Side Story #30: Junko's Promise (Male MC Version) (Patreon)

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

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Side Story 30: Junko’s Promise (Male MC Version)

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■■ Northern Hyuga ■■

“Again, Junko! Your footwork is…it needs work. Don’t get sloppy!” an old teacher yelled to his student. His voice was frail—far weaker than it had been years ago—yet it carried as much force as the whipping wind across the mountain peak. While the harshest of the winter months had passed, even in spring the gusts were cold.

And even in his twilight years, Sensei remained the strongest swordsman Junko knew.

“Hai! Yes, Sensei!” Junko replied, adjusting her feet once more. In truth, her positioning was flawless: it was a perfect jōdan—an overhead stance—that had been drilled into her mind and body years ago. The very same man who had taught her was now telling her that she was wrong, and so the obedient student made adjustments.

“Give me a break. You know the front foot shouldn’t be out that far,” remarked a less-than-obedient student observing the practice duel from afar. He was an orphan boy from Genfu who had since become a man—not that Junko ever treated him as such. Not outside their futon, anyway.

The orphan was the only rival, friend and lover Junko had. He was all the brown-haired student ever wanted...and everything she needed. But right now, he was being a real pest.

Junko focused on the practice duel—even if it wasn’t particularly intense or instructive. The student and master exchanged strikes with their wooden practice swords as the former was out-tricked by obvious feints and overpowered by wobbly swings. Junko was holding back throughout yet acted as if she was giving it her all.

The objective of these duels against Sensei had shifted over time: when Junko was a child, that meant merely staying alive. Then, as she got older, it was to stand her ground—and to leave without permanent scars and minimal bruising. Eventually, though, past her teenage years and into adulthood, the goal became vastly different.

It was, to put it simply...to not shame him.

“T-that’s enough,” Sensei said, his breathing starting to grow heavy. And though he tired early these days—especially this close to his mid-day nap—Junko had never once seen him break a sweat. The student bowed and thanked his master for the fight before taking her seat beside the orphan.

Her fellow student looked half-asleep and was halfway through a yawn before Junko handed over the practice sword—delivering it swiftly into his gut. After the rude awakening, the orphan hopped to his feet and swaggered over into position against Sensei.

“Come on, Boy! Show me what I’ve taught you!”

Junko could sense a problem well before there was one; the intensity in the orphan’s stance went well beyond what was required in a practice duel against their master. Sure enough, he swung his weapon with full force against Sensei’s, the collision causing the teacher’s sword to crack and to be driven down into the mud.

As if that wasn’t shameful enough, the orphan followed the strike with a tackle—slamming his shoulder into Sensei and forcing him to fall flat into the ground.

Junko was on her feet and in the orphan’s face in an instant. Her eyes were golden while her hands were makeshift claws. They gripped around the orphan’s throat as rage enveloped the daughter of a samurai—and not just any. Junko was the only child of Izō Uesugi, the head of his clan.

While the brunette came from a noble heritage, what she intended to do to the orphan was anything but.

“Junko…bring me the katana. My katana,” Sensei ordered as he struggled to his feet. With more than a little reluctance, the obedient student released the orphan before hurrying off to the dojo. During her trip, she thought of several ways to punish her fellow student for shaming Sensei.

Most of them started by getting him naked.

After sliding open the shoji doors to the dojo and bowing with respect, Junko invited herself inside. She approached the shrine at the far end of the training hall where Sensei’s sword rested on its wooden display mount. Falling to her knees in reverence, she clapped her hands and whispered a prayer.

It was short and simple. “May these hands be worthy of your sword, Sensei.”

The obedient student then took the katana in both hands, raising it up before her. Turning her head to make certain she was alone, she unsheathed it—just slightly. Just enough to see it.

彦斎

“Gensai,” Junko said, speaking the name as if it were holy. In her mind it was—even more so because that was all there was inscribed on the side of the blade. There was no family name. There was no ‘Takeda’. Sensei never mentioned his family to his students and Junko never dared to ask.

Because deep down, she already had her answer.

“You gave up your family for my sake. You saved me from that demon...and lifted me from out of that hell. You brought me and the orphan together...and taught us the way of the sword. Everything I am...I owe to you, Gensai.”

Closing her eyes, the daughter of Izō Uesugi once again renounced her past life and family in favor of her adopted one. Herself, Sensei and the orphan...they were tied together no less permanently than the stars in the sky.

With the renowned katana in hand, Junko hurried back to the practice grounds. She was worried that the orphan had done something even more foolish in her absence, yet it turned out that she should’ve been more concerned over something else, instead.

Sensei told them to kneel upon her return—and they did. With their knees muddied, the students of Gensai Takeda, the most fearsome swordsman of his era, looked up as their teacher raised his sword overhead.

“It is time I choose my successor. The Jigoku Ittō-ryū must not die with me. Such power…is meant to be used. To change and shape Hyuga.”

Junko’s eyes went wide. Her heart skipped a beat and her lungs stopped outright. This was the moment she had been waiting for—yet she never dared to entertain it outside her wildest dreams. To carry the future of Sensei’s style of swordsmanship on her shoulders…it was the greatest honor from the man Junko respected most.

Finally, her loyalty and dedication was about to be rewarded. It was all she could do to keep from drooling as Sensei told the orphan to lift his head. Junko licked her lips in anticipation as…as her teacher handed over the katana. To him.

“This is my legacy. Take it, Boy. You are the heir to the Jigoku Ittō-ryū.”

■■■■

Only Sensei possessed the ability to sleep through the sound of clashing metal rods echoing throughout the training hall. Though he was officially meditating, not even the most zen of monks could contemplate in peace while war waged right in front of them.

*baa-Ang* *Baa-ang*

It was a war between two students in the disguise of a practice match. Though there was no such thing as ‘practice’ for Junko, who went all-out with every swing—each more forceful than the last. She wanted to bash the orphan’s skull in and said as much with her golden-eyed glare.

As for the reason why...that much was obvious.

“I’m sorry, alright?!” the orphan yelled during a rare pause in the battle. “How many times do I gotta say it? Sensei’s gone senile—he didn’t mean to make me the heir! You deserve it a hundred times more than I do, Juu-chan!”

Invoking Junko’s nickname did little to cool her wrath; if anything, it stoked the fires burning within her even more. “It’s the greatest honor a swordsman could ever ask for—yet you treat it as a joke! You’re the heir to the Jigoku Ittō-ryū—now act like it!”

The battle waged on and outside the training hall to the front yard and between the many sakura trees Sensei had planted there. This being early in spring, the pink and white blossoms were nearing full bloom—their graceful beauty making for a picturesque backdrop for a swordfight.

Of course, this wasn’t a swordfight and it was anything but pretty.

“Gah! Ah—kuso!” the orphan yelled after Junko stomped on his leading right foot. In truth, he had been on his backfoot throughout the entire fight, focusing on withstanding Junko’s onslaught until she tired.

“Stand and fight me, you coward! How dare you dishonor our style! How dare you disgrace Sensei!” Junko yelled and swung, though the orphan had already darted out of the way. Using their master’s sakura trees for protection, Junko couldn’t get close enough for a lethal strike.

“Why are we doin’ this, Juu-chan? Why are we training so hard?” the orphan asked. It wasn’t the first time he had voiced this question.

“Not this again,” Junko growled, taking a moment to find a way through to reach her opponent. “To master the blade and one’s self is to give up all else. And that includes weakness! Eyah!”

Junko found an opening in the orphan’s guard and lunged. Unfortunately for her, her opponent had a trump card: Sensei’s sword. He unsheathed it and held it out to intercept Junko’s strike. The obedient student who idolized her teacher paused mid-swing.

She wouldn’t dare risk damaging Sensei’s sword.

