Blood was something commonplace in war. It chose no place, cared for no one it passed through. Blood could cling to the ground, to the wooden walls of houses, even seep into the fibers of clothing, leaving stains that were not easily erased.
Like that woman's clothes.
Instead of saying thank you or trying to speak, the woman stood stiffly. Her legs trembled violently, as if her own body refused to support its weight. Her hands clutched the black cloth that covered her body, fabric now torn in several places, revealing pale thighs smeared with blood and dirt.
Mujima could not bear to look at her for long.
After committing a vile act for the first time, his chest felt tight. His breathing rose and fell erratically, hitching as if the air around him had suddenly grown thin. He did not even know whether he was feeling guilt, fear, or simply confusion.
All that could be heard was the faint creaking of the wooden house stirred by the wind, and the scraping of the woman's wooden sandals against the ground. There were no screams. No sobs. Only a heavy, oppressive silence.
Mujima did not see the woman's face clearly. The woman herself seemed unwilling to lift her head. Most likely, fear had grown between them—not only fear of what had just happened, but of what might happen afterward.
Moments earlier, Mujima had been lying unconscious. Now he was sitting up, staring at his own chest as it rose and fell, then reaching for the katana lying on the footpath nearby. His hand trembled as he gripped the hilt of the sword.
When Mujima's brown eyes finally met the woman's face, he saw fear with striking clarity. Her gaze flicked briefly to the katana in Mujima's hand, then snapped back up quickly, as if afraid of being noticed.
Mujima misinterpreted that look.
In his chaotic mind, he felt that the woman wanted the katana, the weapon that had now become the only thing that made him feel even slightly in control.
"I won't give it to you," Mujima said in a harsh voice, more a warning than a statement.
The woman flinched.
"H-huh?"
Mujima shouted louder, panic mixed with anger. The katana lifted, its tip pointing straight at the woman's body.
"I said, I won't give it to you!"
The woman was utterly shocked. Her hands reflexively rose, palms open, her body stepping back half a pace. Her voice trembled, halting, filled with anxiety.
"No! I–I don't want it… I just want to say thank you. That's all…"
Those words made Mujima fall silent.
Thank you?
For what?
He did not even feel that he had helped anyone.
Before he could think any further, from the bend at the end of the footpath, several Nippon soldiers appeared without making much sound. They came like shadows, their steps trained and nearly silent. They had clearly heard Mujima's earlier shouting.
Some of them immediately readied themselves. One soldier had already drawn an arrow to his bow, aiming without hesitation.
A man dressed differently from the others, likely a minor leader, gave a signal with his hand. His lips moved softly.
"Shoot."
The arrow streaked through the air.
Mujima did not even have time to realize it.
The arrow struck straight into the woman's face. Her body swayed for a moment, then collapsed to the ground without a sound. Blood flowed slowly. The woman did not move again.
Too late.
Mujima jolted as if he had just awakened from a nightmare. His eyes widened, reflexively searching for the direction from which the arrow had come.
From a distance, he saw several Nippon soldiers beating the archer. Their shouts were mixed with a foreign language Mujima could not understand.
Yet among those words, there was Nippon speech that rang clearly.
"Why did you kill that woman, you idiot!"
"Damn it! That woman was very tempting. If we sold her to the commander, her price would surely be high!"
A long-nosed man laughed coarsely.
"No! No! If you get one like that, you use her first before selling her. We have to taste an easy, wet hole first."
Another chimed in with a cruel tone.
"Beat that stupid archer. If possible, break his genitals too."
Mujima did not fully understand the meaning of their words. But their tone, their laughter, and the way they spoke of the woman were enough to make something inside him rise once more.
Hatred.
That emotion struck without warning. His hand tightened around the katana's hilt. His muscles tensed, as if the sword had fused with his body.
The katana felt heavy, yet at the same time familiar. As if it refused to be released.
And Mujima knew—before the blood of those Nippon spilled, this sword would not leave his hand.
