[3 days after the incident in the village; Location: Capital of the empire, sphere tower; afternoon]
The room was spacious. The walls were pure white, decorated with gold friezes that formed austere linear patterns. On the floor, a blood-red carpet stretched to the side balcony, whose heavy silk curtains were closed to block out the sunlight.
In the center of the room, a massive glass sphere four meters in diameter floated above an antique bronze pedestal. The light emanating from the glass was the only source of illumination in the hall, as the crimson silk curtains on the side balcony were closed.
A man stood next to the sphere. Despite his imposing stature and the black kimono that gave him an aura of authority, he seemed tiny in comparison to the magnitude of that glass lens.
On the other side of the hall, a massive U-shaped black wooden table accommodated the six spectators. They were young, dressed in stiff silk kimonos with impeccable cuts. Six Heirs. Sitting in silence, their faces were illuminated by the bluish glow emanating from the sphere, which projected images in absolute silence.
The sphere reproduced the visual memory recorded by Fuku's porcelain mask. He saw two blurs of speed converging toward the center. They were Fuku and Mahito. Both of their katanas cut through the air at impossible angles, but Afro was there, in the middle of the steel, moving with millimeter-perfect precision. He wasn't running away; he was guiding the trajectories of the two captains toward a point of collision.
CLANG!
Even without audio, the impact on the sphere was visible. The image shook violently. Fuku and Mahito's katanas collided. On the glass, you could see the exact moment Afro jumped over the crossed blades.
The perspective of the person recording, the samurai Fuku, tilted upward. For a millisecond, the image focused on Afro's face in the air. Then, darkness. Afro stomped down hard on Fuku's forehead, using the samurai's skull as a springboard. The recording lens cracked. Lines of interference crossed the glass of the sphere, distorting the scene.
Fuku staggered. The image swayed, capturing Mahito's sideways movement. The black captain wasn't attacking Afro; he was taking advantage of the opening. The video recorded the rotational movement: a spinning back kick, charged with static electricity that made the image glow white.
Mahito's foot struck the center of Fuku's vision.
The mask exploded. For a second, the sphere filled with porcelain shards flying in slow motion before the signal went out.
The man standing next to the glass sphere did not look like he belonged on a battlefield. He was tall and strongly built, but his face was immaculate, without a single scar to betray his past. He was the same age as the Heirs, no more than twenty, with long black hair framing aristocratic features and deep blue eyes. In his black kimono, a single sword rested at his belt. To the casual observer, he looked like a nobleman or a poet, never a butcher.
He broke the silence with a voice that brooked no reply:
"Two master-level samurai are dead," he began. "But before they were soldiers of this Empire, they were mine. Men with lineages, fathers and future grandfathers whose families have been torn apart because of your dogfight."
The First Heir, the eldest of the six, adjusted his blue kimono and lifted his chin arrogantly. "In my defense..."
"Shut up, First Heir," the man cut him off.
The young prince felt his blood boil. He rose in a flash, slamming his hands on the black table.
"Watch who you're talking to! I am first in line of succession in this room! You are nothing but—"
The world seemed to undergo a spatial fold. In one second, the man was next to the sphere; in the next millisecond, he appeared on the other side of the hall, separated from the heir only by the width of the table. There was no sound of footsteps. There was no displacement of air.
A murderous intent, solid and overwhelming, expanded from him like an invisible shockwave. The air became dense. The other heirs recoiled against the backs of their chairs, feeling the primitive instinct of death screaming in their nerves.
"And I am the DivineSwordsman of this entire Empire," he said, his voice in a low tone that vibrated in the bones of all present. His right hand closed around the hilt of his sword with terrifying calm. "Sit down. Or let us show your father whether your strength is worthy of the inheritance you claim, or whether it is merely blood spilled on fertile soil."
The First Heir felt his legs tremble under the weight of that icy aura. The blue glint in the Divine Swordsman's eyes was not just a threat; it was a verdict. He sat down abruptly and silently, cold sweat running down his forehead, staining the collar of his ceremonial robe.
The ensuing silence was broken by a low, nasal laugh.
The Third Heir, leaning back with insolent elegance, smiled sidelong, fixing his gaze on his older brother. He had sharp features and an expression of eternal mockery. "Look at you... our 'future emperor' trembling like a leaf before the guard," taunted the Third, exploiting his older brother's vulnerability. "Your authority seems as fragile as your courage."
The First Heir gritted his teeth, but before he could respond, a heavier, more authoritative voice silenced the table.
"Shut up, Third. Your tongue will still be the first thing the executioner takes," intervened the Second Heir.
Unlike the Third, the Second Heir exuded a restrained brute force. His shoulders were broad, his hands calloused from not only commanding, but killing. He did not look at the First with fear, but with calculated contempt. Between the Second and the First there was a fierce rivalry, a power vacuum where both waited for the first sign of lethal weakness from the other.
"Don't abuse him just because you can," continued the Second, turning his icy gaze to the center of the room. "If he falls for lack of spirit, it's the Empire's problem. But if you talk too much, it's my problem. And I solve problems quickly."
The Third Heir swallowed the rest of his smile, feeling the weight of the warning. The tension at the U-shaped table was now a minefield.
The Divine Swordsman, indifferent to his brothers' ego games, kept his hand on the hilt of his weapon. His blue gaze swept across the table, ignoring lineage and focusing only on effectiveness.
"Since childhood, you have been given a specific time to earn your father's trust through your prowess. That is nothing new," he continued, his voice regaining its icy calm. "But at no point should my soldiers, whom you treat as pawns, die in this futile struggle of yours."
