker while Gensai was on the defensive. The Takeda caught himself losing focus over whatever it was that was supposed to distract him. Uesugi like Izō were terrible liars—which meant something was wrong, but what?

“Gah?!” Gensai let out a yelp when his guard broke from an uppercut he hadn’t seen coming. Both his katana and arms were pushed above his head, leaving his entire torso open for Izō’s next attack. Most samurai would end it there and claim themselves the victor; but Izō—like the wolf in human flesh that he was—always preferred to draw blood.

He swung his blade in an arc that would rip far more than Gensai’s kimono. Izō put all his power behind the strike; his feet were unsteady upon the loose rocks of the stream, and so when an eight-year old threw himself against him in a charging tackle from behind, he lost his balance, swung wide, and fell like an oak into the shallow waters below.

Time itself seemed to stop for Gensai, who braced himself to receive a slash across the chest that never arrived. He looked down at Izō’s large body, planted face-down into the stream. He then looked at the boy who stood beside it, speaking between pants of breath.

“Father, are you—”

*SLAP*

“How dare you!” Gensai yelled after the palm of his hand whipped across Ichiro’s face. “You’re no son of mine, to interrupt this match! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?! This dishonor will stain me and our family for...Izō, stand up,” the samurai said to his rival, who continued to lay down atop the stream. “Do not think for a moment this is humorous! Stand up, already!”

When his rival remained motionless, Gensai hurried to his side and turned the hulking body over. Izō looked up at him with empty, open eyes—the sort that dead men had. Holding his breath, Gensai checked Izō’s as well as his pulse, thanking the spirits that the Uesugi still had both.

“Ichiro. Get a doctor,” Gensai ordered. “And do not speak of what has happened here to anyone. Do you understand?”

■■■■

Gensai stripped off his kimono and tossed it into a nearby bush. He replaced it with the contents of the sack he had been carrying for the past couple hours. In it was an Imperial set of garments for a foot soldier—an ashigaru, complete with a conical iron helmet. After tying a rope belt around his waist and securing his katana within it, Gensai stood.

Not as a proud samurai of the Takeda, but a common soldier for the Emperor without so much as a family name.

He was behind enemy lines, now, on an operation so pivotal that he could only trust himself to see it through. Izō had fallen—quite literally—into a coma, and if the Uesugi were to learn of it, the truce between the two Northern clans would end and with it, any chance the Azuniki Alliance had of fending off the Emperor.

The only chance he had to save both Izō and the alliance was based on a rumor. The Emperor had a doctor in his service, said to be a legend who could all but raise fallen soldiers from the dead. The man’s name was Matsuyo Fujii. Gensai’s mission was to find, capture and retrieve the doctor at any cost.

“I’ve always wanted you dead, Izō...but not like this. Kuso!” Gensai cursed at himself while approaching one of the forward Imperial encampments the Mori had scouted a week prior. To his surprise, he wasn’t questioned until he was inside the base, and even then...the question was a hypothetical one.

“What are you doing, maggot?! Quit standin’ around and get to digging!” barked a drill sergeant who threw a shovel at him. Gensai snatched it and apologized before taking position at the end of a fifty-man team. They were digging ditches, either to be used as trenches or as moats with wooden spikes to halt cavalry charges.

They toiled mostly in silence and morale seemed to be low among them. They were well-tanned, skinny, and a tad shorter than the average Hyugan in height. From his travels, Gensai knew them to be Southerners, from Genfu or the neighboring villages. But it was only when the man beside him started singing could he be absolutely certain.

“Oh!!! Sōran, sōran, sōran!

When we hear the jabberin’ of seagulls on the high seas,

we know we can’t give up our fishing lives on the ocean.”

This was the Sōran Bushi: a sea shanty that you couldn’t help but hear in any port town or village down South. Even Gensai knew it; that blasted song had gotten stuck in his head long after he had challenged and defeated the sword schools down that way.

There was supposed to be a chorus after that line, though the other soldiers seemed too dispirited to chip in. So Gensai cleared his throat and did the best he could to hide his Northern accent.

“Put your backs into it! Heave, ho! Heave, ho!”

