The Quiet Village of Kibamaru

Eddy had been building a platform for one of the elven tree homes when the man had come from Kibamura. He'd had a great viewpoint from about 30 feet over where the request had been brought to the elven elders. And, he'd been able to hear the elves refuse to help.

The forest folk had not always gotten along with Kibamura. The farmers cut trees too freely, managed the land poorly, and fouled the rivers far more than any decent forest folk would. But they had always been respectful and never hostile. They were neighbors.

When Lucky Eddy took the request back to his folk, the forest gnomes, the elders had also leaned toward caution. But, the elders weren't as sure of themselves or maybe just felt less like dictating to their people. Eddy's family had held their own council and, sure enough, had appointed Lucky Eddy as their champion to help the village of Kibamura.

And so he had loaded up a donkey with his carpentry tools, various other bits of ironmongery, taken his two best axes, and set out to bring the aid of the forest to the farmlands. He didn't know that much about Oni, but the stories say that Oni can be hurt by steel. The walk was long and he actually heard the creaking of the cart several hours before reaching the village outskirts. As he came up behind it, he called out,

Hello the cart!

Lucky Eddy wasn't what you would think of as mythic hero. For a start, his red hairy head barely came up to a normal human's chest. He wasn't armored, didn't throw spells or wear a pointy hat, and while he was sturdily built, it was more a workman's frame and one that showed he liked a good meal and a nice beer more than the tightly cut abs of a martial warrior. But he was here, and he would help, he hoped.

Cloud woke to the familiar warmth of his beloved Snow. The two tangled together in the bed clothes, his frame supporting and protecting her comparatively diminutive figure. Propped on his left arm, holding her hair, his right hand held on her abdomen. Their family, would soon be four, providing he survived the coming storm. "Oyuki." He whispered and gently roused her.

"Hideyoshi." He said to her as she softly sighed waking. "Name our son after the great unifier."

~~~~~

Saito had been good as his word. Not surprising, while.he had been an unruly lad, years of careful tutelage and guidance had recovered the youth. Now nearly a man, Saito was his first student, and adopted son. The lad had carried pails of salt water and brushes upon the way stations roof by himself.

Cloud was touched, but ever the stoic he only nodded to Saito as he joined his son upon the roof. Taking a pail of saltwater to the thickest bed of moss he dipped the brush in, and began to work. Scrubbing the terracotta tiles free of the harmful moss, the last of his promised works. Saito had stood next to him and began to scrub along with him.

They worked for hours, scrubbing the roof free of moss before Cloud broke the silence.

"Saito, I want you to know I am proud of you."

The young man stopped working and regarded Cloud strangely. Cloud had never been sentimental it had struck a cord. "No one believes in that folk tale horse shit dad. Nothing is going to happen tonight." Saito replied and jabbed Cloud's ribs with the handle of the brush and busied himself with scrubbing away moss. "But thanks, I guess. What could even kill you anyway? You are the most stubborn person I have ever met."

Cloud couldn't help but laugh. He quickly deadpanned and retorted with a joke. "They say insanity is hereditary. You get it from your kids." Both he and Saito laughed at that. Then continued to work in comfortable silence. Only stopping when they saw the cart and the mercenaries approaching.

~~~~~

Cloud knelt before the shrine, deep in the cold stony bowels of the town. He stared at his armor, and the place where he had left the worst part of himself. A cold chill running down his spine. Even hanging on the stand Cloud could feel the armor, it was not merely a second skin - but the greater part of himself.

The shrine was filled with the scent of brimstone, grey-green smoke wafted from the hoate mask, itself part of the armor. Stylized not unlike Shenlong the Immortal Dragon, it glared down upon Cloud. Who returned its fury in kind. At the feet of the shrine was his grandfather's legacy. The Muramasa Blade "Kurou no Tatsu," even having years to dry had done nothing for the bloodsoaked blade. A fresh droplet of blood leaked from the saya dripping to the stone floor, where it had eaten into the stone like all its sisters.