“I’m tired, Junko,” the orphan said. “I’m tired of watchin’ the world pass me by while I sit atop this damn mountain. I’m tired of being dirt poor—having to hunt and fish for my food while living in this dump! I’m tired of freezing my ass off, too, and I’m tired of having to walk a mile every time I need to take a shit! I’m—umph!”

The orphan went quiet when Junko enveloped her lips over hiss. Intimacy was Junko’s go-to answer for whenever her soulmate acted up like this. Whenever the orphan asked too many questions...whenever he threatened to leave her alone, sex was always the solution.

Though this time, it wasn’t. “I’m tired...even of that, Juu-chan.”

The kissing stopped. The daughter of Izō Uesugi opened her eyes wide, her irises shifting to a golden glow. In the absence of her lover, Junko embraced the Jigoku instead. Her words were cold. “Is that so. Draw your weapon, orphan.”

With reluctance—but knowing his partner far too well—the orphan complied, though the iron rod wasn’t the weapon Junko wanted. “This isn’t practice. Wield the sword Sensei gave you!”

The orphan had hardly the time to do just that when Junko struck forth a series of blows. She had her own katana—one of the several dozen spares the two of them had gone through over the years. With ronin and sellswords so abundant in the Clanfields, there was no shortage of cheap steel to be found for those willing to loot corpses.

And now Junko intended to loot Sensei’s sword off the orphan’s corpse. At least, that was how she fought. Yet as furious as she was, Junko was a proper swordmaster who took pride and satisfaction in a good fight—and there wasn’t one to be had. The orphan couldn’t maintain the Jigoku. Junko could see the will to live fade from his eyes as they dimmed back down to black.

As she towered over her fallen opponent, she wondered what happened to the boy from Genfu she was always chasing. She must’ve been thinking aloud.

“I’m not that stupid little boy anymore,” the orphan replied. “Don’t you see? We’ve been at each other’s throats for years. All that pain and suffering we put ourselves through...all to be stronger than the other—what was it all for? Nothing—that’s what! I don’t wanna race you anymore, Junko. And I don’t wanna chase Sensei’s shadow, either.”

Junko pushed the orphan away with a palm strike to the chest before turning around and shaking her head. In truth, she was terrified. The words her most precious person were saying felt like knives driven into her heart. She couldn’t face him like this.

“Sensei. You know we’d be dead without him—or worse! Don’t you have an ounce of gratitude for the man who saved us? How can you be so selfish?!”

“We’re supposed to be his students, Junko—not his servants!”

“I’m not his—” Junko started, though stopped upon hearing Sensei’s yell from the dojo. Their master had awakened from his meditative slumber and...was in need of someone to prepare hot water for his bath.

The orphan didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Instead, he wiped the mud off his kimono and took out a pouch from behind his obi sash. Junko recognized it—it was Sensei’s, kept in the dojo’s shrine.

“I’m going to the trading post to buy us some rice. Stay here and wash the old man’s back.”

■■■■

“You’re late.”

Junko hopped down from a tree and into the path of a haggard-looking ronin. It was early the next morning when the orphan made it back to dojo from his shopping trip. Aside from being hours late, his kimono was cut up and sprayed with blood. His usual stride was different—indicating a minor injury to the leg.

As far as how he smelled...

“Come on, Juu-chan. Quit sniffin’ me,” the orphan protested as Junko inspected him as a dog would. Aside from sweat and dried blood, another scent could be found from his lips.

“Saké. Who have you been drinking with?” Junko asked, trying—and failing—to hold back her jealousy. Though the orphan getting intoxicated was nothing new, what was more suspicious was the amount of rice he had brought back with him. He had two large buckets tied to a carrying pole atop his shoulders.

It was a lot more than Sensei’s pouch of coins could purchase. Though before Junko could inquire further, the orphan locked his lips around hers. The buckets fell to the ground and the two students shortly followed. Their hands explored each other’s bodies while their tongues wrestled in each other’s mouths.

The familiar warmth of the man she loved was enough for Junko to halt her suspicions. “You’re even easier when you’re drunk,” she whispered between heated breaths. She gripped her fingers atop the orphan’s shoulders and slid his kimono down, revealing the strong, muscular arms beneath.

To be held in those arms until the day she died...it was all she ever wanted. Well—that wasn’t entirely true. There was another part of the orphan she wanted even more—and it pressed against her hard and stiff from below. Junko deftly began to strip her partner as she had done countless times before.

Though as she was removing their sash, she felt something heavy and full. No, it wasn’t that—it was a pouch of coins twice the size that it had been before. As much as Junko lusted for the man she had pinned beneath her...she had to know where it came from.

“Don’t worry about it, Juu-chan,” the orphan said between moans. “Turns out it’s easy to make ryō with a good enough swordarm. There’s tons of work out there, too. All I had to do was off a merchant and his guards. Old bastard died in his sleep.”

“What?! What are you saying?” Junko asked, pouncing away from her lover’s embrace. “You’re a swordmaster—and the heir to the Jigoku Ittō-ryū! You dare disgrace yourself by doing mercenary work? Are you nothing but a sellsword?!”

The orphan remained on the ground, looking up into the sky. The sun was rising as the warblers began their chirp. Like them, the disillusioned student wished he could flap his wings and get away from it all.

But he had an anchor tied to him. It took the form of a katana branded with Sensei’s name. “So you’re sayin’ if I get rid of this sword...then I’ll be free to be whatever I want? ‘Cause if that’s the case...you may as well take it from me now.”

“I’ll take it from your corpse, instead!” Junko said before delivering a kick into the orphan’s ribs. She then bent down to pick up the carrying rod and with it, the buckets of rice. “Now get up and stop being stupid. It’s your turn to cook breakfast. Or is doing chores beneath you now?”

It turned out that it wasn’t and that onigiri was on the menu. The orphan wasn’t a great cook but you didn’t have to be to make rice balls. A large, fresh one was presented to Sensei after he took his seat at the head of the table.

With a look of disgust, the old swordmaster picked it up and reluctantly took in a bite. After several chews, he spat it back at the chef. “Rice! Food fit for prey, not predators. I want meat, Boy!”

“They didn’t have any,” the orphan replied. “But if you wanna go off into the woods and hunt us some deer—then go right ahead! Otherwise, eat your rice.”

“Don’t you talk back to me, Boy! I want meat! Meat!” Sensei yelled, tossing the remnants of his onigiri at the orphan. It broke apart in his face. His eyes then went golden.

Junko intervened between them, acting as a referee between student and master. The orphan gave his companion a glare before shaking his head and walking away from the table.

Once he was gone, Sensei turned to the daughter of Izō Uesugi. “Junko…”

“I know, Sensei,” Junko said, checking once more to make certain the orphan was gone. Once she was, she folded up the sleeve on her left arm and presented it before her master.

She grimaced as Sensei bit down upon it, sucking out blood as greedily as a babe would its mother’s breast.

■■■■

Junko had something of a sixth sense when it came to the orphan. It was why she feigned sleep after a passionate late-afternoon ‘nap’ with her fellow student. The man from Genfu was as quiet as a mouse as he slipped back on his clothes and left the dojo.

But Junko was a cat and she wasn’t about to let her prey slip from out of her paws. That and she had a profound curiosity, too—one compounded by jealousy. The scent of other people lingered on the one she loved. Those people would soon pay for trying to take her most precious possession away from her.

And the orphan was going to lead her straight to them.

‘Them’ happened to be a mercenary group encamped an hour’s walk downhill from the dojo. Junko knew them as sellswords from their banners—or the lack thereof. Whereas the Uesugi and Takeda loved their emblems and clan colors, those who worked for either made certain not to be outwardly offensive.

At least visually, anyway. Their smell was another matter. Junko’s sensitive nose worked against her as she lurked over to the camp in the cover of darkness. “That smell—human filth. What can they offer you that I can’t, my love?”