The others picked up before Gensai finished, and so too did their pace and the mood as the group carried on singing the fisherman’s tune. An hour went into two without the samurai even noticing—such was the power of a group of men working in unison. As it was starting to grow dark, the drill sergeant told them to stop.

The man beside him—the one who started the song—introduced himself as Toshiaki, and thanked him for joining in when he did. He asked Gensai how he knew the lyrics, as he ‘sure ain’t no Southern boy’.

“I’ve traveled down to Genfu before, to learn from the schools there. Judging by the two tantos at your hip, can I assume that you are a practitioner of the Kamakiri Niten-ryū?”

“Aye, that I am! The School of the Two-Bladed Mantis...did you know Kagetada-sensei?”

“Yes, of course. He was a...skilled swordsman,” Gensai recalled. He neglected to mention that the man was a drunkard, too, and was several cups deep before their scheduled duel. Once Gensai drew first blood, the outraged sensei ordered his best student to fight in his place—to the death. Gensai killed the young man and then forced Kagetada to take his own life out of shame.

“Kagetada-sensei...he was murdered in cold blood by some forsaken Northerner! Don’t know whether it was a Takeedah or an Uesiigee, and frankly, I don’t give a damn! I’ll kill ‘em all—swore an oath I would!”

Gensai nodded. He understood vengeance as well as any samurai. His dueling had made him no shortage of enemies.

“But enough chattin’ about the past! Let’s go get us some drinks and throw some bones around! First round is on me, er...whaddya say your name was?”

“Hideaki,” Gensai replied. “Just...Hideaki.”

The two became quick friends even though they were as opposite as two samurai could be. Toshiaki was noisy and boisterous while Gensai—or Hideaki—was quiet and reserved. From what the Northerner could see from the soldiers in training exercises around them, their tactics relied on overwhelming numbers and teamwork, minimizing single combat whenever possible.

Gensai would’ve inspected them further had his new friend not pulled him into a gambling den. The group was playing Chō-Han: a game of dice where you either guessed odd or even. The Takeda was never a gambling man—it was a cheap thrill in comparison to a swordfight—but he feigned interest all the same.

While they were waiting for their turn at the table, he asked his new comrade questions about the army.

“You really are fresh, ain’t ya? Well, see, the Emperor doesn’t care none about who your father was, but what your rank is. That symbol on your vest there means you’re just a private like me. It’s why we’re the ones diggin’ ditches. Above us are sergeants, lieutenants, captains, and er...well, anyone higher than that, don’t look ‘em in the eyes. They don’t need an excuse to flay us on the spot!”

“I see...by this ranking system, even those who come from poor backgrounds or from dishonored families can improve their station. And they are still called samurai?” Gensai asked, to which Toshiaki replied with a resounding ‘aye’. “Does that not serve to cheapen the title, if every peasant wielding a katana is considered such?”

“K-keep yer voice down, would’ya?” Toshiaki said, hushing his companion. “Got some sensitive egos you could be bruising with that sorta talk. Way I figure, nobody wants to be a common footsoldier. They all want to be samurai, so why not hand ‘em a sword and let ‘em? They’ll fight harder that way, aye?”

“Is this your plot, Emperor Shigeru? You couldn’t destroy the samurai, so you intend to cheapen it with lowlifes such as these?”

When it was finally their turn at the table, neither had much luck. The difference between them was that Gensai knew when to cut his losses; Toshiaki had no such foresight, making even larger bets in an attempt to chase after lost ryō. Eventually he was heavily in debt.

“That’s it, Toshiaki. Time to pay the house,” one of the thugs said while his kin took places behind them. “I’m done holdin’ your debts. Your friend here has a nice lookin’ sword, though—been keepin’ my eye on it all this time. Tell him to hand it over and I’ll consider us even.”

A silence befell the gambling den—which was really just a large tent beside the soldiers’ mess hall. Even so, it was operated by a gang with some measure of organization. The reason became clear once Gensai spotted a few tattoos peeking out from their sleeves.

“I’m sorry about this, Hideaki, but—”

“I wonder what our Emperor would think if he knew yakuza were running gambling dens under his own nose. I don’t suppose he’d appreciate it much.”

