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His consciousness slowly begins to sway with the sound of ocean waves.
He grunts in his lethargy, tired and exhausted for reasons beyond his knowledge. Instinctively he clenches, clenching his hand and gathering sand in his fist, wet, stony sand. He forces his arms to move and finally pulls himself together, sitting up, stretching out his legs. When he opens his eyes the landscape he sees is the infinite blue of the sea meeting the stormy gray of the sky.
His eyes blink slowly, lazily in their sockets, clouded and out of his mind, confused and troubled. Swallowing a salty sensation catches in his throat that he has to stave off the urge to spit. He breathes slowly but profusely, bringing oxygen slowly into his lungs in a way that doesn't make him dizzy, the drowsiness lodges on the flat of his tongue.
Suddenly he feels over multiple parts of his body a sharp pain and a persistent irritation, as if pulsing at intervals, he raises his right hand to the level of his eyes and finds that he possesses several bleeding wounds encrusted with sand. With a sigh he tries to get up on weak legs, wobbly and dizzy, and succeeds. He turns his head from left to right and finds that there is only sand and more sand, but as he turns back there is a beginning of green plants: wild plants and vividly colored trees. His mouth opens slightly, and he is about to enter the green zone when the first drops of water fall on his shoulder.
Childishly, his head turns upward at just the right moment to catch a drop of water on the tip of his nose, but he doesn't look away. The drops fall and fall until the sky opens up in a downpour, drenching him completely. The rain is cool as it meets his skin and gentle as it washes his wounds clean of blood and sand.
He stands in the rain, closes his eyes and, with a sigh, steps into the lush green area.
The downpour has not stopped at all.
When he came out of his confused episode, he wandered and wandered until he came upon a shallow cave, something he was grateful for as the trees offered little resistance to the water with their splayed leaves. He hid in the cave and waited with a still calm for the downpour to stop, but it didn't stop, the sky was still roaring.
One good thing about the downpour was that it washed the blood from his wounds and provided his body with fresh water, his throat no longer tasting of salt and sulfur, but of clean, cold water. His eyelids felt heavy as he watched the same landscape: raindrops falling and puddles of water forming; sometimes he would intone a melody, barely a strumming of strings, to pass the time. He searches his brain for a memory, a feeling, a fragment of memory, something, to make the passing of time more bearable, but there is nothing. Absolutely nothing. It's as if everything is blocked under a thick smokescreen.
He doesn't remember his name or his age, and apart from being a man and basic things — survival skills or human speech — he doesn't know anything else. Where he comes from, what his favorite food is, what he likes, or even who he was — he can't remember at all.
He closes his eyes and, carried away by the sound of the waves lapping the sea, falls into lethargic.
The rain has stopped; it is the first thing he notices.
After sleeping for who knows how long, lulled by the sound of the rain beating the waves and ignorance covering his mind like a blanket, the downpour finally stopped. The sky is no longer stormy gray, but light blue with a bit of white here and there. It is quite peaceful.
There are several puddles of rainwater, so he tries to avoid them, he doesn't want to soak his shoes again. He doesn't try to stray too far from the cave because it's the only shelter he has, so he explores the surroundings alone. In his exploration he found a calm river and, a little further away and under a leafy tree, branches that were not wet.
In the calm river that flowed down and licked the rocks there were parts where the current was strong, and in those parts, he caught a glimpse of a fish jumping and then falling into the water and continuing to be carried by the current.
His stomach growls.
How long has he not eaten a crumb of food? He doesn't know, but he doesn't want to find out what would happen if it had been days without food. He still has strength in his arms and legs, so he can still catch fish.
He looks around for something that can help him — after all, he can't expect to catch too many fish with just your arms. He finds a branch sturdy enough not to break and, noticing that the tip was not sharp enough, begins to sharpen it with a piece of stone. After several moments of sharpening, he is satisfied with the result and, entering near the strong current, he waits for his prey.
A fish soon appears, its body being dragged by the current, and it is with a firm thrust that he manages to catch the fish (there is something in his instincts that tell him at what moment to pierce a body with something sharp, but he cannot remember what leads him to need that knowledge). A slight smile, the slightest curve of lips, graces his face.