For starters, the orphan was given a hero’s welcome. If there wasn’t a feast prepared before, there was now, as casks of saké were brought out and a skinned deer hung from a tree was cut down and brought to the fire for cooking. Aside from learning why the game around the dojo had been so scarce in recent weeks, Junko discovered her lover had a new nickname.

“Ronin! We were wonderin’ when you were comin’ back. Here—share a bottle of Hokusei Brewing’s finest with me! Got another job offer for you...but let’s fill up our stomachs, first!”

Ronin. That was the name given to samurai without a master. It was the most dishonorable title a swordsman could have, yet the orphan seemed to wear the moniker proudly. Instead of anger or disgrace, however, he appeared quite the opposite. He was smiling and laughing as the other mercs took turns trading jokes.

The whole world, for a moment, went dark for Junko. Crimson-colored lines broke out upon each of their bodies, begging to be cut and sliced a hundred ways. The Jigoku had taken control of the brown-haired samurai. And she had surrendered to it willingly.

“When was...the last time...you smiled, for me?”

It took every ounce of restraint for Junko not to rush in there and tear apart the sellswords limb from limb. She could do it easily, too; they were no more dangerous to her than their cuts of venison were to them. Everything from their lack of physical conditioning to how they slouched around the campfire denoted a lack of training and discipline.

Gensai’s students were leagues beyond these mercenaries. It made sense, then, that they’d have plenty of jobs lined up for the orphan to do.

“All right, Ronin, let’s talk some business,” the leader of the group said, kicking his feet up atop a nearby log. “See, that merchant you...dispatched so well the other night was just a start. We’ve got another passin’ by—and rumor is, he’s packing somethin’ more valuable than stale rice!”

“I may be a ronin, but I’m no bandit,” said the orphan. He kept his eyes focused on the fire. “I want to do more than raid caravans.”

“Right, right! Well, maybe ‘merchant’ ain’t the best way to describe these guys, then. They’re actually suppliers for the Uesugi. See, our group is trying to get in the Takeda’s good graces. The reds have gone under new management lately—word is, groups that distinguish themselves get hired on permanently. We’re talkin’ stipends for years, here! And you know what else?”

The orphan didn’t and shook his head.

“Especially skilled warriors got a chance of gettin’ adopted into a branch family. For folk with no house names like us, it’s a hell of an offer. And a man with your skills...you keep at it and we may be callin’ you Lord Takeda someday, hahaha!”

“Adopted, huh…”

Junko’s eyes turned gold once more. This time, she embraced the Jigoku on purpose. This talk of family—and of Takeda, too...every word seemed to push the orphan further and further away from her. The now-familiar despair of losing the one she needed most made her heart sink deep beneath her chest.

But it was still beating, and so long as it was, the orphan would be hers. She refocused her eyes upon the encampment, visualizing the lines of death and fantasizing about how she would punish them for deceiving the orphan like this. For it was nothing short of trickery that could drive the one she loved against her and Sensei!

“What’s this?” she asked aloud. Junko wasn’t talking to herself—she was staring up into the tree she had braced up against. The lines of death depicted a figure within the branches. A figure that was frightened stiff—especially after Junko jumped up and stared them face-to-face.

“Ah—ng!” the figure said, trying to muffle herself mid-scream. She was more of a teenager than a woman and was too scrawny to be a mercenary. She was a kunoichi judging by her garb—a ninja, trained in the art of subterfuge.

Sensei had spoken about them before. Though they weren’t the best fighters, their talents outside the battlefield made them invaluable all the same.

“D-don’t kill me, please. I’m not with them,” she whispered as beads of sweat fell down her forehead. Junko gave no reply aside from maintaining her stare, which was wicked enough to get the frightened kunoichi to start talking. “My name is Tamaki. M-may I ask yours?”

Junko would never give Tamaki her name. Instead, she started sniffing around her. What she smelled made her eyes open wide. The scent was disturbing, distinctive, and most of all...nostalgic.

“You’re with the Uesugi,” Junko said. The reaction from the ninja all but confirmed it. “What are you doing out this far? And why shouldn’t I slay you here and now?”

“I’m just—I’m just here to scout and observe this group. We found the...the remains of what happened to one of our caravans three nights back. I followed their trail to here. Yet from everything I’ve seen...this group doesn’t have near the numbers needed for what happened. Certainly not enough to kill eight veteran samurai!”

Junko couldn’t help but smirk. What this Tamaki wasn’t factoring in was that one of Sensei’s students were among the sellswords. An idea started forming inside her head. As much as she despised the idea of helping the Uesugi—her old family—she was willing to do whatever it took to save her new one.

“Alright, ninja. Got any ideas on how you want to stop them?”

■■■■

The orphan—or rather, the ronin, as he preferred to be called—took up a position upon a wooded hillside overlooking one the main roads into Hokusei. It being the pitch-black of night, there wasn’t a soul to be seen. But if the mercenary group’s scouting was correct, a caravan would soon pass by delivering high-quality iron alloy to the Uesugi.

None of that meant anything to him. But this job was another chance to put his swordsmanship to use. Getting paid and praised for his efforts was a nice change of pace—considering he never got either at the dojo.

“Wonder what Juu-chan would say if she saw me now,” the orphan thought aloud. Of course, Junko knew exactly what she’d say—or at least what she’d do—but she refrained from moving a muscle from her current position.

She was up in a tree adjacent to the one the orphan was crouched beside. Every bone in her body wanted to swoop down and grab her. She wanted to either take the orphan away or to take him right then and there—she couldn’t make up her mind. Junko would settle for neither, though, as she waited for the rest of the mercenaries to arrive.

When the horse-drawn carriage came down the road, it was unlit by lanterns. There were no accompanying samurai and the driver sat unnerving still at the reins. It was suspicious—yet sellswords weren’t known for their discretion. They ran down the hill all at once, pouncing silently like an owl swooping upon a mouse.

They weren’t going to find anything, Junko knew, as she and Tamaki had already secured the driver, samurai and iron an hour earlier. With that job done, all Junko had left to do was clean up the mercenaries on their way back to camp.

That was the idea, anyway. The plan had taken a swift change when a flaming arrow flew out from the opposite side of the hill. It embedded itself into the carriage—of which the orphan and mercenaries were currently inside. The caravan went up in flames right away. It must’ve been soaked in lamp oil.

Junko felt her heart race out of concern for her lover, who jumped from out of the cart and began wheezing from the smoke. His kimono was charred and his hair was singed, but he was otherwise unharmed.

“For the Uesugi! Hyaah!”

The samurai that Junko and Tamaki had warned earlier yelled out a war cry in unison, announcing their presence and charging after the group. Though they wouldn’t get the fight they wanted: they were up against sellswords who held no reservations when it came to running from unfavorable odds.

“Retreat! Kuso—it’s a damn trap! Get outta here!”

The mercenaries scattered—which was their last mistake. Junko darted in one after the other, the Jigoku lighting them up through the smoky haze. Limbs fell off like sakura petals in a strong wind as the obedient student of Gensai took vengeance on those who dared to take her orphan away.

The only difficulty Junko faced was in making certain that her kimono didn’t get dirtied by the bloodspray. Fleeing swordsmen were hardly swordsmen at all, it turned out, and not one of them so much as raised their blade against the brown-haired samurai. Though in their defence...it was hard to do so without a swordarm.

“This supposed to be thrilling? To use Sensei’s style on this human filth...what a waste,” Junko said aloud as she flicked her katana clean. Unfortunately, the mercenary leader was quicker on his feet than the others, but—while he managed to escape—many of his cohorts didn’t. Junko counted five corpses by the time she was finished—Ichi, Ni, San, Shi, and Go—while the samurai suffered no casualties of their own.

Though considering they were Uesugi, Junko was tempted to change that. The primary outlet of her frustration was Tamaki, however, who made the mistake of approaching her with open arms.

