The bay was black glass beneath the moon, its silver light stirring and breaking in the cold wind.
Kazuya knelt at the shoreline, boots sinking into wet sand, eyes fixed on the dark silhouette of Tanabe Island across the water.
His red scarf fluttered once, then clung to his soaked collar. The orange-tinted spectacles glinted dull in the dark—the only warm color on a man heading into hell. From the leather packet at his side, he drew the directions Kaji had given him, memorizing them again. This night wasn't about survival. This was about ending Fowler.
He dropped to one knee, murmuring a half-remembered sutra—an attempt to still the noise in his head. It failed. Memories pressed forward: Akemi's hands reaching out, Taeko's voice from a distant, bruising duel, his father's wordless dismissal, his siblings' backs turned. Rage burned hotter than fear.
Weapon still in naginata form, he stepped into the shallows, stalking to the hidden rocky outcrop where Kaji swore the undersea entrance waited. His fingers found the trapdoor's edge, slick with algae and rust. He pried it open, silent as a grave.
A reeking gust of brine and rot rolled up from the tunnel. He clutched his brown kasa for a final heartbeat, then lowered himself into the black, forcing his body through the tight, submerged shaft. The moment the water surged, the kasa's strap tore free. The hat was ripped away into the darkness, spinning downward, lost as surely as the last hints of safety. Only the scarf and spectacles stayed—in place, battered, a part of him.
Torchlight flickered across the tunnel walls. His footsteps splashed through ankle-high water, scattering rats. The beams slid over what looked like pale driftwood—but it was bone. Dozens, then hundreds of skeletons slumped against the walls, some tied with faded cords, others tangled in rusted armor and tattered sashes: shinobi, villagers, children, nameless casualties in Fowler's silent war. There was nothing left to say for them; mercy was dead here.
A heavy locked door loomed ahead. Kazuya crouched, hands steady, working his picks into the mechanism. A faint click answered him. Too easy. Behind, an iron chain snapped taut and the world roared—a tidal flood yell of black seawater surging into the tunnel, knocking the torch from his hand, freezing every muscle as he was hurled against the stone.
Salt crushed his lungs. He scrabbled, blind, fingers scraping metal, jagged teeth and locked muscles. Training and will dragged him up—he found the true lock, forced it open by instinct alone, and exploded up through a trapdoor into a cold, dark storage room, gasping for air. His gear was gone, except for his naginata, two grenades knotted in his sash, the garrote looped at his belt. Scarf and spectacles remained: waterlogged and battered, but present.
The adjoining cellar was wide, layered by shadows and fat pillars. A lone armored guard circled below. Kazuya flattened himself against the wall, slid forward, silent as a thought. When the guard turned, a loop of steel wire flashed around his throat. He kicked and clawed, boots sliding until his struggles faltered. Kazuya eased him down and retrieved the naginata.
Heavy footsteps sounded above. The second guard descended, noticing the spreading puddle. His eyes widened just as the naginata whirled through the air—a flash of glinting steel that struck with a sickening crunch, driving through armor, rib, and wall. The guard staggered two steps before dying.
Further in, Kazuya heard the next man's alarmed shout—too late. The blade slashed downward in a diagonal arc, shearing the man almost in half before his hand could grasp the bell rope. Blood leaked in a lazy pool under the door.
Kazuya sprinted for the spiral stair, senses sharp. A long stone corridor stretched ahead, damp and cold. Above, he spotted the slight movement of a mirror slat, some hidden watcher tracking him. The walls began to groan together, narrowing. Without hesitation he broke into a run, dodging as a volley of spears shot from hidden ports, overhead and from the wall. The first row missed by inches. A side spear punched through his heel, white-hot pain lancing up through flesh and bone. Gritting his teeth, he slashed the shaft off on either side, stumbling ahead as the stone slabs crashed together behind him.
A door banged open into a courtyard surrounded by high blank walls. As he ran, the flagstones beneath him crumbled away, revealing a staked pit that yawned to swallow him whole. He hurled himself over, landing on the far side just as another set of doors split and a squad of Shindo Clan samurai burst forth.
He yanked the naginata from his back. The first attacker rushed, blade high. Kazuya side-stepped, redirected the downward motion and leveraged his own momentum to spill the samurai shrieking into the spike pit. Two more aimed to flank him—he spun, grabbed one by the wrist, forced the blade sideways so it sliced through another's neck in a frothing spray, and twisted, sending both hurtling into the trap.
A fourth man lunged; Kazuya snapped the naginata's blade against his forearm, then whipped downward with the butt, snapping bone. Another swung at his exposed back—a grave mistake. He wrenched free the severed leg of a fallen samurai from the pit, using it as a gruesome club to parry strike after strike. He used the shinbone to shield a katana's edge, then thrust the foot, claws forward, straight through another man's armored chest. The corpse collapsed at his feet, crimson pooling beneath.
