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The flames of Sekigahara creep forward, tasting sky and forest and branding the earth with endless battle lines of glowing darkness. Smoke rises like metal nets laying claim to every last trace of life as war rages in the land of the blood-red sun.
Time is running out.
Tokugawa and his allies are winning; the tides have turned and soldiers have been defecting from the western front by the thousands. In any other scenario the news tonight would have been cause to rejoice. But a defeat in battle doesn't spell out its end, losers may hold power still, and desperate soldiers can do utterly vicious, unimaginable things.
The trees are dying.
They're burning the forests. In the dead of the night, before his eyes, the lush green hills surrounding his clan's territory are swallowed up one by one by the unstoppable orange haze. His lungs hurt. His heart hurts. His bow trembles as mercenaries come pouring in, attacking everyone in sight, turning his home into a playground of knives and frantic shadows and terrified screaming everywhere, interrupted only by the maddened cackles of the fire.
No time to cry. No time to breathe.
He raises his longbow, heirloom of his clan and final gift from his father before his death at the hands of Ishida's forces mere weeks ago. The wind cries with his silver arrows, but they are no match for guns from the black ships of the Nanban empire. The sky rains down lead balls; house timbers weep like firewood as the ground receives a fresh tribute of corpses.
And yet he stands. Like a bowstring stretched tight whose aim is true. The archer, with no one left to fight for.
The stars are merciless tonight.
"Orijin," someone gasps. It's the son of craftsmen from Choseon, the servant boy he's looked after like a brother. His face is covered in tears and ashes, his voice equal parts pain and fear. He looks ready to collapse.
Orijin grabs his shoulders and gives him a rough shake. Hot salt rain fills both their eyes, but it doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter.
"Hwanee, you need to leave," he hisses as another shingled roof caves in.
"But, young master—"
"Hwanee. I am the heir. I cannot run. But you… you have to live. Go, escape from this place, and live on for my sake. And please, find my sister and take care of her for me. Please."
Hwanee shudders and clings to him one last time. A hug, an oath, sobs unchecked as the fleet of years overflow between them, and when they pull apart the boy's eyes take on the same dark sheen as the burnt remains of the clan fortress.
As long as he lives, their clan will not be forgotten. That, for Orijin, is enough.
"I'll hold them off. Go now. Hurry!"
At last the boy lets go of him and leaves to chase the path of the moonlight— now a refugee, one day a warrior. Orijin is alone again.
He thinks of his parents' graves, where his mother's beloved wisteria blooms and spider lilies paint the burial mounds their own sunsets. Thinks of the kind Spanish missionary who visited for a few months last year, bringing dried cacao beans and tales of a land of bulls and eternal sunshine. He wonders if his friend made it safely back home or if the ocean turned its back on him too.
He stumbles back to the meeting house. Perhaps he can save one more life from this madness. When he gets there, someone is shouting the name of his father's most trusted retainer.
"Akira-san! Akira-san! Akira-san!!!"
Orijin lets the tears fall freely now. Their clan is coming to an end. He barely has time to spare a glance toward the man who cradled him as a babe before a set of cold blades force themselves into his vision.
He takes a clear, steady breath.
The bow falls. The sun rises.
The tear-stained, smoke-drenched, blood-red sun.