From a distance, the Nippon soldiers looked as though they were mocking him as they walked closer. Their laughter was mixed with jeers they made no effort to hide.
"Just a kid," one of them said in a belittling tone."Ah, still be careful. That kid's holding a weapon," another replied, though his voice sounded more like ridicule than a real warning.
Fear began to show clearly on Mujima's face. His face, dried by tears, hardened now, tense lines appearing around his eyes. His eyes widened when he realized their number—more than ten people—all armed, all moving toward him.
His right hand lifted the katana. The blade now stood upright directly in front of his face, as if it were the only thin wall between life and death.
But the Nippon only burst into laughter.
A man standing in the middle, his clothing different, neater, more striking, raised his hand in a signal. Four people immediately stepped forward. Each carried a katana, walking casually and arrogantly, their blades slung over their shoulders as if they were out for a stroll, not about to kill someone.
One of them slammed the tip of his katana against the stones on the road. Crack. The sound of metal striking rock made Mujima flinch. The pressure was enough to drive his fear even deeper.
Without thinking any further, Mujima turned and ran.
He passed the woman's body lying on the ground, the arrow still embedded in her head, blood flowing and soaking the earth around her. Mujima turned his face away, but the image clung to his mind.
The four Nippon soldiers immediately gave chase. Their laughter echoed from behind, the same laughter they had thrown at the woman before—coarse, disgusting, and full of pleasure.
Not far ahead, Mujima saw a narrow alley. Without hesitation, he turned into it. As he ran, he lowered his body and quickly slipped off his wooden sandals, leaving them behind on the ground. He chose to endure the pain in his soles rather than let the sound of his footsteps betray him.
The Nippon did not seem confused. Instead, they shouted lazily, as if this were nothing more than a game.
"Keep running, kid!"
"Don't hide too far, you'll just get tired on your own!"
Meanwhile, six other soldiers were still at the place where the woman had been killed. Some of them laughed while kicking the dirt, and one even lifted the hem of the woman's skirt with the tip of his katana.
"Captain, can we play for a bit?" one of them asked jokingly.
The captain spat on the ground.
"Do whatever you want."
However, his steps stopped when he saw something else. Not far from the woman's body lay another corpse, a Nippon soldier. His neck had been cleanly severed. The cut was clear, neat, and showed the direction of the strike.
The captain's expression changed.
Without further words, he raised his voice.
"Chase them. Now."
"Yes, Captain!" several answered at once.
"Damn it, we were just about to start," another muttered irritably.
Back to Mujima.
He was now hiding inside a large wooden barrel, a place where trash and rotten leftovers were collected. The stench stabbed at his nose, making his stomach churn, but he endured it. He pulled his knees to his chest, forcing his body to become as small as possible.
The four Nippon soldiers began to spread out, sweeping through the alley casually but with confidence. Their taunts did not stop.
"Come out, kid!"
"We promise we won't kill you right away."
One of them opened a house door and peeked inside. Another climbed a wooden ladder, trying to look from above. One more walked slowly past the barrel where Mujima was hiding.
The sound of footsteps rang clearly in Mujima's ears.
He held his breath. His chest felt as if it were about to burst. From a small gap in the barrel that was not tightly sealed, his eyes caught a pair of legs moving closer.
Suddenly—thud!
The foot kicked the barrel.
The barrel shook violently, but it did not fall. The wood was thick enough to withstand the blow.
"Damn it!" the soldier cursed, lifting his leg with a grimace.
"Bloody hell… it hurts."
He grumbled while hopping slightly, clutching his shin. After the pain subsided, he walked away, passing the barrel without truly checking it.
But before he moved completely away, his eyes briefly glanced toward the barrel, toward the small gap that was open.
Mujima moved.
Slowly, very slowly, he opened the lid of the barrel. He saw that the soldier's back was already turned to him, the distance only a few steps away.
Without a sound, Mujima slipped out.