He sticks the branch so that the handle is buried in the ground and sets out to search with his eyes for stones that have a more or less flat base, when he finds them he places them and positions them parallel to each other; he finds a stone slab, washes it and places it on top of the two stones forming a kind of homemade grill. He goes to the leafy tree and grabs a flat branch of considerable size, small branches that break if enough force is applied and dry leaves and returns to where he left his grill.
He takes the fish out of the sharp branch and places it on the stone slab, grabs the dry leaves and places them on top of the flat branch forming a mound, grabs the sharp branch and with the not so sharp handle starts applying friction and rubbing rapidly. He doesn't stop until he starts smoking white smoke in considerable quantities, that's when he blows gently until he lights the first flame, and that's when he places that flame with a pile of small branches under the spit, feeding it.
The flame cooks the fish causing the smell to spread through the place, feeding his hunger. He waits and waits, flipping the fish so that both sides are cooked, and when he's sure it's cooked the best it can be in the middle of nowhere — he grabs a large leaf and maneuvers the fish so the leaf can be used as a plate.
It's not the best, but it will do.
He waits until the fish is not too hot and, with his hands, starts tearing the fish apart, bringing pieces to his mouth. The fish is bland and insipid (that insipid taste tugs at his heart, but his mind won't cooperate), but it's edible, so he finishes eating it.
It's still daylight, but his eyelids feel heavy. Knowing he has nothing to do, he decides to sleep. He puts out the fire and goes to the cave, leans against the wall and sleeps.
(He dreams of a life he doesn't remember, being endlessly churned by red flames and stained in black ink; the flames are soft and protective as they cradled him that it's like going to sleep—)
"Take-chan, are you crying again?" A boy with a squeaky voice asks him, in his hand are portions of sushi. The boy, Take-chan, smiles happily, his hand stops from tracing unintelligible symbols, and is about to stand up from his place when a man's voice rings out.
"Hey, how'd you get in here?!" The boy recoils at that and stands behind Take-chan, as if asking him to protect him. Take-chan looks confused, but there's bravery in his eyes as he steps in front of the other boy hiding him from the older man.
(Ah, children being children. What a beautiful dream—)
He wakes up and hears commotion in the surroundings. He quickly emerges from the cave and encounters something grotesque: red-skinned monsters wielding serrated swords. He immediately backs away, but it’s useless, the monsters have already noticed his presence.
The monsters let out unintelligible roars and rush at him and he stands completely still until he finally reacts and moves, avoiding a sword thrust. His heart beats so fast in his chest that he fears he will have a heart attack, why are there monsters here?
(His head throbs, as if to help him remember. He knows what these monsters are, he must know, he's seen them face to face before, how could he not know what they are, with their aggressive behavior and disgusting form? He is—he is—)
His body dodges to the right and he takes the opportunity to kick the monster that tried to attack him, it recoils and throws his weapon. He doesn't think long before wielding it and throwing a slash at the monster. His body moves driven by adrenaline and something else, as if he has a mind of his own, as if he knows exactly where to strike so that the enemy falls and disintegrates.
The monster's serrated sword is helpful in deflecting enemy attacks (but when he wields it there is that feels wrong: there's something about the shape, the weight, the size, that's wrong but he doesn't know what it is—), but a blow from behind sends him rolling across the ground. He lets out a gasp as he rolls to dodge as best he can the attacks, and blood pumps his veins and he thinks he's going to die because there are so many monsters and he's surrounded and how unfair that is, to die without even knowing his name, but then—
Someone appears.
A person with features he can't make out stands in front of him, his body forming a barrier between him and the monsters; he is covered in ragged clothes and has a sword strapped to his waist; he, with no memories to compare, can feel the power radiating from this stranger.
He cannot see the strange swordsman's expression, but he can hear an offended sound coming from his lips, as if he believes these monsters are not worth the trouble.
"Even here, you find yourself surrounded by filth," the stranger unsheathes the sword, his hand keeping a tight grip on the hilt as he transforms into a monstrous monster-like appearance, "keep your eyes only on me."
