The night grew darker, and the moon climbed higher, its silver light shimmering over the carnage below. The flames roared in contrast, their orange tongues licking the wooden structures of the Fourth Division headquarters, swallowing everything in a wave of heat and black smoke. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood, smoke curling into the night, choking lungs and blurring vision. The clash of chaos and destruction was absolute.
It was a massacre. Five figures moved through the inferno like shadows of death incarnate, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. Samurai of the Fourth Division fell screaming, their bodies torn apart in seconds, their courage no match for the overwhelming force that moved among them.
"Jūrōbei."
The voice was calm, almost eerily calm, yet imbued with authority. Every word carried weight, a quiet menace that made even the bravest shiver. The one called "boss" stood at the edge of the battlefield, eyes cold and unyielding, observing with a calculated precision.
Jūrōbei, the towering figure wielding the massive cleaver, paused mid-stride, his back perfectly straight, muscles taut beneath his skin. "Yes, boss," he replied, his deep voice filled with respect, yet a storm of anticipation simmered beneath the surface.
"Bring me the head of that coward, Ueda," the boss continued. His tone was icy, deliberate, and each word dropped like a stone into the hearts of those who heard. "And eliminate anyone foolish enough to stand in your way."
"Leave it to me," Jūrōbei said. Without another word, he advanced toward the main building of the Fourth Division, his cleaver glinting in the firelight. Every step he took was a silent promise of death.
Tōkichirō, positioned at the far end of the courtyard, froze. He watched the inferno unfold, the headquarters he had known reduced to flaming ruin, samurai falling like wheat before the scythe. The smell of smoke, the sound of cracking wood, the anguished screams—it all combined into a horrifying symphony.
"This… This is bad," Tōkichirō muttered to himself. "How did it come to this—"
A sharp, unnatural chuckle cut through the night air.
"Kekekeh!"
Before he could finish his thought, a blur of motion appeared behind him. A small man, impossibly fast, dagger poised at Tōkichirō's temple.
CLANG!!
Tōkichirō reacted instinctively, parrying the dagger at the last millisecond. Sparks flew as metal met metal, and for a brief moment, the orange glow of fire revealed the man's face.
Tadatoshi froze.
"Kekeke… it seems you're doing well, Tōki-Tōki," the small man said, his voice a blend of amusement and malice.
Tōkichirō's voice quivered. His body trembled. "It's… you, Nakahara Sōbei." Memories he had buried three years ago clawed their way back—the blood, the fear, the helplessness. Every suppressed nightmare of that day rushed to the forefront of his mind.
Sōbei's grin widened, manic yet measured. "Look at that. You remember me. How delightful. It's been three long years. Let's see if you're still as… interesting as you were back then."
Their eyes locked. The air between them became taut, thick with tension, as if the night itself was holding its breath. A battle, inevitable and ancient, began to spark in that single gaze.
Meanwhile, Sentarō, Tadatoshi, and Reiko navigated the burning corridors of the Fourth Division. The heat was suffocating, the flames consuming wooden beams, spreading faster than they could run. The scent of smoke clawed at their throats.
They found a weapons room, its walls blackened and charred, some of the weapons already destroyed by the fire. Yet, by some stroke of fortune, their personal weapons remained intact. Relief flickered across their faces, brief but genuine.
"Alright," Sentarō said, grasping his katana, his calm returning despite the chaos. "They weren't damaged."
Before they could savor the moment, the wall of the room groaned and cracked. CRAAAACK!!
"This isn't the time, Sentarō!" Reikoshouted, urgency in her voice. The three of them turned and sprinted toward the exit as the building groaned under the weight of the fire. The flames consumed everything, weakening beams and crumbling walls, leaving their path uncertain and deadly.
As they ran, they turned a corner.
BOOOOM!!
A massive explosion erupted, sending four samurai flying into the air, their screams piercing the night as dust and debris filled the courtyard. "What the hell was that?!" Tadatoshi yelled, shock making his voice tremble, though his hand went instinctively to his swords.