That bloodthirsty, accursed sword. The one which he had made a legend of himself with. The same blade that had been named "The Bane of Tokugawa." Carried in it the rage of the killing fields of Sekigahara where his grandfather had killed Matsudaira Kiyoyasu and Hirotada. Where Ieyasu himself had bled upon the blade. That blade that Cloud himself used to execute Matsudaira Nobuyasu when he was unable to sever his own stomach. That blade which had ended his own life as a faithful servant of law and order, and turned him into a godforsaken spirit of destruction. The blade that, in his hands, for the first time in his life had the chance to save the lives of the innocent, by doing what it was made for.

"There is another part of me, you have never seen. A demon, that my entire line is beholden unto." Cloud spoke at last to Snow who had been respectful of his prayers and meditation in silence. "What you see here is the skin of that demon, and the fate of my bloodline." Cloud gently placed his hand, and Snow's upon the adamantine skin of the armor. "I am not the Cloud you have come to depend upon. Tonight I give up that name and become the Demon. If I should fall tonight, you must tell our child of this. They are not the issue of Cloud the Ronin, but the progeny of The Dragon Who Dwells in Darkness, Yama's Messenger. Muramasa Kuroudo the Thousand Man Slayer." Snow had already begun dutifully arming him, placing piece by piece of the great armor upon Cloud.

Turning to gaze into Snow, who had already known these things. Cloud gave her one last look of tenderness. One fleeting moment of humanity. "The very best thing I have done in this life is loving you, Saito, and Yurei." He said making pointed eye contact before she closed him in the helmet. Enjoying one last moment of peace before he became the Demon for the last time.

The Hunt Begins

The dying sun cast long fingers of amber light through the ancient pines as the lacquered carriage wound its way down the mountain path, wheels creaking a steady rhythm against weathered stone. Four matched bay horses pulled the ornate conveyance—a thing of gold leaf and crimson silk that spoke of wealth built on others' suffering. The Takeshi clan crest gleamed on its doors like a badge of shame.

High on the driver's box, the coachman hunched against the evening chill, his companion footman swaying with each turn of the narrow road. Neither man knew they carried death in their wake—or that death was already waiting for them in the shadows ahead.

Within the carriage's plush interior, Lord Takeshi Mamoru shifted restlessly against silk cushions, his soft features twisted in perpetual dissatisfaction. Across from him sat his shadow—Kuroda the Butcher, a mountain of scarred flesh and barely contained violence. The bodyguard's massive frame filled the opposite bench, his brutal battleaxe resting across his knees like a sleeping predator. Even in stillness, he radiated the kind of menace that made grown men cross streets and mothers pull their children close.

They had reason to be nervous. Lord Takeshi's 'tax collection' methods had left a trail of broken families and unmarked graves across three provinces. His bodyguard's reputation was written in blood—thirty-seven confirmed kills, each more savage than the last. The bounty on their heads had grown fat enough to buy a small estate.

But gold meant nothing to the figure crouched motionless in the high branches of a grandfather oak, forty feet above the forest path.

XX—————>>

Akari had been waiting for three hours, her body locked in perfect stillness, breathing controlled to near invisibility. The great daikyu bow rested ready in her hands—not the simple weapon of common archers, but a work of art spanning nearly six feet from tip to tip. It's laminated bamboo and horn construction was wound with silk and blessed by mountain shrine keepers. In her quiver, arrows waited like patient serpents, their steel points sharp enough to part silk in midair.

The approaching hoofbeats drummed against her heightened senses. Almost time.

As the carriage rounded the bend below, Akari's fingers found the first arrow's nock with practiced precision. The elven arrow—her grandfather's final gift—remained at her hip, too precious for common prey. Tonight called for efficiency, not sentiment.