What follows next is a one-sided slaughter, the swordsman-monster's sword slices through the monsters' bodies like butter and he can only watch with a mixture of equal parts shock and awe, he does as the stranger asks, he doesn't look away from him.
The stranger finishes with the monsters and is about to thank him, his mouth already forming the words, when that same sword he used to protect him turns on him. The sword itself is a miracle of impressive craftsmanship: the hilt is bone white, and the blade is nothing to despise, jaggedly red for the purpose of hurting deeply, not granting a dignified death.
He considers his chances: if he couldn't even face those monsters, what awaits him with this swordsman-monster, who finished them off with such ease? He can't think about escaping because he has a feeling that the stranger wouldn't appreciate it and would make all this more difficult.
The stranger speaks in a serious and solemn tone, "Shinken Red, why don't you wield your sword?"
He can't offer him anything.
His hand clenches into a fist.
Only his sincerity.
"I don't know you," is his reply offered in a perfectly serious and neutral tone, if you heard him, you would never realize he is being threatened with death.
The stranger doesn't exactly back away but lowers his sword slightly. There is smoke and he sees the stranger's human form again: his hair is matted, and his white clothes are threadbare, he has a beard that looks like it has seen better days, and his eyes are dark and disturbed, he looks like a wanderer.
"You don't know me," the stranger repeats, as if he can't believe it. He nods. Then, the stranger smiles, all teeth and no laughter, it's fierce, it's the smile of a wild wolf.
"Shinken Red, what happened to you?"
The stranger is...for lack of better words and descriptions...a peculiar man.
He doesn't offer comment unless asked and, other than raising his sword at him, they haven't interacted at all, apparently content to watch him over his shoulder leaning against the cave entrance wall. He thinks it's strange, a strange swordsman-monster, but that strange swordsman-monster saved his life, so he doesn't try to bother him much.
The wound on his back throbs at intervals, it's a bruise, nothing more. Even in that he was lucky. The serrated sword he picked up from the red monster is near him, kept just in case the swordsman-monster tries to do something against him.
(What mixed feelings, at one time he was resigned to his death, but now he's willing to fight to live-—)
The sun has set on the horizon giving way to darkness, the stars are scattered across the firmament and the moon stands proudly high in the sky; it's quite a beautiful thing.
After defending himself against those monsters, he is quite exhausted, but he can't find the confidence to sleep. His eyes feel heavy, but his body is altered. Giving a glance at the strange swordsman-monster, he decides to move away a bit, not too far, just enough to have a chance to react if he is attacked. He decides to go by the river.
A few moments pass, just listening to the sound of waves lapping the sea and the occasional shriek of a seagull passing by, until he decides to do something with his time: he gets into a lotus flower position and begins to meditate.
He inhales and exhales slowly, bringing oxygen to his brain. He feels every part of his body, from his toes to his fingertips, feels every heartbeat, and when he is in a state of complete calm, he tries to remember something. He tries to compare his experiences of now and see if one of them has a connection with a memory of the past: the blue of the sky, the sea, that beautiful dream, but there is nothing; more than anything, it is that he cannot access those memories, as if they were covered with absorbent cotton. But one thing is strange, when he thinks of that strange swordsman in ragged clothes — it tugs at his heartstrings. It's as if he knows him but can't remember exactly from where.
He comes out of his meditation to realize that it is already daylight, time is passing too quickly, he supposes. With a jump he pulls himself together and must fight the dizziness that takes over his head, it's quite sharp and suddenly, he closes his eyes and breathes, inhales and exhales and that's when his brain provides him with a name, Shiba.
What is Shiba, exactly?
He gives the strange swordsman-monster a look, he has a hunch that he knows what exactly Shiba is, but he's asleep, or so it seems: his matted hair covers his eyes, and he finds himself leaning all his weight against the stone wall. He decides to leave him alone.
He decides to eat fish again; he has no resources to prepare another meal. He grabs the sharp branch and catches a fish. He looks at the sleeping man. He catches another fish. The process is the same as yesterday: put the fish on the stone slab, light the fire, cook them on both sides and serve them in leaves.
