Part I.

Tonight was supposed to be a day of remembrance. A day of peace and celebration. A time when the few dozen people who called Kuri village home came together at sunset to look back on what had been – the Before times – and count their blessings that they had the chance to keep the legacy of their ancestors alive.

But there was no music. No quietude or cheers. For this was the night Big Bossman Bunzo and his cronies came to take everything. They didn’t care for tradition or culture. They just cared about control. People ran amok through the village, trying to avoid the wrath of their attackers. Armed with all manner of swords and blades, the cronies slew people left and right. The main alley was littered with bodies, and the small wooden houses that flanked it were ablaze. What villagers were caught by the attackers were rounded up in the village square, at the base of a statue of the village’s ancient founder – a woman who was said to have been among the first settlers of the Myre.

The people were kneeling, in tears, and shivering in fear. In the glow of the flames, the hulking silhouette of Big Bossman Bunzo stood menacingly in front of them. With crazed laughter, he swung his katana through the air haphazardly, getting ready to choose his next victim. All had heard of this sword, the fabled Muramasa Blade. How it was the last of its kind. How it gave one the power of an army. And how it drove any who wielded it mad with bloodlust. They had heard the stories. Now, they believed them.

Bunzo stopped in front of an old man, and gently pressed the blade against his neck. A drip of blood spilled down his wrinkled skin, and it drew Bunzo’s smile even wider.

With a cry of defiance mixed with terror, a thin, teenage boy rushed to the man’s defense.

“Leave my father alone!” the boy shouted, tears and dirt covering his face.

Bunzo laughed even harder, and his men joined in. He simply threw the boy to the side, like a giant would a feather. Then, he raised his sword, ready to feed his bloodlust.

Only, the sounds of a melody interrupted him. Sword still held above his head, Bunzo stopped laughing and turned around. There, at the end of the alley, just beyond the threshold of the village, was the shape of an armored man shrouded in darkness, walking towards him and his cronies. The warrior advanced calmly as he softly blew into a flute, playing notes that defied the madness at hand. The soft summer wind blew his hair and scarf to the side as the man walked into full view. He was an Orochi, and though Bunzo would never know it, his name was Katashi.

Part II.

Ten yards away from Bunzo and his men, the Orochi stopped. He simply stood there, sheer resistance in the face of mayhem. A boulder in the storm.

“Are you lost, little rat?!” Bunzo spat. Some of his men chuckled in response.

“Not at all,” Katashi calmly answered. He put away his flute and drew his sword. The sound of sharp metal cut through the air like the buzzing of a passing firefly. The final note to Katashi’s song. “I’m just passing through,” he added, head held down. “I’m always just passing through,” he whispered with a hint of remorse. He was ever the wanderer, never the settler.

For a moment, all was still. The wind died down. The burning homes crackled almost timidly. The villagers held their breath. Bunzo’s men wrapped their hands tightly around their weapons, assuming fighting stances.

“GET HIM!” the Bossman ordered.

The cronies broke into a run, rushing Katashi from all sides. The fight was almost a dance to the Orochi. He blocked and swerved, left and right, and slashed and stabbed. With every combination of his movements, a body fell to the ground. Throats were slashed and heads lopped off, until Katashi’s final movement halted to a stop, blade steady in the glow of the fires. In a matter of seconds, it was all over. Bunzo’s men were all dead, and all that was left was the Bossman himself.

Staring in disbelief, Bunzo breathed loudly, his entire body inflating and deflating with rage. “This village is mine!” he roared, rushing into battle, letting his blade guide him. Waiting until the very last moment, an untroubled Katashi simply pivoted away from his enemy, letting him pass straight by. He then jumped and twirled in the air, bringing his sword down on his enemy. Bunzo took a brutal hit that only enraged him further. But pain, it would seem, would not stop him. The sword in his hand, the Bossman believed, was more powerful than any one man, and it would taste blood. He swung and slashed wildly at Katashi, but the Orochi avoided and blocked his opponent at every turn – until Bunzo found an opening and used his massive belly to knock Katashi down.

“I have the power of an army!” Bunzo cackled.

The Orochi tumbled in the dirt, surprised by the incredibly weight of the hit. On the ground, he cracked a rare smile. The Big Bossman had gotten lucky. Perhaps he was a bit of a challenge after all. Or maybe it was the sword.

Shaking his head back into focus, Katashi climbed up on all fours. That was when he saw the feather-light boy standing between him and Bunzo.

“Leave him alone,” the teenager commanded, just like he had when protecting his father. There was even more defiance in his voice. One fueled by hope.

This time however, Bunzo was unamused. There would be no throwing the boy aside. He took a heavy step toward him, weapon raised to his opposite side, ready to swat him down like a fly.

Part III.

Katashi only had a moment to act. Before Bunzo could move, the Orochi got up and moved the boy out of reach. In one quick motion, he blocked the hit and brought his sword down into Bunzo’s shoulder.

The Bossman dropped his sword on the ground, but found himself still standing. Blood splattering out of him, he attempted to punch his opponent. Katashi punched his hand back. Bunzo then attempted to kick him, but the Orochi stopped him with a kick of his own. Finally, when the Big Bossman fell to his knee, Katashi brought the duel to an end with a final slash of his sword.

When Katashi turned, he found the old man hugging his son.

“Thank you for saving my boy,” the old man said. “For saving us.”

“It’s I who should be thanking him,” Katashi answered, smiling down at the boy.
Sheathing his sword, the Orochi took in the sadness around him. The burning village, the numbered dead. The troubled survivors. He stared up, at the statue of the village’s founder, defaced by Bunzo and his men. This woman, her face etched in time, had only wanted to help her people. To protect them.

The old man had thanked him for saving the village. But Katashi wasn’t sure this counted as saving. It wasn’t enough. These were people who had only wished to celebrate their culture, and it had all been taken from them.

“We will rebuild,” the old man said solemnly, almost guessing what Katashi was feeling. “We will go on. It’s what we do.”

Katashi could only admire his resolve. It inspired him. It’s what the Samurai did, after all. They endured.

After a moment, the Orochi knelt in front of the boy and handed him his sword.
“Here,” Katashi offered, “you’ll better protect your people with this.”

Katashi then took the Muramasa Blade for his own, and began to walk back towards the village’s entrance.

“Where will you go?” the old man asked.

Katashi didn’t turn around. He knew he could do more. It was his responsibility.

“Where I’m needed.”