The coastal scenery of the Land of Waves was passable enough—so long as you could ignore the gaunt, hollow-eyed residents. The vista where the sea met the sky, veiled in a thin ocean mist, carried a genuine sense of artistry.
"Yes~ Hold that pose with the sword cradled against your chest. Eyes should be melancholy but with a sense of timelessness. Don't look at me—look at the sea. Yes~"
Camera in hand, Hinata worked the shoreline like a seasoned professional, shooting Zuorin's portrait collection. Unlike the refined aristocrat Zuorin of the Kyoto arc, the Zuorin before her now appeared more mature, more weathered. Gone were the gilded embroidered robes—replaced by a rōnin's outfit that, though worn and faded, was impeccably neat.
"Hey, is this really a good idea?"
Standing on the surface of the water, Sasuke frowned even as he assumed the distant-gaze pose Hinata had instructed. Between his outfit and the tachi cradled in his arms, he genuinely exuded the aura of a wandering swordsman.
"What do you mean?"
Snapping away with visible satisfaction, Hinata clearly had a plan. From a narrative standpoint, she had no intention of turning Zuorin into a helpless scholar-type like Xu Xian. Zuorin needed a powerful transformation—and within the worldview of Fox Tales, nothing served that purpose better than a "past life."
This special photo shoot was a partial visualization of that past life.
"That dead-last—I did some digging on my own about what happened to him last time. Nobody I asked was willing to talk, but after getting one old-timer drunk, I got the intel: Naruto is closely connected to the Nine-Tails fox demon that attacked Konoha eleven years ago. You already know this, right?"
Lowering the tachi, Sasuke closed his eyes and dipped his head—his default pose for serious conversation. Hinata took the opportunity to raise the camera slightly, framing a tight close-up of his face. That contemplative pose with closed eyes was genuinely striking.
[Hey! You two!!]
A rude shout cut through the air as a large figure appeared at the river bank's edge. His tattered kimono and the tachi at his hip marked him as dangerous. His face was streaked with grime, as though it hadn't been washed in ages, and with each clack of his wooden sandals, flakes of something indeterminate threatened to crumble off him.
Several similarly dressed figures materialized behind him, their intentions plain. These were stray samurai—muscle in Gatō's employ, no question. Having eaten and drunk their fill today, they'd spotted two clean-looking outsiders and naturally decided to make trouble.
"What made you start asking about this? I thought you couldn't stand that idiot."
Hinata casually brushed a strand of hair from her temple. "All right, now we shoot some action stills. This is the start of the Fox Tales special side story. Its name is~"
Fox Tales Side Story: The Reverse-Blade Swordsman.
[This is our turf! Who are you people? What are you doing here?!]
Along the murky shoreline, turbid seawater surged beneath a churning ocean wind. On the filthy sand, two forces faced each other. The ones who spoke first had numbers on their side. The other side was a single man.
[...]
Drawing the blade at his hip, the young swordsman said nothing. He simply walked from the water's surface to the shore. Seeing his movement, the stray samurai assumed drawing stances, hands on hilts. Hinata leapt to one side at precisely the right moment, framing both parties in her camera's lens.
[What—you wanna fight? Bastard~ Chop this punk up, and we'll take our time with the girl!]
The ignored leader drew his tachi in a fury and lunged. The young swordsman sidestepped his slash with ease, reversed his grip, and struck the man's neck with the spine of his blade, dropping him cleanly. The remaining swordsmen charged in with their weapons raised, howling. Zuorin moved through them like a seabird cutting through crashing waves—weaving, pivoting, advancing and retreating through the lattice of flashing steel. Using only the blunt spine of his tachi, he put down every samurai who sought his life with effortless grace.
When the last attacker hit the ground, the young swordsman stood motionless. His blade had never once tasted blood.
[Only the spine of his blade... Who the hell are you?]
The first samurai to fall glared up at Zuorin from the dirt, his voice thick with disbelief.
The swordsman who never bloodied his hands flicked his blade through the air. The whistle of parting wind confirmed that this was, without question, an instrument capable of taking lives. But the man who wielded it was no killer.
[I am merely a traveler.]
Sheathing the tachi, the swordsman spoke those words with quiet simplicity.
Yes—this was the swordsman once renowned throughout the land, the swordsman known as Zuorin.
Though he lived by the way of the sword and carried a blade wherever he walked, he adhered to a singular and peculiar personal code: he never killed.
No matter how vile and wretched his opponents, no matter how thoroughly they disgraced the name of the warrior class, he never took their lives. His blade, to this very day, had never been stained with a single drop of human blood.
Yet this man was far from unblemished. On the left side of his face, there was an unusual scar—two sword wounds crossing each other to form the shape of a cross.
A swordsman of extraordinary skill, he had never submitted to any lord's service. Instead, he had always walked his own path, traveling the world in an endless search for something.
People didn't know his name. They knew only that a strange warrior bearing a cross-shaped scar wandered the land. Though a swordsman by every measure, he never claimed the title, calling himself simply a "traveler."
In those days, the world was in turmoil. Lords warred ceaselessly against one another. Stray samurai and bandits swarmed across the countryside. The people perished in droves under the onslaught of war and disease, and the whole of the world seemed to teeter on the brink of collapse.
