Hitokiri Battōsai laid in wait for the three swordsmen who walked towards him. They were conversing in low voices, unaware of the danger that awaited them. The night was darker than usual due to the new moon. An advantage for Battōsai; the shadows were his killing field. He felt nothing, save for the desire to kill. These men were pro-Shogunate samurai warriors, resistant to the Revolution. They were the enemy. It was his job to eliminate them. Besides, his bloodlust was stronger than any sympathy he might have felt for them.
Silent as the shadows he hid behind, the manslayer adjusted his stance, his hand resting on his katana. The men did not see him, of that he was sure. But his breathing stopped almost entirely as one of the swordsmen paused. It wasn't fear. He had forgotten what that felt like a long time ago. It was more like anticipation. He knew what was coming. That man did not.
"What is it, Takahashi-san?" one of the other men asked curiously, simultaneously placing his hand on his sword. He didn't look worried, not in the slightest.
The one named Takahashi did not answer at first. He had begun to move his head, scanning the area slowly. His intuition had told him there was danger; he had sensed the manslayer's presence. He would keep his sword close and his focus high, but aside from that he probably would not act on that sense.
"Perhaps it is nothing," he said, more to himself than his companions. He turned to the other two swordsmen. "Let's keep moving," he said quietly. His hand remained on his katana.
Battōsai's lips curved into a half-smile. Vigilance was good, but it wasn't going to save him. Silent as the shadows he hid behind, he prepared himself to strike. Setting his sights on the nearest target, he waited but a moment before he made his advance.
He moved with near-God-like speed, making his presence known to the men. By the time they turned around, though, it was too late for the first target. A crimson-red river of blood gushed from his throat. The manslayer had slashed his carotid artery clean in two. He heard the whistle of metal being drawn from the scabbards of the other two men as the dead one hit the ground with a thud.
The two remaining men engaged Hitokiri Battōsai. He responded without hesitation, driven by his craving for their blood. Within a few seconds, another had fallen, and the one named Takahashi watched in horror as his companion's sword arm was sliced clean off, followed by his head. The dismembered body fell like a stone, and Battōsai had dropped into a crouch-like position. His face was spattered with fresh, warm blood which dripped from the sword he held out.
Takahashi must have known it was a fool's errand, but he would live and die by the sword like the rest of them. He reengaged the younger, more superior swordsman. With a swiftness and skill that he had become known for, Hitokiri Battōsai not only dodged his opponent's attack, but countered with a resounding slash across the man's torso. Shock overcame Takahashi as the wound began to gush with blood, but he wasn't about to give up. Battōsai somewhat admired the swordsman's spirit, knowing he would have done exactly the same thing. But the wound had weakened Takahashi, making his movements slower and more desperate. The assassin dodged it with ease, taking aim for his opponent's neck. Surprisingly, Takahashi was able to avoid the strike just enough, but his dodge threw him off-balance. Battōsai took the opportunity in his stride, racing in with his near God-like speed to quickly slash his enemy's throat.
Takahashi gurgled and spluttered as he reeled back, but Battōsai could see in his eyes that he knew it was his time. Within seconds he had fallen like the others, taking in as much air as his blood-soaked body would let him. He might have come up with some profound last words, but something in the distance had caught his attention. A silhouette of someone approaching. In the end, Takahashi said just one thing before his final breath was spent. A name.
"I...zu...mi," he had stammered. Then he was gone, just like the two others before him.
Battōsai glanced up as the young woman approached him. From her features, he figured she was not much older than him. She was slight in stature and in build, and her dark hair was tied back in a high-sitting ponytail, not unlike his. In her right hand, she carried her naginata. But the bladed pole weapon was not all she was armed with. Battōsai caught sight of her katana, which was attached at her left hip.
Remaining at a safe distance from the manslayer, she surveyed the scene around her. It was slightly disconcerting how incredibly calm she looked, but Battōsai would never allow that to show on his face. Her eyes finally rested on Takahashi.
