Chapter Text
The Warring State Period .
This was a time of intense chaos and uncertainty, marked by the fierce rivalries and rapid shifts in power as factions vied for dominance. The stakes were high, and the future remained ambiguous for the masses and people in power. It was a harrowing and savage point in Japan, where countless storms of battle raged, and every swing of a warrior's blade, no matter which faction they belonged to, was mercilessly cold as steel. This era was an unending waltz of war, where proud samurais fought for bushido to uphold and an honor to protect. As the year 1600 dawned, the samurais prepared for the decisive conflict known as the Battle of Sekigahara on an island off the eastern coast of Mainland Chugoku. Warriors belonging to various daimyo factions and noble samurais under the command of Torikawa-Yukimiya Kenyu and Ishino-Kunigami Rensuke were thrown into the warfare frontlines of Sengoku Jidai . As it stands, the current tide of war has thus far favored Torikawa's Eastern forces.
October 21, 1600. 13:23:00. The once vast blue sky and vibrant greenlands have been tainted with the crimson blood of combatants—ones of those who gave their lives for the glory of their master—spilled on the war field accompanied by gray nimbostratus clouds and smoke from soldiers burning one another's campsite. This horrifying sight, mixed with the acrid scent of gunpowder, the metallic iron scent of blood dripping from the weapons to the ground, and the sickly and pungent odor of rotting bodies, would make any unaccustomed civilians regurgitate. The adjective dreadful would not suffice to describe the grim and eerie scale of violence and suffering experienced by the soldiers from both factions. Piles of corpses—either with their head and limbs intact or grotesquely dismembered—can be seen from a distance of no more than 5 meters. Several unit flags from the Western and Eastern Army have been ripped, torn, and burned to ashes. Sekigahara has, without a doubt, been entirely engulfed in a sea of hell flames housing souls of the dead warriors and lifeless and disillusioned wraiths, and this barbarity extended to Edo, too. There was no time for one to shed a tear to pause, pray, and grieve for the dead as the war waged continued on and on for countless days and nights, weeks, months, and years—not stopping until only one victor emerged triumphant from the bloodshed conflict.
High above, a nomad stood on top of the hill that served as the best observation post where he could see—with no obstruction to his vision—the battlefield that sprawled below. No motion went unnoticed by his naked eye. Every flicker of movement, clash of steel, battle cry of the brave and weak—he saw it all. He belonged to no faction; he came as a humble witness intrigued by how the war would reach its conclusion—the finale Japan needed for it to enter a new era.
He adjusted the straw hat he was wearing to get a better view with his right hand before running it down to his nape—to tidy the blond strands of his mullet that were tickling his neck. In his left hand was a shakujo, which he used as a staff and walking stick to take a few strides forward. "Now then," Bachira Meguru, the nomad in question, began locking his gaze to a specific area within the battlefield. "I wonder what course of action he will take this time."
Amid the mayhem unfolding in the village below the hill known as the heart of Sekigahara's valley, Bachira saw a young man descend on the theater of war. "There he is," Bachira uttered, "The Torikawa Faction's Komainu—Kurona Ranze." Upon the Komainu's descent, every soldier around the perimeter paused to see who had joined the heated fray. The soldiers observed and took in the sight of the man clad in a striking, sleek, black, high-collared Hanfu with intricate white stitchings from his neck to chest. Over his loosely fitting outer robe, a pink obi belt is securely tied around his waist, and it serves as a place to hang the scabbard of his sheathed katana. His right arm, with sleeves folded that exposed his bandaged forearms and tekkou, reached for the naginata he carried on his back, implying to his enemies that he was ready for combat.
Kurona's presence changed the atmosphere, and Ishino's Western forces felt a menacing chill running down their spine at his intense and piercing gaze. They have realized that their luck has run out now that The Komainu , also known as The Kageinu , has made himself present on the battlefield. Most, if not all, have heard the rumors of Torikawa's beastly vanguard. Rumors said he was a one-man army, with absolutely no subordinates under his command, capable of eradicating an entire opposing force by himself. However, only few have survived for an extended period to recount their encounter with the man they believed to be Torikawa’s beast. The samurai who lived to tell the tale offer only one warning:
" Run when you see him ."