She drew and released in one fluid motion, the bowstring's whisper lost in the wind. The driver jerked once as the steel point found its mark between his shoulder blades, then toppled forward without a sound. A second arrow was already in flight before the first body hit the footboard, catching the footman as he turned toward his falling companion.

Two heartbeats. Two kills. Silent as falling leaves.

Akari dropped from her perch with feline grace, landing astride her waiting mount—Ikazuchi, a stallion as black as midnight and twice as swift. The horse's eyes gleamed with intelligence as his mistress settled into the saddle, her movements economical and deadly calm.

"Iku zo," she whispered, and they were flying.

The runaway carriage careened down the mountainside, its driverless team spooked by the scent of blood. Inside, Lord Takeshi's shrill voice rose in panic as he discovered his predicament, the soft nobleman clawing his way toward the driver's bench with surprising desperation.

"Kuroda!" he shrieked, his cultured accent cracking. "Find them! Kill whoever—"

His words died as a small ceramic sphere arced through the open door, shattering against the carriage floor with a soft crack. Smoke billowed up in pale green clouds, carrying the sweet scent of lotus petals and something far more sinister. Lord Takeshi managed one more strangled curse before the sleeping draught claimed him, his body going limp against the silk cushions.

The carriage struck the ancient cedar with a sound like thunder, splintering wood and screaming metal filling the forest air. The impact threw Kuroda forward, but the giant absorbed the blow like stone weathering a storm. With a roar that shook leaves from nearby branches, he exploded through the carriage door, ripping it from its hinges with his bare hands.

The terrified horses broke free and stampeded into the underbrush, their wild flight marking the end of any hope of escape.

XX—————>>

Kuroda rose to his full height—nearly seven feet of muscle and malice—his scarred face twisted in savage anticipation. The great battleaxe came up in a two-handed grip, its steel head gleaming dully in the fading light. He had been hoping for a fight worthy of his skills.

"Come then, shadow!" he bellowed into the darkening forest. "Face Kuroda the Butcher like a warrior, not a skulking rat!"

His answer came as twin streaks of silver light, arrows that crackled with eldritch energy as they flew. Lightning danced along their shafts—a technique Akari had perfected through years of study and countless battles. The first arrow struck Kuroda's left shoulder, sending arcs of blue fire across his body. The second took him in the chest, the impact driving him to his knees as electricity coursed through his massive frame.

Akari emerged from the tree line astride Ikazuchi, her bow still singing with residual energy. She dismounted with fluid grace, another arrow already nocked and drawn as she approached her prey.

But Kuroda was not so easily finished. With a bellow of rage, he surged back to his feet, and hellfire erupted around him like a corona of damnation. Flames wreathed his battleaxe, and his eyes burned with more than mortal fury. The scent of sulfur filled the air as he brought otherworldly power to bear.

"You think your parlor tricks frighten me, witch?" He spat blood and lightning. "I have bathed in the fires of the underworld!"

The battle that followed was a dance of death in the gathering dusk. Kuroda's flaming axe carved burning arcs through the air, each swing powerful enough to split a boulder. But Akari moved like quicksilver, her arrows finding their marks with supernatural precision. Lightning and hellfire painted the forest in stark relief, shadows leaping and writhing with each exchange.

The end came suddenly. As Kuroda raised his weapon for a killing blow, Akari slipped inside his guard, her silvered katana appearing in her hand like liquid moonlight. The blade took his head with a single perfect cut, the hellfire dying with its wielder.

Silence settled over the forest like a burial shroud.

XX—————>>

Akari cleaned her blade with mechanical precision before sheathing it, then methodically collected her trophies—the heads that would prove her success to those who paid for justice. The bounty gold would keep her comfortable for months, but wealth had never been her true motivation.

She was securing the grisly prizes to Ikazuchi's saddle when the sound reached her ears—the creak of wooden wheels on stone, accompanied by the patient plodding of an ox. A simple farmer's cart emerged from the evening mist, pulled by a beast that had seen better decades.

