The lieutenant, anger boiling in his chest, took a few steps toward the hut—his sword ready, heart pounding. But just before he could knock, he saw a shadow moving from the mist.
Footsteps echoed softly in the dirt.
Someone was walking toward him.
A figure with dark clothes, calm steps, and a chilling silence around him.
The lieutenant narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?" he barked, voice echoing into the still night.
The figure stopped under the moonlight. Ichigo stepped forward, eyes glowing like blue flames in the darkness. Blood still stained his sword, but his face was calm… too calm.
"I should be asking you," Ichigo said, voice low. "Who did this?"
The lieutenant laughed—loud and sharp. "Hahaha! You think I'm a fool? A teenager like you couldn't kill ten elite warriors. Don't joke with me, kid."
Ichigo slowly smiled, but it wasn't warm—it was the kind of smile that sent chills down a warrior's spine.
"Do you want to be the next to find out?"
The lieutenant scoffed. "You dare threaten me? I'm the lieutenant of the Great Samurai Association. You're nothing compared to me!"
Ichigo raised his head with pride. His presence grew heavy—like a storm rising.
"I am Ichigo Aswon, the youngest to ever become Chief of the Ninja Association."
For a second, silence fell like thunder.
Then, laughter burst from the lieutenant again. "Chief of the Ninja Association? Bold words for someone so young! Let's see how long you last!"
He turned to his soldiers—forty strong.
"Kill him!"
The soldiers drew their swords, their footsteps shaking the ground.
Ichigo gripped his blade, eyes sharp.
"Good," he whispered. "I needed a proper warm-up."
Forty swords gleamed beneath the moonlight as the samurai soldiers charged forward, their war cries echoing like thunder across the silent night.
Ichigo didn't flinch.
He lowered his head slightly, his right foot shifting back. A gust of wind blew his cloak aside, revealing his gleaming katana, already slick with blood.
The first five soldiers reached him—and vanished in a blur of steel.
SLASH.
A single spin, and their heads dropped to the earth like petals from a wilting flower. Ichigo's movements were fluid, ghostlike. His blade shimmered with deadly grace.
"Too slow," he muttered.
Ten more rushed in from both sides. Ichigo vanished.
He reappeared mid-air, upside down, spinning like a whirlwind. His blade carved through metal, flesh, and bone. Sparks flew. Blood danced.
As he landed, twenty more surrounded him—but he stood tall, blood dripping from his sword. Not a scratch on him.
One soldier screamed and lunged. Ichigo sidestepped, grabbed his arm, twisted it with brutal force, and used the broken body as a shield—then hurled him into the others.
They collapsed like dominoes.
"Who is he?! He's not human!" one soldier cried, backing away.
Ichigo walked slowly through them, his eyes glowing. "You made one mistake…" he whispered, raising his blade.
"You threatened my peace."
He lunged—an afterimage behind him. With a sweeping arc of his blade, he ended the last wave. Their screams were swallowed by the wind.
Only silence remained.
Ichigo stood in the middle of the battlefield, thirty-nine bodies around him.
Only one samurai remained—shaking, barely holding his sword.
Ichigo turned toward him slowly, eyes cold.
"Run," he said.
But the samurai couldn't move.
Because he knew…
Death was standing right in front of him.
Under the dim light of the fading night, Ichigo's blade pressed against the lieutenant's throat. His chest rose and fell, calm and composed, eyes locked on the man who moments ago dared to mock him. The lieutenant trembled, sweat streaming down his temples. But just as Ichigo leaned in to deliver the final strike, instinct screamed through his veins.
A whisper of movement behind him—too quiet for the untrained ear. Ichigo twisted his body with blinding speed, narrowly avoiding a blade meant for his spine. In a single fluid motion, he drove his katana backward. The steel found flesh. A choked gasp—and the hidden attacker collapsed, his life extinguished in an instant.
The lieutenant used the moment of chaos to flee. His panic gave him speed—he leapt onto his horse and rode hard toward the military camp. Ichigo burst into a sprint behind him, boots pounding the earth, sword still slick with blood. But the distance grew. The horse was too fast.
"I can't let him reach the camp," Ichigo muttered.
But it was too late. The gates came into view, and with them, the alarmed faces of sentries.
And then—
A sudden pulse of pressure tore through the air. A blade of wind, invisible yet deadly, screamed from the hills. It struck the fleeing horseman mid-gallop. The lieutenant didn't even have time to scream. His body split clean in half, severed from shoulder to hip. The horse reared, blood spraying into the cold morning air.
Ichigo froze, stunned.
Then he looked up.
On a ridge stood Mr. Kael, cloak fluttering, arm extended, fingers glowing faintly.
A moment later, he was beside Ichigo.
"We're done here," Kael said, his voice low. He gently placed a hand on Ichigo's cheek. "We need to leave. Now."
Ichigo nodded, still shaken.
They mounted the old sandy horse—tired, but loyal—and turned toward the dense woods. As they disappeared into the trees, the sky began to pale, brushing the world in soft shades of gray-blue.
It was 4 a.m.
And in the quiet wind, Ichigo knew this was only the beginning.
As the cold morning wind brushed against his skin, Ichigo leaned forward, his body exhausted from the night's bloodshed. The rhythmic gallop of the horse beneath him lulled his senses. Mr. Kael, focused and silent, guided them through the narrow forest trail.
Ichigo's eyes blinked slowly, the weight of the sleepless night settling over him like a heavy fog. His grip loosened slightly around Kael's waist as his head tilted forward, resting lightly on the old master's back.
"He didn't sleep all night," Kael whispered to himself, not looking back. "He deserves this moment of peace… before the storm returns."
Behind them, the rising sun cast long shadows through the trees, but Ichigo had already slipped into dreams—where Kyra's face appeared, blurred by memory and distance.
The horse galloped forward, carrying them away from war, even if only for a little while.
To be continued.....
"If this chapter struck your heart, honor it with a collection — your support is my sword"