The cold heavy rain washed away the blood that was pouring out of those three bodies. They were dead, of course, lying on the wet grass, a lifeless gaze in their still open eyes. They all had their throats slashed, a clean cut across their necks. The sword that inflicted the deadly wounds was most likely new and handled with enormous dexterity.
That very sword was being carried by a young man, small in size and with very distinctive long hazel-colored hair tied in a ponytail. He walked away from the murder scene without even shivering, indifferent to the rain pouring down, soaking him from head to toe. He walked slowly and with heavy steps, the grass beneath his feet trembling at each step he took.
Shinta, no! Please spare the child, I beg of you!
The woman's voice still echoed in his eardrums, thirteen years later.
He's just a child!
She continued screaming at a large man holding a sword against a little kid's throat. The child was crying loudly, causing the man to be more irritated every second.
The man couldn't ignore her anymore.
Shut up, woman!
He yelled at her, losing the focus on the kid he was holding.
Fine, the stupid kid can go...
He let go off the child, who ran to the woman's arms and stopped crying for a bit. But he would cry once more, as he felt his clothes being soaked. By blood. He looked down at the woman's abdomen and immediately knew whose blood that was.
The man who had held a sword at his throat earlier walked away, a devious grin on his thin lips. The child was a bit confused but, somehow, he understood everything that was going on around him.
Shinta... You need to live...
She whispered, barely feeling strong enough to talk. She placed her hand on Shinta's thin face and gave him a faded yet warm smile.
You will do wonderful things with your life, Shinta...
It's never easy to explain to a child that the person he cares for the most in the world is now dead and will never come back again. But Shinta somehow understood, even though he was only four years old and nobody has ever explained to him what death was. He knew it...
The young man continued walking, his head down low and his fists pressed closed underneath the sleeves of his robe. The job was done.
The sun would be up in less than two hours and his body was aching. He ignored the pain but the drowziness was harder to ignore. He had to sleep and wash the smell of blood of off his clothes. Everyone knew about the Hitokiri, but nobody needed to know his true identity.