Raigetsu—once the home of the strongest clan in all of Japan—was now nothing but a pit of fire.
Satoshi coughed up blood, his vision spinning as pain flared through every nerve in his body. He blinked, trying to make sense of the nightmare before him, but the horror was all too real.
The battlefield was painted in carnage. His clan's warriors—men and women who had stood tall with unmatched pride—now lay strewn in twisted heaps. Some were split clean in half, others crushed into the ground. Arms, legs, heads… missing, torn, burned. Blood soaked the earth, turning the soil black and slick. The stench of scorched flesh mingled with death's rot, clogging his throat.
He clutched at his chest where the Demon of Iyakari had run him through. There was no wound. Only dried blood and torn robes. No hole. No spear. Nothing. But the pain remained—a fire in his ribs, like each bone had been shattered one by one.
"How...?" His voice came out cracked and weak. "I should be dead…"
He staggered up. His left arm hung uselessly. His legs trembled beneath him. He tried to step forward—and his foot landed on something wet and round.
An eye.
It burst beneath his weight, spraying gore across his ankle. He didn't even flinch. He'd already crossed the threshold of horror.
Then he saw Kaito's body—headless, crumpled in a pool of blood. Satoshi froze. A scream tried to claw its way up his throat, but it died there. He turned his face, jaw clenched so hard it might've broken.
"Why…?" he muttered. "Why did you all have to die… and why the hell am I still alive?!"
Each breath was agony. But he kept walking. One step. Then another.
By the time he reached the village center, the scale of the devastation truly hit him. Nothing remained. Homes were reduced to charred skeletons. Streets ran with blood. The corpses of villagers—men, women, children—were tossed like broken dolls, limbs hacked apart, faces frozen in horror.
Not a single soul stirred.
He walked in silence until he saw the village chief's body—Shimoto Hoshimiya—slumped against the crumbled shrine. His torso had been carved clean in half, yet in his severed hands, still clutched by stiff fingers, was the blade Satoshi had always admired.
With shaking hands, Satoshi pried the katana free. One of the chief's hands tore off with it, severed completely. Satoshi stared for a moment, then rose to his feet.
He had to leave. If he stayed in this cursed land any longer, he would fall beside the rest.
Smoke stung his lungs. His steps slowed. He could barely stand. The world blurred.
And then—darkness.
---
Morning.
Satoshi woke with a start, breath ragged, sweat beading on his brow.
He wasn't in the village anymore. He was lying on a futon in a quiet, wooden house. The scent of incense lingered faintly in the air. His chest still ached, but the wounds had been dressed. The room was still.
"Where the hell am I?" he muttered, eyes scanning.
"In my house," came a voice—dry, old, but firm.
An old man sat nearby, leaning on a wooden cane. His face was partially obscured by a black blindfold.
"And who the hell are you?" Satoshi growled.
"You've no respect for your elders, boy." The old man stood. "Name's Harutaka Kurobane. And you?"
"I've got no reason to tell you that."
"I saved your life," Harutaka replied, arching a brow. "Least you could do is answer."
Satoshi looked away. "…Satoshi Nawa-Kara Kitotsuki."
Harutaka's lips tightened. "From the Hoshimiya clan… Then it was your village I saw burning."
Satoshi's jaw tensed. "What the hell were you doing there, old man?"
"I've no obligation to answer you. You were dying, and I pulled your broken body out of the fire. That's all you need to know."
Satoshi glared. "Then tell me how you found me. Didn't I look just as dead as the rest?"
"I see things others cannot," Harutaka said, voice low. "Even without eyes."
Satoshi scoffed. "You're just some old delusional monk."
He rose slowly, wincing, but managed to stand. "Thanks for saving me. You won't see me again."
He made for the door—the shōji—and slid it open.
The world exploded in color and noise.
People. Streets full of them. Merchants shouting, children laughing, soldiers marching. A city alive and thriving. His eyes went wide.
"…Tenshu?" he breathed.
The capital.
"You're going to live a new life now, boy," said Harutaka from behind him.
Satoshi turned sharply. "I didn't ask for this life." He instinctively reached for his sword—
But the sheath at his waist was empty.
"Where's my katana?" he demanded.
"I left her where she belonged," Harutaka said. "She is not yours yet"
Satoshi marched back inside, found the blade resting beside his futon. The handle was crusted with dried blood.
