"I'm pretty sure that was my 72nd kill today. How 'bout that?"
After defeating the last foe on the battlefield, the man clothed in white turned his body so he could smirk at his friend in accession to his remark. Instead of being greeted by a sarcastic reply, he could only see a sea of red on the ground. God, no.
His eyes widened and his pulse quickened as he rebuked the God that he had long since forsaken. But no, he did not quiver, nor did he show any signs of weakness. He instead ran, screamed, hoped, and even prayed to his already forlorn God.
The usually detached man seethed anger. Was it really anger, or was it hatred? Perhaps it was disappointment in his friend, or even in himself for not being able to protect him. He didn't even know himself, at the time, but he ran nonetheless, armed with his displaced rage. The closer he got to his fallen comrade, the closer he got to despair; this he knew.
It took an eternity to cross the battlefield that day. The sky forebodingly filled with heavy gray clouds as he ran. No rain fell.
Finally, finally, finally! He hastily approached his friend. Upon seeing him, he instantly knew that the body was but clinging to its final threads of life. He bit his lip and collapsed to his knees beside the bloodied torso of his friend. The man's face paled has he stared down at the body of his friend.
His breaths got heavier and quicker as disbelief filled him. It wasn't possible. He couldn't be dead. The man that he had known since childhood, the man that he had respected as a noble fighter, the man that he had considered to be kinder than anyone else: he couldn't be dead.
The body of his friend shuddered. Taken aback, the man clothed in now tainted white quickly scooped the upper half of his friend's body in his arms.
"Oi! Oi!"
Desperately shaking him, he hoped for a miracle. The man covered in red let out ghastly coughs as his eyes painstakingly flickered open.
Regaining hope in the life of his friend, a small smile escaped him as he continued to intermittently shake his friend's body, hoping for him to regain a bit more of his consciousness.
"Gintoki… Sorry, it looks like… I won't be able to fulfill that promise." The man's words were mere utterances.
"Zura!" Gintoki shook him again, clenching his teeth. "Come on! You'll be fine, so please!"
"Listen!" His chest heaved. "I'm not a fool. I know I won't make it… So listen to me."
Gintoki lowered his head.
"I won't be able to see this war through to the end. I apologize… for breaking the promise the four of us made." Katsura closed his eyes and weakly smiled. "Please, do what I couldn't. I've fallen due to my own weakness of the heart. That is all."
"Stop talking like that! I'll cut your hair off!" He choked back tears as he yelled, trying to comfort his friend with his usual manner of speech. His face contorted as he spoke.
"Farewell."
"Zura!"
No reply came, no trumpets blared, and no rain fell that day, save for the tears that were shed.
Gintoki buried his face in his hands and regained partial composure. He picked up the body of his beloved friend and slung it across his back. His soft cries echoed through the valley and he drudged along the war-torn path, seeking to find a suitable place to bury his lifeless friend.
"I'm sorry, Zura."