“You fought tremendously! We managed to—guah!”

Junko raised the ninja by the collar of her shozoku and slammed her against a tree. To say she was upset was putting it mildly.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the fire?! What if...damn it!” Junko growled, bashing the kunoichi against the oak once more. The thought of the orphan getting hurt made her furious. “We were supposed to be working together! And what about these samurai, huh? They weren’t part of the plan!”

The group of Uesugi approached Junko with caution. They had their swords out too, though did so out of self-concern more so than with any intention of attacking the swordsman who saved them. It helped that Junko had a particular feature.

“Excuse us...but your hair—it’s brown,” one said, stating the obvious. “Could you be...an Uesugi? Are you from a branch family, perhaps? An illegitimate child from—”

“I’m not part of your family and I never will be,” Junko said, releasing the ninja. Tamaki fell with a hard thud and clutched her throat for breath. Unwilling to turn around and face the samurai out of fear of seeing an uncle, a cousin, or some distant relative, Junko ran off into the night.

Though she wouldn’t leave empty-handed.

■■■■

“Interesting haircut you got there, orphan,” Junko said with a grin while her teeth grated over the stem of her tobacco pipe.

It was early afternoon the next day before the orphan had sufficiently licked their wounds from the failed caravan robbery that cost five of his companions their lives. Though few would mourn a mercenary, the orphan seemed to be bothered by the whole affair. Of course, he wouldn’t mention anything about it to Junko.

“What are cookin’, Juu-chan? You hunt down a deer?” the orphan asked, gesturing to the large pot the brown-haired samurai was stirring. As far as a reply, Junko bent over and blew a mouthful of smoke into his face.

“More like a pig. Go ahead—have some,” Junko said, pouring out a ladle of the stew into a wooden bowl.

The orphan accepted it gladly, hungry but even more relieved that Junko was in a merciful mood. His usually possessive and distrusting lover didn’t seem to question at all where he had been or why his hair was cut short on one side.

He slurped up the stew before quickly downing it and asking for another.

“This stuff is great! Puts my rice balls to shame! Bit different than the pork we usually get for our sukiyaki, though,” the orphan said, eager to down another portion. With his spirits lifted, he didn’t even mind it when Sensei took a seat beside him.

Their master enjoyed it so much that he asked for seconds after giving his praise. The orphan nearly choked on his spoon; Sensei never complimented either of them on their cooking—or anything, really—so this stew must’ve been especially good. Of course, the remark from Sensei certainly wasn’t.

“Now this is a proper meal fit for predators! You’d do well to take notice, Boy!”

The orphan held his tongue. After finishing his third bowl and letting out a loud burp, he wiped his mouth clean and said what he had prepared to say. “I...I think I’m gonna be gone for awhile. I want to do some meditations up on the mountain top—for isolation, I mean. I’ll probably be gone for a week.”

If Sensei had even heard him, he made no sign of it. He was too busy engorging himself on the stew. It was Junko that the orphan most feared and it was her eyes that he wouldn’t dare look into.

“A week, huh? Have fun.”

Junko’s apathetic response was far from the passionate outburst the orphan expected. In some ways, he was disappointed, but in many more he was immensely relieved. Though the orphan was no fool: he had a hint of suspicion too, that something wasn’t quite right.

“What, that’s it? You’re not going to try and stop me?”

Junko took in another puff of her pipe before bringing the ladle to her lips and sipping the stew. “Why would I? Do you take me as some sort of overprotective lunatic?”

The orphan could do nothing but stare. Junko met his eyes and the two began a staring contest. It was like a game of Mirrors—though the orphan would be the first to turn away.

After he did, Junko put on a devilish grin.

■■■■

“Ah, the Cherry Blossom Festival never fails to bring in an odd batch o’ travelers this time o’ year. Soon as the ice melts, I get folks from all over crossin’ through to Hoku for the sakura viewings. And in case you’re lookin’ to wet your whistle, the brewery has a new plum wine out this year and I hear it’s…”

The ferryman had a gift for gabbing and did so from the moment Junko took a seat at the back of his vessel. Traveling across the nearby lake to get to Hokusei saved time and energy; Junko needed plenty of both if she was to put a stop to the mercenary company for good.

The brown-haired samurai recalled her conversation with Tamaki from earlier. Apparently, the Uesugi were vying for a temporary truce with the Takeda to buy time to restore their supplies and numbers after their recent losses. It was a popular plan with the common people: enough so for otherwise neutral parties to side with the white-bannered clansmen.

The Takeda wanted to push their advantage, however, and so—according to the kunoichi—they hired out the orphan’s mercenary group for a special job. It was a high-profile one, too, that even the ferryman knew about.

“...more a fan o’ their pickled plums, to be honest. Say, you’re not much of a talker, huh? Had a quiet group o’ samurai not so different board right before you. Uesugi by their kimonos, but...smelled more like sellswords to me. Well, what do I know? Anyhow, I ain’t much one for politics, but I reckon they were headed into Hoku for the peace talks. If it passes...well, we’ll all be drunk on plum wine before the day is done! Good timin’, too: my wife just gave birth to our son. What a blessin’ it would be to raise ‘em in an era of peace in the Clanfields!”

Junko let out a snort upon hearing that. As far as what the sellswords were doing dressed up as Uesugi samurai, their job was to sabotage the peace talks just as they began. They’d kill a few Takeda and the war would spark anew, Tamaki said, which was as clever a ploy as any Junko had heard.

Though clever ploys didn’t suit her, the swordmaster found herself in one of her own: she was carrying a year-old sakura sapling. It was one of Sensei’s which she had uprooted with his permission.

As far as why she was lugging around a small tree, Junko intended to use it as her ticket to get inside the ceremony.

Each year during the Cherry Blossom Festival, there was a ceremonial planting of new sakura trees from all across the North. It was supposed to be a unifying gesture—which was usually only ever symbolic—though with the peace talks, this year’s held much more significance.

It would also get Junko in close enough to kill the remaining sellswords. She tipped her conical farmer’s hat to the ferryman after reaching the other side of the lake and embarked. True to the ferryman’s words, she could hear the cries of a newborn from out of a nearby shed.

“To be raised in an era of peace...you sure choose the wrong part of Hyuga to be born in,” Junko thought as she made her way to Hokusei’s main gate. This was the city she was born in and yet it was as foreign to her as snow on a summer’s day. She had rarely made visits here and only ever on errands for Sensei.

“And you were always here with me,” Junko said to the orphan who wasn’t at her side. Unlike herself, her fellow student seemed to thrive in crowded places such as these. And it was crowded. Girls in kimonos colored every shade of pink chatted amongst themselves while merchants hawked their wares.

Street performers danced about while musicians played in a dueling symphony to earn the coin of passersby. The sheer amount of noise and movement overwhelmed Junko, whose senses weren’t designed for this level of stimulation.

It also didn’t help that she had next to no sense of direction here. Junko pushed through the waves of people while wielding her potted sapling like a club. Even then, the going was a slog: no matter how many festival-goers she scared away, there were always others to take their place.

“Get away from me! You filth—I could cut you all down where you stand!” she yelled out in frustration. Though even her most direct threats fell on deaf’s ears as those around here were too busy sipping on plum wine and snacking on taiyaki shaped like cherry blossoms to notice.

Running short on time and even shorter on patience, Junko began moving. She needed to find the gardens where the peace talks were to take place—but right now, she’d settle for anywhere where she could hear herself think. That meant escaping Hokusei’s main streets and avoiding its marketplaces.

“This is...the temple district?” Junko asked aloud. There was no one here to answer her: the Cherry Blossom Festival was one of the few celebrations that had no religious component to it. Even the monks were off during this period to enjoy the festivities.