The man who climbed down from the cart was ancient and worn, his back bent by years of honest labor. His clothes were simple homespun, his face lined with the deep furrows of someone who had known both sorrow and endurance. When he approached Akari, he moved with the careful dignity of the very old.

He bowed low—deeper than her station demanded, deeper than simple courtesy required.

"Honored one," he said, his voice carrying the weight of desperate hope, "I am Yamamoto Jizo, of the village of Kibamura. I have traveled many days to find you, following whispers and rumors of the Silent Arrow of Death."

The words hit Akari like a physical blow. Kibamura. Her grandfather's village. The place where everything had begun eighty years ago, when the Oni last walked the earth in blood and shadow.

"I know this request is beyond presumption," the old man continued, his voice trembling with urgency, "but our need is dire. The signs are clear—the cycle turns, and the darkness stirs once more. We have nowhere else to turn, few champions left to call upon."

Akari's hand moved unconsciously to her hip, where her grandfather's gift rested in its place of honor. The ancient wood felt warm beneath her fingers, as if recognizing the moment it had been crafted for.

"When a stranger comes to you speaking of this tale—this exact tale—you must go. Promise me."

Her grandfather's dying words echoed across the decades, binding her to a destiny she had carried without understanding. The promise made by a frightened child was about to be claimed by the woman she had become.

The Silent Arrow of Death looked into the old man's weathered face and saw the reflection of her own past—and perhaps, her future.

XX—————>>

"Tell me," she said quietly, her voice carrying across the darkening forest like a blade drawn from its sheath, "tell me about the Oni..."

After years of relentless training and a blood-soaked path to reclaim the sword that once belonged to his father, Ryojin had finally laid his rage to rest. The blade—Mist Reaver—was back in his possession, its cold, dark sheen now a quiet reminder of the past he refused to forget.

He settled far from the cities and courts, building a modest hovel on the remote outskirts of civilization, where the trees grew tall and the wind whispered secrets only the lonely ever heard. His presence was a known but distant thing—a rumor more than a man. Locals said he was not easy to speak to, rarely smiled, and never lied. Those who came to him knew to be direct and honest; Ryojin had no patience for cowards or flatterers.

Yet despite his solitude, he was respected. Trusted. When livestock went missing or something strange stirred in the woods, it was Ryojin they turned to. He asked no coin—only clarity of purpose. Monsters, bandits, curses—he faced them all without ceremony, then returned to the silence of his home like mist returning to the mountains.

So when the old man from Kibamura stepped forward, gripping his walking stick tightly, and spoke with a voice like dried reeds:
"Please... our village is called Kibamura. A quiet place at the edge of the world. But something is coming. Something that always comes.

The old ones remember. Every eighty years, they descend. Oni from the sky. Pale warriors, whispering beasts, lights that twist the clouds. They take what they want—our people vanish, our homes burned or twisted. Then they vanish, and the world forgets.

We prayed the cycle had ended. We were wrong. The signs have returned. The earth trembles in silence. The air hums with no wind. One of our boys saw fire above the trees.

The elders say they will come in three waves. That if no one stands, then none will be left to remember us."

The firelight in Ryojin’s hut flickered silently as the old man finished, and the air felt heavy with the weight of prophecy. Ryojin stared into the flames for a long moment. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed—calculating, listening to something deeper than words.

Then he stood.

No theatrics. No oaths. Just a man gathering his blades.

He rolled the sleeves of his loose, travel-worn tunic, fastened Mist Reaver to his back, and whistled low. A second later, with a soft shoomph of displaced air, a black horse cloaked in smoky mist emerged from the woods nearby—its mane rippling like shadow in the moonlight.

Ryojin stepped outside, mounted with fluid ease, and turned to the villagers.

His voice was calm, gravel-soft.

"Show me the way."

And with that, they vanished into the fog-bound road, headed for the doomed village of Kibamura.

