The sea was a restless, living thing beneath the cracked timbers of the ship. It roared with an ancient voice, dark and unyielding, as if eager to claim the souls of the men it bore. Waves lashed against the hull, the rhythm relentless and primal, a reminder that the sea's dominion over man was eternal.
At the prow, a man stood unmoving, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon—a thin line where sky met water, vast and empty, swallowing thought itself. The brine of the sea mixed with the sweat on his brow, stinging his skin, but he gave it no notice.
He was an enigma among the crew, a figure out of place even amidst the rough tapestry of sailors and merchants. Raven-black hair fell just past his collar, its damp strands clinging to his face, framing eyes that burned with an unnatural, piercing blue. They were too vivid, like shards of ice lit from within, and they carried a quiet intensity that made anyone who dared meet them turn away. His features were sharp, angular, his posture commanding a quiet, predatory elegance. He gave the impression of someone who could move without sound, strike without warning, and disappear just as easily.
Yet, for all his presence, he had a way of fading into the background. His plain, weathered cloak and nondescript clothing disguised him, muting his sharp edges. He moved like a shadow—there, but never truly noticed. The crew had quickly learned to overlook him, assuming he was just another wanderer seeking passage to distant lands. Perhaps they saw the calluses on his hands and thought him a mercenary or a swordsman fallen on hard times. Perhaps they noticed the quiet confidence in his stride but attributed it to arrogance.
If any of them glimpsed the weapon at his side—a curved blade, its lacquered sheath worn but lovingly tended—they said nothing. A sword was a sword, and no one on this ship was foolish enough to draw attention to the kind of man who carried one.
But the katana was no ordinary weapon, and neither was the man who bore it.
The sword hung at his side like an extension of his being. Its curved hilt bore the scars of use, the lacquer worn smooth where his grip had rested countless times. The man traced a finger along its edge now, a gesture of reverence, as though touching a sacred relic. To most, it was simply a blade—strange in design but unremarkable. To him, it was a promise, an oath forged in steel.
It was not the craftsmanship alone that made it extraordinary, though the blade was sharper than any forged in these lands. It was what the sword represented: a testament to the man who had shaped him, honed him, and transformed him into the weapon he had become. His master's teachings lived in the steel, as did his memory. And like the man who had once wielded it, the sword was a harbinger of death.
The wind bit at his skin, cold and unforgiving, yet he stood still, unyielding as the prow beneath his boots. Around him, the ship groaned as it cut through the waves, the crew's laughter and shouts carried away on the wind. He remained apart from it all—a silent sentinel against the raging sea.
None of the men on board truly saw him. They saw only what he allowed: a traveler hardened by the sea, bound for distant shores. A man like any other.
If they had looked closer, they might have seen the subtle movements that betrayed him. The way his eyes never lingered on one thing too long, always searching, calculating. The way his steps mirrored the rhythm of the sea itself: fluid, unpredictable, and impossibly controlled. They might have felt the pressure in the air around him, the weight of something coiled and waiting to strike.
But the world did not recognize gods who walked among men, especially those who chose to remain hidden.
For now, that suited him.
The horizon stretched endlessly before him, a void that promised everything and nothing all at once. Yet, in its vastness, he saw more than the path ahead. He saw ghosts of the past: a master who had towered above all others, whose wisdom had shaped every step he had taken. His master's fall had left scars deeper than any blade could carve, a wound that festered with injustice.
The injustice had not faded with time; it burned within him still, a quiet fury that had never cooled.
He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, the leather cool beneath his fingers. His gaze drifted toward the waves below, their crashing fury mirroring the storm within. This journey was not merely one of distance. It was a path carved by vengeance, and the weight of his purpose pressed against him like a blade to his throat.
The balance of power in Europe was fragile, its rulers content in their thrones of silk and gold. Their ignorance amused him, their blindness enraged him. They did not yet know what stalked their shores—a wolf, silent and relentless, moving among their ranks unseen.
He had no need for armies, no use for allies. His power alone was enough. And soon, he would bring their empires to their knees, unraveling their carefully woven hierarchies with the precision of a blade.
The wolf within him stirred, restless and sharp. It was always there, beneath the surface, its instincts coiled and ready. It had no need to howl or bare its teeth. It simply waited, patient as the tide, knowing its time would come.
The crew around him continued their work, oblivious to the predator in their midst. They laughed and shouted, their voices breaking against the wind, and the man let them. It was easier this way—to let them believe he was ordinary, to let them carry on unaware of the danger they had unknowingly welcomed aboard their ship.
For now, he would remain silent. But the sea was a restless, living thing, and so was he.
He turned his gaze back to the horizon, to the promise of the unknown. And in that endless expanse, he whispered a vow to the master he had lost and the vengeance he would claim.
"Soon," he thought, "vengeance will be mine."