A blind, emotionless swordsman stands alone on the battlefield, surrounded by fifty armed men. The air is thick with tension as they hesitate, knowing the legend before them. He does not see them, yet he senses everything each breath, each tremor in their grips, the weight of their fears, their intents.
The first soldier lunges at him. A whisper of steel could be heard, as his sword finds the soldier's throat before he even registers the movement. Blood sprays, and the silence shatters. The others charge.
The swordsman moves like a ghost, his blade an extension of his will. He doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate every strike is precise, lethal. The clang of steel echoes as he sidesteps, weaving through their ranks with an eerie calm. Spears swing at him from all directions, but he hears them coming before they could land a single strike onto him, his instincts being sharper than sight.
One by one, they fall. Limbs severed, throats slit, chests pierced. His white robes stain red, but his breathing remains steady. A soldier screams in desperation, swinging wildly. The swordsman ducks, slicing upward in a single fluid motion his attacker's body collapses in two.
The last man standing drops his weapon, trembling. The swordsman tilts his head slightly, as if considering mercy. A moment later, the final body joins the rest, and the battlefield is silent once more.
The blind swordsman stands amidst the carnage, his blade dripping red. The scent of blood fills the air, but he does not waver. He sheathes his sword with practiced ease, his expression as empty as the battlefield he leaves behind.
He is searching for something.
Not for glory, rather for vengeance, against someone he trusted. A name. A voice. A purpose buried in the echoes of his past.
He walks forward, unhurried, leaving fifty lifeless bodies behind him. Each step takes him closer to the truth, closer to the answer he has pursued across endless battlefields.
The world calls him a monster, a devil, blind carnage. But he does not care.
Until he finds what he seeks, the sword will remain in his grasp, and the path ahead will always be paved in blood.
Throughout the Heian era of Japan, when swordsmanship reached its pinnacle and warriors carved their names into history with blood and steel, power did not come without sacrifice.
To be recognized as more than mere flesh ,to be seen as something greater than human one had to relinquish something precious. It was a world where power was the only currency that mattered, and those who ruled did so with a ruthless grip, their thirst for dominance eclipsing all else.
But amidst the chaos, one man rose not to end the corruption, not to bring justice, but to carve his own legend from the bones and bodies of the fallen.
He was a nameless warrior at first, another blade in the storm. Yet, he understood the world for what it was: a battlefield where only those willing to bleed could truly exist. He did not fight for honor, but for his own greedy ideals. He fought because the only way to survive was to ascend, to rise through the ranks of the damned until he stood at the peak, then to eliminate someone he hated more than the devil himself.
And so, he cast aside that which tethered him to weakness. He made his sacrifice.
With every duel, every war, and every kingdom left smoldering in his wake, his legend grew. His blade became a symbol of inevitability, his presence a whisper of death. Yet, in a world where men abandoned their humanity for power, what would remain of him when he reached the summit? Would he still be a man, or something else entirely?
This is the tale of the one who climbed through carnage not to save, but to kill. This warrior went by many names, with mention of it alone imprinting fear into others; he was known as the lone hunter in the west and the blind scavenger in the east.
But to all he was remembered by one name:
"Mikazuki Shingan"(THE BLIND SWORDSMAN).