The road back has been a long, difficult path to walk; away from glory, surely. There is more offered in life than that, regardless; tho’, without swift action, things which are dear to us will be stripped away, one intangible after the next. It is the struggle within—an evil that does not seem like it will be overcome. What is one man to stand up against it and say, “STOP!” and so it shall be? I am not certain of failure in my flesh, nor whether any accomplishments I have wrought turned the tide. Wrought? Surely I cannot give up. Have I done so?

As a hypocrite, I search for peace in the one asylum discovered in years of searching. It escapes me, even here. How can one find peace, sitting idly while the world turns in conflict? Of what use are two hands, a man, and a sword when pitted against such an enemy? When a home is swarmed with demons, all men, women, and children will fight until they die. How is it I cannot bring myself to leave this place I love, to strike out at my foe in his lair? If I do, tho’ I see not the daybreak in this life, surely it will comfort me in the next.

I know not why I delay. Perhaps I fear that, in leaving, on my return there will be nothing left, and I cannot withstand the force of change.

Kyato dropped his quill, gazing over the forest from his perch atop the city gate of Aikamo Village. It drifted lazily to a wooden beam at his feet. In the distance, birds were flying up from their roosts as if disturbed. Far off on the road to the village there were people approaching—a small party.

In frustration, Kyato ripped the page from his journal, letting it fly over the wall—perhaps it would be trampled by the traders as they entered the village, and be forgotten as he wished to be.

Soldier-like vigilance made it impossible for Kyato to disregard those approaching the village, but his mind was hardly on the male and female Yagyu observed in his periphery. When Sazaku called out, parchment awave, Kyato barely took notice; only when Ryoko attempted to breach the gate did he react—after all, his mechanical obligations as gate guardian still existed to supercede his introspective wallowing and, as the party seemed harmless enough, it seemed Kyato’s duty to allow them entry to Aikamo.

Leaving his writing instruments on the rampart, Kyato flung himself off the wall behind the gate—vanishing from view of the visitors. Catching his hands around a heavy twine, he rapidly descended while the gate flew upward before Ryoko and Sazaku. As his momentum waned from the weight of the gate, Kyato’s feet softly struck the earthen path leading into the village, and he turned to secure the rope on an iron knob projecting from the posterior wall of the gatehouse.

Blocking the way of the two visitors, Kyato turned to face them. He spoke, and this is what he said:

“Who it is that wishes to enter Aikamo in these troubled times of tragic conflict, where not even small hamlets such as this might feel secure? Tell me, Yagyu strangers, what business have you here; do you bring trouble on your heels or a message of peace?”

Kyato lowers his right hand, fingers sliding over the silk weave decorating the handle of his tachi. With a stern expression in his green eyes, Kyato steps forward, his figure blurry within the shadow of the gate. Again, he speaks:

“Listen to this parable, and hear it well.”

“There was a city with high walls, impregnable in its defenses; no army could take it, no siege weapon could break through its embankments. But the keeper of the gate was lazy, and a fool. He allowed strangers to enter the city, requiring not so much as a name or a purpose. The ronin who passed through those doors were like a plague, destroying the city from the inside out. When the city had fallen, he who kept the gate was not spared.”

“Now, I ask you again: who are you and what is your purpose, here?”

A strategic sidestep gives Ryoko and Kaneshiro a clear view of one another. Turning, Kyato offers a salute, and coolly responds. Not to Ryoko, but the Shogunate officer.

“If these were more pleasant times, perhaps I would allow a traveler to pass through these gates and retain their anonymity. They are not. However, if ...”

A pause. By the look in Kaneshiro’s eyes, he is familiar with at least one of the two strangers. Kyato stiffens, somewhat, his gaze veering off toward Ryoko and Sazaku. No doubt, judging from the ashen expression on Ryoko’s face, it is she.

“My apologies. I will leave this to your discretion, Kaneshiro-sama. With your permission, I will go and make the necessary arrangements for what they need on the remainder of their journey.”

Repressing his immediate reaction to the emotional reunion, Kyato's steps lead him into Aikamo. By the look he had given Sazaku, just prior to turning his back on the party, it seemed more than a suggestion that the ronin should follow.

Despite slowing his pace so Sazaku and Yumi may catch up with him, Kyato does not stop walking until the Kaneshiro and Ryoko are out of sight; once that is achieved, he stops. Kyato turns to face Sazaku, and speaks.

“I am Kyato. No doubt you heard Kaneshiro-sama mention my name.”

“I do not know how long you will remain here—given the circumstances, it could be a few hours or several days. My guess would be the former, but that is a conjecture worth little. I will make sure the inn is ready for your occupancy. Are there any other provisions you will need for your trek to Setsuzoku, aside from food and water?”

“There shall be none of that. Your traveling companion is friend to a distinguished visitor in this village; it would be a dishonor to me, as the guardian of Aikamo, to see you haggling out of necessity.”

Kyato strode toward the inn as he spoke, opening the door for Yumi and Sazaku to pass through. The structure seemed small—at the most, it had six individual chambers for sleeping, with a large dining area at the ground level. Two long tables with equally long benches flanked the entry. If one would pass through them, they would reach a flight of stairs with a small door nestled beneath it that leads into a kitchen.

“Restore your energy and eat. I will inform the innkeeper of your wants, so you will be sure to find what you have asked for in your chambers when you have finished eating. There is a public bath in the inn, but if the lady should desire privacy my home is open to you. You will find it within the gate.”

Kyato salutes Sazaku, and nearly turns to leave—he stops.

“As for the matter of writing utensils, they are in short supply in a rural village such as this, and quite the luxury. While these are hardworking, honest people, reading is not what one might call a necessity.”

Kyato listens to Sazaku, his gaze, which had been something similar to the cold steel of a blade, softening.

“Second to love, there is our honor. Without one, the other cannot exist. I will do what I can to ensure that your deeds are recorded. If there is anything else you need--anything at all, you have only to ask.”

With that, Kyato left Sazaku and Yumi to replenish their bodies, minds, and souls. Arrangements were made with the innkeeper and vendors. Having completed that, Kyato returns to his station at the gate.

"Half a moment."

Kyato steps into the gate house and picks up a small case. Then, he walks out, nodding to Ryoko.

"Thank you for waiting. If you follow me, I will take you to see your travelling companions."

And so he led her to the inn.

