– Sengoku Era, Year 1574 –
"The world is dim. No matter how brightly you try to burn, this darkness will swallow you all the same."
– ???
Daiki stood by himself with his sword shaking in his hands as the icy wind howled through Hasakura's broken gates. Burning huts coiled smoke. The cries of the filthy, hollow-eyed villagers pierced the bitter dawn as they held on to starving children. Daiki had assured them that they would be safe. He thought they could be protected by a single blade.
Since he was a young boy, Daiki had a dream of becoming a renowned swordsman—respected, noble, and a protector of the weak in a harsh world. He wanted his name to be sung in order to demonstrate how honour could transform everything.
Ryohei, his childhood friend and the brother he never had, was beside him, holding his spear with white knuckles. Together, they had trained, gone hungry, and harboured naive hopes of rescuing Hasakura.
Ryohei forced a crooked smile and said, "Hey… Daiki, let's head to the capital once this is over." Perhaps we can guard a merchant's caravan and find actual employment.
Daiki laughed, his brow a mixture of ash and sweat. "Stupid, we'll protect a daimyo's palace. You will be present when I am bowed to as the greatest swordsman in the land.
"Always," Ryohei replied, although his gaze wavered.
As flames crept up her house, an elderly woman sobbed. The thin, despairing cries of a child echoed. Daiki tightened his hold on his sword.
We cannot allow them to destroy this place, Ryohei. We assured these folks that we would keep them safe.
"Yes," Ryohei muttered.
With their boots sounding like thunder on the muddy ground and their black banners flapping in the stormy winds, the Kuroame Legion advanced. Arrows struck flesh and splintered wood as they fell like rain. As the villagers attempted to escape, screams rose along with the smoke.
"Hold the line!" yelled Daiki. Keep them at bay! For Hasakura!
With a frantic cry, he slashed down a soldier as the enemy charged, his blade flashing. And then there was another. Sparks flew, steel rang, and blood spattered the mud.
"There are too many, Daiki!" Ryohei yelled, his voice breaking with fear.
"A little more time! We can hold—
Then there was nothing.
When the person he trusted the most thrust a blade between Daiki's ribs from behind, his eyes widened.
His lips were bubbling with blood as he turned. "Hey, Ryo."
Ryohei's lips were quivering, her eyes were cold, and she flickered with guilt. "I... I'm sorry, Daiki. And I just didn't want to die.
Daiki fell into the mud as he ripped the blade free, and the Legion marched forward. In an attempt to get away, Ryohei stumbled backward while holding a blood-stained coin pouch and glancing toward the gate.
With his eyes like polished obsidian and his black armour, General Ishida emerged from the smoke.
"I did what you asked me to do!" Ryohei stumbled and dropped to his knees. "You promised me I would live!"
General Ishida cocked his head in sympathy. "And I don't need a traitor anymore."
"Wait—please, don't—"
Blood spattered.
The promise of life was abruptly shattered as Ryohei's head struck the dirt, eyes frozen in horror.
Blood flooded the ground as the Legion poured into Hasakura, trampling Daiki's body as he lay in the mud, his hand reaching for the sword he was no longer able to lift.
No sound was heard. No glorification. Daiki died while pursuing a dream that was unattainable in this world, and the only sounds were the cries of the villagers.
The chains rattled.
With the iron collar digging into his neck, Hikari raised his head. As the Kuroame Legion dragged prisoners past the bodies, smoke continued to rise from Hasakura's ruin.
He had witnessed it all: the brutal death of idiots who believed honour could endure in such a world, Ryohei's treachery, Daiki's pointless stand, and the general's icy execution.
"The world is dim. No matter how brightly you try to burn, this darkness will swallow you all the same."
There was no honour here.
Only survival.