Night fell slowly over the Nippon military camp. Campfires burned at several points, lighting the faces of soldiers who had already lost control. Sake was poured without measure, fresh fruits scattered across the ground, some already crushed under boots and mixed with mud. Laughter burst out without meaning, interrupted by the sound of vomiting and the snoring of those who collapsed before the feast truly ended.
Several soldiers lay sprawled on the ground, their backs resting against supply crates or spear shafts. Some slept soundly, others remained half-conscious, their heads hanging low as remnants of sake dripped from the corners of their mouths. The camp was alive, but not with joy, rather with savagery that had been allowed to grow unchecked.
Amid the chaos stood a man known as the commander. His body was large and muscular, far taller than most of the other soldiers. His entire body was encased in heavy armor: helmet, chestplate, pauldrons, down to his arms and calves, as if he were preparing for the battlefield rather than a nighttime revel. Yet the whip in his hand moved casually, as though it were merely an extension of his own arm.
Several native men knelt before him, their hands bound, their bodies covered in wounds. The lash fell mercilessly, followed by screams that did not last long. Coldly, the commander ordered their tongues to be cut out. Afterward, alcohol was forced into their bleeding mouths. The burning pain turned their cries into hoarse, choking sounds, even screaming was no longer possible for them.
Beside the commander stood an adviser. His face was always adorned with a thin smile, the smile of someone who enjoyed chaos in a quieter way. His gaze followed every moment of suffering with undisguised interest, as though he were judging a performance rather than a massacre.
Some victims were not killed quickly. There were those impaled on young bamboo planted straight through their bodies. The bamboo was left alive, allowed to grow slowly, piercing upward over time, death delayed, turned into a spectacle for anyone who passed by.
As the feast began to subside, ordinary soldiers crawled into their small tents, narrow and stifling. Exhausted bodies were dropped carelessly onto the tent floor. But for the high-ranking officers, large tents had been prepared. Inside them, native women waited, ordered to remain silent, often unclothed, without choice.
Their skin was covered in deep purple bruises. Some soldiers left bite marks, thin lines of blood seeping between wounds. Some laughed while dancing without rhythm, others sang endlessly, without instruments, without clear meaning. Those sounds mixed with the laughter of the Nippon invaders, who smiled as if they understood the songs—unaware that the words being sung were insults, curses they could not comprehend.
Footsteps approaching broke through the noise of the night. Five ordinary soldiers and a captain walked swiftly toward the main tent. Two guards stationed in front of the officers' tent were immediately greeted with respect. One of the guards briefly pulled the tent curtain aside, but all that could be heard was the sound of heavy breathing mixed with restrained moans.
Suddenly, a furious voice exploded from inside the tent.
"What?! You're being extremely disruptive!" the commander shouted.
The guard immediately stepped back. A few seconds later, the commander's face appeared from behind the curtain, without revealing his body. His face was flushed, his breathing still rough, his hand moving impatiently.
"What is it now?!" he barked.
The captain stepped forward, his posture straight. "Permission to report, Commander. Several of our soldiers have been found dead."
"Hah?! Dead, and so what!" he snapped, causing the other soldiers to lower their heads instinctively.
"The bodies… were found without heads, Commander."
For the first time that night, the commander fell silent. His eyes narrowed, then slowly shifted toward one of the guards standing before his tent.
"Call Bashi to report to me. Now. Quickly."
The guard immediately ran off, kicking up dust behind him. The commander turned his gaze back to the messengers, his expression turning cold.
"Wait here," he said shortly. "I'll be finished shortly."
The tent curtain closed once more.
The night went on. From inside the tent, the sound of breathing could be heard again, growing faster, heavier. Outside, several soldiers exchanged glances, grinning with unspoken gestures. Some laughed quietly, imagining their own turns, as if the deaths that had just been reported were nothing more than a minor disturbance in a feast that had not yet truly ended.
Not long after that, the tent curtain opened again. Commander Tsuyoi stepped out with steady strides, his armor once more perfectly fitted, fully covering his massive body. His expression was different from before, more relaxed, even seemingly satisfied, as if the tension that had once creased his brow had evaporated along with the desire he had just released. He drew a long breath, rolled his shoulders, then surveyed the surroundings.
"Is everything in place?" he asked briefly, his eyes sweeping over the line of soldiers and guards in front of the tent.
"All ready, Commander," one of the guards replied. "Adviser Bashi is already here."
A man stepped forward from within the crowd. He was Bashi, his face showing greater age compared to the other soldiers. His hair and beard had turned white, yet his gaze was calm and sharp, not wild like most of the soldiers drunk on sake that night. He wore neither armor nor weapon. His body was wrapped in a high-quality silk kimono, paired with black pleated trousers. In his hand, he carried a folded sheet of paper, not for war, but for recording, judging, and arranging.