"So, so," Kurona began speaking. A terrifying chill emanated from his voice, causing a few warriors from Ishino's army to take reluctant steps backward. " I hope," he paused for a bit to transfer his naginata to his left hand, unsheathed his katana with his right hand, and pointed it toward his foes. " You're all prepared to die ."
Every man standing knew this was not an empty threat coming from Kurona. It was a simple sentence, but it was alarming enough for people to not take their next course of action lightly. However, war pauses for no one, no matter how scared or prepared a soldier could be. Ishino's Western Army has but one choice: to move forward and defeat the enemy before them. "For the glory of Hidetomi Yoshikazu, move forward! Take down the damned Torikawa's lapdog's head!"
And Kurona did the same.
Kurona took a deep breath, and shifted his weight onto his dominant foot, bringing it slightly back behind him. He gripped the katana's hilt tightly and slashed at the band of enemies from his right who gathered the courage to charge toward him. His slashes were clean, and his enemies realized a tad bit too late that they had been decapitated or a hole had formed in their chest. He saw another unit with bamboo shields on their arms advancing from his left peripheral vision. And in one swift motion, he jumped a few feet in midair to get behind the enemy's lines and kill them from their blind spot. When he sensed a bloodlust coming from his back, he quickly rotated his katana counterclockwise to stab the samurai behind him and kicked his ankle so he'd lose his balance. Kurona dealt another blow to the said samurai by stabbing him in his chest when he had fallen to the ground.
Kurona momentarily placed back his katana into its scabbard after, tearing the lower part of his robe and haphazardly wrapping a pseudo-bandage around his head, leaving only his eyes visible, to suppress the bile rising in his throat as he watched the eyes of the samurai lying before him transition from a glare full of anger to a lifeless and vacant gaze. He couldn't care less about how there were loose ends from the way he covered his face with the pseudo-bandage, as there was no time to leisurely stand and ponder about it. He was still standing on the battlefield, and every man charging towards him was after his head—and by extension, his life, too.
He heard a thunderous boom split the air and smelled the scent of sulfur and burning wood around him. In a flash, his vision was restricted by the smokescreens caused by the launch of ozutsu. There was a barrage of arrows and kunais incoming. He clicked his tongue at the realization that he abandoned his shield midway through the battle before this one, thus resorted to using the sheathed naginata on his left hand to deflect the kunais and arrows thrown from every direction toward him. "Are there any ninjas within the Ishino's faction?" he wondered while looking at the fallen deflected kunai. He clicked his tongue again and shifted back to a battle stance almost immediately, his eyes locked on to his assailants as they engaged him in another barrage of gunfire, purposely taking advantage of the fact that Kurona's vision was currently obscured. “Must be Otoya and the Koga Ninjas. What a troublesome bunch of people,” he thought to himself.
A few hours have passed since the fray, and several of his allies from other units who have followed his lead have been slain, their blood splattered on some articles of his clothing. Kurona wasn't gravely injured despite fighting battles nonstop because his comrades acted as a shield for him, since they believed Kurona's life to hold a greater value and chance of victory than theirs. It has always been a traumatic and numbing experience to witness the flicker of fire and life dissipating from an ally's eyes. Despite that, Kurona did not stop running forward. Rather, he cannot stop. He gave his red tekkou and hands drenched in the blood of foes and allies alike a quick glance with apathetic and unfazed eyes. A slip of emotion such as grief and hesitation is a crucial vulnerability that he, a Komainu , cannot afford to expose and slip out—any sign of weakness can be fatal; hesitation may lead to missed opportunities to strike or defend, and grief can cloud judgment, making him an easy target for the enemy. The chaos of war punishes those who allow their feelings to surface, often resulting in death. So, he continued to don the mask of a ruthless killer, intending to emerge victorious from the warfare in the name and glory of his commander.
Or so he thought.