Kyato steps sideways, allowing Ryoko to pass him and enter the inn. Although Yumi's behavior did seem unusual, Kyato was already numb to the eccentricities of foreigners. Following Ryoko inside, Kyato closes the door behind him. A few steps later, and he is next to Sazaku.

“I believe you requested these.”

Kyato drops a parcel on the table next to Sazaku's plate. Within, he will find a canister of ink, a quill, and several sheets of paper.

“By now, all else should be prepared for you. Kaneshiro-sama is staying at the inn, as well. I have no doubt he shall return for you later. Do you have any additional requests before I return to my station at the gate?”

With no response from Ryoko and Sazaku, Kyato returns to his station at the gate. Several hours pass with no incident, then a messenger appears on the road ahead. Kyato stops him, but takes note of his attire—he is from Umashiro pogada, the Setsuzoku capitol. Respectfully, Kyato inquires as to his purpose in Aikamo. The messenger removes a scroll from the folds of his yukata.

The message he reads follows:

“An edict from Oyabun Motoko Nobunaga, sovereign of Setsuzoku: all nobles of Setsuzoku are hereby ordered to make hasty travel to Umashiro pagoda. Every Daimyo and Hatamoto; any female or male skilled in warfare. The situation requires decisive action, without delay. Shogun Miyabi, has died, and there is rioting in the Roju and Waka-Doshiyori.”

Kyato stood for a time, processing the order. He bows, releasing the messenger to continue to other villages to secure aid for this cause. Then Kyato lowers and secures the gate, so that none may pass through, and proceeds back to the inn. There, he enters, ignoring Ryoko, Sazaku, and Yumi, and immediately ascends the stairs making for Kaneshiro’s quarters. He knocks on the door, and without awaiting a reply begins to speak in a firm voice.

“A messenger came from Setsuzoku. We are to head immediately to Umashiro pagoda. Lord Miyabi has died.”

Walking down the road at Sazaku's side, Kyato took in the scenery. They were passing through a valley with large millet fields spreading out on either side, blown by the wind like, in appearance, a torrential golden sea. A soft, dull luminescence spread over the area; a blessing from the moon and her children. Kyato stops, his arms crossing over his chest, and his low, deep voice penetrates the quiet of night.

"I do hope Kaneshiro-sama and Ryoko settle their dispute. It appears as though they both received a bad portion from life. It is not my business to ask what, but quarrels amongst lovers have a way of becoming matters of public note"

Kyato takes pause, eyeing Sazaku through the gloom.

"You seem troubled, yourself. If I might ask, does it have to do with the means by which you were labeled a ronin? What is the story there?"

I know this is your strand of hope to save your honor, but you must realize it is a long-shot. It will be difficult to wipe your record clean on the words of one who is, herself, a ronin. Difficult, if even possible."

Kyato leans his frame against a wooden fence on the roadside. His hearing, however, is piqued by strange sounds in the evening. He continues to speak, despite this.

"That said, there is no dishonor in fear. You were young, untried, and acted on your blindest instincts --- at least, such is impressed on my soul. To me, your behavior is forgivable; although, perhaps to the wives, daughters, sisters, brothers -- those related to the ones lost to your decision -- it was not. Those who have experienced loss show their pain in odd ways."

"Often times, we can pin-point the flaws in our own character. But they are easily compounded by the opinions of others. But I digress. Had you ever been immersed in the gore of battle prior to your incident with Tukaraga?"

Kyato stands off to the side, paying half-attention to the discourse amongst the Sazaku, Ryoki, and Motoko Nobunaga. More interesting are the squabbling house members. And over what? Surely Shogun Miyabi did not wish for such chaos to ensue at the hour of his death. People who were once respectful, dignified, and calm were now acting like foolish drunkards. Such a waste.

As the conversation had been underway for a time, and Kyato had said nothing, he decides this lull makes as good a time as any to speak.

"I have arrived here simply as the result of an order - the same which brought Kaneshiro-sama to these halls. However, if there is another opportunity for me to fight against the Kreigbessonnenheit, it would honor me to accompany others who dare the same."

Following the entourage through a labyrinth of shattered pottery, food, and broken furniture, Kyato took his place next to Motoko at a low table; across from him sits Sazaku. Spread over the table are a series of sketches and diagrams, apparently drawn by Sazaku--at least, judging from the nature of ink and paper used to prepare them, for they were those which Kyato had offered the ronin.

"I will mark his comings and goings, as you say, Nobunaga-sama. Still, I will not to encroach upon him, lest that influence his normal behavior one way or another."

Kyato stiffens at the mention of family. His hesitation is likely noticed by lady Motoko, which -- in his mind -- would probably require some sort of explanation. SMASH! A cup strikes Kyato on the shoulder, distracting him from his reverie. It is enough to cause Kyato to stand up with Motoko, and answer her.

"No."

Sorting out his thoughts, Kyato considers how appropriate continuing the dialogue would be. At last, he continues speaking.

"I estranged myself from my family at a young age, thel gate guardian of Aikamo who subsequently oversaw my upbringing perished some years ago, and I have never seen love."

"You are correct, Nobunaga-sama. There is no one."

Kyato, although noticing a familiar glint in Motoko's eyes, pretends it goes undetected. He wasn't at all ashamed of his solitary lifestyle. While frequently lonely, it also gave him time to think. Think, and be miserable; such was the life of any philosopher whose thoughts aren't drowning in infatuation, children, and duty.

Kyato follows up with a more subdued reaction.

"Perhaps, some day, I will find the right individual to complete me."

A darkened temple, graced by oscillating embers hovering over thin candles which, in turn, seem to float on candelabras falling from a ceiling lost to sight in its loftiness. Kyato takes in Motoko's prayer, standing somewhat back of temple's triad of occupants. The tactile nature of the straws against his thumb and forefinger reminds him of his childhood--back when these purification rites were more ritual than remembrance. A family that is dead to him.

Lowering himself to the floor, Kyato moves one leg beneath him and draws the other up against his chest, wrapping his left arm around his knee.

"May my restlessness burn in my soul until the Kreigbessonnenheit are nothing more than an entry on the endless scroll of time."

The display of troops before Kyato is splendid, but hardly comparable to what he had seen of the Norde armies during his embroilment with the Kreigbessonnenheit some months prior. Only Hidoshi Nobunaga, Motoko's uncle, knows his part in that, and it is unlikely he would have written to his niece of Kyato's exploits. Such is for the best, regardless; not being a known war hero amongst his Yagyu brothers is much to Kyato's preference.

