๐๐ณ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต ๐ฅ๐ข๐บ - ๐๐ข๐ด๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐๐ถ๐ต๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ด๐ต, ๐ต๐ธ๐ฐ ๐ฅ๐ข๐บ๐ด ๐ข๐ง๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ญ๐ญ๐ช๐จ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ค๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ด๐ค๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ
The spyglass trembled in Katsuo's hands. Jin's message had been brief: ๐๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ต ๐ข๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ญ๐ฅ ๐ด๐ฉ๐ณ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฆ. ๐๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ๐จ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ. But Katsuo had never been good at waiting for others, and the intercepted documents had provided enough intelligence to track the traitor's likely location.
Two days of careful reconnaissance had led him here, to this ridge overlooking Kashine Outpost. The weathered bronze lens brought distant figures into sharp focusโMongol officers clustered around campaign maps, their voices carrying fragments across the morning air.
And there, seated at Targutai's right hand like an honored guest, was a figure in pristine silk kimono.
Katsuo adjusted the focus, squinting through morning haze. The Japanese advisor leaned forward, pointing delicately at defensive positions on spread parchment. Pale hands that spoke of nobility. Refined bearing that suggested high birth and education.
The man turned slightly, profile catching torchlight.
Katsuo's world shattered.
"No." The word escaped as barely a whisper. "Not him."
But the spyglass didn't lie. That familiar aquiline nose. The carefully groomed beard. The same calculating expression that had watched sixteen innocents die for Katsuo's moment of conscience.
Lord Shimizu. His former master. The man who had scarred him as a traitor.
The bronze lens cracked under Katsuo's grip. Blood seeped between his knuckles as metal edges bit flesh, but pain meant nothing compared to the furnace suddenly roaring in his chest.
---
"The eastern approach remains lightly defended," Shimizu's voice drifted across the compoundโthat same cultured tone that had once counseled duty and loyalty. "Shimura still believes in honorable combat. He'll mass his forces for a decisive battle rather than dispersing for guerrilla warfare."
Targutai's reply came in accented Japanese. "You know these samurai well."
"I trained many of them." The laugh that followed hit Katsuo like a physical blowโcasual, dismissive. "Honor makes them predictable. They'll choose death before dishonor, which makes them easy to eliminate."
Katsuo's free hand found the scar tissue beneath his worn kimono. Three parallel ridges that burned with sudden, remembered agony. The ritual scarring that had marked him as untrustworthy. As a traitor who couldn't follow necessary orders.
While the man who'd branded him sat planning the genocide of his own people.
The recognition crashed over him in waves. Every rejection during exile. Every night spent hungry under winter stars. Every lord who'd turned away in disgust at his scarringโall because Shimizu had marked him as disloyal.
While preparing the ultimate betrayal himself.
---
Memory surged unbidden. The scarring chamber. Heated steel pressed to flesh while Shimizu watched with clinical interest. The smell of burning skin and his own screams echoing off stone walls.
"๐๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ธ๐ช๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฎ๐ข๐ณ๐ฌ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ข๐ด ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ต๐ณ๐ถ๐ด๐ต๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ต๐ฉ๐บ. ๐๐ฐ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ช๐ญ๐ญ ๐ข๐ค๐ค๐ฆ๐ฑ๐ต ๐ข ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ต๐ข๐ช๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฐ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ด๐ฐ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐บ๐ด ๐ฅ๐ช๐ณ๐ฆ๐ค๐ต ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด. ๐๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ท๐ข๐ญ๐ถ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐บ๐ข๐ญ๐ต๐บ ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ช๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต."
Loyalty. The word now tasted like poison.
Bile burned Katsuo's throat as understanding crystallized. The families in the hidden valleyโtheir execution hadn't been about maintaining order. It had been about eliminating witnesses. People who might have testified to Shimizu's secret negotiations with mainland enemies.
Katsuo hadn't been punished for showing mercy. He'd been eliminated as a potential obstacle to treason.
The spyglass fell from nerveless fingers, bronze clattering against stone. His tantล whispered from its scabbard without conscious thoughtโsteel that had learned the difference between necessity and justice in a dozen foreign wars.
Three years ago, he'd knelt and accepted punishment for trying to save lives. Had believed his master spoke from principle rather than expedience. Had carried shame like a weight that grew heavier with each rejection, each closed door, each night spent wondering what honor meant when it brought only suffering.
Now he knew the truth. There had been no honor in that chamber. No principle in that scarring. Only a traitor eliminating inconvenient conscience before selling his people to foreign devils.
---
"The mountain passes will be particularly vulnerable after the next snowfall," Shimizu continued, oblivious to the hatred burning like forge fire a hundred yards away. "Local forces lack the numbers to patrol effectively. A coordinated assault could break through with minimal losses."
Katsuo's vision narrowed to a single point of focus. His former master's throat, pale and exposed above silk collar. The exact spot where a blade would open arteries cleanly. Where three years of accumulated fury could find expression in steel and justice.
Every lesson in cruelty learned during exile. Every technique mastered in desperate service. Every compromise that had carved away his idealism.
All preparation for this moment.
The boy's voice whispered from memoryโnot accusing now, but understanding. ๐๐ฉ๐บ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฅ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ฑ ๐ถ๐ด?
Because I thought my master was a man of honor. Because I believed conscience mattered more than convenience. Because I was fool enough to trust while being played like a piece on a go board.
But exile had burned away such foolishness. Three years of rejection had taught him that strength was the only currency that retained value. That mercy was luxury only the powerful could afford.
Shimizu had created this lesson through calculated cruelty.
Now his student would demonstrate how well he'd learned.
Katsuo slid backward from his observation point, movements fluid as smoke. The compound's patrol schedule was already memorized. Guard rotations timed to the minute. Escape routes planned with the thoroughness of professional hatred.
Recognition had become rage. Rage would become justice.
The hunt was about to begin.