While preparing the fish the man must have woken up, because he feels his eyes fixed on him, looking at him, studying him, analyzing him. He simply puts the fish served in leaves in his direction and begins to eat his own portion.
In a moment, the strange man rises from his seat and reaches over to grab his portion, ignoring the heat of the fish he plunges his fingers in, grasping a piece and brings it to his lips. He stands still for a second, two and three, but begins to eat a bit quickly.
The strange man feels the presence of his eyes on him and, after swallowing the fish, he questions his, "Shoot your question, Shinken Red."
"Do you know me?" The stranger makes an affirmative noise, "Do you know why I am here?" another noise, "so, can you tell me?"
"Shinken Red is Shinken Red," is the man's completely serious reply, "and why you came here... the Gedoushu attacked you."
"Gedoushu?"
"Those red monsters, you really don't remember?"
He places his hands on top of each other in a gesture of comfort, "...I don't remember anything, at all," a humming, not exactly of pity, but plain and simple acknowledgement, "what's your name?"
"...Fuwa Juuzou."
"Juuzou," he tries the name, it feels familiar on his tongue, as if he has already uttered it several times. It’s normal, he supposes, if Juuzou knew the Shinken Red, who is apparently him, they will have had many opportunities to pronounce each other's name or title, "why did you raise your sword against me?"
Whatever the answer, he will not be offended, after all, he owes a life debt to this man. This strange man who somehow knows him, found him in the middle of a deserted island and, when he had the chance to kill him, he didn't.
The stranger — Juuzou — lets out a low chuckle, "You owe me a fight, Shinken Red, and whenever I seek to settle that debt — you find yourself indisposed."
"I'm sorry," he says sincerely, "I don't remember how to fight."
Juuzou stands still, not knowing how to respond to that, but finally says, after a stony silence, "You will remember."
He hopes he will.
The monsters — the Gedoushu — has appeared again. He — he won't call himself Shinken Red, because it's a title and not his real name — has no idea how they can get in the middle of a deserted island if they have nothing but serrated swords and bows and arrows.
He doesn't expect Juuzou to help him, because he's answered his questions — no matter how cutting the answers were — is more than he expected, and one fish can't be pay enough, so he won't overdo it.
The fight is going pretty well on his part, but he's having trouble keeping up with the archers, the serrated sword he has isn't meant for a human being to wield (if he's a samurai, where's his real sword?) and, just as he's about to dive headlong into the archers — Juuzou decides to step in and finish them off.
He doesn't thank him, he doesn't have time to, because he's dealing with the Gedoushu. Piercing the Gedoushu's body with the sword, he can notice that he wields it more easily, plus he can foresee where and when the Gedoushu will attack. Samurai instincts carved into his bones.
When the Gedoushu is completely knocked out, he deflects the blow that was headed straight for him, his body moving by instinct. He doesn't have to look twice to realize that it is Juuzou who attacked him.
"Shinken Red, fight me."
He obeys.
He pants as he blocks Juuzou's sword slashes, his arms shaking as he puts more force into forcing Juuzou back. It is like a dance; his body moves on its own as if he has danced this way several times. This confirms that he has fought Juuzou before, were they enemies? rivals? Who is Fuwa Juuzou to Shinken Red? Who is Shinken Red to Fuwa Juuzou?
He loses, but Juuzou doesn't give him the coup de grace, he simply looks at the serrated sword with a look of annoyance, "That sword doesn't suit you, Shinken Red." And he knows, he knows.
Where is his sword, is it lost, is it broken? There is no greater dishonor than a broken sword. If he no longer has a sword... can he call himself a samurai?
It's already nighttime, his eyes are already tired. He has not slept at all because he is wary of receiving a low blow while he was vulnerable. But no more. With sword in hand and a nod to Juuzou, he goes to the cave, leans against the wall and closes his eyes.
And he sleeps, confident that Juuzou won't hurt him. At least not when he is asleep.