The Fourth Heiress leaned forward, the movement causing her pale pink silk kimono to touch the wood subtly. Of the two women present, she was the most upright. She had impeccably aligned blonde hair and blue eyes that sparkled with conscious vanity. Her body was sculpted beauty, and her perfectly applied lipstick gave her an air of aesthetic authority. She was undoubtedly the most obsessed with the image of the lineage.
"If the third and second are to blame, why summon us all? Why not just them?"
"Because this serves as a warning to everyone," replied the Divine Swordsman. "The second and third will personally compensate the families of these two samurai. In addition, they will attend the funeral. These were direct orders from the Emperor: children must clean up the mess they make."
At the opposite end of the table, the Fifth Heir, the youngest of the men present, remained reclined in his chair. He wore a sober green kimono of heavy fabric, which contrasted with the golden glow of the room. His face was young and exuded a quiet intellectual confidence. His short brown hair was neatly cut, and he kept his hands on his glasses, adjusting them as his analytical eyes scanned each frame of the projection on the sphere. At his side, the Sixth Heiress completed the picture of complicity. She wore a kimono of the exact same green as her brother's, but her posture was the opposite of royal stiffness. With a mischievous look and an expression that could be described as "cute" if it weren't surrounded by projected corpses, she absentmindedly drew with her finger on the surface of the ebony table. It seemed that nothing that was happening there, the death of the samurai, the fury of the first heir, or the pressure from the Swordsman, really mattered to her.
The two exchanged quick glances and restrained smiles, an alliance of blood and friendship that shone in that nest of vipers that was the U-shaped table.
"As for the man," said the young man in green, his voice calm. "According to the acts captured by the porcelain, he appears to be blind. From the moment he was found in the carriages, through the trial in the square to the roof... he did not act like an ordinary person. For a blind man, perhaps it was he who killed them."
With a gesture, he paused the sphere. The frozen image showed Afro's face in detail, his features marked by the rigidity of combat.
The Fourth Heiress let out an audible sigh. She closed her fan and pointed at the projection.
"Wow... don't tell me he's not beautiful? It seems you've finally found your rival, Divine Swordsman."
Everyone present turned their eyes to her with stern expressions. The First Heir snorted incredulously.
"Are you really going to say that now?"
"Are you going to deny the obvious?" she retorted with a smirk. "Are you going to tell me he's not gorgeous?"
There was an uncomfortable pause. As strange as it seemed in that war hall, some heirs let out discreet sighs, silently acknowledging the truth of her words, while others shook their heads, trying to maintain decorum.
The Divine Swordsman did not move. His posture remained impeccable, but his blue eyes fixed on the static image of Afro with a renewed, almost predatory intensity.
There was an invisible throbbing in his temper. Indeed, Afro was beautiful. There was a wild harmony in those features, a symmetry that neither mud nor blood could hide. And that hurt. Behind the facade of a cold-blooded executioner, the Divine Swordsman possessed a sense of vanity as sharp as his techniques. Such aesthetic presence was an affront that awakened a competitive instinct he rarely felt.
"Very well," continued the Divine Swordsman, his voice regaining the authority that had made the First Heir tremble. "His name is Afro. Blind. We don't know his age yet, but he travels with a daughter. The guy offered to deliver the supposed mask of all this confusion to the Empire. If he knows the way well, he'll be here in a few weeks. I sent men to intercept him and make sure he gets here quickly, but he hasn't been located yet."
The Fifth Heir, the young man in the green kimono and glasses, adjusted his glasses with a methodical gesture, concluding with the coldness of someone reading a death report: "So he's the prime suspect. And probably the only person alive who knows who really killed these two captains."
At that moment, the crystal sphere projected the climax of the memory: Mahito mutilating Afro's arm, the wanderer's body being thrown into the muddy alley.
The Divine Swordsman nodded, his blue eyes fixed on the image.
Fourth Heiress closed her fan with a sharp snap that echoed throughout the hall. "Kanami," she called, her tone of voice brooking no delay.
As if an extension of the Heiress's own shadow, a servant materialized at her side instantly.
"Do you see that man?" asked her mistress, pointing with her face as she fanned herself lightly with her fan, her eyes shining with dangerous curiosity.
The servant Kanami fixed her gaze on the crystal ball and nodded positively, her face a mask of efficiency.
"His last known location was in the village of Aokigahara. Find him... and bring the man directly to the Divine Swordsman."
The servant bowed and, in the blink of an eye, disappeared, leaving only sakura petals floating in the incense-laden air.
"Very well, Fourth Heir," concluded the Divine Swordsman, bringing the meeting to a close. "Do the same. We are done here."
Later, night swallowed the central structure of the Empire, but in Kanami's chambers, the work was just beginning.
The servant Kanami shed her ordinary attire to don her true skin: a black ninja suit, customized for her, made of a material that did not reflect light or emit sound. She adjusted her hidden blades and traction cables with the precision of someone preparing for surgery. She did not walk out the door. She ran toward the balcony of the central tower, her feet barely touching the cold marble. Without hesitation, she launched herself from the balcony.
From above, the Capital revealed itself as a living, colossal city. It was beautiful and chaotic, a sea of lights. From where Kanami fell, at an altitude where the air is thin and freezing, she could see everything: the arteries of the busy streets, the smaller palaces, and the distant swamps that surrounded civilization.
As the ground approached at terminal velocity, her body began to vibrate at a frequency. Before reaching the first rooftop, the servant's solid form dissolved. What was flesh and steel became black smoke that instantly dispersed in the wind, disappearing into the deep darkness of the night.
In the wake of her departure, a promise hung in the air, cold as the blade she carried:
"I have never failed a mission."