"How is it, Commander Tsuyoi?" Bashi said in a low, polite voice, bowing slightly in etiquette.
Tsuyoi gave a thin grin. There was a flash of enthusiasm in his eyes as he looked at his adviser."Listen to this report," he said. "It seems we've found something quite interesting tonight."
He then turned sharply toward the captain. "Hey, you. Continue your report."
"Yes!" the captain replied quickly, his posture straight once more. "Continuing the previous report. We found several soldiers killed in a brutal manner. Their bodies were left behind, but their heads were severed and not found around the location."
Bashi immediately raised his gaze. "Has the perpetrator been identified?"
"Yes, sir," the captain answered. "Based on witness accounts and the tracks left behind, the perpetrator is a young man. He used a katana, had long, loose hair, and wore entirely black clothing."
Hearing that, Tsuyoi instead burst into loud laughter. His voice was booming, full of confidence, as if the report of death were not a threat, but entertainment."I didn't expect there would still be someone brave enough to oppose us," he said. "Is he from the saint order? His way of killing reminds me of an old story, about my grandfather's city that was once razed by a single saint."
Bashi shook his head slowly, then bowed slightly before replying."The saint order should have been destroyed long ago, Commander. They were wiped out by a massive explosion from something that was never truly understood. Most likely, the perpetrator is merely a villager with hunting skills… or perhaps part of an amateur school that has developed in small towns."
The captain stepped forward again. "Permission, Commander. We also found this."He extended both hands, presenting a machete still in its sheath, the weapon belonging to Pramono.
Tsuyoi took it without hesitation. "This is a native's weapon," he said dismissively. He tried to open the sheath, but the blade did not move at all, as if locked by something unseen. His brow furrowed. With an annoyed snort, he applied greater force until the sheath finally came loose by force.
"What kind of weapon is this," he muttered. "How can it be called a weapon if even drawing it is already troublesome?"
Tsuyoi finally managed to fully unsheathe the machete. The blade slid free with a soft but distinct metallic sound, reflecting the light of the campfires. He looked at it for a moment, then handed it to Bashi without further comment.
Bashi received the weapon with both hands, his demeanor far more cautious. He examined the blade slowly, tracing the clean metal surface that was nearly spotless. There was no rust, no sign of rough battle wear. The machete looked extremely well maintained, as if it had just been sharpened.
"There is nothing strange at first glance," Bashi finally said. "I initially thought this weapon would be rusted and rough, but it turns out to be clean and smooth, like new." He lifted his gaze toward the captain. "Where did you find it?"
"We found it at the waist of a villager," the captain replied. "The man looked very strong, but he did not attack our troops. He simply passed by, just like that."
Tsuyoi snorted softly. "Naive," he said. "To possess strength yet not use it to kill. Do you know anything about this, Bashi?"
Bashi lowered his gaze back to the blade, then turned it slightly. "There is a strong possibility that the young man you mentioned comes from the saint order," he said calmly. "And this weapon is the clue." He raised the machete a little closer to the firelight. "Look at this engraving, Commander."
He handed the machete back to Tsuyoi.
Tsuyoi examined it more carefully. Near the base of the blade was a small engraving, almost hidden: a tiny sword, beside it a lion, and the figure of a woman. The carving was simple, yet its meaning was clear to those who knew it.
"You're right, Bashi," Tsuyoi said with a wide smile. "This is the symbol of the saints. A small sword sharp enough to subdue a lion, and gentle enough to conquer a woman's heart."
He laughed softly, then continued, "The young man who killed our troops could be a close relative, or at least a disciple of the owner of this sword."
Bashi nodded slowly. "That possibility is great, Commander." He then added in a more practical tone, "However, in my opinion, we do not need to dwell too much on a single person. Our food supplies are running low. We still have other villages to conquer."
Tsuyoi shook his head slowly, his smile not fading. "No, Bashi. I want to meet him." His voice grew heavier. "If possible, I want a direct duel with that young man. I will avenge my grandfather's death, who was killed in his own city."
He tucked the machete into his waist, replacing his previous weapon. "I will keep this sword for now."
Bashi did not object. He knew when to speak and when to bow. He then turned to the captain. "Do you know where the young man went?"
The captain thought for a moment before answering. "We received information that he headed toward the forest. He should not have gone very far, most likely he is injured."
Bashi nodded with satisfaction. "Then find that boy by any means necessary." His gaze was sharp, his voice low but firm. "And do not let him get even a little distance away from us."
The campfires continued to burn, the shadows of the soldiers dancing on the ground. In the distance, the forest stood silent, as if concealing a figure who had now unknowingly become the center of attention of the entire camp.
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The End