It was sudden. As Satoshi Nawa-kara awoke in the midst of the battlefield, a suffocating stench of iron filled his nostrils. His body ached, his breath was ragged, and his vision blurred, but what he saw before him carved a deep scar into his soul.
The once-mighty warriors of his clan, feared across nations, now lay butchered in grotesque piles. Their bodies were mangled beyond recognition, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their flesh torn and burned. Blood soaked the earth, turning the soil into a thick, crimson swamp. The scent of charred flesh and open entrails mixed with the heavy fog of death, creating a sickening haze over the battlefield. Ravens had already begun their feast, their beady eyes glinting with hunger as they tore at lifeless bodies, beaks dripping with gore.
Satoshi clutched his chest, where the demon of Ikayari had run him through. He could still feel the burning sensation of the spear piercing his body, yet his heart continued to beat. The wound was deep, his robes drenched in his own blood, but he was alive. A cruel joke played by fate. Had the demon missed his heart? Had his body refused to die while his brethren perished? He did not know. He only knew that he still drew breath, and the agony in his ribs was proof that he had not yet joined the dead.
He staggered to his feet, pain searing through his side. His left arm hung uselessly, likely fractured, but his right hand could still grasp. He needed to move. If he stayed in this cursed land any longer, he would join his fallen kin in death. He had to return to the village.
Through sheer willpower, he forced his broken body forward. The journey was torturous, each step a fresh wave of agony. Only when he reached the outskirts of the village did the true horror sink in.
His home, the stronghold of his people, was no more.
The grand gates that once stood tall and unyielding were reduced to splinters. Houses were burned to the ground, their skeletal remains still smoldering. The streets were painted in blood, corpses left to rot where they had fallen. The air carried the putrid stench of decay and fire. Not a single soul stirred. The village was a graveyard, and he was its lone survivor.
He stumbled through the ruins, his mind blank with rage and despair. His wounds had begun to clot, the blood crusting over his tattered skin. He needed a weapon. He felt naked without one. A warrior without a blade was nothing but prey.
Then he saw him.
The village leader's body lay slumped against the remains of the shrine, his lifeless eyes staring into the abyss. His throat had been slashed open, a deep gash from ear to ear, his blood pooling around him in a dark halo. But in his grip, still clutched tightly in death, was his sword.
Satoshi knelt, his fingers trembling as he pried the weapon free from the cold grasp of the fallen leader. The blade was stained with blood, but it was sturdy. It would serve him well. He rose to his feet, his grip tightening around the hilt.
This massacre would not go unanswered.
With his clan slaughtered, his village razed, and the demon of Iyakari still breathing, there was only one path left for him. He would carve through the lands, hunting down those responsible, until the rivers ran red with their blood. He would uncover the truth behind the destruction of the strongest clan in all of Japan.
Satoshi Nawa-kara Kitotsuki was dead.
In his place stood a man with only vengeance in his heart.