The last of the group hesitated, staring in horror at the mess and the grenade Kazuya now brandished. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Instead of tossing it, Kazuya slammed it club-like into the side of a samurai's head while sidestepping a downward cut, making his enemies slash at one another in the confusion. When only six remained, he kicked the severed leg aside, snatched up a dropped katana and in a blur of movement sliced them down, arterial blood fanned across stone.
The final survivor dropped to his knees, fear overtaking resolve. With shaking hands, he tied a rope around a decapitated head from the pit and flung it as a counterweight, dragging Kazuya's naginata back up the wall toward him. Kazuya grabbed it and tucked it away, switching back to katana form.
He limped into the keep's kitchen, wounds oozing blood, foot almost dead with pain. The staff inside stared, too frightened to move. Kazuya wrenched open a bucket of ice water and plunged his mangled foot inside, cold biting at his nerves until they went blissfully numb. Somewhere in the corner, he caught the subtle sheen of a periscope mirror. He glared. Let them watch.
Without a word, he climbed the next set of stairs. The door at the top opened into a rock garden glowing with lanternlight. Shapes flickered on the stones: saru monkeys, dozens of them. He stepped forward, cautious, every muscle tensed for a different threat.
A monkey approached with wide, eerily knowing eyes and offered up a small flower. Kazuya took it, but as he inhaled, his vision twisted. The petals' pollen beaded in the air, dispersing in golden motes. The world warped, the floor rolling with glowing water, the sky above fracturing into infinite stars as the monkeys' eyes blazed red.
They attacked in a pack, bodies slamming into his shoulders, claws raking bloody gouges down his arms and back. A pair caught his neck, jaws snapping for his throat. Pure instinct drove his hand to his sash; he yanked a grenade, pulled the pin with his teeth, and jammed it into the heart of the writhing mass before hurling the whole tangle aside.
The explosion shattered rafters, and the floor gave way beneath him. He crashed downward, hitting stone amidst shattered wood and bloodied fur. Half-deaf, he staggered up, plunged his head into the same bucket of ice water and screamed until his hearing returned.
Dragging himself by memory and will alone, he climbed again. Each step flared with pain. The flower's hallucinogen lingered in his blood, twisting every shadow into a memory: Taeko's grin as she beat him years ago, Akemi's desperate plea, a cold family table with no place set for him.
A new hallway stretched on, prison cells flanking the length. At the far end, Okiyama waited: enormous flesh, iron-banded club. As Kazuya approached, a bank of levers snapped and the cell doors flew open. Prisoners, wild-eyed and broken, poured into the corridor; to Kazuya's poisoned mind, they were nightmarish beasts.
He fought in silence and shadow. For every arm that grabbed him, he twisted free, for every clawed hand he snapped wrist or neck. Blood painted the walls in slick, sticky rivers as bodies piled around his feet.
In the last cell, Taeko slumped, wrists and ankles chained, face bloodied but still fierce.
"Only I get to kill you," she rasped, defiant but weak.
"Not tonight," Kazuya replied, breaking her bonds. He dragged her upright, both battered and barely steady.
Okiyama charged, club descending. Kazuya dodged once, blade flashing, but found himself hammered into the wall. The room spun, ribs shrieking in protest. The giant seized him in a crushing bear hug. Air vanished. Desperate, Kazuya lunged up and bit Okiyama's nose clean off.
The giant reared back, roaring, blood pouring from his ruined face. Kazuya dropped, stabbed at Okiyama's foot with his blade, then, as the world swam red, yanked loose the last grenade and jammed it into the open wound at Okiyama's neck. In the madness and fire, the club and sword locked—Kazuya used the pair to scramble away as the grenade exploded.
The blast ruptured the wall, flames licking through shattered timbers. Taeko, stunned, slid toward the new, gaping precipice. Kazuya caught her wrist at the last instant, nearly tumbling over himself. With a sword clamped in his teeth, he pulled the two of them up, every muscle shaking, sweat and pain streaming down his face.
Above, through a narrow window, samurai guards faced away. Keeping low, Kazuya climbed hand over hand to the next level, finally crashing through a window in a shower of glass, killing a Shogun aide instantly with the blade's entry.
Fowler stood with musket raised. He fired point-blank. The ball shattered Kazuya's already-damaged sword, sent molten agony through his shoulder and threw him to the cold stone floor.
"You've got nothing but a sword, boy, and here? You choke," Fowler spat. "Those bones in the tunnel? They're just the others who thought they could take what's mine."
Kazuya gathered himself, lunged with the ruined blade, but Fowler smashed him down, turned to seize Taeko by the arm, twisting until she screamed.
Rage, pain, will—Kazuya made one final burst of effort, crashing into Fowler's side, wrenching Taeko away, their bodies hurling together through the broken window, plummeting into the black sea below.
The cold crushed his lungs, the salt burned his wounds, the surface cracked and gave as he struggled to kick upward. He wrapped his arm around Taeko, fighting to pull her up. The ice splintered and slid above them. Darkness clawed at his vision. As the last of his strength flickered, he saw the blurred outline of a figure moving toward them through the freezing water. Then, there was nothing but the silence of the deep.