“Why, you! You’ll lose more than just your sword, talkin’ that way to us!” said the yakuza, motioning to pull out his katana. His companions did likewise.

Gensai showed no fear for these so-called samurai warranted none. “You’re a gambler, aren’t you? Then how about we make a wager: your life or mine. A duel to the death. If you wish for my katana—you may pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

The yakuza was thinking it over, looking up and down Gensai and especially at his uniform and rank as a private. He himself was a lieutenant, two ranks superior to this uppity novice. Even still...there was something about the way his opponent carried himself that made him cautious. At least until Gensai sweetened the pot.

“I’ll even keep my eyes closed during our duel, if you prefer. For human trash such as yourself—I’ll dispose of you without even looking!”

Such a bold claim did more than just rouse the ire of his opponent; it spread across the encampment like wildfire, the event quickly becoming a gambling affair that was far and away more interesting than any roll of the dice.

“You...you don’t gotta do this, Hideaki. Sure that’s a nice katana—but it ain’t worth dyin’ over! Just give me the word and I’ll put a stop to this,” Toshiaki whispered. Gensai refused, instead looking over the crowd that had amassed around him. He could only grin and think of what an opportune time it would be for the other clans to strike: even the sentries had abandoned their posts to witness the fight.

“Hand me the blindfold,” Gensai said. Toshiaki hesitated though he complied all the same. To be blinded was nothing new to Gensai: ever since the weeks he spent in pure darkness trapped inside Toi Mine, his sense of hearing had become heightened. Not to mention another, darker sense as well.

He would make use of both to defeat his opponent.

“Let’s give our brave Hideaki a round of applause! It takes a special sort of idiot to challenge me to a duel. And to do so with a blindfold on—well, it’s been nice knowin’ ya!” the yakuza yelled, prompting the others to break out into cheers. Gensai’s opponent knew what he was doing: getting the crowd to create noise made hearing his approach all the more difficult.

But that was fine by Gensai. The Takeda wanted a challenge. He crouched low with his katana in its sheath and his feet firmly planted on the ground.

“What’s this? You’re not even going to draw your sword? You’re even dumber than I thought! Ora!” the yakuza yelled as he charged. Gensai focused on his footsteps, but more than that, he felt for the man’s intent. Murderous intent had it’s own sort of energy—a vibration that resonated with his right wrist. The dark power within him fed on that very sensation.

The yakuza stopped well out of reach, pulling out something from his kimono that the crowd found rather humorous. Gensai guessed it was either an apple or a tomato—turned out to be the former, as the Takeda caught it right before it slammed into his face. He took a large bite out of it and spat out the seeds.

“Thank you for the meal. Now, if you’re finished—come! Let me show you what it means to strike without action!”

The crowd was quickly converted to his side, infuriating his opponent who now came at him with deadly intent. But this wasn’t Gensai’s first time attempting such a stunt—and he could tell from the footwork alone that the yakuza was making a common mistake.

Just because Gensai was blind and in a quick-draw stance didn’t mean he couldn’t move. In this case he dashed forward, and that was all he was aware of doing before the power that possessed him took over.

*swash*

In less than a blink of the eye, Gensai’s katana was unsheathed and had swung through what was once his opponent. The samurai didn’t know for certain that he was dead—only that the hot blood spray flying up his arms and into his face seemed to indicate such.

There wasn’t a roar from the crowd as the samurai expected there would be. When he took off his blindfold, he understood why: there was a guest of honor who had stepped forth to witness Gensai cut the yakuza clean through. It was the greatest guest there could be.

The Mad Lion, Emperor Shigeru. He began clapping, his mouth open wide with his partially-rotten teeth showing.

“Hyek-yekyekyek! That’s the fastest sword draw I’ve ever seen! Tell me—who are you, samurai? One of our captains?”

Gensai shook his head. “No...Your Majesty. I am but a new recruit, named Hideaki.”

“Well—you’re a captain now! Fujibayashi, see to it that he’s assigned to head one of our scouting divisions. It will be a nice change of pace to have a single good swordsman among them, don’t you think?”