His stormy gray eyes locking with Motoko's, Kyato responds to her gesture.

"I have found the path I walk is best walked in silence, Nobunaga-sama. That does not mean I am without a soul. Nor does it mean the fire within me is too dim to drive me to kill a man --- or a woman."

Kyato’s long strides keep him next to Motoko’s horse, as she bids him follow. At the head of the line, he looks off toward the distant hills of the north.

“You are right on both accounts, Nobunaga-sama. It was your uncle, Hidoshi, who gave me the rather accurate title of ‘vagrant,’ for—with the exception of Aikamo—I have not occupied a habitat with any consistency.”

He stops speaking a moment, as Motoko’s horse halts some distance in front of her militia. After considering his words, he begins to speak again—more quietly.

“I fought with him against the Krieg., and was captured for a spell. After I was rescued, we retreated to an island near St. Laurent where I learned of the string of defeats that had taken place in my absence. But I’m sure he has written to you of all this. I suppose you are wondering how I ended up back in Aikamo? I am not a deserter, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Kyato's hand instinctively met with the neck of the horse next to him, his fingers clasping the bridle. Tilting his head up toward Motoko, to better hear her speak, Kyato notes the smile crossing her face, and it seems to be more than one of casual politeness.

She is attractive and, if family traits count for anything, definitely a respectable, fearless individual, but surely ... what? What am I thinking? Kyato, shut up! This is neither the time nor the place for such thoughts!

These feelings fleeting cross Kyato's spirit, and perhaps Motoko doesn't notice the churning behind his stormy green-gray eyes. Coughing once, the cup of his fist over his mouth, Kyato lowers his arm and continues speaking.

“Your words are all too kind, Nobunaga-sama. If only such was my fate, instead of capture by the Kreig. But my vision at night is not the best, and I did not know who were upon me until it was too late. As for my return to Aikamo—that was a leave Hidoshi-sama granted me. More an act of mercy than anything else. I needed to get my head on straight, as it were.”

He stops babbling--what was he going on like a moron for, anyway? Kyato never spoke openly or so gregariously, or about himself in general. With an abrupt bow at the waist, he spins and returns to Sazaku, who had already taken his position in the line. But not before giving Motoko a final glance, as if to confirm something in his mind.

Falling out of his place in the line, Kyato finds himself at Motoko’s side. It is a damp morning, already, and the increasing foliage as they near the forest serves to thicken the atmosphere. A brief though, to Motoko’s remark, ambles through his head.

What are ghosts to the demons of remembrance and thought; or any other emotion to which this body finds itself subject? Surely these ‘bourei’ are no worse than the insidious darkness of our own nature with which we are ever-embroiled against.

“I know such things, Nobunaga-sama. All will be well. Perhaps not pretty or showy, but well.”

Kyato, taking the clap to the shoulder like a mountain takes a cloud settling on it – which is to say, he did his best to ignore it – strides forward. Trees, growing together with increased density, rise around the path he is striding. Still, all this doesn’t diminish his reception to Motoko’s words.

“If I may be so bold, Nobunaga-sama, there are two things which cause a mind to wander: love and ambition, and you do not strike me as the type to pursue the latter.”

Kyato stops, surveying the forest around him. A few moments of silence tick by, during which he allows Motoko to mull over his words and, while she does that, he watches her from the corner of his eye. Then he continues speaking.

“If your thoughts are with your uncle, I can tell you that the last I saw him he was well and as happy as a man can be in the midst of such brutal conflict. Surely his letters have brought you peace of mind? It is a hard battle they—our Yagyu brethren to the north—are in: I know, for I had the pleasure of baring arms with them. Hard, but I am certain, for my heart tells me such, that they will be victorious. I have no doubt.”

“Imagine how we perceive the Vinar, in their opinion of us: materialistic and humanistic, concerned far more with war and individualism than understanding nature or grasping our purpose in this world. So the Nordes may appear to us, in their crude but colossal rock fortresses, with their seige weapons and their apparatuses of war. Instead of coexisting with nature, they make the land subservient; mining oar relentlessly, harvesting timber without heed to the effect it has on the forest or the very air they breathe. What was the word Hidoshi-sama used to describe them? Industrious. Yes. They are that."

Kyato, who had waited for Motoko to recommence her stride next to him, resumes his progress into the wood. It grows dark, as the cathedral ceiling of tree limbs become increasingly dense. Despite his increasing attunement to the bourei lingering in the area, Kyato continues his dialogue with Motoko.

“But there is also beauty. Their styles of dress—which I have, to an extent, adopted—are comfortable and diverse; with enough talent or money, one from any social sphere can be wondrously adorned. Their architecture reflects their pride and strength; also, their imagination is ever-bringing new, innovative ways to handle their problems with resources.”

While speaking, Kyato is lost in his own thoughts. The atmosphere around him blurs, and if it weren’t for the straightness of the path he surely would walk right into a tree.

…while this may all be of fleeting interest to her, it’s not what troubles her spirit…

…or broach the subject; but are we well-enough acquainted…no

…if I don’t speak now, I may never have an opportunity to do so…

A shout tears Kyato away from his reverie, and the distant look in his eyes transforms to one of immediate concern. Gray, gloomy shadows appear from behind the trees. These are the ghosts—the bourei Motoko had spoken of.

...horses; skiddish, unreliable animals...it is the gesture that counts, I suppose...

Thankfully, before Kyato mounts the beast, he is embroiled in a sort of ethereal contest. Seizing the handle of his tachi, `Shattered Dreams,` with his weaker mirror, Kyato jerks it forward and from the scabbard, inclines the blade, and rams it back and up—right through the heart of the phantom. As he heaves it before him, diminutive, ornamental etchings on the blade shimmer with a cherry-like tinge; and, in the next instant, it finds its way into his better hand.

A resonance like beads or a rattling chain is lost in the din of this derisive engagement.

If Motoko looks to where Kyato had stood, she would have seen ... well, suffice to say, she wouldn't have noticed Kyato. Instead, every few seconds, a mounting haze settling on the forest bed, echoed by otherworldly screams. A further frustration might befall her, as well: none of the bourei seemed to make it within striking distance of her blade; only upon aggressing does she succeed in disseminating the ghouls.