"Otōsan," she said quietly, bowing respectfully to her father's dead body. Finally, she acknowledged the only living man in front of her: Hitokiri Battōsai.
"You did this." It wasn't a question, and the manslayer did not verbally respond. He did not need to. The woman lifted her naginata, pointing the curved blade at the manslayer. A nonverbal challenge.
Battōsai sheathed his katana, but by no means was he backing away. Shifting into a low stance, he readied himself to face her. In response, the woman also shifted into a ready stance.
He calculated his first move carefully. The naginata was a much longer weapon than his sword, capable of striking and deflecting from a much further distance. His opponent's face gave nothing away, and so he could not rely on predicting her manoeuvres. Something about her told him that she would be a better match for him than even her father.
They moved at the same time, Battōsai using his legendary speed to his advantage in avoiding the incoming strike towards his neck. He drew his sword when he reached a close distance, but his opponent had reacted quickly, and so the slashing motion missed her. As he attempted each strike, she moved, adjusting her distance so that he could not close in on her. She would quickly follow up with a strike from her weapon, forcing him to defend himself. Their blades clashed, metal on metal, before the warriors moved away from each other. Battōsai had dropped into a low crouch. His opponent had adopted a strong, side-on stance, with the blade of her naginata pointing towards the ground.
She's fast, he thought. And she was just as cool-headed as he was. She raised her weapon slowly as he stood up. Their eyes met for a long moment. Battōsai could see the determination there, the desire to kill that echoed his own. She showed no fear, either. Their warrior spirits were evenly matched.
This time, he moved first. His speed gave her little time to react, but her own speed ensured that didn't matter. She made to strike him, but he dropped low to avoid it, skidding along the dirt. At the same time, his sword curved around. She reacted quickly, though not enough to avoid the blow completely. Instead of slicing through her throat, the blade hit the bottom of her cheek, slicing through the left side of her face. Meanwhile, his forward motion caused him to collide with her, and as she screamed, she fell backwards onto the ground.
Battōsai regained his footing as quickly as he could. His opponent had dropped the naginata. He raced towards her, hoping to strike a killing blow while she remained on the ground, but as he did, she drew the katana, using it to stop the strike in its tracks. She wasn't trying to push his sword away; just to stop it from reaching her vulnerable body. For the first time, he saw emotion. She was desperately trying to hold on.
The left side of the young woman's face was a grotesque picture. The flaps of split skin extended from the lower jaw all the way up to the upper brow. Even the eyelid had been cleaved in two. The whole thing was awash with thick, crimson blood. Battōsai suspected the eye itself had been damaged as well, though he could not see it beneath the lid.
He had been so absorbed with the wound that when his opponent drove her knee into his stomach, he had not seen it coming. He doubled back, rolling off her and resetting himself into his low-set stance. She had taken the opportunity to rise as well. Despite her injury causing a distinct disadvantage, she still seemed determined to continue. He could hear her heavy breathing, a sign of her pain.
It was fortunate that he would be putting her out of her misery.
Before either of them could move, however, Battōsai heard the distinct sound of thundering footsteps. He straightened, as did his opponent. She sheathed her katana before bending to pick up the naginata, all the while not taking her eyes off him.
"This is not over," she finally said. "I will kill you for what you have done, Hitokiri Battōsai."
The soldiers or police or whoever they are were close now. Battōsai could hear their voices. He sheathed his own sword as the woman he had been fighting disappeared, clutching her wounded face with her left hand.
Izumi. That was what the man he had killed, her father, had called her. Izumi Takahashi. He would most likely see her again, and he knew as well as she did that only one of them would walk away from their next meeting alive. He would know her by the scar he had left on her face, a scar that he knew would never heal, just as the cross-shaped scar on his own face had never healed.
Just before the approaching men arrived, Hitokiri Battōsai retreated to the shadows, running in the opposite direction to Izumi Takahashi.