(He dreams of a life he doesn't remember, being endlessly churned by red flames and stained in black ink; the flames are soft and protective as they cradled him that it's like going to sleep—)
"Tono!" A man with brown hair and eyes as blue as the sea calls out to him. In his gaze there is nothing but devotion and admiration. It’s a strange, slimy feeling, but he knows that no matter what he says, this vassal of his will not stop calling him by a title that does not belong to him.
It’s at lunchtime that he decides to tell Juuzou about his dreams.
"Was I even a lord?"
Juuzou continues to devour the food, really, he doesn't understand why Juuzou likes this fish if it doesn't have seasoning or a garnish or anything to go with it. This swordsman has strange tastes. When he finishes the fish he answers, "You command... five samurai," a moment of silence, "you are the eighteenth leader of the Shiba Clan, a clan that has fought since its founding against the Gedoushu."
That's where Shiba comes from... He finally understands, "And so, where are my companions?" He doesn't quite like the term vassal, it feels inadequate and too impersonal; they dedicate their lives to him, and he doesn't like that thought either.
"Looking for you," Juuzou sets down the leaf he used as a plate.
"Will you find me?"
Juuzou smiles slightly, his teeth gleaming like knives, "They always do."
Oh, good.
Suddenly, Juuzou unsheathed his sword a little, just enough for the visible metal to gleam, "Shinken Red, fight me."
He simply nods.
This has become routine: suddenly Juuzou will demand to clash swords against him, and he will find himself acquiescing. It is easy to fall into already practiced ways, because, as a samurai, he is expected to swing his sword as a need arises—and he finds that, in a small corner in his heart, swinging his sword with this stranger is a need that cannot be ignored, that must not be ignored.
He makes a risky move and, as his sword is clashing with Juuzou's, it is that he drops it and grabs it with his other hand, managing to make a slash against Juuzou. Juuzou steps back and looks at him with dumbfounded eyes, as if he had found what he had been looking for for a long time. The fight stops, but his heartbeat continues well into the afternoon.
"When you remember," Juuzou finds himself saying, the sunlight softly illuminating him from behind making him look somewhat inhuman, out of this world, "we will settle this debt."
He makes an affirmative sound, "Mn."
It is later that day when he decides to explore the island, he traces with his sword a sign that cannot be recreated in the sand and ventures out following the shore. Sand gets into his boots so that at times he must take them off and shake them off. He finds nothing of profit until he glimpses a little further ahead of a movement in the sand.
He approaches with a leisurely pace but sees nothing and is about to continue his way thinking it was just his imagination — when the movement repeats itself, small ripples in the sand and then he sees it: a small turtle, smaller than the size of his hand, moving its flippers and crawling across the sand.
The sight leaves him perplexed, stunned even, he moves away a little, just enough so that the turtle does not collide with him, leaves his sword in the sand and dedicates himself to observe.
The little turtle keeps crawling across the sand, its little inexperienced flippers struggle to move, and he is tempted to help but refrains from. There is more movement on the sand, little ripples and he watches as two more little turtles break through the sand to get out. More and more turtles come out of the sand until they end up in the sea and disappear plunging into the water. It’s late at night when he realizes that he stayed here, probably for hours, watching baby turtles hatching from their eggs.
He decides to return to his little shelter, grabs his sword and leaves.
He is oblivious to dark eyes always watching him.
(He dreams of a life he doesn't remember, being endlessly churned by red flames and stained in black ink; the flames are soft and protective as they cradled him that it's like going to sleep—)
"Takeru," a woman calls to him. Her eyes, unlike that brown-haired, blue-eyed man, look at him as if he were a human, not someone unattainable hiding in a title he doesn't deserve.
"I believe my name is Takeru," he says feeding the fire more. At the sight of the flames a feeling of nostalgia and longing sinks into his heart. The flame is soft and gently illuminating, the last embers from the campfire that was used to roast the fish. As always, the fish tasted bland and flat, but he discovered that Juuzou is a lover of simple food and he would find simple bread delicious.
Juuzou makes a sound of acknowledgement, confirming his belief.