The numbers wane, diminish, and soon deplete—of their own accord; shadows blending with the shade of the wood. The forest is quiet, save for the nickering of horses who, although unharmed by such apparitions, still react to their own fears. Kyato stands next to Motoko, and speaks—but only after starring at her intently. Rather, he tries to speak, but is somewhat at a loss for words.

“Are you w—I mean, everything looks al—no.”

Extending his hand, where the only blood that night had been spilt, Kyato observes candidly:

“I'd trouble you for a bandage, but ...”

He is interrupted by a spectral howl coming from the rear of the line of men.

Subsequent to a brief comment to Motoko regarding his mistrust of this predicament (regarding the road block and their proposed stay at the temple), Kyato leaves—temporarily abandoning the group and the encampment to investigate the road ahead. After several miles the forest clears, but nothing of real interest reveals itself. In fact, not even an animal shows its face, much less a person or one of the priestesses of the Godaiyou temple.

As the distance between himself and the legion increases and the sun descends, Kyato senses something evil scathe his spirit. The forest opens to field, revealing a hill just ahead. Stealthily, he creeps toward the knoll, where his eyes take in a poorly-disguised Kriegbessonnenheit encampment draped with shoddily-manufactured banners mimicking those of the Fabuki clan. For all the pavilions and fires, it doesn’t seem to be nearly as inhabited as it should be …

“Entrapment!” Kyato whispers to himself, before turning on heel and running full-speed back to the temple. By the time he nears it, the moon is nearing its zenith. A few moments later and Sazaku is surprised by a sword piercing out the face of a ninja in front of him, the assassin stabbed through the back of the head by Kyato.

“Where is lady Nobunaga? This is a trap, manufactured by the Kreigbessonnenheit!”

Nodding, Kyato rushes off in the direction Sazaku’s blade points. He makes his way toward the temple, but before reaching it he meets with Motoko. Without a word, he assesses her wellness, only to whirl around on a sudden and cleave open the chest of an approaching figure; the blood seems to ignite some inscriptions on his blade, and with a scream both body and soul are dispelled from the reality of those living. Again, Kyato turns to face Motoko.

“I assume you know it is the Kreigbessonnenheit who have orchestrated this ambush? What you may not know is there is a large camp several miles up the road, poorly-disguised as a Fabuki encampment.”

His sweaty brow shimmers in the moonlight, stained with the spray of others’ blood. He is kneeling, wiping the ichor off his weapon in the grassy quad of buildings outside the temple. Then standing. An intense look is in his eyes.

“This raid is almost quelled. What now shall we do, Nobunaga-sama?"

“Shall we suffer the enemy to enter our own lands, and flee now to embroil ourselves in the defense of foreign principalities? I am all for destroying the Kreigbesonnenheit, wherever we may find them. More-so, for when they desecrate our very temples and terrorize our countrymen. I am sure Sazaku-san would agree; Vaniter can wait.”

Catching his breath, Kyato swiftly glanced around to ensure they were alone—which is to say, the assailants were not within visible proximity. Following this, he continues his address of Motoko.

“If we are cunning, we shall lose none in our ruin of their counterfeit intentions. Let their own ghosts assail them, as they are ensnared without sorcerer or sage to free them.”

While seeing her hand coming, Kyato makes no effort to avoid or block it. His comment caused great offense to Motoko, as was plain by the look in her eyes. Holding his arms at his side, palms open, Kyato responds with neither humility nor pride—it seems rather detached, but perhaps he is just covering up his disdain.

“I apologize; I should not have asked you to stray from your ethics, nor should I have so easily forgotten Yagyu tradition. To me, the Krieg. are not Nordes, save perhaps in blood; they shun Nordic tradition and seek to eradicate their own heritage. They will do the same to our land if permitted, holding valor in contempt and seeking after victory through any means … however cruel.”

His tone softens, as well as his posture.

“I should not be so cutthroat as they, and it is for similar reasons that Hidoshi-sama sent me away from the Norde-lands. I aught not hold my enemy in contempt.”

With that, he turns and makes to exit the compound.

Kyato stands in the center of the road that passes beneath the shadow of the temple. Before him is the Krieg. encampment; behind him, his home. He is lost in thought.

...Motoko won't attack them, but I have yet to see anyone else raise an army in defense of our land...

...I can't let them press on. I just can't. Even if I have to do it alone...they must be stopped...

Kyato begins walking forward, a determined expression on his face, only to be stopped by a hand gripping shoulder. A deft spin, and a palm on the assailant's throat and ... Sazaku is pinned against a tree, gesturing for Kyato to release him.

"Sorry."

"I have no intention of risking any life but my own."

A moment passes by, and Kyato's balled-fists open.

"Nobunaga-sama intends to go around, and seek refuge in an underground temple; it will, of course, prolong the passage to Vaniter, but it ensures the secure arrival of her force."

"I won't be joining you at the temple. I have other business to attend to. This will not be the first time I find myself alone with the Krieg, but if you find it is my last ... "

His words trial off, and a resolve grips Kyato's spirit; he begins walking down the road toward the disguised Kriegbessonnenheit camp.

Kyato isn’t listening to Sazaku; instead, he is walking down the road, his blade drawn and at ready. His mind is deafened by the thoughts that course through it. Not thoughts of foolishness, pride, or reclaiming honor—such things aren’t the issue; nor whether-or-not Motoko will worry over his leave. Instead, he sees the offense and dishonor of the Krieg., both in old and recent memory, and feels no alternative but to take action … to drive them from his homeland. Fighting them with the Nordes was one thing, but this was entirely different.

…how could Motoko shrug this off, as if it were a small problem?...

…even worse, how could she treat it like it were someone else’s dilemma?...

Fatalistically, Kyato trudges through the forest. Birds have long-since ceased their chirpings. Occasionally, a beast rustles in the darkness or the chilly presence of a ghost rises up … only to recede back into the shadows. It is past midnight before he arrives at the Kreig. camp, disguised as an encampment of the Fabuki. Fires foolishly blaze outside tents, and soldiers who do not yet wish to slumber sit nearby chatting idly. Kyato, in such a mood as he is in, walks right in. He grabs a torch from the hand of the sentinel, swinging it around to strike the back of his head, and cries out:

“Have the Kriegbessonnenheit ventured into these lands, disguised in a manner to evoke civil conflict, and as such seek to weaken the strength of the Yagyu people? Let these cunning snakes come out! I challenge you to fight me, right here, right now!”