“Yes my lord,” Fujibayashi said and bowed. He had both the attire and composure of a ninja: an agent with mastery over stealth and subterfuge. Shinobi like him were clever which meant they were dangerous, too, especially for Gensai who had to keep his identity secret.

As for his false identity, it was being heralded across camp.

“HI-DE-A-KI! HI-DE-A-KI!”

Toshiaki was chief among them, so excited that you’d have thought he had swung the sword and not Gensai. Apparently the Southerner had placed a bet that paid dividends and then some. Just as celebrations were about to begin, Fujibayashi took the samurai off to the side.

“You’ll start your new position tomorrow morning. Just keep in mind: though His Imperial Majesty may praise your technique, it is unfamiliar to me. That and the way you carry yourself suggests a noble upbringing, though I don’t recall a Hideaki among any daimyo. Are you a bastard?”

Gensai shook his head. “I am—or I was, a ronin. But now I am a samurai once more, and I shall serve my Emperor until the day I die.”

Fujibayashi stroked his goatee and stared at Gensai for a long while before nodding. “Let us hope that day does not come too soon, then.”

■■■■

Kiyotsukyo Gorge was made of volcanic ash that had hardened centuries ago. Its rocks were unique in that they were a series of columns with sharp angles, splaying out on either side of the river in a ‘V’ shape. This chasm was more than just a natural beauty: it was a strategic chokepoint that the Emperor was determined to hold.

The regiment that Gensai was now in charge of was the one holding it. Though after looking over his men—and the condition their swords were in—the samurai doubted they could hold it long. He held one of their swords up to his face and scowled.

“This is what passes for a katana, these days? It’s cracked in three places! It’s so dull I could clench the blade in my fist and not get so much as a papercut!” Gensai complained, before demonstrating just that. He tossed the piece of junk back to the recruit it belonged to. “I want you and everyone else in that river, digging for waterstones. If you don’t know how to sharpen your blade, then spirits help you! The enemies will sharpen theirs with your skull!”

“Y-yes Sensei!” the recruit said and the sentiment was shared by the fifty-two others under Gensai’s command. The group had already taken to calling him ‘Sensei’—though he had done nothing in the first hours as a captain other than instruct them on the very basics of sword technique and footwork.

That they had learned neither prior to this point...well, it boded well for the Azuniki Alliance. The Mad Lion had essentially been handing out lengthy kitchen knives to farmers and fishermen alike, calling them ‘samurai’ and sending them off to war in droves. They’d die like the minnows they were—by the sharp teeth of the sharks that awaited them not long in the distance.

“While I’ve earned the Emperor’s regard, this is hardly getting me closer to Matsuyo Fujii. I need to find the doctor—and I can’t do it out here!” Gensai’s frustrations came out in his eyes, which for a moment took a golden glow. His wrist ached, too, itching for the sensation of killing once more. The power within him was threatening to consume him entirely.

Only the sight of flowers quelled his bloodlust. Though what calmed him wasn’t the purple primroses but the woman they reminded him of. “Joukei-chan...I wonder what flowers I shall bring you when I return home. Something that only grows this far south, perhaps a—”

“Hideaki!” Toshiaki yelled. The man had volunteered himself to join Gensai’s division as a messenger. “I’ve just come back from the main camp—they’re under attack! Our entire flank was exposed. There’s smoke as far as the eye can see!”

The Imperial troops jumped from out of the river and begged Gensai for their orders. Even the sky joined in, it seemed, as rain began to trickle down on them.

“What color were there banners?” Gensai asked, to which Toshiaki replied that they were green. The attackers were no doubt cavalry led by Haramusa Nanbu, especially skilled in hit-and-run tactics. Harassing the enemy, never engaging long...such an approach was good for many things—particularly when you wanted the enemy to direct their forces elsewhere.

“Pack up the camp. Hide our supplies and tie up the horses further back. Let them think we’ve abandoned our post. Meanwhile, we’ll hide where the gorge is at its narrowest. Prepare for battle!”

Everyone was surprised by the order but no one questioned it—such was the power of the captain’s badge at his chest. Gensai wondered if his ‘students’ could actually survive an assault. He’d find out sooner rather than later.

