They were the final line of defense… The very last soldiers left of the first battalion the new emperor had ever sent out. Minato looked to his right, his hair swaying in the wind, his blade soaked in enemy blood, just in time to see Kuzuko get cut down. He turned left—his armor shattered, his arms scarred—and saw Ace still fighting. Ace managed to strike down two attackers, but he didn't notice the third behind him. With a clean sweep of the enemy's katana, Ace's head was severed, falling silently to the ground. Now only Minato remained. Alone, surrounded. Just as the enemy forces charged toward him—he woke up.
"Shit… that dream again. Eleven years and they're still haunting me." Minato sat up. The fire from the night before had long since burned out. He picked up his katana and tattered cloak, then looked around the forest clearing. It looked exactly the same as yesterday. He glanced down and noticed the bones of the boar he'd eaten scattered beneath his feet. His thoughts drifted to his comrades, remembering how they used to laugh and share food around campfires like this.
Before leaving, he glanced up at the mountains circling the valley, wondering once again where he was headed—or if he was heading anywhere at all. For nearly twelve years he had wandered aimlessly, trying to atone for his sins. No wound or scar hurt as much as the loss of his men. It was all because of the new emperor—bold and naive, fresh from the Imperial Academy, too arrogant to understand war. He'd sent Minato's battalion to capture a fortified border citadel using a reckless strategy, promising fewer casualties. Instead, the enemy exploited every weakness. Everyone died. Everyone but Minato. When he returned to the capital—alone—the emperor blamed him for the defeat, called him incompetent, and stripped him of his rank. Minato didn't argue. He simply left, carrying the memory of his fallen comrades and the cloak bearing the old mark of the Sakura Battalion. The only other thing he had left from those days was his black-blue katana.
Minato looked down at that sword now. No matter how many times he cleaned it, blood still clung to the blade—etched into the metal like the guilt carved into his conscience. His body, covered in old wounds and bruises, trembled slightly as memories of his brothers crept in. If only he had defied the emperor's orders… Maybe some of them would still be alive. As their general, their deaths were his to carry. The battle hadn't even accomplished anything. They failed to take the citadel. It felt like they were sent there just to die.
Shaking off the thoughts like dust, Minato began walking again. He had become a drifter, wandering through the no man's lands beyond the Jinshi Empire's reach. His journey had taken him across endless deserts, lush forests, and sweeping plains. He slept in thickets, under stars, or in quiet villages—though never for more than a few days. He took mercenary jobs when he needed money or shelter, but never settled. He couldn't. Staying still made him feel like the ghosts of the past might catch up.
As he passed through the mountain valley, he picked fruit along the way and hunted a small white rabbit for lunch, skewering it with his blade and roasting it over a fire. As the sun began to set, he saw windmills in the distance—signs of a village. That would do for the night. As he approached, the sound of music and laughter floated toward him. Inside the village inn, the room was full of warmth—dancing, live music, and smiling faces.
Minato made his way to the back of the inn, where he ordered a meal and a room. He ate steak and potatoes slowly, savoring the quiet moment, then sipped a small glass of gin. But the peace didn't last long. A scream tore through the air. He looked up. Outside, orange and red light flared against the window. Fire. Raiders.
Minato stood up, glass still in hand, and rushed outside. Four large houses were already ablaze, and mounted bandits were tearing through the village—smashing into homes and dragging people out. He looked down at his sword. The blade that had seen too many wars. He drew it from its sheath.
"One more battle," he muttered with a grim smile. "This'll be fun."
And as he stepped forward into the chaos, he knew: the age of the Red Sword had begun again.