The capital of the Land of Iron loomed above the mountains, resembling a fortress hewn from rock and ice. Kamizuru Ishikawa stood at the entrance, gazing at the imposing walls that encircled the inner city. Guard towers dotted the perimeter, with samurai keeping watch, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
Ishikawa had journeyed for three days to arrive here, leaving Suzumebachi in charge of the consolidated forces. Accompanied by twelve shinobi in a protective formation, he approached the main gate. Though the journey had been uneventful, his anger had intensified with every step.
More than two hundred Kamizuru shinobi had perished, and eight camps had been obliterated in less than three weeks. Even the Yotsuki Clan hadn't caused such devastation—but this time, the assailant remained unknown.
As the gates opened, a tall figure emerged to greet them. The man had black hair styled in a traditional topknot and wore formal samurai armor emblazoned with the crest of the current Mifune. His youthful face was stern, perhaps reflecting his late twenties, and his eyes appeared wary.
"Kamizuru Ishikawa," the man said, his voice formal. "I am the Mifune, Okisuke. The Daimyo has been anticipating your arrival."
Ishikawa nodded briefly. "Take me to Shinji."
Okisuke's expression tightened at the casual reference to the Daimyo but he motioned for him to follow into the inner city.
They moved through the gates and into the capital, where wide, clean streets were lined with sturdy stone and timber buildings. Samurai patrolled in organized squads, while civilians navigated between shops and homes with practiced efficiency. The city exuded strength and order—from the disciplined guards to the meticulously kept roads.
Ishikawa had come to the capital twice before during the initial negotiations that solidified the Kamizuru's foothold in the region. The Land of Iron upheld strict neutrality in shinobi disputes, enforced by thousands of samurai skilled in traditional combat. No single shinobi clan could withstand such numerical superiority in open conflict.
They walked in silence, with Okisuke leading steadily ahead. The twelve Kamizuru shinobi trailed behind, hands hovering near their weapon pouches as civilians stepped aside and samurai looked on, clearly anticipating the visit.
Ahead, the palace rose on a hill, its immense structure characterized by multiple wings and towers united by covered walkways. Guards in shining armor stood vigilant at every entrance.
Okisuke led them up the main path and through the palace gates, where guards observed but did not impede their passage. The presence of the Mifune was authorization enough.
Inside the main building, they traversed corridors adorned with tapestries showcasing historical battles and weapon displays highlighting centuries of martial tradition. Ishikawa barely glanced at the decor, his focus fixed on the dark cloud hanging over his people's fate.
Stopping before an ornate set of doors, Okisuke turned to Ishikawa. "The Daimyo will see you now. Your escort is not permitted to enter."
Ishikawa nodded, signaling his shinobi to take up positions in the corridor, spreading out to secure the area. As the doors opened, he stepped inside alone.
The audience chamber was expansive, with high ceilings and windows that welcomed natural light. Tapestries depicting the Land of Iron's history decorated the walls, while polished wood flooring gleamed in the sunlight. At the far end, on a raised platform, sat Daimyo Shinji in formal robes.
Ishikawa advanced without waiting for a formal invitation, halting five meters from the platform to meet Shinji's gaze. In his mid-forties, with graying hair and the burden of leadership etched into his features, Shinji's demeanor was composed as he observed Ishikawa's approach.
"Ishikawa," Shinji stated, his eyebrows slightly raised. "That's an interesting way to start this conversation."
"Over two hundred of my people are dead, and eight camps destroyed in three weeks—all on your soil," Ishikawa replied, his tone icy and exact. "The attacker appears to be a samurai. Is this how you wish to uphold our alliance? By allowing my men to be slaughtered?"
Shinji stepped down from the platform with confident ease, halting three meters away. "The agreement stipulated the Kamizuru Clan would establish its presence within our laws. It did not include provisions for my forces to shield you from every danger."
"Don't play semantics with me." Ishikawa closed the gap to two meters. "The attack patterns are indicative of advanced chakra techniques—slicing through armor and bone. That's samurai work, not shinobi. Someone from your side is assaulting my camps, and you're taking no action."
Shinji's calm facade wavered slightly, but he retained his composure. "You conclude the attacker is one of ours based solely on technique. But if your assumption holds, what do you want from me? Your people are falling because you lack strength. You talk of establishing a nation led by the Kamizuru, yet you seek protection from a single enemy. Perhaps you should build your strength to match your ambitions."
Ishikawa's fists tightened. "Don't test my patience."
"I'm not testing it," Shinji replied evenly. "I'm simply questioning whether you can confront this enemy on your own."
The tension between them crackled. As anger surged within him, Ishikawa felt his chakra beginning to stir, but as the head of the Kamizuru Clan, he maintained control.
"Are you implying," Ishikawa said slowly, "that the Kamizuru Clan lacks the ability to sustain a presence here? That we should abandon the territory we've labored to establish?"
