Morro opened the stove's damper and placed some dry wood close to the remaining coals, arranging it so that as much wood as possible touched the bottom of the stove. As the fire caught, the coals gleamed red and the crackling came alive, bringing back memories of his childhood in Blackwater.
He let himself enjoy the simple satisfaction of stoking the fire, a habit from his earliest days. Warmth spread slowly through the small wooden house, modest at two stories but more than enough for one person. It was an unusually cold morning, but he had faced worse.
He brushed a hand through his black hair, the fringe falling naturally across his forehead and stopping just above his eyebrows. At nineteen, Morro had the lean build and slightly-above-average height of someone who'd spent years training with a blade. His pale complexion stood out even in the dim morning light filtering through the frost-covered windows.
Morro had trained at the academy for years, living there until he was assigned to one of the local villages in Windfall as its swordsman and de facto sheriff about a year ago. Since leaving Blackwater, he had spent that time at the academy refining the skills he had honed over a lifetime, and now he put that experience to steady use.
Morro prepared himself a warm coffee and settled into a comfortable wooden armchair, leaning back slightly. He draped a light blanket over himself for extra warmth. The coffee was almost too hot to drink, forcing him to take careful sips. It was overly sweet — he'd added too much sugar again — but he didn't mind. The warmth spreading through his chest was worth the cloying taste, that felt good.
As he finished his coffee, he heard a loud crack from outside. Instinctively, he grabbed his sword belt, strapped it on, and stepped out to see what was happening.
A few people nearby peeked out, but it seemed the incident had occurred further into the village, near the bar.
Morro started toward the sound, walking through the high street until he reached the bar area. One of the men eyes narrowed as he studied Morro from head to toe. "Look what we have here..."
From nearby houses, mothers quickly pulled their children inside, doors being barred against the unknown danger. Whispers of "Trouble... hide now" spread through the village. The first bandit's voice dripped with condescending amusement as he surveyed Morro. "Looks like this village isn't as empty as we thought. They've got themselves a little sheriff."
The leather-clad man's gaze sharpened with interest. "What's your name, warrior?"
Morro's voice was steady. "My name is Morro."
Morro's gaze swept past him, counting six more men scattered in the distance. A sturdy caravan sat nearby, clearly meant for hauling goods. The bar door hung splintered from its hinges.
"Listen up, people!" the first bandit barked, his voice carrying through the morning chill. "This is a simple transaction. We take what we want, what's worth our time, and we disappear. Nobody gets hurt—provided they cooperate."
"Try to hide anything, or resist, and you'll regret it. And someone tell the bartender to break out his finest stock. We're thirsty after our journey."
The second bandit stepped forward, his sword tip aimed unwaveringly at Morro's chest. "You there, swordsman. If you value your life, you'll hand over that katana. Do it peacefully, and we might let you walk away. Unless you give us reason not to."
"Don't waste your breath, kid," the first one called out. "No reason to die for this forgotten corner of the world."
"We'll be rich and gone before sundown. We're not looking for trouble."
Morro's voice cut through their banter, cold and steady as winter steel. "This village falls under The Kensei protection. Withdraw now, or face the consequences. This is your only warning."
Laughter rippled through the bandits.
"The Kensei?" the leader sneered. "We know exactly how much protection they afford these backwaters. Stop spouting nonsense you don't believe."
"In about thirty seconds, you'll be bleeding in the dirt. Drop that weapon before I shatter every bone in your face."
Morro's expression remained unchanged. "For men who prey on isolated villages, your behavior is exactly what I expected."
"You brought this on yourself." Two of them shifted their weight, hands dropping to their weapons as they began to circle him slowly.
Morro drew his kyokami. In this world, all swords were called kyokami—universal name for blades across all lands. Its blade was truly exceptional. The dark, lacquered steel blade gleamed with a subtle sheen that seemed to drink in the morning light. The hilt was wrapped in precise black cord over white rayskin, creating a striking contrast that spoke of both elegance and deadly purpose. The guard was particularly ornate, presenting intricate floral and leaf motifs crafted in darkened metal with delicate gold accents that caught the light like scattered stars. His kyokami had the appearance of a katana, perfectly suited to his refined Kensei training.
They began to separate from each other, creating flanks — one would attack from the right, one from the left.
The second bandit squared off against Morro, his blade held in a clumsy guard. As he lunged forward, Morro's leg snapped out in a precise kick to the man's knee. The bandit's balance collapsed, and Morro's kyokami struck his hilt with perfect timing, sending the weapon clattering to the dirt.
Morro pressed his blade to the man's throat, but instead of surrendering, the first bandit—the one who had given the speech—charged forward with a desperate roar. Morro shifted seamlessly, deflecting the attack with economical movements that spoke of countless hours of practice.
These men were no match for him. For Morro, this was like breathing. His knee drove into the second bandit's solar plexus with enough force to collapse his lungs. The man crumpled to the ground, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The first bandit, the one Morro had disarmed, struggled to rise. Morro's boot connected cleanly with his temple, and the man fell unconscious before he hit the earth.
The villagers watched in stunned silence, their fear palpable in the crisp morning air.
"Who's your leader?" Morro's voice was calm, almost conversational. "Have I already put him down?"
His eyes swept across the remaining five men.
One stood tall but carried himself with the weariness of age.
Not him.
Another hunched slightly, his frame thin and weak.
Definitely not him.
The third was a mountain of a man, scarred and broad-shouldered.
Well, he could be one.
Morro's gaze settled on the last two. The fifth was built like a blacksmith, muscles bulging beneath his shirt.
But the fourth...
He leaned against the wall, one leg propped casually, but his posture was anything but relaxed. A blond man with a scar cutting through his eyebrow, short spiky hair beginning to recede at the temples. He carried himself with quiet authority, the kind of confidence that doesn't need to announce itself. He watched everything, assessed everyone, but never revealed his hand.
Morro's kyokami aimed toward the distance, the tip pointing directly at the blond man's chest from across the clearing.
Morro felt it then — a pressure in the air, subtle but immense, like standing near deep water whose surface lay perfectly still.
"You're the leader."
A slow smile spread across the bandit's face, genuine admiration in his eyes. "How did you know?"
Morro's voice was cold. "By your negacion."