The night burned red, and the heavens themselves seemed to bleed.
Ash drifted across the courtyard of the Hayato clan estate, settling over shattered stone and fallen bodies. Takura stood alone among his comrades, his silhouette framed by rising flames. The wind carried the scent of blood and charred wood, and beneath it lingered the suffocating silence of extinction.
The battle had been lost hours ago.
He simply had not fallen yet.
His sword hung heavy in his hand, slick with crimson. A deep gash split his lower calf. A shallow slash burned across his back. An arrow remained lodged in his left shoulder, its shaft trembling slightly with each breath he drew.
Flames devoured the clan banners behind him. The old cherry tree in the courtyard shed no petals now — only ash that scattered into the night. The Hayato name, their art, their honor… all of it would end here.
Five figures broke through the smoke ahead, moving with disciplined speed. Their armor reflected the firelight as they advanced with blades raised and confident smiles. To them, he was merely a wounded man clinging to pride.
Prey.
They were not entirely wrong.
Pain gnawed at his muscles, and exhaustion slowed his limbs and an arrow had piercedhis left shoulder. But wounded did not mean helpless.
Takura stepped forward before they could encircle him. His blade traced a clean arc through the air — precise, controlled, almost gentle in its execution. There was no roar, no clash of drawn-out struggle. Only the whisper of steel.
Five heads fell.
The Crimson Veil Swordstyle was never meant for war. It was art — motion refined beyond hesitation, emotion tempered into clarity. His father once told him that true mastery was when a blade could cut not merely flesh, but fate itself.
If that were true, fate had already been severed tonight.
Another wave advanced. Dozens this time. Their commander shouted from behind the ranks, though his words were swallowed by the crackling inferno. Takura inhaled slowly and steadied his stance. Every breath aligned with his heartbeat. Every step fell into rhythm.
He moved through them with measured precision. Each strike was deliberate, each motion economical. Men fell before they understood what had happened.
One swing. One death.
For a brief moment, it felt almost orderly.
Then his injured leg faltered.
A blade slipped past his guard and pierced his abdomen, biting deep into his side. The shock froze him, but instinct overruled pain. He pivoted and severed his attacker in a single motion before staggering back.
Warmth spread rapidly beneath his armor.
The bleeding would not stop.
Through smoke and flame, a lone figure emerged.
Black armor. Iron mask. Sword already drawn.
A samurai.
Unlike the others, he did not rush. He had been watching — studying every movement, every weakness. His stance was balanced, patient. Dangerous.
Takura raised his blade despite the tremor in his wounded arm.
"Come," he whispered.
They met at the center of the burning courtyard.
Steel clashed, sparks bursting between them. The masked warrior was younger and faster, his strikes heavy with calculated force. Again and again, he angled his blows toward Takura's injured shoulder, pressing the weakness without hesitation.
Takura yielded ground at first, absorbing and redirecting the force. He shifted his weight, disrupted the rhythm, searching not for strength but for pattern.
And then he saw it.
A flaw.
A single opening along the line of the throat.
Victory.
He moved—but his body failed him.
His heart stuttered violently. Blood filled his mouth, spilling past his lips. A strange numbness spread from his shoulder down through his limbs. His vision darkened at the edges as his gaze dropped to the arrow still lodged in his flesh.
Wolfsbane.
The poison had waited patiently.
This was his tsumi.
His checkmate.
His knees struck the stone.
The masked samurai did not hesitate. He stepped forward as Takura's strength abandoned him completely. The world tilted, fire and sky blending into one final blur of red.
Cold steel pressed against his neck.
Then everything went dark.
...
He was a dead samurai.
That was all Takura had become.
He had failed to protect his clan. Failed to protect his people. The warriors who trusted him… the children who depended on him… all of them had perished beneath foreign steel.
In the endless dark that followed his death, the weight of that truth did not lessen. If anything, it grew heavier.
Was he ever worthy of being called a samurai?
Even without a body, even without breath, the guilt clung to him. He had failed — as the heir of the Hayato clan, and as a bearer of the Crimson Veil Swordstyle. The art that was meant to embody perfection had ended in ruin.
His consciousness drifted through a vast and dreadful emptiness. There was no pain now, no fire, no blood — only silence. A hollow, suffocating silence that left him alone with his regret.
Guilt followed him like a shadow that would not fade.
And within that darkness, a single fragile thought surfaced.
If there was such a thing as another life…
…he prayed he would not become a failure again.