Suddenly, the sound of dry leaves being stepped on is heard and Takeru quickly wields his sword, Juuzou imitates him. From among the trees Nanashi Renju wielding serrated swords and bows appears, quickly Takeru rises from the ground and at the first movement begins to attack the monsters. Gone is the one who wielded the weapon without a shred of technique, with the muscle memory and experience he has gained in his masts against Juuzou—he is able to defend himself.
Juuzou attacks with superhuman speed and skill, which speaks volumes about his experience: he obviously has the skill of a samurai, but he is not a samurai, he is a swordsman who has fallen from grace either by external causes or by his own hand. Takeru has not asked and will not ask.
The fight ends and the Nanashi Renju dissolves into smoke. Takeru maneuvers his sword: it feels heavy in his hand and is not made for a human to wield, but it is good for defense and Takeru will not ask for anything more. He casts a discreet glance at Juuzou, who with hiss sheathes his sword.
Juuzou's sword, unlike Takeru's, clearly favors him, as if it was made to be wielded by him: it favors his fighting style and allows him to attack faster and cause great pain to the enemy, why would a samurai need such a sword?
Darkness begins to grow in the sky and a biting cold bites into his flesh, but that doesn't stop him from wielding his sword against Juuzou in his usual mast. If he had his memories, would be able to settle this debt, but he doesn't and that's the only thing keeping him from being able to thank Juuzou in the only way he can.
When it gets completely dark, the cold does not diminish at all, the temperature drops and drops until he feels his hands tingling. Making a decision, he decides to take the fire inside, a little away from him in case he moves and doesn't burn him. As always, he says good night to Juuzou and, with the crackling of the fire, falls into a lethargy.
(He dreams of a life he doesn't remember, being endlessly stirred by red flames and stained with black ink; the flames are soft and protective when they envelop him that it's how to go to sleep-)
"Tono-sama!" A young girl greets him with a bow; in her yellow eyes there is nothing but admiration and respect and he feels the familiar guilt covering him like a blanket. Isn’t he ashamed? Hiding like a coward, using an identity that is not his, he allows this young girl to place her life in his hands.
Suddenly, a young boy taps her shoulder, "Takeru," his brown hair is a bit tousled, and his leaf-green eyes are playful. He flashes a sly smile and that, strangely enough, generates warmth in his heart.
As the youngest of the team, it's his duty to protect them—
And it is in the middle of the night that Takeru wakes up, still sleepy. He sees through the cave entrance that the moon is still high in the sky and is about to go to sleep, when he notices a weight on his shoulders.
The fire has long since gone out, the last of it is ashes and Takeru is about to wonder why he's not cold when he grabs a handful of whatever is on his shoulders only to realize it's a ragged white coat.
The same one Juuzou wears.
He looks up a little more and there he sees him, Juuzou is leaning against the cave wall, his head is hanging loosely, and his knee is supporting his arm. Watch his chest rise and fall with each breath. For the first time, Juuzou has lowered his defenses in front of him.
Takeru smiles softly, sinks his face into the ragged coat and dreams, hoping that when he regains his memories and pays his debt, he can still face Juuzou.
When Takeru wakes up, the ragged white coat is no longer draped over his shoulders. He doesn't have time to think about it when he hears commotion outside the cave. With sword in hand, he rushes out expecting to find monsters—only to find five people arguing with Juuzou.
The people, rather than arguing, look like they are ready to swing swords at Juuzou. In their hands is a strange phone that appears to have a paintbrush embedded in it, Takeru doesn't have time to think about the implications of that when one of the people, a man with a headband and wooden sandals notices his presence and rushes toward him.
Only for Juuzou's sword, still sheathed, to stop him from advancing towards him.
"You...!" The man with the headband exclaims looking at Juuzou, smells fishy, clenches his teeth. He quickly pulls himself together and calls out, to him, to Takeru, "Take-chan!"
It's as if a switch has been flipped, quickly the other people become aware of his presence and try to approach him, but Juuzou, fed up with that display, positions himself in front of him, hiding him.
"Juuzou!" A man with eyes as blue as the sea shouts at Juuzou, and Takeru doesn't understand why if Juuzou has done nothing but help him. Besides, there's something strange about these five people that makes his hair stand on end, as if he knows them.