The katana in his hand rose, then swung in a single, clean motion. The strike was perfect.
The Nippon soldier's head separated from his body with no flesh or skin left hanging. The cut was neat, almost beautiful, the result of a swing filled with emotion, fear, and restrained hatred.
The body collapsed without having time to make a sound.
And Mujima stood there, panting, with blood once again washing over the blade of his katana.
The sound of the severed head hitting the ground was heavy and dull, like wet wood dropped into mud. The noise was quickly swallowed by the silence, as if the night itself were trying to consume it.
Mujima slowly stepped out from the barrel. His body was stiff, his breathing not yet fully steady. He climbed through the window of the nearest house, slipping inside carefully so as not to make a sound.
Inside the dim room, he froze.
On the floor lay the body of a woman. Her clothing was opened unnaturally, the fabric torn in several places, a sight far too similar to the woman he had found earlier on the road. But that was not what made Mujima's heart seem to stop.
There was a sound.
From outside the room came the sound of relaxed footsteps, accompanied by a low hum, a quiet humming in the Nippon language, drawing closer to the door.
Mujima moved quickly. He hid inside a large wooden wardrobe, pulling the door closed slowly, leaving only a small gap to breathe.
Not long after, another voice was heard from outside.
"There he is!" someone shouted in a loud, rough voice.
"Come here! I found something."
Mujima's body tensed. Even though he did not fully understand their language, the tone of voice was clear enough—they knew there was something here. Perhaps blood, perhaps a trace, perhaps an instinct.
His hand tightened around the katana's hilt. His muscles tensed, ready to move at any moment.
Two people entered the room. Through the gap in the wardrobe, Mujima saw their shadows approach the woman's body. Short exchanges were heard, followed by low laughter that made Mujima's stomach churn.
What happened after that did not need a long explanation. Their movements, their voices, and the way they stood too close to the lifeless body were enough to make Mujima's emotions boil over.
His chest burned. His head filled with a buzzing noise. His hands trembled, not from fear alone, but from the anger pressing in from within.
They stood right next to the wardrobe. To check inside it, they would have to turn their bodies.
Mujima did not wait any longer.
The wardrobe door opened slowly, then all at once.
The katana in his right hand swung first, cutting down the man on the right side in a single sharp motion. At the same time, his left hand, gripping the katana taken from a Nippon soldier earlier, swung in the opposite direction.
Two strikes. Two bodies fell.
Their necks were severed almost simultaneously, blood spraying and soaking the wooden floor.
Before silence could return to the room, the bedroom door opened from outside. Another Nippon soldier entered, his eyes immediately catching the bodies of his two comrades already lying lifeless.
"What—"
He did not have time to finish the sentence.
Mujima was no longer on the floor. He had climbed onto the top of the wardrobe. When the soldier rushed forward, Mujima leapt down.
The sound of wood scraping alerted the soldier. He swung his sword reflexively. The blade nearly struck Mujima's neck, leaving only a gash on his shoulder and the side of his body.
Pain flared, but it did not stop him.
From a different angle, Mujima countered.
The katana slammed into his opponent's chest, piercing flesh, shattering bone, and stopping the body instantly. Blood once again flooded the floor.
Four people.
Four lives he had taken in that place.
Mujima stood there, gasping for breath. His chest felt tight, his breathing choked, and his head throbbed. The unrest still clung within him, not eased in the slightest.
He did not stay any longer.
With two katanas in his hands, Mujima left the house and ran away, moving from house to house, leaving the village in darkness. This was not an escape.
This was the beginning of retaliation.
He would keep moving, keep killing, until he found his father's machete. And he knew—the machete was in Nippon hands.
From a distance, the remaining six Nippon soldiers finally arrived. They were late because they had earlier found several villagers who had not yet managed to flee and were hiding in their homes.
When they saw the four bodies of their comrades, the captain only let out a small laugh.
"Interesting," he said softly.
"I will report this to the commander."
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The end