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You didn’t join the Watatsumi Army for the thrill of battle, as some may claim. You’re not hungry for conflict, you’ve never been one to actively seek out a fight. There was a call for help, and you answered. Divine Priestess Kokomi and General Gorou had sent out their plea one night, and by the next morning you had submitted your application. The Resistance needed troops, and you were more than willing to volunteer.
There’s no glory in fighting, in watching a war unfold around you. You can’t recall how many times you’ve gone to bed hungry or cold as supply lines are cut off and delayed, can’t count how many of your comrades you’ve seen injured. The Shogun’s Army shows no mercy, taking peoples’ Visions, their ambitions, and their lives without hesitation.
No, you wouldn’t say seeing the nation you so dearly love turn against itself is “thrilling.”
And yet, here you are… a willing sacrifice, if it means returning peace to Inazuma.
“We’ll give you one more chance to surrender, General.” The Shogunate soldier practically spits the last word, raising his polearm.
It was only hours ago that you had been lounging around the Resistance’s camp at Fort Fujitou, recovering from a previous mission—or, at least, trying to—when General Gorou barrelled in, ordering all available soldiers to prepare for battle; a group of Shogunate soldiers stationed along Nazuchi Beach had been getting bolder lately, venturing a little too close to the Resistance members similarly stationed in the area. The growing tension had come to a head last night, when the Shogunate had ambushed the Resistance group, stealing food, medical supplies, and weapons—and leaving the Resistance soldiers with more than a few cuts and bruises.
As soon as Gorou called, you threw your armor on and went to fetch your weapon.
“We would never surrender to the likes of you.” Without breaking your defensive stance, you spare a glance at the General; his ears are folded flat against his head, tail low and bushed. Gorou’s stance is similar to yours—rigid, prepared to pounce. He has his bow pointed at the ground, but it’s drawn, ready to fire.
Your eyes flick back to the Shogunate soldiers—thankfully, your numbers appear to be equal, a luxury the Resistance doesn’t often have—as they laugh, their leader swinging his spear toward Gorou. “Don’t say we didn’t try to resolve this peacefully.”
He grins, wild and wide-eyed; that’s all the warning you get before the Shogunate soldiers rush you.
You’re familiar with battles, now, the sights, sounds, even the smells. There’s bodies everywhere, always moving, accompanied by blinding flashes of metal in the sunlight. Arrows sing as they cut through the air, and the sharp clang of weapons striking one another is almost deafening. The scent of sweat hangs heavy in the air, and you know it will soon be joined by the smell of blood, when the pale sand beneath your feet begins to stain red.
You kick a soldier to the ground, whirling around to block a blow from another. Bracing your arm against your weapon, you shove , sending the second Shogunate member stumbling backward. Your heart is pounding as you advance, swinging at your opponent again and again, his parries growing sloppier each time. Show no mercy, show no mercy. The Shogunate won’t, so why should you?
There’s a commotion behind you, but you don’t dare turn to look. Your weapon collides with the Shogunate soldier’s shoulder; he drops his polearm with a cry of surprise, panic striking across his visage when you raise your weapon above your head, jaw clenching.
A yell of your name cuts through the roaring of your pulse in your ears. You freeze, arms still raised, as something behind you whistles.
By the time you recognize the shrill sound as a swinging weapon, it’s too late.
Your side explodes in pain.
You don’t get time to react—barely registering the blood now soaking your torn shirt—before the blunt end of the weapon slams into the back of your skull, sending you to the ground. Your weapon drops to the sand with you, one shaking arm keeping you propped up while your other hand presses to the fresh wound on your side in a pathetic attempt to slow the bleeding.
Red and black is all you see, between all the blood—there’s so much blood, drenching your shirt and slipping through your fingers, warm and wet—and the darkness dancing across your vision. There’s a ringing in your ears, now, as you brace yourself for the finishing blow.
You only hope your sacrifice means something, in the end.
But the blow never comes. You hear rapid footsteps in the sand, a growl that morphs into a viscous snarl. The sound of a snapping bowstring, another shout of your name, and then a crash as the soldier towering over you disappears. You think you spot a familiar flash of brown in the struggle somewhere beside you—it’s hard to tell when you’re fighting unconsciousness.
You’re not sure how long you lay there, shaking and listening to the muted sounds of combat until the battlefield falls quiet. You don’t know who won.
You flinch at the feeling of hands on your shoulders—the sudden movement only amplifies the pain, and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from crying out—coaxing you to roll onto your back. Gorou’s face, fraught with worry, greets you. Though, he’s little more than a blur of brown and white as your vision fails to cooperate.
He says something, but you can’t hear him for some reason. You jolt again as his hand finds yours, pressing harder over your side. He’s shouting, you’re sure, but it’s so… quiet.
Your eyelids are heavy. You’ve fought hard, you don’t think anyone will complain if you rest a little.
Gorou’s hand is warm atop your own.
⭒
It takes you a moment to realize you’re alive when you finally stir.
Your eyes blink open to an unfamiliar tent; your entire body aches . You breathe slow, counting the seconds in and out as you will the pain to go down. It does, minisculely, and you shakily push yourself to sit upward. Someone had dressed your wounds while you were unconscious, the bitter smell of medicinal herbs strong even beneath your bandages. You’d been changed into a new shirt, too, something soft and a little too big on you.
The tent flap pulls back, your head pounding at the sudden burst of light. Your nose wrinkles as you bring a hand to shield your eyes, only to immediately drop it back to your lap as General Gorou enters the little tent.
His teal eyes widen and his ears perk up when he sees you. “You’re awake,” he says, shock lacing his tone.
You nod. “You… saved me.” It’s less a question and more a statement, your voice rough and trembling. Gorou blinks down at you.
“Of course, it’s my responsibility to protect the Resistance’s members.”
You snort, shooting him a weak smile. “Right.” Of course. He’s the war general, this is his job.
Of course.
Gorou hesitates, glancing around before sinking to the ground, sitting across from you. He’s quiet when he speaks again. “How are you feeling?” He asks, gaze roving over your figure. You shrug.
“Hurt,” you state, simply. His brow furrows, and this time you can clearly see the worry on his face. “But it’s nothing I won’t heal from,” you reassure the General. He lets out a sigh of relief, tail thumping against the ground once.
“Good,” he hums. “That’s good.” You nod again, swallowing as silence descends over you two. Your mouth opens and closes, and Gorou glances over his shoulder. “I, uh—” He clears his throat. “I need to go check on the others.” You feel a little stupid for just staring as he rises to his feet, dipping his head toward you before he turns on his heel.
You find your voice as he reaches for the tent flap. “Ah, Gorou—” His tail raises, wagging a little as you call his name. His head turns, waiting for you to continue.
“Thank you.”
You manage a larger smile this time, one he reflects back at you. “Of course.”
Gorou slips out, gone.
As you listen to his receding footfalls, you realize you feel a little better.