He bowed—stiffly—to the old man. "Thanks. Again."
And he stepped out into the street, alone.
Tenshu bustled around him. Laughter. Chatter. The smell of sweet dumplings and grilled meat. Satoshi stared at the crowds like he was watching ghosts.
"I've never seen this many people at once," he murmured. "Tenshu is… alive."
But something inside him wasn't.
Beneath the noise and color, something simmered in his chest. A slow boil. Pain. Anger. Something darker.
The Demon of Iyakari. The massacre. The blood.
His heart thudded faster.
Flash. His brother's severed body.
Flash. The crimson blade piercing his chest.
Flash. The roar of fire, the screams, the silence.
Satoshi stumbled, gripping his ribs.
"What… is this feeling?"
He collapsed to one knee in the middle of the street, eyes wide as something beneath his skin pulsed—raw, barely restrained. A few passersby slowed, unsure if he was drunk, wounded, or mad.
And then—
A scream rang out behind him.
Satoshi froze. The voice wasn't distant—it was close. Panicked. Sharp enough to jolt him out of his thoughts.
He spun around and saw a crowd beginning to form a few alleys down. Murmurs. Tension.
"Get out of the way," the man growled. "Leave—unless you're ready to die."
The man's voice made Satoshi's gut twist. He moved forward, slipping through the crowd, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade.
When he reached the front, he saw four men surrounding two royal guards—and between them stood a familiar face.
Musume.
Her silken robes were smeared with dust, her breath short. The guards held their ground in front of her, blades drawn.
"Reiji," the gang's leader said coolly. "Kill these bastards."
One of the four men stepped forward—tall, lean, and eerily quiet. He hadn't said a single word until now.
Reiji didn't flinch at the growing crowd. He didn't care.
The first guard shifted his stance and raised his katana. Reiji walked toward him like he was taking a morning stroll.
In one clean motion, Reiji slipped past the guard's defense.
The guard's head hit the dirt with a wet thud. Blood sprayed across Musume's robes.
She screamed.
The second guard lunged, but Reiji moved before the man could finish his step. One strike—both arms gone. The second strike—his head, too.
Another corpse.
Another silence.
"Alright," one of the thugs muttered, almost bored. "Let's take her and go—"
Reiji said nothing. Just nodded.
They stepped forward.
And Satoshi moved.
He stood between them and Musume, his katana already drawn. His stance wasn't perfect. His hands weren't steady.
But he stood.
"The hell is this?" the leader spat. "Another hero?"
"Reiji."
Reiji stepped forward again. Still calm. Still empty.
He struck. Satoshi barely blocked in time—metal shrieked as the force nearly knocked the blade from his hand.
"Well done," Reiji said in a dead tone. "Time for the second strike."
The follow-up was heavier. Cruder. Satoshi staggered back, boots dragging through dirt, teeth gritted. His arms were going numb from the weight of the blocks.
"Forget him," one thug said. "Let's just grab the girl—"
Reiji glanced at the man, his tone flat. "Then die."
The thug backed off without another word.
Reiji's next attack came faster, sharper. Satoshi blocked again. Then again. The rhythm was breaking him down piece by piece.
Behind him, Musume watched—frozen.
"Satoshi…?" she whispered. Her voice was trembling. Not from fear of the gang. But of what was about to happen.
He wasn't going to last.
Reiji lifted his blade for a final downward strike.
Steel met steel.
A crack splintered across Satoshi's katana. His breath caught. His arms trembled.
His eyes widened.
The sword… it wasn't just any weapon.
It had belonged to Shimoto.
The man who had fought to protect others during Raigetsu's fall. The one who stood against the Demon of Iyakari until the very end. The one whose body had been found burned, crushed, still clutching this very sword.
Satoshi remembered.
The screams. The fire. The sickening silence after the massacre.
Something twisted in his chest.
A flicker. A heat.
His eyes flashed gold.
And then the world changed.
Slash marks bloomed across Reiji's body—visible only to him. Dozens of them. Neck, arms, chest, stomach. Like invisible ink outlining every perfect strike.
His limbs moved on their own. Fast. Too fast.
He didn't question it.
He lunged, no hesitation. Not defense. Not survival.
Just rage.
A scream tore from Musume's throat as Satoshi rushed forward, blade drawn back like a madman.
Reiji's eyes narrowed—just a little.
But it was too late.