Junko’s feet took her inside a particular shrine: an old and familiar one. The Wolf Temple was made entirely of wood and was originally used as a watchtower back when Hokusei was a frontier town and Hyugans had to fear for their lives from the large, dark-brown creatures that lurked in the night.

She was referring to bears and Kondos, too. Both once ruled this region before the people later known as Hyugans arrived from a distant land, many centuries ago. Now, in the North at least, both its original occupants were nearly extinct. That was the extent of the history lesson Junko learned in her youth about the time before the clan wars.

“A moment of meditation would do me some good,” Junko decided, sitting in a seiza behind a column in an unlit corner of the temple. She let out a sneeze; dust was everywhere in this poorly-maintained part of the shrine. The samurai likened it to the orphan’s half of the dojo which often went unkempt for weeks on end.

One thought of the orphan grew to a dozen and then hundreds more. At least back at the dojo, Junko had Sensei to take care of and take her mind off her loneliness. But here, alone in this forsaken city and unsure of everything—the orphan’s well-being, most of all—Junko found herself facing an immense dread.

A dread that would soon grow in leaps and bounds.

*schisk*

The shoji doors to the temple slid open before a group of visitors made their way inside. Junko glanced from behind the column and held in a gasp at what she saw. These were Uesugi, wearing white kimonos with matching emblems of two swallows kissing. They weren’t the group of sellswords masquerading as clansmen, either.

These were the real deal. Junko knew as much at a glance, but it wasn’t until she heard her mother’s voice that all uncertainty curled up and died. It was fitting imagery, too, as that was exactly what the brown-haired samurai wanted to do right now. Though she wasn’t a samurai right now—in her mother’s presence, she was merely a girl.

“Well?! Where is he? Where’s this sellsword I’ve taken time out of my rigorous schedule to meet?” Junko’s mother yelled, pacing about the shrine. “It’s distasteful enough that I’ll have to share tea with Ichiro! He makes it far too sweet!”

Before long, a haggard man in a white kimono was brought inside. Though he was wearing the Uesugi robes, he was pushed to the ground and made to grovel low in front of the clan’s matriarch. When he lifted his head up from the tatami, Junko recognized him as the leader of the mercenary company.

“La-Lady Uesugi, all my men are in place. I’m glad you accepted my offer. As to the matter of my payment, I can—”

“I have to say,” Lady Uesugi started, pulling out a fan from her kimono and expanding it, “I was quite surprised when we first got your message. I thought even sellswords had some semblance of honor among their own. Yet your presence here proves me wrong.

“You tell us,” the lady continued, “that the Takeda have employed your group to sabotage the talks and put false blame upon our clan. A plot very much in keeping with how devious that Ichiro can be. If I understand you correctly, you’ve come to us with a counter-offer: you intend to sacrifice your fellow...comrades...so that we may use the Takeda’s plan against them.”

The leader of the sellswords nodded, confirming the plan. He went into detail about where his company was currently lying in wait for his signal to move. When Junko realized the bastard was trying to get the orphan killed, the Jigoku took over. Yet even in its familiar embrace, Junko couldn’t fully escape the presence of the woman who birthed her.

“We’ll have archers in Takeda uniforms lined up on the walls. They’ll dispose of your mercs—or should I say...innocent Uesugi bystanders there for the flower viewing? Fufufu!”

“But...but Lady Uesugi!” one of the samurai said, bowing deeply. “Deceit is not our way! We should think twice before resorting to Takeda tricks!”

Junko’s mother rolled her eyes while fanning herself. “We cannot allow Ichiro to gain further control of the city. If that requires the sacrifice of a few sellswords to do so—than that is a price I’ll gladly pay!”

The mercenary leader let out a gulp. A bead of sweat fell from his balding scalp into his mustache. “Forgive me my lady, but one of my men...he’s not quite like the others. You should take extreme caution in how you—”

“Bah! You mercs are all the same,” Lady Uesugi replied, putting away her fan. Just as she did so, her eyes peered off into Junko’s direction. After what she said next, there was little doubt as to who she saw.

“Junko? Is that you?”

Hearing her name voiced by that woman was like a stab through the gut. The Jigoku fled from her and in its absence was a sheer terror that Junko hadn’t felt since she was a young girl. A girl tortured and terrified on a nightly basis at her family’s estate.

Junko covered her mouth as her throat gurgled up bile from her latest meal. Enveloped in a complete and total panic, the woman who was perhaps the greatest swordsman of this era fled. She darted out from the shrine like lightning, bursting through and running over an obese woman with brown hair at the Wolf Temple’s front entrance.

She continued running as fast as her legs could carry her as if each stride pushed the memories of her childhood away. She had convinced herself for so many years that her life hadn’t started until the orphan was in it.

When Sensei united her with the one who would be her most precious, that was when her life began. And the most precious memory of those days would always be the promise the cute boy from Genfu had made her as they stared up into the starry sky.

Junko had asked the orphan to be hers forever. It was a selfish, childish thing to ask...yet their response was as clear in her mind now as it had been during their first winter together.

“I promise. I’ll be yours forever, Juu-chan.”

So deep in thoughts of the past, Junko had lost track of the present: including where she was going. She knocked over a priest and nearly trampled over a shrine maiden before she realized she ought to slow down. She wasn’t able to do so in time, however, before a group of children made their way into her path.

“Get the hell outta my—ah!” Junko yelled, before collapsing into a pile of mud. The sapling she was carrying flew from her grasp while her ankles burned as if they were broken. In truth, they were just painfully bent; the mud had glued her sandals in place.

After trying and failing to pull her feet free from the muck, she realized it wasn’t made of dirt at all. It was clay—or rather, the street itself had turned into a thick sludge. It didn’t make any sense...but then again, magic didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry, Miss Samurai,” said a boy barely in his teenage years. He looked utterly ridiculous wearing priestly robes that were two sizes too big on him, yet he seemed to be the leader of this band of children. He held out a slip of paper and clapped it within his hands. The clay began to release it’s grasp beneath Junko.

“What the hell was that?!” Junko asked, shaking off the remnants of the street from her toes. “No—it doesn’t matter. I have to find the orphan.”

Upon saying ‘orphan’, every pair of eyes on the group of kids began to light up. They were orphans themselves, they exclaimed, and their older brother was leading them around on a tour of the temples. Some admitted that it was as boring as it sounded, earning them a quick reprimand from their tour guide.

“Um, miss, you dropped your tree,” one of the girls said, heaving the potted sapling over her head and offering it to the samurai. Junko took it and mumbled her thanks. She was about to make her exit when the boy dressed up like a Shinto priest stopped her.

“Say, that’s a cherry blossom isn’t it? Are you here for the planting ceremony? I can escort you to the inner gardens if you wish.”

Junko was about to refuse when the kids began jumping for joy. Apparently, planting a tree was more fun than visiting shrines. Unable to find a proper excuse, the brown-haired samurai reluctantly took the boyish priest up on his offer.

The boy’s name was ‘Kiyo-kun’ according to the children that followed him. He was their adopted older brother, more or less.

The two had a conversation en route to the inner gardens, which was far more secure than Junko had expected. The guards at one of the entrances scrutinized her intensely, but became friendly upon the sight of Kiyo-kun at her side. When Junko asked about it, her new companion blushed.

“Well...I suppose it helps when your father is the mayor, doesn’t it? Though that isn’t technically his title, of course, he’s done far more for Hokusei and its people than the Uesugi ever have!” the priest exclaimed. “And now he’s going to bring peace to the entire region. It won’t be easy, but...if anyone can do it, it’s Ichi-sama!”

Shouts of ‘Ichi-sama’ echoed from the group of children, all of whom thought very kindly of the Takeda lord. Junko still had her concerns, however. “This Ichiro Takeda...are you certain he’ll be safe? This may turn out to be a more dangerous affair than he thinks.”