Truth be told, Kurona was feeling indifferent towards the plausible outcomes of the war. Whether his commander—Torikawa-Yukimiya Kenyu—wins or loses. Even if they lose this battle at Sekigahara. Even if Edo were reduced to ashes in defeat, he wouldn’t do so much as blink. Unlike the other samurai fighting alongside him, he does not harbor any grand or noble reason to come out alive from the battle. Being a samurai—and by extension, Torikawa's Hatamoto—was simply a duty and a job the man must fulfill rather than passion or conviction—nothing more or less. "There is no meaning to a war," he thought to himself as he moved through the enemy ranks like a dark wind with fluid, and relentless precision. His enemies saw a quick blur of black and pink before Kurona's blade arced through the air, cutting down enemies one after another. Kurona is painfully aware that what lies ahead after a war ends is nothing but corpses and sins. As a man who lives by the way of the sword, he lives in a world that follows the rule of survival: to kill or to be killed. He does not ruminate about the purpose of this battle as it is just one of the many clashes he will be thrown into or one of the possible places that will serve as his graveyard.
Binding his soul to the ironclad commitment of survival and detachment from the world, he mercilessly hurled his now unsheathed naginata, piercing the abdominal aorta of the remaining Ishino’s soldiers before it clangs against the rubble of nearby ruins. Finally, with no enemies left in sight, he strode forward to retrieve his weapon, watching as the soldiers collapsed to their knees, struggling against rapid exsanguination. Some, clinging to life, weakly tugged at his legs or stabbed at his shins with their tanto. “It’s useless,” he said, shrugging off their grasp as he pulled the blade free. “Use your remaining moments to remember your noble causes, and die as a samurai.” Reaching the spot where his naginata lies embedded in the rubble, he retrieved the weapon and wiped the blood from its blade with the torn hem of his robe.
"Kurona, that's enough." The man heard someone call out to his name.
Kurona turned toward the voice, his gaze landing on Isagi Yoichi, Torikawa’s personal aide, standing atop the rubble where Kurona’s naginata had once struck, a concerned expression on his face. "Yo, Isagi Danna," he greeted his superior casually. The mask of a killer temporarily vanished, replaced by a nonchalant, almost bored expression. Isagi could never tell what was in his mind, but he knew better than to accidentally push Kurona's wrong buttons, so he made no comment about the latter's switch of behavior. Isagi, out of all people, understands best how dangerous Kurona can be when his switches are triggered. He sighed deeply before jumping down to meet Kurona at eye level. The younger man did not seem to mind that he received no reply from his superior and continued speaking. "What brings you here, Danna? I was assuming you would be by Ue-sama's side."
"That same Ue-sama asked me to check up on you," Isagi replied as his gaze shifted from Kurona's eyes to the aftermath of the latter's battle, scanning around the number of corpses that had fallen victim to the younger man's blade. No person can be seen standing in the vicinity except for them, except for Bachira who was still watching the scene unfolding before his eyes from his post, too far away for the pair of men to notice and spot. It dawned on Isagi that in just a short period, Kurona managed to take the lives of 3 armies of 342 men stationed at the farthest hill of the valley on his own. His victory, however, was paid at the great price of their slain comrades' lives.
Isagi's eyes lingered on the bodies of allies he recognized, his stomach churning at the painful realization of Kurona's endurance to not let any vulnerabilities slip or else he, too, would be included on top of the pile of bodies Isagi, and now Kurona too, are observing at. Kurona shortly redirected his gaze somewhere else, turning his back from the sight as he searched for a place to sit down. Both men knew this kind of victory never felt good, as they were forced to shoulder the weight of their comrades' lives on their shoulders—continuing living no matter whose corpse they must walk over always leaves an unpleasant and wrenching sensation in their tongues.
Although Kurona never admitted it, Isagi believed that the deep, gnawing, and traumatic fear he felt of being a survivor was thrice more intense and burdensome for Kurona—the man who has to shoulder the most sin of killing their enemies on top of their comrades’ sacrifices. Needless to say, the latter would rather die than admit to anyone how he felt as he plucked out and bloodily harvested the lives of those who dared to oppose the army he was and would be stationed in. That's right—Kurona was a good-for-nothing samurai, a manslayer with no bushido to uphold. He only operates on two purposes: to survive and protect.
