In a village deep within a vast forest, two boys played beside a stream just outside its borders. They shared a distinct trait that none of the other children possessed—a single streak of white hair. From their tattered clothes, it was obvious that life had treated them unjustly. Yet despite it all, they smiled as though they did not have a care in the world.
"Hey, Tsushiro," the younger brother asked, "do you think we'll harvest enough to get us through the year?"
"I don't know," Tsushiro replied. "It doesn't look promising. But don't worry—we'll get by somehow, Yushiro."
Suddenly, Yushiro jolted upright. "Hey! We should head back. Mom must be furious by now! Today's the day we're supposed to visit Father's grave!"
"Oh crap—it's today," Tsushiro exclaimed. "We can still make it. Let's run!"
They sprinted through the thick forest toward the village. As they drew closer, the scent of smoke reached them, and they quickened their pace.
When they arrived, they were met with a horrific sight. Most of the houses and farms were engulfed in flames. Without hesitation, they rushed toward their home—only to find their beloved mother lying face down at the entrance, her legs trapped beneath burning debris.
There was a gaping hole in her chest, along with several bloodied wounds scattered across her body. It didn't take a genius to realize she was already dead—and had been for some time. If she had been alive, there would have been signs of her struggling to escape the flames.
Yushiro collapsed beside her, clutching her lifeless body as he sobbed uncontrollably.
Tsushiro stood frozen in shock. "Who could have done this?" he wondered.
He had no time to dwell on that thought though as a sudden chill ran down his spine.
Acting on instinct, Tsushiro shoved Yushiro aside just in time. A glowing sword flew past them, embedding itself in the ground where they had stood. Had he hesitated even for a moment, Yushiro would have been struck.
"Nice reflexes, kid," a voice echoed from within the burning house. "But don't think I'll miss next time."
Tsushiro gritted his teeth. "Who are you?!"
Before an answer came, a strange figure emerged from the flames. He had red eyes and a long tail, but aside from that, he looked almost human. He wore a gray robe and appeared young—around the same age as the boys, who were teenagers.
"My name is Jarad," he declared loudly. "And you and your village are nothing more than obstacles in my path, obstacles that need to be removed."
"So you did this!" Tsushiro shouted, rage flooding his voice.
He stepped in front of Yushiro, his expression torn between fury and fear. At that moment, jets of blood burst from Jarad's body, glowing as they converged at four points—forming four swords, two hovering at each side.
"Be honored that you get to witness my technique, you worms," Jarad sneered as he assumed a battle stance. "Blood Manipulation: Quadruple Sword Thrust."
With a motion resembling a punch, the four swords launched forward at blinding speed. Yushiro instinctively crouched and covered his head. Tsushiro threw himself in front of him, bracing for impact.
A sharp clash rang out before the attack could land.
The boys slowly looked up to see an old man standing before them. He had a long beard, gray hair, and wore a blue robe. A sword rested on his waist, and a travel bag hung at his side—marking him as a passerby. His presence radiated the quiet gravity of someone who had faced death many times and survived.
Both the boys and Jarad stared at him in shock.
"Well?" Jarad demanded sharply. "Just who the hell are you."
"Oh? Me?" the old man replied casually. "Kosuke Inda. Former captain of Division Three of the Ashura Samurai Corps."
At the sound of the name, Jarad's face twisted with excitement. "So you're one of them—and a former captain, no less! This is becoming interesting."
He grinned. "But you're nothing I can't handle."
Kosuke's eyes hardened. "You talk too much. Let's see if you can back it up."
He drew his sword, revealing a small circular black guard, a black-and-blue hilt, and a plain but well-kept blade. Taking a deep breath, he settled into a fighting stance entirely different from Jarad's—clear proof of the contrast in their combat styles.
Jarad mirrored him, assuming his own stance.
For a moment, neither moved. Their gazes locked, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
Tsushiro did not realize it then, but the outcome of this battle would decide the fate of both his life—and his brother's.