From the black smoke emerged Jūrōbei—towering, shirtless, his dark blue hakama fluttering around him, cleaver in hand. His presence alone radiated danger, a living storm of lethal power. Sentarō and Tadatoshi's instincts screamed at them to flee.
Reacting instantly, Sentarō grabbed Reiko, and both men leapt back. The firelight cast ominous shadows, painting Jūrōbei as an unstoppable force of destruction.
"Huh? What was that for?" Reiko demanded, confusion and fear lacing her voice.
"Samurai of the Fourth Division," Jūrōbei boomed, voice deep, resonant, and terrifying. "Give me the whereabouts of your captain—and then die!"
Tadatoshi's grin widened. He drew his swords, their blades catching the firelight. "Your frame… your weapon… you remind me of someone," he said, calm yet confident.
"I asked for the whereabouts of your captain, not—" Jūrōbei's voice thundered.
"I don't acknowledge that old bag as my captain," Tadatoshi said smoothly, cutting him off. "And don't interrupt me next time, understood?" Confidence radiated from every inch of him, unshakable, fearless.
Reiko's face shifted to panic. "What do you think you're doing, Tadatoshi?" she cried, rushing to grab his arm. Sentarō intercepted her, placing a steady hand on her shoulder.
"Hold on, Reiko," Sentarō said, his gaze unwavering, serious. Reiko's confusion deepened, but she obeyed.
Tadatoshi continued, undeterred. "You reminded me of another criminal," he said. His tone was calm, confident, almost taunting. "Abe Nobuyuki."
Something clicked in Jūrōbei's mind. Recognition, fear, anger—an undercurrent of emotions ran beneath his stoic surface.
"How do you know that name?" Jūrōbei asked, his calm mask cracking.
"Ahh, so you know him too," Tadatoshi replied casually, though every word dripped with challenge.
"We fought during my entrance exam," Tadatoshi continued, nodding toward Sentarō. "And believe it or not… he was killed by the one behind me." His hand gestured toward Sentarō.
Jūrōbei's expression darkened. Rage flared, veins bulging. The calm demeanor evaporated, replaced by a storm. "So… you three are the ones rumored to have killed my master."
"I don't care what cheap trick you used to kill him," Jūrōbei snarled. "That won't work on me." His stance shifted, muscles coiling, every inch of him radiating imminent violence. "I've now reached my master's level."
With that, he lunged at Tadatoshi. The movement was explosive—a blur of muscle and fury. BOOM!! The sound of impact resonated through the courtyard as his cleaver swung down with lethal precision.
CLAANG!!
Tadatoshi met the swing with his katana and wakizashi. The clash reverberated through the building, sending shards of wood and sparks flying. His grin remained. "So, you've reached the same level as Abe?" he asked, voice calm yet mocking. Slowly, he began lifting Jūrōbei's cleaver upward, testing him, taunting him. "Too bad for you."
THUD!!
Tadatoshi followed with a precise kick to the stomach, sending Jūrōbei hurtling backward. He crashed through the crumbling wall, debris scattering across the courtyard, landing outside in the firelight.
Reiko's breath caught. "Tadatoshi…" she muttered, astonished. She turned to Sentarō, whose face broke into a wide, approving grin.
"Too bad for you," Tadatoshi said, standing firm, katana raised, looking down at Jūrōbei with absolute confidence. "Because I've surpassed your weak master."
Jūrōbei struggled to rise, rage twisting his features. He stared at Tadatoshi with absolute fury.
"Now know this," Tadatoshi shouted, voice booming through the chaos, eyes blazing with determination, "you're about to die… at the hands of the Lord of Festivals!!"
Jūrōbei's anger only deepened. He ground his teeth, clutched the cleaver, and braced for the storm that was coming.
Tadatoshi stood his ground, unwavering, ready to face the man who claimed to have reached the level of Abe Nobuyuki. The firelight flickered across their faces, illuminating the battlefield in shades of red and gold. Every heartbeat, every breath, every movement became part of the dance of death that had begun.
And the night itself seemed to hold its breath.