True enough, he does not see any meaning to this war held at Sekigahara, but there is something he needs to protect. This war was just another means to an end for him. If it meant he'd get to honor a certain promise from bygone days and protect what his soul wished for, he would gladly be called crazy and other insulting names. It matters not whether his enemy would be an army of 90,000 men, a nation, an Enma, or even the Buddha. He would take on the role of a necessary evil and killer, allow his hands to be dirtied and stained with blood, walk over the corpses of his foes and allies alike, painfully torture himself by not taking the easy way out of seppuku , and shoulder the lives of his comrades—anything plausible to be used and done at his arsenal; trust that Kurona will do anything all to survive, protect, and keep his promise towards a certain someone .
"What a terrible sight," Isagi said, breaking Kurona out of his short introspection. "You caused quite a mess," Isagi told the latter, not taking his gaze off the battlefield.
Isagi meant to imply that Kurona was being reckless again with his approach to rushing the enemy lines with his comment. When he heard no reply from Kurona, he turned around, only to see him fishing out his kiseru from his pocket after finding a comfortable spot near the ruins where they met. Isagi frowned, then approached Kurona, moving deliberately towards him, not taking his eyes off the man as Kurona's fingers gently brushed over the worn surface of his kiseru while he was resting against the battlefield’s ruined wall. Kurona loosened the pseudo-bandage wrapped around his head that covered his lips, leaving another opening so he could smoke.
"That's..." Isagi recognized the kiseru Kurona was using.
"Now, now, Danna," Kurona replied without looking at Isagi. "Now's not the time for your sermon. Give me a break," He ignored the way Isagi’s eyes bore holes into his head as he took a long drag from his kiseru, savoring the warmth surging inside as the smoke filled his lungs. With a long, slow inhale, he pulled the kiseru away from his lips, exhaling a faint wisp of smoke that curled lazily into the unnaturally stilled air. He doesn’t like how the scent of tobacco mixes itself with the present repulsive and putrid scent scattered over the warzone, but he also can’t afford to be picky. When it comes down to it, even if Kurona wore the brand of a killer, he, too, is just a human. There also existed times when he wanted to forget and allow himself to feel remorseful for his heavy sin. Even if it’s only for a fleeting moment, he wanted to forget the weight of command and the lives he was sending to the grave. He could feel the familiar and calming effect of nicotine coursing through his veins, and this helped him steady his breathing and thoughts, dulling the relentless guilt and responsibility that gnawed at him like a constant shadow.
Isagi finally stood before him. He did not speak another word and simply sat down in the free space beside him. He has no idea how many battles Kurona has seen nor how many wars the man has been thrown into, and he wonders if Kurona has long since detached from the horrors of battle to be casually smoking after shattering the ranks and bringing down the wrath of his blade on his enemies. Unbeknownst to Isagi, Kurona was smoking precisely because he was letting himself feel the gravity of his choices before dulling and sealing his emotions and internal musings with nicotine somewhere deep inside his brain.
"Should you really be smoking right now?"
"It's precisely because this village is now in ruins because of this ridiculous war we've waged that I feel like taking a smoke."
"I see," Isagi propped his knees to rest his left arm and began searching for his own kiseru inside his left kimono's sleeves. He joined Kurona smoking as the latter exhaled another cloud of smoke from his lips while his unfathomable and distant gaze drifted back to the remnants of the battlefield.
"Do you think we're, at least, making some progress with this war?" Isagi asked the younger man while he lit the tobacco ashes on his kiseru.
"I don't know, don't know," Kurona replied curtly. He briefly looked at Isagi, who seemed to be waiting for a continuation of his reply. He gave himself a moment before answering, " My life would have been easier if I had known the answer to that, Danna ." And so, the two men sat in shared silence, their exhales mingling with the tendrils of smoke that drifted toward the sky. Around them, the wasteland lay deathly quiet, muting the last faint cries of life, as if the very land was gently ferrying the souls of fallen warriors down the Sanzu River. Nothing had truly changed—not the world, nor them—only a battlefield left in an uneasy peace, with more battles awaiting just beyond the horizon.
October 21, 1600. 16:47:05. This is the Warring States Period, and for all their efforts, they've only managed to reach a stalemate.
The victory gained from the last battle was merely the calm before the storm
.