It was not an easy thing to track Utu as the man was never still long. But if you asked the right questions, looked for the clues, or listened to the stories, his path was there to follow. So it was the old farmer was there in this village sitting across from Utu.

The saloon doors swung slowly in the late afternoon heat, creaking like some old specter warning of things to come. Smoke hung in the air, mingling with the scent of whiskey, sweat, and the worn tension of men trying too hard to relax. At the far end of the room, beside a table littered with cards and coin, sat a man dressed in faded black — half-draped in a tattered kimono, half-clad in snake like scale. The hilt of a Wakizashi slanted across his back; a six-shooter rested at his hip like a sleeping snake.
He leaned forward, calm but coiled. "I’m askin’ you, Horace," he said gently, eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his battered hat. "Let’s not do this. Sit down. Take your cards back. Finish your drink."
Across from him stood a mountain of a man, red-faced and trembling with rage. Horace "Ox" Daltry — bully, brawler, and self-declared king of this backwater. He grinned with crooked teeth and reached for the revolver at his belt.
"Done with games," Ox snarled. "I don’t take lip from foreign trash wearin’ pajamas and pretendin’ he’s faster than me."
The gunslinger sighed. He didn’t move.
"I’ll draw only if you do, Ox. That’s my vow. I came here for peace. Cards. Maybe a little quiet."
But Ox's fingers closed around the grip of his revolver.
In a flash of fury, steel sang.
The room blinked. The barkeep ducked. Someone screamed.
By the time Ox’s gun cleared its holster, the samurai gunslinger had already drawn — his hand a blur of shadow and wind. One shot cracked through the smoke. It struck true, a clean, center-mass hit. Ox stumbled back, confused, a breathless wheeze escaping his lungs. He collapsed against the table they’d just been playing at, sending coins scattering like fallen leaves.
The silence after was thick, solemn. The gunslinger holstered his revolver with the reverence of a priest sheathing a sacred blade.
He didn’t speak. He never gloated.
Then, from the edge of the saloon, a figure emerged — old, stooped, wrapped in coarse gray robes like dust and memory.

"Sir," the elder rasped, voice weathered like driftwood, "I saw what you did. How fast. How clean."
The gunslinger turned slowly, eyebrow raised.
"Please..." the old man continued, eyes wide with a desperate fire, our village is called Kibamura. A quiet place at the edge of the world. But something is coming. Something that always comes.
The old ones remember. Every eighty years, they descend. Oni from the sky. Pale warriors. Whispering beasts. Lights that twist the clouds. They take what they want. People vanish. Then they leave. And the world forgets.
We prayed the cycle had ended. We were wrong. The signs are here again. The earth trembles in silence. The air hums when no wind blows. One of our boys saw fire above the trees.
The elders say they will come in three waves. That if no one stands up, none will be left to."

The gunslinger listened with intense attention saying nothing at first. He only looked to the shattered glass behind the bar, where his reflection stared back — worn, scarred, and tired of death. But after a moment, he nodded once.
"Evil needs no name to be destroyed?" Was all Utu said with a flash of a charming smile rising smoothly from his chair, though to those who knew the weight of a new journey settling across his shoulders like a familiar coat.
"Then I ride too."

Staring at her newest tattoo on the back of her right hand, the swirling mitsudomoe, Yuriko can see the stark black ink slowly turning colors, looking like the sheen of an oil slick as she moves her hand in the light. She knows it won't be much longer before the ink fully turns metallic. Rubbing her fingers over the changing tattoo, she takes a deep breath and stares back at the old man sitting across from her at the scarred wood table, his story told, eyes begging her for help.

She left everything and everyone she's ever known over two weeks ago, her family was there to see her off on her journey. Her father, a gruff serious man, with his arm around her mother lending her strength as she held back her tears. Her mother often saw her family ride off for battle, but this was different, this was the unknown. Her younger brother and sister solemn, standing slightly behind their parents. The air heavy with sadness, they said their goodbyes and wished her well on her journey.