In less than an hour of waiting, troops could be seen marching from the far end of the gorge. As it was much easier to walk through the chasm than around it, they approached forward in a steady march, not noticing the position Gensai’s soldiers had taken behind the rocks.

The samurai captain prayed they weren’t Takeda, and his prayers were answered when the banners came into view. They were yellow, which meant this was the Oda Clan. Looking closer, Gensai saw that the group was led by Nobutoki: Nobuharu’s half-brother.

The enemy had numbers on them: four-to-one, by Gensai’s estimation. As this was the Oda, they were mostly spearmen and archers—neither of which was useful in close-quarters fighting. Adding to Gensai’s advantage in the tight and rocky passage, the trickle of rain had since become a raging downpour.

Tension peaked as the Oda soldiers walked by them, though it wasn’t time for them to strike just yet. They had to let the vanguard through if they wanted to do as much damage as possible. To the Imperial soldiers’ credit, they managed to be more patient than most. That or they were all frozen by fear.

Either way, they did their job and earned their pay once Gensai gave the order.

“FOR THE EMPEROR!”

Chaos ensued. What the Imperials lacked for experience and expertise, they more than made up for in surprise and ferocity. Gensai noted that the techniques he had taught them had been all but forgotten—though perhaps that was for the best, as to think too much in combat was a rookie mistake.

So Gensai didn’t think much at all as he slayed his first twenty soldiers. Spearmen out of formation were all but useless, and crammed as they were, they squirmed as sardines while Gensai hooked one after the other. The Oda sought to reform atop the slippery slopes, many falling into the raging river doing so.

Behind them was Nobutoki in a full suit of yellow samurai armor. He was shouting orders with a war fan in one hand and a katana in the other, though his voice didn’t carry far amidst the downpour. Not that his men were in any condition to listen to reason: some were diving into the river, preferring to risk their lives in the rapids then face the enemy they couldn’t see.

As for the one they could...he frightened them most of all.

Gensai cut through their numbers as if they were weeds until reaching the Nobutoki. The Oda lord was abandoned by his retainers in the end, none of them willing to step in the demon’s path. Gensai had managed to hold back the power within until now. With him and his prey alone, he let his eyes envelop in gold and peered into the crimson lines of death etched all over his opponent.

“Is...is that you, Gensai Takeda?! What are you—huACK!”

When the rain settled, Gensai held up Nobutoki’s disembodied head by his hair. The Imperial troops that remained cheered and shouted, praising him as their enemies littered the canyon’s floor. There was a pile of Oda raised high in the chasm—nearly enough to dam the river.

“You may never forgive me for this, Nobuharu. But everything I’m doing here...I do for the sake of the Alliance.”

■■■■

“Hyek-yekyekyek! What an ugly face—and that expression, he looks constipated! He’s an Oda, all right!”

The Mad Lion Shigeru laughed upon his golden throne at the center of the main encampment. Surrounding him were rows of heads in various states of decay. The smell was as putrid as one would imagine, but the old Emperor had long since lost his sense of smell. Gensai felt some pity for his retainers, who had to stand guard beside festering heads for hours on end.

Among them was Fujibayashi, the ninja, and Benkei, the shugenja. It was the latter that caused Gensai to keep his head down as he knelt before the Emperor. He could only hope the iron helmet he wore hid his face and that Benkei wouldn’t recognize it from one month before.

“Which one was this, again? Nobu...toki? Bah! All those ‘Nobu’s...you think they’d come up with more original names! You, Benkei,” the Emperor ordered, “place this head down in the third row with the other Oda. I’m going for a complete set!”

The large shugenja did so, though after he placed it, the Emperor gave another command: “Kiss him.”

Benkei hesitated—and rightfully so, before kneeling and kissing Nobutoki on the forehead. He had to kiss him once more after the Mad Lion told him to do so on the lips.

“I imagine his lips taste cold, don’t they? Almost as cold as my corpse would be, had Hideaki here retreated as you did on our eastern front! Thanks to you, you blundering idiot, the Taira clan have secured their supply lines once more! Your foolishness has added ten years to this war!”

“My sincerest ap—”

“Save your sorries, General. Or should I say...Captain? You’re being demoted. Hideaki here is taking your command!”