At first he is looked on like a madman, standing in the midst of an enemy camp with no so much as a sheet of armor in his defense. In one hand, a torch; clasped in the other is his blade. However, as he continues speaking, a glint of anger begins to rise up in their eyes. Slowly, they encircle him, their anger only increasing from Kyato’s apparent lack of fear or care for his situation.

“Assail me, cowards! Let more blood be spilt this night!

And with that, the tide shifts; the ocean flows toward Kyato, and how can one grain of sand on a beach withstand the ocean that rushes over it? For a moment, it occurs to Kyato what a hopeless situation he has put himself in. Thoughts like that only serve to embolden him – to perform acts that seem insane, since he isn’t fighting for his life, but their destruction. His figure melts away in the darkness as he grips the string of black diamonds twined around the handle of his blade, and all that can be seen of him is the cyclone of flame as the torch in his hand is unleashed into the enemy, accompanied by a spray of blood following the path of his translucent weapon.

Beneath the silver blades and the crushing horse hooves, Kyato finds himself. A small side-step and a whirl, where his blade rips through the sinew of the horse’s hocks, and the beast plummets to the ground, rolling over the troops like so many stalks of wheat blown by the wind. Another turn, and the torch is thrown toward the backside of the other mount, where the blazing tip crashes into the low-hanging scrotum of the animal. The natural result of this is the rider being thrown, and the beast going into a rampage.



Still, Krieg. surround Kyato; although not mortally wounded, there are numerous cuts, scraps, and bruises on his figure, and loss of blood is making him dizzy. However, the enemy have become less aggressive in their attacks, some whispering such things as “demon,” or “ghost” when they catch faint glimpses of him in the twilight. This does not discount the fact Kyato is still horribly outnumbered, and weakening by the moment.

Thunder. Thunder, accompanied by shocks of lightning ripping through the dawn sky. Torrential rain drops from the heavens all at once, like a curtain in the closing scene of a play. A blast of atmospheric fire strikes the limb of a solitary tree in the midst of the field, and with a crash the branch strikes the ground.

The morning is baneful enough, without Kyato's gory presence in the camp of the Kriegbessonnenheit. A large, bloody gash decorates Kyato's arm, which now holds a small buckler to deflect blows -- but with each strike to the defensive object, a terrible pain courses through his limb. And it only gets worse with every blow. Other, smaller wounds are spread out over his body. He is pale, and the rain only serves to streak the blood across his flesh. More and more, he appears as a phantom demon in the night. It has been hours since he even looked human. Or alive.

Dropping to one knee, he deflected a spear-thrust with the buckler, and responded by slicing the tip off with his own weapon, `Shattered Dreams,` which had taken on a morbid, crimson glow of its own as blood had thoroughly coagulated in the runes carved down its spine. By all accounts, the scene appeared a macabre depiction of Hell on Earth.

Already ensanguine, the additional gore wrought by these three newcomers does little to add to Kyato’s morbid state. Bowing his head respectfully, but not in any state to partake of a dialogue, Kyato pivots and prepares to charge another group of Kreig.; in the midst of this, an arrow rips through his calf, its two ends protruding from either side of his right leg. Collapsing, he is unable to return to his feet. Already blind from blood and sweat, fatigue and revulsion, the searing pain throws his blurry vision under a caliginous veil. The last thing he hears is someone shout his name, followed by the thunderous timbre of horse hooves charging toward him.

Even a little moisture flowing over his parched lips helps revitalize Kyato, but hardly does it counter the loss of vitae he had experienced. Kneeling from his fall, Kyato winces at the arrow in his calf muscle; nevertheless, he proceeds to wipe his blade off on the dew-laden stalks of grass before him. Sheathing the weapon, yet-stained with ruby tears, Kyato peers up toward the voices. He can scarcely see who is before him, but recognizes their various accents alluding to their lineage. The back of his hand soon smears the blood off his forehead and eyelids, and he re-opens his portals to a slightly clearer world.

Mechanically, he forces himself to his feet and staggers to the horse nearest him. Grabbing the reigns, he guides the beast to Vishtaspa’s saddle and binds the two mounts together. Grunting, Kyato tries to pull himself up on the horse’s back, and fails. His vision blackens from the pain, and he drops to a knee next to the sorrel. His second attempt fails as well. Vishtaspa, Balarai, and their comrades look on, somewhat in awe of Kyato’s stubborn nature. Failing his third attempt, Kyato turned to them and spoke.

“I apologize, but …”

He leaves it at a gesture.

Kyato is soon in the saddle, his upper body clinging to the neck of the horse. Vishtaspu guides him along, the vagrant’s mind slipping in and out of consciousness. Most of the journey he spends sleeping. Some discussion filters through into his subconscious, but not enough to make any sense.

Two days into the march and Kyato remains in a slumber, much like a rag doll on the back of the gentle sorrel. Much of the third day is not an improvement, but near the evening he awakens to find the arrow gone from his calf and clean bandages in tight weaves around his wounds. By the 12th day, Kyato is back in form. Vishtaspa, reminding him of the events of the proceeding days, suggests that he offer an apology to Motoko for his inconsideration toward her regarding the violent tangent he went on.

Back in Motoko’s company, Kyato doesn’t really know how to broach the subject. His Norse mount comes astride her, and Kyato calls out the following:

“Nobunaga-sama, forgive my –“

He is cut short by the sound of an army in the distance, causing his speech to halt and his ears to perk up.

Genuflecting, Kyato turns from Motoko and hurries off on his mount. Soon, he is near enough to Vishtaspa to inform him of what it is the Oyabun suspects -- that being, they are in a foolish conflict with their allies. All this under consideration, Vishtaspa realizes that -- by this point -- each army can see the other. Obviously, neither force are Krieg, and the soldiers of each group stand awkwardly about, loath to make any sort of aggressive move nor willing to sacrifice any defensive position they might have.

Considering Kyato's message, Vishtaspa finally orders a cease-fire on part of the forces under his command. Now it is up to Sinuhe to do the same...