As she turned to leave, her mentor joined her and walked quietly alongside her. "Yuriko-san. Remember what I said, you must find balance. Let the mistudomoe guide you in your search." He reached out and gently touched the tattoo on her hand.

"How will I know where to go? It's all so vague and there is a whole wide world out there."

Smiling at her, he says, "You will know my child. Take care of yourself." He stops short and gives her a wave of farewell before he turns back to her family, to provide them what shallow comfort he can in this time.

As her mentor had foretold, she started traveling, her pace urgent, even though she had no idea where she was going exactly, only knew that someone or something was calling to her. After traveling at a grueling pace, she stopped one night at a village, knowing that this was where she needed to be. She sat in the tavern, waiting, anxious at first before a sense of calm came over her as it did before the start of a battle. She would wait and she would know when it was time. Towards the end of the night, an old man opened the tavern door and stood just inside it. She saw his dirty, well-traveled clothes, and his hand on the tavern wall, holding himself up. His weary eyes traveling around the tavern as if searching for someone.

His eyes finally met her and she knew without a doubt that he was there for her. He walked slowly towards her and bowed deeply. She stood and bowed back, and seeing how exhausted he looked, she motioned for the waitress to bring food and drink for him. She beckoned him to sit and waited patiently as he ate and drank his fill. Giving his thanks, he pushed the empty dishes aside as he started talking, telling her of an awful prophecy.

"Please...our village is called Kibamura. A quiet place at the edge of the world. But something is coming. Something that always comes.

The old ones remember. Every eighty years, they descend. Oni from the sky. Pale warriors. Whispering beasts. Lights that twist the clouds. They take what they want. People vanish. Then they leave. And the world forgets.

We prayed the cycle had ended. We were wrong. The signs are here again. The earth trembles in silence. The air hums when no wind blows. One of our boys saw fire above the trees.

The elders say they will come in three waves. That if no one stands up, none will be left to."

As the old man tells his story, Yuriko's tattoo slowly starts to burn and itch. Her mentor's words playing over in her mind "you will know my child." Nodding her head, Yuriko stands and follows the old man out into the night.

The village. It had been a few years since Lucky Eddy came through and no one then had talked about Oni invasions. He saw the gathering below but, as they say, there's no hurrying an ox or a donkey.

Ryojin’s spectral steed padded alongside the creaking cart for most of the journey, its black mist curling at its hooves and dissolving into the dirt road with each step. The town’s wooden bridge came into view, spanning the slow, reed-choked river that marked Kibamura’s boundary.

Without a word, Ryojin shifted his weight in the saddle, and the horse responded instantly. It surged forward in a gallop, the wind tugging at his dark cloak as he left the others behind. In only moments, he reached the far side of the bridge, the wooden planks drumming beneath the mount’s phantom hooves.

Then, sixty feet from the heart of the gathering, he gave the reins a subtle twist. The steed dissolved in an instant, exploding into a swirl of black vapor that was whisked away by the breeze. Ryojin landed lightly on the packed earth, the silence of his dismount broken only by the faint rustle of his boots in the dust.

With the hood of his robe drawn low, Ryojin moved with steady conviction toward the village, each step measured and deliberate. The murmur of the gathered crowd grew clearer with every pace, a restless tide of voices carried on the cool breeze. Dust swirled faintly around his boots as he closed the distance, the weight of unseen eyes brushing against him. Whatever is happening in the village was just ahead—and he intended to see it for himself.

Well before the village had come into view Utu had tired of the podding pace. Tightly attaching the mules lead to the pummel of his military style saddle, he had turned to lay across the spine of his horse, Saru no ō or Monkey King in common. With his broad hat pulled down over his eyes a light snoring was audible as he snoozed in sun’s warmth, completely trusting of the horse to keep pace and path with the old Man and his Oxen cart. And so he stayed as they entered the valley and down toward the village.

