The ronin gathering was exactly as disappointing as I'd expected.
An old mountain stronghold, probably stolen from some dead lord, now crawling with masterless samurai who thought scars equaled personality. The smell hit first—unwashed bodies, stale sake, and that particular reek of desperate masculinity. Like someone had distilled mediocrity into perfume.
"Great lord," Taro whispered, pressed close behind me as we entered the main courtyard. "There are... many warriors here."
"Warriors?" I looked around at the hundred-odd men posturing at each other. "I see costumed farmers pretending swords make them special."
A group near the entrance noticed us. The usual sizing up began—counting swords, evaluating stance, measuring threat. Their leader, a man with more scars than sense, stepped forward.
"Entrance fee is—" He stopped when he saw my eyes. "You're the Crimson-Eyed Demon."
"That's a terrible name."
"You killed forty-three men at—"