Shinji's expression remained unchanged. "I'm suggesting that if you cannot handle a single adversary, your ambitions may surpass your actual capabilities. The Land of Iron has adhered to neutrality for generations, but I'm offering you a chance. If you cannot take advantage of it, whose fault is that?"
Ishikawa stepped closer, nearly within a meter of Shinji, but the Daimyo showed no sign of retreat.
"Listen closely," Ishikawa said, lowering his voice. "If it turns out you sanctioned these attacks or if you are intentionally withholding information about the assailant, there will be consequences. The Kamizuru Clan does not forget betrayal."
Shinji met his gaze unwaveringly. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
They stood in silence, studying each other. Shinji remained composed, his expression revealing neither fear nor aggression.
Finally, he spoke. "I will look into the attacks. If evidence points to one of our samurai, appropriate actions will be taken. However, I won't deploy Land of Iron forces to protect your camps. You accepted the risks when you established your presence here. Deal with your enemy on your own, or withdraw."
Ishikawa held Shinji's gaze for several more moments, then stepped back, retracting his chakra. "I'll handle it myself. But remember this conversation when bodies begin piling up on both sides."
Turning, he exited without waiting for a dismissal, the guards opening the doors as he approached. His escort regrouped around him, and they moved through the palace in charged silence.
"Shinji knows something. But what could it be?"
---
As night fell and the temperature dipped, Suzumebachi stood at the center of the camp, activating his chakra-sensing technique, sending controlled pulses of energy outward. The familiar sensation radiated from his body, enveloping the entire perimeter, allowing him to perceive the chakra signatures of all present shinobi.
Over a hundred signatures glowed in his awareness, each unique and positioned as planned. The shinobi maintained their disciplined formations: outer sensors scanned the dark beyond the firelight for threats; the middle ring was prepared to trigger traps on command; and the innermost circle awaited orders with weapons drawn and techniques poised.
Everything was set for the anticipated assault.
The sensation of being watched had intensified in the last hour, and Suzumebachi sensed an unseen presence weighing against his awareness. The air felt thick, and the darkness outside the fires seemed to encroach upon the light. Whatever lurked in the forest was closing in.
"Movement on the eastern perimeter!" one of the outer sensors called out.
Suzumebachi's focus snapped to that direction. A new chakra signature approached from the woods, immense and overwhelming, reminiscent of Kamizuru Ishikawa's reserves. Yet, this presence felt distorted and inhuman, defying his years of experience in reading enemy patterns.
"Prepare for engagement!" Jibachi commanded from the eastern front, projecting authority as shinobi shifted into combat stances. "Enemy approaching from the east!"
The signature strode steadily toward the camp, revealing no intent for stealth or concealment. Whoever approached wanted them to notice, indicating confidence they did not view as a threat.
"He's not even making an effort to hide. He expects us to see him. That kind of assurance means he doesn't consider us dangerous."
Suzumebachi studied the incoming presence with a calm focus borne from combat experience. The chakra reserves were formidable, matching or surpassing Ishikawa's. Yet, because the reserves were finite, they could theoretically be worn down in prolonged engagement. Despite the unsettling distortion in the signature, such anomalies had occurred before.
A figure emerged from the forest's edge, stepping into the glow of the camp's fires. Tall and powerfully built, he wore purple-and-black patterned robes atop traditional hakama pants. Long black hair with red tips fell past his shoulders, gathered into a ponytail away from his face. His six eyes, arranged in three pairs down his face, drew attention.
The upper pair replaced where eyebrows would be, high on his forehead. The middle pair bore markings resembling kanji etched into the flesh surrounding them. The bottom pair had normal positions where human eyes would naturally exist. All six eyes held yellow irises with red sclera, observing the camp with cold detachment.
Red flame-like patterns marked the left side of his face and down his neck, resembling scars burned into his skin.
His hand rested nonchalantly on a sword at his hip, the blade's scabbard unsettlingly reminiscent of flesh instead of metal or leather, with eyes embedded in it that blinked occasionally, animate and aware.
"Kokushibo," a voice whispered from the defensive line. The name soon spread like wildfire through the camp, each whisper carrying a weight of fear born from weeks of hearing about the camp's annihilator.
The six-eyed man paused thirty meters from the outer defense, tilting his head as though contemplating the name. His expression shifted into something resembling amusement, but the emotion appeared unsettling on his inhuman face.
"Kokushibo," he pronounced, his voice slow and deliberate, each syllable articulate as if savoring them. "It should mean Black Death Eye, correct? I was unaware I had earned such a title. How fascinating."
He smiled, the expression unsettling on his features. His six eyes shimmered in the firelight, reflecting flames and creating an impression of fire burning within his skull.
"I like it," Kokushibo continued. "The name fits me well."