We passed through two villages by nightfall.
One was empty, eerily clean—no sign of life, but every tatami mat was swept, every teacup stacked as if waiting. The other was worse, half-collapsed and overgrown, but with fresh footprints in the snow that led in, never out.
We didn't linger.
By dusk the next day, we reached a mountain ridge that overlooked a narrow valley. Smoke should've risen from the town below—but nothing stirred. No color. No sound. Just a pale mist that clung to the rooftops like breath held too long.
Genzo frowned. "I know this place."
"You've been here?"
He didn't answer.
***
The village was colder than the others.
No snowfall. Just cold. A kind that pressed against the skin without moisture. That kind felt personal.
At the far end, near a twisted pine grove, stood a half-burned torii gate. The beam across the top had snapped in the middle. The ground beneath it was scorched black in a wide circle.
Someone stood beneath it.
He wore no mask, no armor—just an old, tattered hoari, tied tight at the waist. A blade hung loosely from his hip. His back to us.
Genzo stopped walking.
His eyes narrowed, focused—not in recognition, but in caution. Like he knew the feeling, not the face.
"Do you know him?" I asked quietly.
"No," Genzo murmured. "But I think he knows me."
The figure hadn't moved.
But the air around him wavered—heatless, scentless, like burned time.
He turned. He looked up—just slightly. Not enough to show his face. Enough to let us know he saw us.
Then he spoke.
Not loud.
Not clear.
But the words reached us anyways.
"One of us stayed behind."
Genzo didn't respond.
He stepped forward once, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
The man under the gate stepped forward.
His feet didn't leave tracks.
Now in snow.
Not in ash.
He didn't raise his blade at first. He just looked—not at Genzo, but through him. Like someone watching a reflection that wasn't quite right.
Then he moved.
Not fast. Not aggressive.
Just precise.
His sword slid free of its sheath with a sound like wind catching a door half open. No stance. No flourish. He simply stood, waiting—as if Genzo had always been the one to strike first.
And Genzo did.
***
The blades met with a dull ring that didn't echo. It just hung there, suspended in the cold.
They moved in silence, their feet barely touching the snow. The whole world narrowed—two figures trading cuts, neither dominant, neither rushing. Every slash was measured. Every parry an echo. Their movements didn't mirror each other—they completed one another.
Like a form rehearsed long ago, now repeating itself without thought.
The torii behind them stood like a witness.
And the sky—
The sky rippled.
For a heartbeat, I saw something else flicker across the horizon.
A courtyard in flames.
A broken naginata, scorched and splintered, lay across the stone.
A man stood between the fire and a fallen warrior, arms outstretched.
His hair was longer. His armor unfamiliar. But his eyes—
They were Genzo's.
Not his face. But the eyes held the same fierce weight. The same silent vow.
The man didn't speak. He simply turned, took the blow meant for someone else— and vanished into flame.
No sound.
Just the echo of a sacrifice carried forward in silence.
Then it was gone.
Both the vision and the man were gone. Like the memory had been spent.
Only snow and pine trees again.
***
The torii stood alone again.
The snow resumed falling.
Genzo lowered his blade but didn't sheathe it. He stood in place like the echo of the moment was still playing in the air.
I stepped forward.
He didn't turn.
"I don't know who that was," he said quietly. "But I think it was meant to."
He exhaled once, slowly. "I've walked away from too many things that felt like this."
***
We didn't speak again until the sky turned violet, and the trees began leaning inward once more.
The path bent lower the farther we went.
The trees arched toward one another, their branches knotted like clasped hands overhead.
It felt less like we were walking into a village—
And more like we were being invited.