The priestly boy beamed with confidence. “Ichi-sama’s swordsmanship is without equal! He’s bested every swordsman who’s challenged him. They say he’s got the quickest sword draw Hyuga has ever known!”

“Is that so?” Junko asked, her curiosity starting to pique. “I’d like to meet your father in person, then.”

Kiyo-kun was quick to apologize. “Gomenasai, but that’s impossible. He’s currently in the middle of peace talks at the moment.”

“They’ve already started?! Where are they taking place?!” Junko yelled. After Kiyo-kun gave her the location, the samurai shoved the tree into his grasp and ran off without saying so much as a goodbye.

The archers were already in place.

■■■■

The unending thump of a nearby sōzu—a bamboo device made to scare off deer—was slowly driving the orphan insane. His nerves didn’t come from fear but from an eagerness to get the job over with. Killing a half-dozen Takeda samurai wasn’t a problem. Standing in place for an hour-and-a-half, was.

“Boss is ‘sposed to be back by now. Wonder what’s keepin’ him?” one of the mercs asked aloud. There were four of them in total—five if you included the orphan. The orphan himself wasn’t quite sure who he countered himself among these days, yet all he knew for certain was that these sellswords treated him kinder than Sensei ever had.

That—and a heavy pouchful of ryō—was why he was out here loitering while dressed as an Uesugi with a faceful of makeup on. Apparently, his skin was too tan and his features were too Southern to pass for a proper Uesugi.

“I’m just glad Junko can’t see me like this. She’d never let me live it down...in more sense than one,” the orphan thought. It was the last thought he’d have before a horn sounded off in the distance. That was the signal announcing Lady Uesugi and her entourage had arrived.

Which meant it was time for the mercenary company to begin their attack.

“Forget the boss! It’s time to move out,” the orphan commanded. He and the mercenaries took turns moving on ahead—so as not to arouse suspicion from the security detail—with himself taking up the rear. He slowly made his approach to the teahouse where the heirs of the Uesugi and Takeda were sharing a cup of matcha while watching the cherry blossoms bloom.

The orphan didn’t have Junko’s nose nor her inhuman sense of smell, yet a waft of blood seemed to float within the breeze. It was an unnerving scent when paired with the sight of hundreds of sakura petals dancing in the wind. Yet, determined to focus on the task at hand, the orphan shook off all uncertainty and followed the sounds of a man laughing and a woman giggling.

It led him to a tiny yet elegantly designed teahouse that sat at the center of a pond. There were groups of samurai in red and white on either side of the water, split in half as expected of the two clans that so distrusted each other. Rightfully so, the orphan supposed, considering what the mercenary group was there to do.

Though speaking of mercenaries...the orphan couldn’t find them anywhere. His concern only grew as moments passed and more of the samurai took note of his presence. Though they were being sly about it, the white-knuckled grips on their sword handles told the orphan all he needed to know.

“Someone tipped them off,” the self-proclaimed ronin thought to himself. “I don’t know where the others are, but...I’m not the sort to quit a job halfway through!”

The orphan didn’t make it ten steps before the Takeda lord took a moment away from sipping his tea to gesture over at him. “One of yours, Kiku-chan? Hm…he has about him an aura that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I didn’t think the Uesugi had such a formidable swordsman.”

Lady Uesugi scoffed before raising her fan. She looked around and waited before growing frustrated and raising her hand even higher. This sellsword was supposed to be riddled with arrows by now, yet he approached their teahouse unscathed. A bead of sweat fell from the lady’s brow and ruined her makeup.

“Chikusho! Guards—anyone! This is an imposter! Kill him at once!”

The sound of swords being drawn filled the silence that followed. The orphan kept his sword sheathed and his head low—though to say he wasn’t prepared for battle was a fatal mistake. His legs were out and coiled in the stance Sensei taught him; though he despised his master and everything he had done to him…

...when it came down to it, the old man’s techniques were good.

As the group found their bravado and charged at him with their swords raised overhead, the orphan closed MC_hisher eyes. He embraced the Jigoku and took in one deep, final breath.

He then performed the Strike of Non-Action: the Jigoku Ittō-ryū’s quickdraw technique. In a flash—in the blink of an eye—the katana that his Sensei had given him flew from its sheath and into his surrounding attackers. It was over as soon as it began; nothing but a streak of blood across the nearby cherry blossoms betrayed the swordmaster’s strike.

That, and the screaming samurai who fell before him, clutching their stomachs as their innards escaped them.

The first to act upon this onslaught was the Takeda lord himself, who stood at the front entrance of the teahouse with his feet positioned for battle. He held out his hand and ordered his retainers to move back—saving their lives. He then addressed the assassin with a voice lacking any of its prior humor.

“I know that style of yours. Tell me! Tell me who trained you!”

The orphan raised their head and stared into Ichiro Takeda’s eyes. The golden glow from his own was answer enough. Realizing the danger he was in, the would-be sellsword ran.

The Takeda and half the city of Hokusei would give chase.

■■■■

“And here I thought you hated that one,” Junko grinned, observing the fight from afar. The brown-haired samurai had taken on more of an auburn shade as of late: her hair, face and kimono was dyed in the blood of her enemies. Of which, there was only one remaining.

The leader of the mercenary band who sold out his own men crept away from the gardens as soon as the fighting started. He would pass by several of the ones he betrayed, cut to shreds and left to seep their blood beneath the cherry blossoms.

As if that sight wasn’t frightening enough, he clambered up a retaining wall only to see a flock of crows waiting for him. After shooing them away, he saw the remains of the archers that were supposed to finish the deed.

“Ah!” he yelled as he slipped on a pool of blood and fell off the other side of the wall. He rolled down the slope of rocks before slamming down into the street. He got up just in time to see a ghostly figure approach him: a samurai drenched in blood, with their katana unsheathed and a trail of drool falling from their lips.

“I wonder,” Junko said as she licked the blood from her katana, “if you taste as well as your underlings do!”

The mercenary screamed as he ran, running through the crowded streets of Hokusei like a rat on a sinking ship. He bumped into and stumbled over all manner of food stands and festival-goers in a desperate attempt to escape his pursuer.

Junko had taken the high road, leaping across buildings and jumping down right in front of her prey. She was of course only toying with him; if she had wanted him to die quickly, the sellsword would already be dead.

“For betraying the orphan’s trust...your death will be slow!”

The chase continued out of the city and beyond the front gates where the sellsword had pleaded with the guards for aid. They thought he was insane—or inexplicably drunk on plum wine—and tossed him away.

A more fitting way to put it was that they ‘threw him to the wolves’.

*AwoOooOOOooo*

Junko let out a wolf’s howl—a near perfect replication of the real thing. It always scared the orphan when she did it, so—as you can imagine—it had become quite a talent of hers over their years growing up together.

It scurried the sellsword forward like a rabbit that was missing one of its hind legs. The idea of wearing this one’s ‘paw’ to bring about good fortune was starting to grow more appealing to Junko, who picked up her pace until the two arrived at the lake outside the city.

The ferryman was on his boat fishing while beside him, his wife nursed their newborn son. The vessel was anchored to the shore—or at least it was until the crazed sellsword slashed the rope with a swing of his stolen katana. It took several swings, actually, each more desperate than the last as Junko drew closer.

“What are, mad?! Leave us be!” the ferryman yelled.

When the mercenary stepped foot into his boat, the man who lived by the lake and liked to talk too much became brave. Every good man did when their family was in danger. Unfortunately, while he was able to tackle the mercenary and disarm him of his katana, he didn’t expect his assailant to be carrying a sidearm.

And he certainly didn’t expect to die by a knife wedged between his ribs. But he perished all the same while his wife screamed and their son cried. The mercenary regathered his wits and jumped onto the boat, of which had drifted a couple feet off-shore. As if a bit of water could save him from the wolf.