And because the dead were so numerous—corpses and lingering resentment piling beyond measure—another horrifying kind of being found itself gorging on the most bountiful of feasts. Their numbers swelled to unprecedented heights.
These beings fed on human flesh and souls, growing and multiplying by devouring human corpses and the hatred they left behind. Humans themselves could even become part of them, transformed by their own resentment and malice. These horrifying creatures were known as yōkai.
The common people, never knowing whether they'd next be devoured by a yōkai or slain in the chaos of war, waited in despair and resignation like the walking dead. But that waiting held no hope for the future—only the grim acceptance of death and oblivion.
The swordsman with the cross-shaped scar walked in silence through the gates of another town. Like every town he'd passed through, the people here regarded him with lifeless eyes. Their gaunt, stooped frames were drained of strength. Shopkeepers dozed listlessly behind empty stalls. In the sunny corners of the streets, civilians in filthy rags lay sprawled in haphazard heaps.
This was what a human society looked like after despair had fully permeated every layer of it. This was not the world that humankind deserved.
The young swordsman stopped. A small but genuine anger formed a narrow crease between his brows. Then he resumed walking, leaving yet another dead town behind.
Yes—what the young swordsman sought was no ordinary thing.
He pursued neither the power and status that lords dangled before their vassals, nor the valor of mighty generals who could claim an enemy commander's head amid ten thousand troops, nor the legends that master swordsmen carved for themselves at the pinnacle of their art. He held only one wish—small and simple.
May this world find hope once more.
But for a lone individual, this was a burden that bordered on impossible.
The root of the world's calamity wasn't merely the wars between lords, nor famine and plague alone, nor yōkai incursions or bandit raids in isolation. It was the convergence and wellspring of all these disasters—the most fundamental thing that bound them together.
Its name was despair.
What the young swordsman sought to defeat was the collected despair of all humankind and all yōkai combined.
A burden heavy enough to crush anyone who dared shoulder it.
And yet, if no one ever stepped forward to bear it, it would never be resolved.
The swordsman with the cross-shaped scar shouldered it in silence. Through silence and stoicism, he had already walked a very long road.
At last, his perseverance earned the notice of a certain being. And so, that being appeared before him.
A tongue of flame descended abruptly from the sky, landing at the young swordsman's feet. Within it stood a woman wreathed entirely in orange fire. She wore a twelve-layered ceremonial kimono as vivid and dazzling as the flames themselves, but her face was hidden behind the blaze. In contrast to the fire's hue, her long hair and her eyes were the cold white of ice.
Without question, those were not the eyes of a human—they belonged to something divine and demonic.
[Young swordsman, you have walked far too many roads.]
The figure in the flames regarded the swordsman before her with calm detachment. Her voice crackled and popped like fire itself, yet every word rang crystal clear: [And so, to honor your resolve and perseverance, I have decided to grant you one wish. What do you desire? Even half of this world—I can give it to you.]
The divine, demonic figure represented the ultimate opportunity. For anyone, this was an offer that could not be refused—and the boon on the table was breathtakingly generous: half the world itself.
A single word of acceptance would instantly transform a wretched commoner's life of wandering into the throne of a world-ruler. A temptation and a trial beyond anything words could describe.
Yet the resolute swordsman didn't hesitate for an instant. He spoke: [I wish for this world to return to hope and peace.]
The request made even the deity's pale eyes widen in momentary surprise: [Your choice astonishes me, young swordsman. But... I will still tell you how it can be done.]
[In this world, the despair of humans and yōkai alike has crystallized into a jewel called the Jewel of Four Souls. It is the wellspring of despair, of demonic power—the source of it all.]
[If you can destroy it, the despair enshrouding this world will vanish, and humanity will kindle hope anew. But I must warn you: this task is infinitely close to impossible. You cannot even imagine the trials and setbacks that await you. They are absolutely beyond the reach of the blade you hold now.]
The pale-eyed deity smiled with open malice. Her right hand rose, and a tongue of flame shot from her palm, latching onto the swordsman's tachi. As though it possessed a will of its own, the fire burrowed into the blade. Fixing her gaze on the young swordsman, the deity raised her voice: [Therefore, I shall bestow upon it a blessing—and a curse. The blessing: this blade can now slay yōkai with ease. Each yōkai killed strengthens it by one measure. Once you have slain nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine yōkai, the blade will possess the power to shatter the Jewel of Four Souls and banish it from this world forever.]
[And the curse: each human it kills weakens it by one measure, requiring the death of one more yōkai to replenish what was lost.]
[If you fail to amass the power of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine yōkai, it will never be able to shatter the Jewel. Instead, the Jewel will devour it—and its wielder along with it.]
[Its name shall be the Reverse Blade.]
The deity's intertwined blessing and curse left the young swordsman silent. He could clearly foresee the kind of future and misfortune such entangled gifts would bring. Yet the resolute warrior merely sheathed his blade in silence and set out once more upon the road.
This was how the swordsman who wielded the Reverse Blade—pursuing the existence known as the Jewel of Four Souls—first set foot upon his journey.