Cloud stepped up to the gathering. He was fully armored holding his dripping nodachi at the low ready pointed at the speaker. He stood tall, for a man, his stature enhanced by the great helm in the likeness of a dragon. While the sword was still sheathed it dripped blood, emphasizing Cloud's menace as he stood silent studying the speaker. Cold green eyes the only human trait that showed. Fixed on the throat of the speaker.

While he knew all of the village. He doubted any of them had ever seen this side of him. The murderous aura emanating from him, so starkly in contrast to the kind and helpful man who had come to call Kibamura his home. His left hand slowly extended as he pointed an accusing finger at The Speaker. The Hollyhock shaped cloak on his armor belched smoke, and its insignia identifying him as an official executioner for the Shogun.

His right hand held the nodachi loosely, the posture familiar to any swordsman. It was the Moon's stance, the kenjutsu of a practicioner of "The Rising Dragon" sword school. Long red hair flowed from the greathelm, with that horrible sword. Even children had heard of The Thousand Man Slayer as some kind of phantom who had formed on the Killing Field of Sekigahara.

He was perfectly relaxed, and yet somehow had the dynamic tension of a person ready to strike. Cloud saw his death before him, and with grim determination chose to accept its call. He would not go to Hell alone. He was going to take many of these bastards with him. But for now, he waited, death would smile soon enough.

Utu's sleep was disturbed by something bouncing off his face. And again as he was pelted with another acorn. When he snorts himself awake and looks up, the small man sitting on the ox cart is looking at him.

"Some kind of confrontation going on at the village. We're almost there and I figured you'd rather be awake for it."

A hand strikes out catching the second acorn and drops it to the group, tipping his hat Utu looks at the Halfling from the shadows cast by the large brim. "Why it looks to me that this maybe a local squabble and we have a lot of fighting ahead of us, could be we should not get ourselves wedged into this one Eddy?"

As he speaks the gunslinger had already rolled over to take a seated position upon his lovely Chestnut horse with a cloud shaped patch upon its forehead. He heels Monkey King into a light trot moving up next to the wagon, "But if you insist on putting your nose in, jump upon my mule and we’ll head forward."

"Thanks, but I'll just trot alongside you."

Eddy's pack mule is tied to the cart, but he hops down with his axe and tries to keep up with Utu's horse (Eddy moves 40 plus can use instinctive pounce if within 20)

Utu adjusts Monkey Kings pace for Eddy to keep pace.

'Shizukanaru Shi no ya' rides the powerful black stallion, Ikazuchi, in near silence. Their progression only announced by a faint creak of well oiled leather scaled barding on the steed and the subtle movement of the hooded and cloaked rider. Green eyes peer from beneath mask and hood: A coiled viper gauging surroundings and ready to strike.

Ryojin’s eyes narrowed as the harsh voices of the three men cut through the air—boasting threats meant to cow the villagers. He continued forward, the hood of his robe casting his face in shadow, one hand slipping to the hilt of Mist Reaver.

The air seemed to still around him.

With a single breath, he drew the blade in one smooth motion. Its dark steel caught the light like rippling water. Without warning, his form dissolved into a swirl of black mist, scattering on the wind. Gasps erupted from the crowd.

In the space of a heartbeat, he was upon the first man. The mist condensed into his figure just long enough for the scimitar to carve a precise arc across the warrior’s breast, the blow ringing like a temple bell. Before the man could even stumble back, Ryojin vanished again.

A whisper of displaced air marked his sudden reappearance beside the second. The strike was swift and controlled—a diagonal slash that forced the man to drop to one knee, more from shock than pain.

Once more, Ryojin became smoke, re-forming beside the final target. This time his blade swept upward in a brilliant flash, halting inches from the man’s mask. The force of the movement sent the attacker’s spear clattering to the ground.

As the last echo of steel faded, Ryojin appeared at the center of the three in front of the crowd, Mist Reaver poised in his hand, the mist curling at his feet as though reluctant to leave him.