Junko looked down upon the ferryman to watch the last of his breath leave him. He looked as pathetic as his death had been senseless; the samurai shook her head in disgust. She wasn’t the sort to get sentimental or shed tears, though—that was much more of the orphan’s area of expertise.

Instead, Junko’s eyes went gold as she allowed the Jigoku to embrace her. It’s familiar power flowed from her wrist out to every inch of her body, consuming her in an empty warmth.

“You! You’re just like the ronin, aren’t you?!” the mercenary yelled. He then took a position behind the ferryman’s wife, placing his knife up against her neck. “You yellow-eyed demons! Don’t you take another step forward, you monster! Or I’ll kill her, too!”

The woman was sobbing uncontrollably while the newborn at her breast did likewise. It was a dramatic scene—or at least, it certainly wasn’t a comedic one. Yet Junko began to laugh maniacally all the same.

“The difference between me and your...ronin,” she said, taking a step forward onto the pier, “is that I see this world for what it really is. And I see you for what you truly are: human filth!”

Junko ran forward, leaping into the boat and allowing the Jigoku to handle the rest. It lunged its wielder forward, finding the proper arc for the fatal strike. That strike would come—however, when its target pushed the woman in its path at the last second, there was nothing Junko could do.

“No. That sort of thinking is for the weak,” Junko said to herself as her thoughts returned and as she watched her katana take two lives with a single stab. It had gone through the mother to reach the sellsword behind her. The blade went in deep—deep enough for it to drive itself into her opponent’s heart, causing him to gasp, stagger back and fall into the water with a loud splash.

As drops of water shot out from below, Junko slowly withdrew her katana from the mother’s stomach. Somehow, she managed to keep her newborn held up in her arms even as the rest of her collapsed. She let out a pathetic groan just like her husband had.

“What is it, woman? You want to curse me with your dying breath?” the samurai asked. Though most would be devastated in her position, Junko felt little remorse. From a very early age and courtesy of her father, the brown-haired girl came to learn that this world was hell and that living itself was its greatest suffering.

To spare someone from all that misery with the single stroke of a sword—was that not the greatest gift?

“Onegai...please, save him,” the mother said, using the last bit of her strength to raise her child and offer it to Junko. Again, it was pathetic—enough to make the samurai’s gut wrench. But that wasn’t the only organ that did. “Save my...little one…”

She slumped over as the last of her life left her eyes. The newborn was lowered to the ship’s hull, yelling and fumbling around a growing pool of his mother’s blood. Junko lowered herself too, sitting back and staring up into the darkening sky as the ferry drifted on the water.

Soon, a cold rain began drizzling down from above. She didn’t blink even as drops fell into her eyes; the final words from the ferryman’s wife had put her in a daze. They dug up memories the daughter of Izō Uesugi thought were long since buried.

“Little One, Little One,” she repeated as her gaze fell upon the newborn screaming for his mother’s warmth. “Oh, Little One. What a shame it is, to be born into this forsaken world. That’s a lesson we all learn. In your case...your lesson came early, didn’t it? Shall I end your suffering?”

The baby cried even more in response, flailing its arms until it hooked free a pouch from his mother’s hip. Curious, Junko grabbed it and took a peek inside. Her eyes lit up at what she found.

“Alright, woman. I suppose this will make for a fair payment.”

■■■■

The rain picked up that night, and by the time the orphan wondered his way back to the dojo, it was pouring. He was a mess in more ways than one and exhausted from being chased down alleys and across ravines. The Takeda lord had spared no expense to find him.

Had the orphan not known these hills like the knuckles on the back of his hand, he never would’ve escaped. He didn’t know how Junko would react to seeing him like this...or what lie he’d tell her once she did. The orphan just knew that—after that horrendous botch of a job—he needed some peace and quiet. Some familiarity, too.

What greeted him at the entrance of the dojo...was none of those things.

“How’d your meditation go?” Junko asked. She was calm—ridiculously so as she cradled a crying baby in her arms. The contrast was crazy enough for the orphan to disbelieve his eyes; yet no matter how many times he blinked, reality didn’t change.

“What...what is that thing? Junko! Did you steal someone’s baby?!”

“It’s mother was killed. Some mercenary stuck a sword through her gut. Poor thing was all alone,” Junko said, cooing the newborn as if it was her own. For the orphan, the idea of Junko being a mother at all...was one he only entertained in his greatest nightmares. Everything about this was wrong.

“No...no, this isn’t happening. You can’t take care of a kid, Junko! Even you should know that!”

“Would you rather he grow up as an orphan? How’d that work for you?” Junko teased before turning her attention to the infant. It looked up at her with eyes more innocent and filled with wonder than anything else in the world. “We’ll need to buy a cow in order to feed you, won’t we? Not gonna be cheap...but your otosan has plenty of coin to spare, doesn’t he?”

The orphan didn’t reply. Instead, he lowered his head before shaking it. Soon, the rest of him shook as well. He was trying so hard to keep his anger bundled inside, but when Junko asked him to give it a name...he couldn’t hold back any longer.

He embraced the Jigoku.

“I know...I know what this is, Junko. You’re trying to guilt me into staying, aren’t you?” he asked, each word filled with raw emotion. “I knew you were up to something...but this?!”

Junko began to chuckle as she laid the baby down on the table beside her. “Accusing me of keeping secrets...that’s real rich coming from you, orphan. Or should I say...ronin?”  Junko’s own eyes went golden as she walked forth down the front steps of the dojo. “A samurai without a master! That’s what your friends call you!”

The orphan took a step back and into the ready position. The one Sensei had taught him. “How long have you known? No...I don’t care! Call them whatever you want—they respect me! They say I’m the greatest swordsman they’ve ever known...and they treat me like it, too!”

“Oh, I’m sure they said a lot of things. But they’re not talking much anymore.”

The man from Genfu didn’t know what his fellow student was talking about. But what he did know...was that he wasn’t a student any longer. He plunged Sensei’s sword into the mud, sheathe and all. He then made sure his voice didn’t waver.

“I’m leaving, Junko. I’m leaving it all behind.”

The orphan turned around. He couldn’t bear to see her face. The brown-haired girl he had grown up with...the only one he had to confide in, to play with, to fight and to love...he was going to walk away from the one person in this world who knew him better than anyone ever would.

It wasn’t going to be easy.

“Pick...up...your...sword. DO IT!” Junko yelled, her voice more akin to a beast than a woman. But the orphan—the ronin—had braced himself for this and shook his head. He had already said all the words left to say.

With what little the brown haired samurai had left of her humanity, while trembling with fury and fear, Junko picked up a nearby sack and tossed it over. “Before you...head out, take this.”

The sack fell beside the ronin and rolled a couple feet past him. Whatever was inside it was round. Though every sense he had told him not to look inside, the ronin felt compelled to comply with Junko’s last request. He owed her that much, at least.

But when he picked it up and took a peek inside, when he was met face-to-face with the decapitated head of the mercenary leader, he couldn’t help but let out a sigh. He really should’ve known better.

“Your family is here! You belong to me!”

Junko ran forth with her sword unsheathed. She wasn’t going to allow the ronin to leave her. To lose her most precious possession was worse than death, and so she charged at the ronin without restraint. Her beloved opponent would either draw his sword...or die in a single strike.

*CLANG*

The ronin chose the former. The two exchanged blows while the clouds above them continued to pour down. A wicked wind picked up, too, seen through the blossoms that danced violently across the air. Their fight was no less brutal as the two students of the Jigoku Ittō-ryū engaged in their most intense battle yet.

But fatigue—and something else—kept the ronin on his back foot. Junko could sense it as well: her fellow student’s habit of overthinking was rearing its head in their battle. She took it as a personal insult each time her opponent didn’t go for a lethal blow.