The shugenja looked as if he had just been stabbed in the throat. He bowed deeply and groveled as any man would before the divine embodiment that was His Imperial Majesty, but the glare he gave Ichiro was nothing short of menacing.

“Now then, aside from your promotion, General Hideaki, you may make one request. Anything within reason shall be yours. Such an accomplishment in battle cannot go unrewarded.”

Gensai paused. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He cleared his throat and made the request.

“You wish to see the esteemed doctor, ay? He is quite good at what he does...very well then. I shall make arrangements with Matsuyo Fujii immediately. Whatever health concern you have, consider his services your own!”

“Thank you, my lord!”

Before Gensai could leave and after the Emperor had left for other affairs, the ninja Fujibayashi came and approached him. Though the talk was cordial, the samurai could tell that the shinobi was up to something. Especially when he handed him a slip of paper.

“I wrote this poem, though from what I hear from the soldiers, you have a much better singing voice than I. Would you be so kind as to read it aloud for me?”

It was an odd request, though Gensai complied.

“Compared to her grace,

the blossoms in Hokusei

wilt in jealousy.”

The samurai struggled with the words, not because they were unfamiliar but because they were familiar: this was one of the many poems Gensai had written for his wife Joukei when he was courting her years ago. That Fujibayashi was taking credit for his previous work was hardly his greatest concern.

The shinobi stared and examined Gensai for some time before the Takeda excused himself and hurried along. After the samurai left, Fujibayashi and Benkei whispered to eachother, the latter breaking into a wide, maniacal grin.

■■■■

“A coma, you say? That’s quite troublesome indeed,” said the short and portly middle-aged man. He didn’t seem particularly special—certainly not as legendary as his reputation would have you believe—but Gensai knew appearances weren’t everything. Matsuyo Fujii had done with his hands what not even shugenja magic could do: save lives.

This time he needed to save Izō Uesugi’s.

“From what you’ve told me, the comatose was induced by a blunt striking upon the head—an advanced concussive state. Deer antler velvet is often used as smelling salts, having some benefit for such patients to regain alertness. But it would need to be strengthened significantly...hm, I’m afraid this seems beyond the realm of medicine, Hideaki-san. Now if you’ll excuse me, I—”

“I don’t think you understand,” Gensai said, placing one hand on his hilt. “This is an order from the Emperor. You’re coming with me to cure this patient.”

Matsuyo blinked and squinted, his eyes already beginning to fail. They worked well enough, at least, to see that it was better for him if he complied and so he did so, gathering the velvet along with other herbs and supplies. When he was ready to leave, Gensai stopped him.

“Wait. Something’s wrong. Do you hear that?” he asked.

The doctor shook his head. “Why, I don’t hear anything at all.”

Gensai nodded. Though he had only spent a couple nights here, he knew the camp was never quiet—especially not this time in the evening around supper. Something was wrong, yet he had no choice but to step out of the medicinal hut all the same.

*crunch*

The sound of a leaf crunching beneath his sandal was odd, given the summer season. One look down revealed that it wasn’t a leaf at all, but a slip of paper: a talisman, glowing white and growing brighter. Gensai hopped back right before it exploded in a puff of smoke and a clap of thunder!

If it wasn’t enough to kill him outright, it would’ve blown his legs out from under him.

“Awfully quick for a mere footsoldier. Though we both know you’re something much more than that...right, Gensai Takeda?”

When the smoke faded, Gensai’s greatest fear was revealed: he was surrounded by the Imperial army, led by Benkei who stood menacingly before him with his naginata embedded into the ground.

Benkei spat a wad of spit over at Gensai’s direction. “Puh! The dishonor you have given me—not once, but twice—I shall revel in returning it tenfold, Takeda! I wonder if I should kiss your lips as well, after I tear your head from your shoulders, or if I should find other uses for them instead! Bhahahaha!”

The other soldiers joined in the laughter, at least until Gensai drew his sword. Rumor of his swordsmanship was well known by each of them. Some among them had fought right beside him just hours earlier. They would hesitate before killing their own captain and sensei—regardless of what clan he hailed from.