"For the last time," Juuzou repeats in an exhausted tone, "Shinken Red doesn't remember anything."
"He remembers nothing..." A pink-eyed woman repeats, incredulous. She turns to look at him and asks, "Takeru, is that true?"
Takeru, heart pounding in his chest, admits, "I'm sorry, I don't know who you are."
There is something breaking in the eyes of the brown-haired, blue-eyed man, but he doesn't have time to think about it when a monster, not a Nanashi, steps out from behind a tree.
"How touching," the monster casually mentions in a sardonic tone, "The shinkenders are reunited with their amnesiac leader," he looks towards Juuzou, "Doukoku doesn't like you helping Shinken Red, you know that, right?"
Juuzou scoffs, "what Doukoku likes or dislikes doesn't concern me, the only thing that matters is fighting Shinken Red,"
"As you wish," the monster finally says. Projectiles come out of the protrusions on their shoulders and are directed at them, but these people don't care, they write on the air with those strange symbol phones and transform.
His head starts to hurt, and he tries, really tries, to remember, because he's seen this before, these colorful transformed people, but it's like trying to access a box filled with knives—
"Nanashi Renju!" The monster exclaims.
"Shinken Red," Juuzou looks over his shoulder at him, "don't lose your concentration."
Takeru nods. What follows is fairly routine, throwing slashes with his sword against the Nanashi. His body moves by muscle memory, and he finds pleasure in that, fighting. Feeling bad for some reason, he tries not to focus too much on that feeling. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the man in the blue suit trying to approach him, but he can't because he is surrounded by Nanashi.
This time, the Nanashi surround him preventing him from moving from his position, and he doesn't understand why—until he sees how a projectile from the monster goes straight at him. With this jagged sword and no armor, he can't protect himself at all from this. The man dressed in blue apparently also realizes this and tries to go towards him, but he is human and since he is human, he is not faster than the projectile, the attack will hit him squarely—
But today is not the day Takeru dies.
Because Juuzou, transforming into his Gedou form by accessing those inhuman powers, cuts the projectile in two with his sword. He quickly tightens his grip on the sword and, with a slash that has more than physical power behind it, he attacks the monster, defeating it.
Juuzou is astounding, is his first thought before the first onslaught of pain arrives.
Memories, too many memories, of a life he now remembers and knows unmistakably to be his, are superimposed like images in a movie, telling him of a narrative. And what a life it has been, full of duty, responsibility and obligation trying to feel complete when there was always a hole in his heart.
A kagemusha.
Takeru quickly forces himself to compose himself. He looks with no longer clouded eyes at his fellow samurai, his vassals and calls out to them softly, his tongue uttering words he has said many times before.
At the call, the others hastily approach Ryuunosuke kneeling on one knee, and wants to ask them what has happened in his absence, but there is an Ayakashi to defeat, "my shodophone," he extends a hand. Genta deposits his shodophone in his hand and something collides with his nose, he blinks and sees with soft eyes that is his origami.
The Ayakashi transforms into its second life. It's time for them to put an end to this act once and for all.
Takeru returns to his normal form and looks at Juuzou, who is standing patiently waiting for them to finish fighting. Juuzou, who is his enemy. Juuzou, who protected him.
What is Fuwa Juuzou to Shiba Takeru?
A fight as repayment of this debt, of saving his life, is too small a thing. Juuzou has the right to demand more for saving the eighteenth leader of the Shiba Clan.
But again, he finds that—all he can offer him is his sincerity.
His voice is soft and placid as he utters the words, "Thank you."
Juuzou flashes a lopsided smile and replies, "For next time, don't lose your memory."
And in a puff of smoke, he transforms into his Gedou form and, leaping at great speed, leaves.
His companions approach him and drag him towards the ship they used to reach this island; Ryuunosuke apologizes for not finding him earlier, Kotoha asks him if he's feeling well, Genta gives him some sushi, Chiaki playfully taps him on the shoulder and Mako looks at him as if he knows more than the others.
The ship moves on toward home, but Takeru will never forget Juuzou's cutting remarks, the gleam as their swords clashed and the warmth of the white coat over his shoulders.