“Come on, ronin! I know you’re stronger than this!”

Her opponent spat out a wad of blood in reply. There was a reason the ronin was holding back—and if there was ever a time to voice it, it was now.

“Junko...those sellswords, they respected me! They accepted me as one of their own! You could’ve joined us! I was gonna ask you but...I was afraid of what you’d do. Turns out I had every right to be concerned,” the ronin said, shaking his head. Water began to well up in his eyes. “Come with me, Juu-chan! We can leave this place together. We can find other groups. With our skills, we’d find work all over Hyuga! We’d make more money than—”

The orphan’s proposal was answered with a kick to the gut. The would-be-ronin reeled backwards, tripping over the pot of stew beside the campfire. The remains of that meal soiled his kimono.

“You’ve never understood what we truly are,” Junko said, looking down at her opponent. “We’re predators: not prey. Quit pretending to be one of them!”

The ronin didn’t know who Junko was referring to by ‘them’. At least, not until he began rubbing off the leftovers scattered across his robes. He recalled the night Junko had cooked this meal: it was the same night as the failed caravan ambush that claimed five of the mercenaries’ lives.

They never did find the bodies.

“These bones...these aren’t from a pig, Junko!” the ronin yelled out in horror as he discovered femurs, mandibles and clavicles among the contents of the stew. They didn’t belong to any animal he knew of, and yet—even still, he refused to believe it. He refused up until the very moment Junko forced him to face the truth.

“You enjoyed how they tasted, didn’t you?”

Lightning struck down as the realization hit the orphan. Vomit ejected from out of his mouth as the ronin recalled the taste. It wasn’t that it was particularly tasty—but that it was nostalgic. He now knew what it had reminded him of: the orphans in Genfu.

Those boys...those innocent children...he couldn’t bring himself to accept it. It was too terrible and too wicked. He would rather lose himself than recall those unthinkable horrors, and so…

<The orphan forgot himself.>

Junko’s grin only grew as her opponent fully gave himself over to the Jigoku. To become the ultimate swordsman was to be nothing but the wielder of the sword. This was the thinking behind the Strike of Non-Thought: the most deadly and dangerous technique Sensei had taught them.

“Ergh!” the brown-haired student groaned as her own katana was shoved back into her chest. It was only the flat-end of the blade but even still, the force of the orphan’s slashes were enough to cut her cleanly in two. It was ironic, but the only chance Junko had to survive this onslaught was to kill everything she was.

Junko did just that, forgetting herself as well.

The battle between the two wielders sent sparks flying across the otherwise dark and stormy night. The intensity of their exchange was mirrored by the whipping blossoms that swirled around them. Cries from the newborn rang out into the distance as the battle between Sensei’s students moved away from the dojo.

The fight had taken them down to the pond where the two would often fish for loaches in the summer. Though neither the future nor the past was of consequence any longer. The two wielders fought and lived in the moment, accepting that it was likely their last.

Both were knee-deep in water, now, their bodies hurling through the overflowed pond without restraint. Here, where every movement required much more energy than the last, the brown-haired wielder held the advantage. She pressed it mercilessly until the red line across ‘Ichi’ was exposed and begging to be cut.

It was at this moment, however, that a slight pain pulsed from out of the brown-haired wielder’s right pinky. It was a negligible ache, and yet...to feel anything at all ought to have been impossible while using the Strike of Non-Thought. The sensation was enough to draw the wielder out of their dissociative trance.

Junko became herself once more and—in doing so—she halted her blade mid-strike. The man before her was far more than a number. He was her greatest possession—the one who had promised to be hers forever on the night of their first winter together.

So many years ago, the two had wrapped their fingers together to seal their fate. They were to be with each other forever and ever. It was all Junko ever wanted, and yet...it was all about to come undone.

It wasn’t a fatal slash but a swift kick from the ronin that would prove just as lethal. Junko was pushed out into the center of the pond where the water was at its deepest. Fallen tree branches and lengthy strings of kelp made for a great home for fishes but an even better trap for Junko’s legs.

Snared, the brown-haired swordsman flailed against her unseen enemy. Unable to swim, desperation took hold as she flung out her arms and shoulders every which way in a vain attempt to keep her head above water.

With what precious little breath she had left, she yelled out to the ronin as they looked on from the shallow end of the pond.

“You!” Junko shouted, water flooding into her mouth. “You promised me! To be mine forever! Orphan, I—”

That was all Junko could say before her lips and nose went underwater. Her eyes did, too, but not before taking in one final sight just as the dark abyss consumed her.

It was the sight of the orphan walking away.

■■■■

When Junko woke up, she was bent over and retching out water. She was freezing cold, her eyes stung and every part of her ached—her heart most of all. For while she had been out of consciousness for some time, the sight of her beloved leaving her remained fresh in her mind.

“Orphan? Orphan?!” she coughed out a cry. Even as weak as she sounded, her voice seemed to echo through the air. The rain had since halted and the wind died, leaving nothing but an eerie silence to welcome Junko as she staggered back up to the dojo.

At least the baby wasn’t crying.

An immense relief came upon Junko as she spotted the campfire in the dojo’s front yard. It was lit—albeit barely—and had the unmistakable figure of Sensei hunched over beside it. It was an odd posture for a man so dedicated to correct poise even in his old age, yet Junko paid it no mind.

“Sensei!” she shouted, rushing over and nearly losing her footing while doing so. The yard was muddy from the recent rains, and—combined with the battle between herself and the orphan—it looked as if an earthquake had ravaged the clearing.

Landscaping matters aside, Junko ran forth eager to tell Sensei all that had happened. If anyone knew how to find the orphan and return him back home where he belonged, it was the man who raised them. That was her thinking at least, until she neared closer and saw the pool of blood beneath him.

In an instant, all of Junko’s relief turned to fear. In another, it became complete and total agony.

“Sensei! SENSEI!”

Junko collapsed to her knees, using what little strength she had left to embrace the closest thing to a father she ever had. Through her tears, she mourned the loss of the one whose respect mattered to her more than life itself: the one and only man she would ever call her master.

Stabbed through the back, the greatest swordsman of the Golden Era was now no more than a wrinkled corpse. Though his wasn’t the only carcass festering beside the fire. For beneath her master’s body were the half-eaten remains of...of...

It was too terrible to put into words. Suffice it to say, Junko now knew why the baby wasn’t crying any longer.

■■■■

“Five years,” Junko said, overlooking the view of the Clanfields atop a cliff near the dojo. It was the same spot where ‘Tree-san’, an apple tree, once stood years ago. It had fallen over while Junko and the orphan were trying to fetch an apple for their teacher.

Even if it was terrifying at the time, it was a good memory. Unlike this one.

“Five years, Sensei,” Junko repeated, patting down the last of the dirt with her shovel. She overlooked the grave with a sigh before wiping the sweat from her brow. “I will remain here and watch over your dojo—our home—for five years. I will continue to train and dedicate myself to your teachings until then.

“And after that time has passed,” Junko continued, “if the orphan has yet to return...if I find that your chosen heir is unworthy...then I will hunt him down like the prey he’s become.”

The promise was given and then accepted by a gust of wind that made the samurai’s brown curls dance across her face. No—that wasn’t quite true. As Junko took her first step away from the grave and back down the mountain, she could call herself a samurai no longer.

She was a ronin. She had no master and no family...and yet, she did have a path to follow. A path that took her back to the dojo: to the future she was determined to grow and make flourish.

Junko grabbed the pouch at her hip and squeezed to get a feel for the contents inside. It wasn’t gold but something far more valuable: it was what the infant’s mother carried on her when she died. Though she, her husband and child were taken by the horrors of this world…

...something good would sprout from it all in the end. Junko took out a handful of apple seeds and smiled.

“When you come back, orphan, I’ll have an entire orchard waiting for you.”