Gensai would’ve hesitated as well, at least until he heard what Benkei said next.

“You came here alone in order to die, didn’t you? How romantic...to be so eager to reunite with your dead wife! Would that more of you Northern samurai were so damn sentimental!”

“You lie! Joukei—she isn’t dead! She’s just ill!” Gensai replied, sweat forming on his brow. True dread flowed within him unlike any fear he had faced before. Facing a hundred men in battle was nothing compared to the terror of losing the part of him he needed most.

“Oh? They didn’t tell you? Your precious Joukei you’ve written so much about—she’s not so much of a beauty anymore, I’m afraid. Not with her face bubbled up in puss-filled bumps all over! That pox-ridden bitch must’ve made for one unsightly corpse, don’t you think?”

Gensai forgot himself.

He was no longer a Takeda, a samurai, or a man. He surrendered everything he thought he was—everything this world claimed him to be—to become no more than the wielder of his sword. Without a mind and without taking a single breath, the being that was once Gensai Takeda lurched forward with a speed and power unlike anything Hyuga had seen before.

It would not be the last Hyuga would see of what would eventually become the ‘Strike of Non-Thought’, but it was certainly a worthy debut. Samurai were to the sword no more than lines, and to the wielder they were but numbers to be counted and marked off in red.

“Ichi, Ni, San, Shi, Go, Roku, Shichi...Ni Juu Ni, Ni Juu San, Ni Juu Shi...Go Juu Shichi, Go Juu Hachi, Go Juu Kyuu…”

The wielder didn’t know how high he had counted when he finally stopped—when his bloodlust settled, his eyes burned and his breath returned in heaping gasps—but when he did, he knew the ‘battle’ was over. A field of corpses littered the campsite, a mist of blood floated stagnant in the air, and every inch of Gensai was coated in Takeda red.

As he took in deep, heaving breaths, he found what was left of Benkei and cut the scalp from the shugenja’s head. It was more than just a trophy, but a reminder of the day everything in this world had changed. For Gensai, the man he once knew was dead—finally consumed by the darkness within him.

He pointed at Matusyo Fujii, who was as pale as a ghost, with his blackened right hand and told him to follow. The doctor could do nothing but shiver and comply.

There was no sound to be heard upon this battlefield, and none alive—save for a certain shinobi. Fujibayashi was the lone survivor: a number left uncounted.

“That...that style, does it have a name?” Fujibayashi asked, struggling to remain on his feet. His ninja outfit was torn along with most of the skin on his arms. Gensai had no answer for him, so he shook his head. “Then may I...suggest you call it Hell’s Release: for you are a demon, let loose upon this land! Take what you’ve come for and leave!”

Gensai accepted the plea. He looked up into the sky, only realizing now that it was raining. Though while the water could wash away the blood from his skin, nothing could clean the stain inside his heart.

“Hell’s Release...the Jigoku Ittō-ryū. I like the sound of it.”

■■■■

“What in the...Gensai? Did I die and go to hell?” Izō asked, waking up from his lengthy slumber. Though Gensai was no medical professional, that the Uesugi lord was in such good humor was a good sign.

Matsuyo Fujii confirmed as much. “I can’t quite believe that worked! To think that a shugenja’s scalp of all things activated the antlers as some sort of agent...I can only surmise that the residue magic within the hair fibers...yes, how remarkable! I must make note of this at once!”

Gensai ignored the doctor and offered his fellow swordmaster a hand. When Izō took it, he knew something within the Takeda had changed. “I can feel it, Gensai. Your desire to kill: the appetite you’ve withheld for so long. Glad you decided not to hide what you are, anymore!”

The possessed swordmaster nodded.

“Without Joukei-chan, there is no reason for me to remain as I was any longer. Consider me a demon in human flesh. And make me an oath, Izō, that once this era is over, once Hyuga loses its taste for war...when those dedicated to the sword are no longer needed, Gensai Takeda and Izō Uesugi shall fight their final duel!”

His eternal rival accepted the oath—why wouldn’t he? To be immortalized in combat and to die before their blades grew dull...that was the ultimate goal of the samurai. For those who walked the way of the sword, it was the final destination.

A shame that neither of them would make it there.