A young man, perhaps in his early 20s, greets Halo's view. Dark brown hair, held in place by a bluish mineral, spikes across the center of his scalp like a crest and cold, green-gray eyes sit in a frame of light tan with sparse facial hair. His features are sharp and angular, but perfect—discounting the scars decorating nearly every inch of visible flesh. A white Nordic blouse and a crimson-dyed leather vest drape over his torso; covering his legs is are traditional Yagyu hakama, black silk with silver and crimson designs arcing throughout. He is barefoot.

"Greetings."

Kyato's voice is almost without accent, although it does indicate his time spent in the Yagyu and Nordic territories. It is also deep, and nearly morose.

"Vishtaspa-sama makes too much of what was an order being followed."

He remains astride his large sorrel. His hands folds across his lap. There are no reigns or saddle.

Lifting his brow on seeing Tjia, Kyato senses there is more to her than just pretty looks. She also seems to be fidgety from all the undue attention brought on by Vishtaspa. It seems he is making her feel that way on purpose, too. Self-conscious. Kyato senses this is a feeling Tjia does not feel often, but all too much recently.

"Ferocious? A cannibal of the heart."

It slips out before the censor can dispel it. Kyato, averting his gaze from Tjia by redirecting the path of his mount with his knees, sees a brief flicker of hurt in her eyes and knows his words had struck someplace deep. Perhaps it was time he learned to deal better with the opposite sex. Which reminds him of something …

"We should reform our lines, incase the Kreig. come upon us in a moment of unsuspecting jocularity."

With that, Kyato darts over the field toward Motoko's regiment.

Surprise decorates Kyato’s features at the sudden appearance of Ein Drache. A look he soon exchanges for one of skeptical horror at the news of St. Laurent’s fall. Many of Kyato’s friends (as friendly as Kyato manages, especially during war) were there; Hidoshi and his son, Takashi, along with Azimuth Cross and so many others.

Kyato’s complexion is ashen as he thinks of them, but it is quickly exchanged for a look of utter rage. A year or so ago, he would fight Ein where he stands; now, Kyato at least knows how foolish such a move might be. When the haughty prince departs, Kyato glances toward Motoko, and speaks as soothingly as he can manage—somehow, he manages to suppress his own predilections.

“I am sure Hidoshi-sama and your cousin are well, for that is what my heart tells me. I know many of those who are defending St. Laurent, and I believe they still hold to that cause. Whether this news is true or false, the battle for St. Laurent is not at an end.”

Wheeling his horse around so that it is directly in front of Motoko, Kyato continues speaking.

“We must make haste to Vaniter.”

Kyato rushes off to where he had last seen Vishtaspa, knowing any other sentiments he directs toward Motoko’s stability will discredit her in the minds of her soldiers. When Kyato reaches his aim, easily finding the large-bearded figure in the swarm of troops, he notes to Vishtaspa:

“It appears we are of similar mind. That is, getting the troops on the move before they dwell on this news too long. Lady Nobunaga is doing the same, and has sent me to inform you. Aside from that, …”

Taking a pause, Kyato glances around. It is too busy. Busy and harried. Finally, he seems to come to a decision.

“We will discuss that later. At present, is there anything you need of me?”

Making an exodus in the midst of the gathering (for tacticians of greater report than he preside there, and as such his contributions are of little disposal), Kyato proceeds to a quiet place to meditate on the fight ahead. His knowledge is with the Kriegbessonnenheit; the people, terrain, and customs of the land he now occupies are altogether new. Even these cohorts of his are foreigners. In departing, he drops a parchment at Motoko’s fingers, which reads:

‘As always, the Kriegbessonnenheit bring the fight to their enemies.
Faded glimpses of times not-yet-come flood their leaders’ minds.
Our purposes, intents, and positions will be foreshadowed.
Let us stand.

Like a stone bounded by an ocean, we must eagerly wait.
Just as time turns the direction of the waves, so will this tide.
A pebble lost at sea will ever find its way to a calm shore.
Those who have fallen will stand once more.’

A small waterfall bleeds through the back of the fortress, blending into the wall beneath a covering of moss and ivy. Before this, Kyato kneels, his blade held forward like an offering. One by one, the runes etched on its surface flood over, the cherry stains deep in the grooves splashing away beneath the coruscating liquid. Extending a digit, the tip settles in a deep groove and runs the length of his sword; the water dashes the stones at his knee.

At his side is a bowl. Lowering his hand, he dips in four fingers shimmering with wetness. On removal, they are stained crimson, and a few drops of dye roll down to the tips, forming into droplets that descend diminutively to their origin. Guiding this hand down the right of his face and chest to the warm, supple flesh of his abdomen, Kyato paints four jagged rows over his body. The same hand extends, washing clean beneath the falls. An ebony sash wreathes his hips, onto which hangs the scabbard of `Shattered Dreams.` Over his face is an iron visor; binding this, four black silk ribbons locking at the nape of his neck.

The war cry sounds, confirming his suspicions. That rumble had not been of a henge’s making.

Kyato’s fingers clasp his sword, and the rattle of his black diamond strand sounds briefly. It is not long before the Krieg. encounter the demon of Aikamo. Nor before Motoko sees with her own eyes a shirtless, demonesque form bathing itself in blood-spatter at the open gates of Vaniter.

Absently nodding to Motoko, Kyato returns to his feet and throws the axe away from himself heatedly—it is lost in the midst of the conflict. Through the digits of his clenched hand seeps thick blood; his own, mixing with countless others’ whose spray he is bathed in. Raising his hand before his face, his eyes follow the crimson pathway gliding down his wrist and into the small of his arm, where it pools over and cascades to the ground.

“Healing comes to everyone, in its own way.”

In the moment, Kyato’s eyes dart to Motoko, he notes her demeanor: it is like ash. A curtain of dust hovering over apprehension and fear. Extending his bloody palm, Kyato touches Motoko’s shoulder with the tips of his fingers, and remarks:

“Why the look of dread, Motoko? You are no stranger to war, yet you seem distraught.”

Motoko’s words sting. Terrifying his companions is the last thing he desires, but brief scrutiny of the other soldiers glancing toward him and, as their eyes meet, suddenly away—this bares the truth to the oyabun’s remark. Standing stoically, Kyato’s eyes drift toward Motoko; although valiant in battle, she is not much different than in her everyday mannerisms.

Shattered Dreams’ point descends to the firmament, etching a symbol into the pool forming from a hematic falls out of Kyato’s clenched palm. Moments before his eyes close, Kyato notes Motoko slaying of another of their own; one of those subject to the subversive demonizing of the Kriegbessonnenheit. Kyato lifts his sword, and extends it before him. A vermillion drop reflects the bright sun as it leaves the blade’s edge.

A fresh breeze pours over the fortress wall, carrying with it the leaves of tall trees, the perfume of spilt blood, and the violent whisper of death. Six zombies collapse, fire pouring from forms that are no longer recognizable. Kyato remains where he was. His eyes open. The drop strikes the ground.

“Perhaps you are right, Motoko.”

This is an unheard whisper, however. Spoke only to himself.

A second droplet forms at the tip of Kyato’s blade, soon joining with the burgundy stain pooling around his feet. Kyato’s fierce eyes rove across what had been the turf of combat. It is over. The Kriegbessonnenheit make no retreat, but instead throw themselves over the corpses of their countrymen, joining them in the afterlife; it seems as if a ridge of death amasses before the gates and walls of Vaniter. All save a few, subsiding in a ring around their knight superior. No longer is the will to fight in them, instead, they stand in a defensive posture.

Forcing his way through the now-open gate of the fortress, Kyato approaches the knot of soldiers. He seems heedless to the swamp of blood and gore—the sickening splash of his stride through what had precious life. He can hear Motoko following at his heels, and with her Ryoko and others; ahead, already in parlay with the knight superior, is Azriel. Kyato, on reaching the circle of Krieg., stands, but remains quiet. Around him gather many other allies, interested in what information they can gather from this pawn of Ein Drache.

Stepping behind Hua, Kyato examines the map of Solest. It is certainly the largest he has seen, with the clearest indications of where cities are positioned, mountain ranges rest, and oceans lay. Painted over the surface are dashed lines, indicating troop activities and the like. Obviously, this is a battle map of Krieg. army movements. His hands fold behind his back while he examines the canvas.

“Clearly, the Nordes did not go down without a fight. Furthermore, I firmly believe the fight continues at St. Laurent. In truth, I wish I were there, whatever the situation, but that cannot be helped. Ein Drache must be met and disposed of, wherever we find him.”

Turning to face Vishtaspa, Kyato lays a hand upon the table in the midst of the room. His finger taps once, as if he is considering something.

“Hua’s observation is not the only difference I have noted in the Kriegbessonnenheit’s tactics. As he said, they normally will try to overwhelm the opposition with superior numbers and lightning-fast advances. Now it is more the illusion of that.”

Pausing briefly, Kyato gazes around the room.

“They are bolstering their forces with Nordes of other ethnicities, now. Not just Sir Johan Asgeir, but if you looked to the ranks … they were not all Edeans. This is highly unorthodox, in my experience with the Kriegbessonnenheit. How loyal do you think these ‘recruits’ are?”

Adjacent to the stables stands Kyato, gazing upward. Before him, the parapets of Vaniter, surrounded by a halo of chartreuse hills. Apparently the expression on his face is indicative of deep, brooding thought, for such seems Yumi’s impression as she rounds the corner and nearly collides with Kyato.

His eyes hover over Yumi in a detached manner while he considers her remark. His hands fold behind his back, the fingers of one wrapping around the bandage on the other. After a long pause, he takes in a deep breath, exhales, and begins to speak.

“We all worry too much. Mainly about the future, I suppose. Lady Nobunaga is still shaken over Ein’s news of the fall of St. Laurent. As you know. Ein’s image is still seared into her mind, I shouldn’t wonder. Men, monsters, struggles to come. Things defeated, only to rise back up. Shouldn’t you be worrying about the upcoming battle, and your role in it?”

Kyato’s vernacular nearly hap hazardous. Even so, it is poetic. Much like poetry, it holds a premonition; one with defenses, making the meaning difficult to breach.

Kyato lifts an eyebrow, and gazes toward Yumi with a sense of skepticism about him.

“Heaven will do what it will, but it is more interested in individuals than the fall or rise of powers. It is up to us to defeat Ein, and others like us. ‘Heaven’ simply watches.”

Following this, Kyato remarks in a tone more musing than conversational:

“A memory is only as good as the person holding it, ‘lest it be passed on, believed in, and cherished by others from generation to generation. Such will be the case with St. Laurent, for the city was strong, proud, and beautiful in its own way. A harsh, almost cruel beauty. One forged into stone minarets, and streets narrow and shadowy, filled with all manner of wondrous din. Cafes and agoras; nobles, peasants, and merchants mingling together. Fearing the same fears. I remember that. Their fear of coming war.”

Suddenly, a cross and hurt expression adorns Kyato’s visage, and he very apologetically says to Yumi:

“She is strong, proud and beautiful. She still is. I should not have said such a terrible thing.”

Upon the disruption of the Krieg. (those under Zwei), Kyato glances toward the onyx cluster holding the city gate. To his chagrin, his eyes detect no lifting of the fearful blanket on his allies further along, but instead ash-like faces gripped in terror as a screen of darkness advances toward them. Even worse, they melt away.

“Something need be done; something astonishingly clever, or insane, or even mildly offensive. I… No. I shouldn’t …”

Sighing, Kyato considers why playing dirty is just so damn irresistible to him. Such thoughts cause him to recollect the slap Motoko planted on his face several weeks ago.

“Right. I have it.”

Without hesitation, Kyato charges the battalion, like a chariot through a host of witless troglodytes. His course, straight as an arrow, leads him toward the standard bearer of Zwei Volgarde, whose head is immediately cleft from its shoulders. Catching up the standard, Kyato impales the felled head there-on the tip, and rushes into the gatehouse. There, stairs lead him atop the wall, where he waves the standard brazenly and, in doing so, acquires the attention of the clashing forces.

“THIS IS THE STANDARD OF ZWEI VOLGARDE, GENERAL OF THE KRIEGBESSONNENHEIT! AND HIS STANDARD-BEARER’S HEAD IS UPON IT!”

So saying, Kyato snaps the pole over his knee, and throws the pieces at the Krieg. commander below! The head rolls to Zwei’s feet, and the pieces shatter on the field of battle, where men trample the ensign underfoot. Then, like a whirlwind, Kyato leaps off the wall after it, shouting even louder than before:

“DEATH TO EIN DRACHE, AND THE FOOLS THAT WORSHIP HIM!”

Ridiculous carnage is inevitable, when such a gauntlet is thrown by such an impetuous person who fears not death. On landing, Kyato is immediately surrounded by the Krieg soldiers, a desire for vengeance masking their red, angered faces. But these soon became pale; pale, for lack of blood to make them flush.

In the midst of the choas a firm hand extends, gripping Tjia’s shoulder to steady her. In the blurriness of her vision, she senses Kyato guide her through the tumult of battle to a safer location—inward, toward the middle of the city; nearer to the ziggurat. Through the din, the havoc, the noise, the buzzing in her ears … through all this, Tjia’s hears a remark:

“To be injured in the center of such conflict is no good. You are safer, now.”

Kneeling over Tjia, Kyato glances up to take in his surroundings. As safe as a place of war can be, with only a few beggars roving the alley near the wall south of the gate. In the distance, the emblem of the city burns like a candle. His hands at work, Kyato arranged several bandages around Tjia’s back.

“I am no physician, so there is little that I can do for you to help, save stave the flow of blood for a time.”

Gazing around him, his shadow falling over Tjia's spent but breathing frame, Kyato takes in a hopeful dawn vision of this city struck with calamity. In the center, a great bonfire reaches up to embrace the sky, illuminating from its distant seat a mass of corpses, these around the gate of Apep. Like a tide, the victory chants of Nordes, Vinar, Yagyu, and many other races swell to meet Kyato's senses. Kneeling again, he calls to Tjia:

"The conclusion is decided, despite the battle-incomplete. Drei and Zwei are defeated. Can you move?"

On executing the henge, Kyato turns to Tjia, remarking quietly:

"Go with your friends."

Kyato darts down the alley, toward the heaviest point of the battle: where Sinuhe is. Arriving at the king's side, Kyato propels his sword forward into the enemy, only to notice a familiar face in his peripheral. Turning on heel, having finished the elimination of his adversary, Kyato takes in Azimuth.

Everything changes ...

Eyes falling upon Motoko compassionately, Kyato kneels down, ignoring her protestations to examine her wound. In a soft voice, he remarks:

“That which has been destroyed by fire can be used to heal flesh.”

While speaking, Kyato scoops a spot of ash from the ground, where flames had torn through, delicately sprinkling it over the gash on Motoko’s arm and stopping the bleeding. Lifting his eyes from his handiwork, they lock on the Oyabuns, but only for an instant—Azimuth’s sharp way of speaking shatters the moment.

Azimuth is changed. He doesn’t remember me. It is as if something has taken hold of him…

“We will meet again. Hopefully soon."

With that, Kyato leaves Motoko’s side and vanishes into the smoke, fire, and fray of battle. The hard stone structure of the ziggurat is more of a furnace, every shred of tapestry, furniture, or art transforming into candles before the eyes of those present. People surrendering everywhere. Chaos co-reigning with a sense of desperate hope. Any enemies once here are now gone; in their stead, men seeking solace—some finding it, others throwing themselves into the fire. It is all too much, too raw, and too vivid.

All that remains for me is a façade, and if I leave now, what then and where shall I turn? I cannot go back, as I have done in the past. I cannot go forward, running from one life to another.

So I must remain, for whatever purpose—purpose is beyond my comprehension.

Fire licks Kyatos hand as it presses against a nearby wall, his figure motionless amidst the clamor and in contrast to his racing thoughts.

I suppose I must play my role.

And so, Kyato moves on. Separating the dead from the living, the wounded from the confused. Where a child cries out, he goes. Where a widow weeps, he ventures. When morning finally splits the sky, he still without sleep, not even the tiniest dent seems made in restoring the ravaged capitol, yet, for the first time in a great while Kyato feels … feels less hate for himself and for his heritage.

In the morning light, Kyato collapses along a long street south of the ziggurat. His eyes close briefly, until he hears familiar voices. Sinuhe, and others, talking. Opening his portals, Kyato glances up the lane, and takes in the conversation more carefully.

Although watching Motoko say her goodbyes to Sinuhe, Kyato is hardly able to absorb all that has happened—from his scorned journal entry at Aikamo to this hour of victory, one memory is as sour as the other. His eyes close, and a painful tremor tenses every muscle in his body. Confused, agitated words at the time. Now, on reflection, they seem a recurring prophecy.

‘The road back has been a long, difficult path to walk; away from glory, surely’—It will be no different, this time.

‘… without swift action, things which are dear to us will be stripped away, one intangible after the next’—Does that mean I am at an end; is it finished, or is the battle to persevere—to hold on to what is holy, chaste, and just—everlasting?

‘Surely I cannot give up. Have I done so?’—I ran away long ago.

Clenching his teeth, Kyato drives the thoughts—not about Ein, the Krieg., or the confounded war, but his own, contorted spirit—from his mind. Other matters require mechanical attention. Motoko is assembling her party for the march back to Setsuzoku. Indeed, they are ready. She is already on her mount and the banners hang limp upon their stanchions.

As Apep diminishes behind them, Kyato refuses to look back, but marches stoically at the side of Motoko. The march is long and without incident and, while victorious, there is a sense of melancholic strain; a feeling of anticipation. Throughout, worry over Kyato fills up Motoko; his brief, indecipherable murmurings while sleeping and waking, bitterness of spirit, and detached, emotionless air.

‘As a hypocrite, I search for peace... It escapes me... How can one find peace… Of what use are two hands, a man, and a sword…’—Fallacious! Lies! All lies! What illusion peace is, for the simple and diluted of mind. What a lost, childish, and magnificent illusion!

“ ‘I know not why I delay. Perhaps I fear that, in leaving, on my return there will be nothing left, and I cannot withstand the force of change.’”

A discernable murmur finally escapes his lips in the midst of his stride along the dusty, leaf-strewn road that defines the border between the Yagyu and Vinar territories, where trees stand like sentinels and shadows hang low like storm clouds. The recitation is one said in anguish, and speaks of something chained deep inside Kyato. Not the potential loss of Aikamo, although that too would cause him great sorrow, but of restitution, forgiveness, and the opportunity to forgive…

Motoko meditates on this, watching him quietly from atop her wyrven. From the day they met, his mannerisms, appearance, and words were peculiar; his fatalistic fearlessness in battle and desperate loneliness. ‘Self-induced misery,’ she thinks, although not without a twinge of sympathy. But Setsuzoku is just ahead, with its politics, distractions, and family. Hidoshi might be there, too…