The assassin watched as the katana glimmered under the pale full moon. It was beautiful – perfectly crafted, designed to kill. The katana reflected the assassin's eyes – deep, mysterious and full of revenge. They were the eyes of a person whom have sworn a vendetta against the world, and thriving only to inflict the pain, which was borne out of the struggle of the strong, with only one conspiracy.
Just one.
The assassin has been plotting this revenge for over eight years. The plan was spindled carefully and systematically, that the enemy, however gifted with a skill that came from the heavens, will not become aware of it.
The enemy was strong; therefore the assassin must become stronger.
The enemy did not even know that the assassin has been in his midst for a long time, even meant committing in life certitude under his command. The enemy does not know that with each passing day, the spite of the assassin becomes even stronger. The enemy, now freely walking about, is not aware that his days are being counted, crossed-out and marked.
The katana gleamed under the pale moon. It was the same gleam that the assassin remembers, eight years ago, during a stormy night that will mark the beginning of a vendetta.
The assassin was only eight years old, shivering under the cold and damp storm. The cold wind swept the assassin's calloused face, almost not feeling anything except the aloofness of death. The assassin's father looked down at his child.
"Hold on. It won't be long. Just be quiet and they'll be gone."
'They'll be gone.' These words resounded in the assassin's young ear.
Without warning, a small figure stood across the pavement wherein they were crouching.
The father's hands became even colder. His face turned paler, the look of death that was edging closer with every shivered breath he takes. The child must have noticed this about the father. Cries which the child has controlled for a time became explicit: it filled and echoed against raging storm.
The small figure, which was barely bigger than the size of a fifteen year old child, held a sword which gleamed under the moon. Slowly but swiftly, the figure approached the crouching couple.
A great lightning slashed the dark velvet sky.
"Like it?"
A husky voice behind the assassin asked. The assassin awoke from his contemplation.
"I did not expect that swords like this still exist after the government passed a law that banned the wearing of swords. It must have cost a fortune," the assassin said, sheathing the sword, its gleam disappearing inside the scabbard.
"Yes," the man replied. "Many lives were taken in order to get that beauty."
"I see," the assassin looked at the man. He was a skinny old man with slits for eyes. His skin was as pale as the moon and with lips as thin as the slits of his eyes. His graying hair was rounded in a tight bun. This man was a former ninja during the To Ku Gawa Era.
"Well then, how was the journey?" the assassin asked.
"Well enough to do with," he answered. He breathed deeply, nostrils flaring. "I just love the smell of an evening after killing people. It makes me wonder of what happened to the dark days of the To Ku Gawa, now turned into something that allows the weak to walk freely about."
The assassin chuckled slyly to himself.
"I've heard words of similar nature before: the strong shall live and the weak shall die."
"Oh," the man rounded at the assassin. "But of course, you have other thoughts about those words I've just said? I know, you told me all about that philosophy, something which you...err, considering your resentment towards a person who once thrived on it; do not believe in it perhaps?"
"On the contrary, my sly friend," the assassin started. "I do believe in it. I find it rather… interesting… only that, I believe that it is missing something."
"What is that?"
"…that the cunning shall inherit the place of the strong."
The man smiled. "I've also come to bring you news by the way."
"Good."
"The young man has already travelled north three months ago after the Great Downfall, and has been sighted recently in Koto Village, where our eyes are most powerful. Accounts state that he should have been in the next village by now, the finest village in the north – Umeko Village."
"I see. Well, fate brought us together for a reason. That reason will soon be acknowledged. Himura the Battousai may be known for defeating the great Makoto Shishio. But I, Fyukotoko Michiko, will be known as the slayer of Seta the Tenken."
The man grunted.
"But of course," Michiko looked at his companion. "…with you, Shibuyen, as my right-hand man after we take the missing treasury of Shishio, we will use those riches to rebuild Shishio Makoto's army, reinvent the Juppongatana under my command and take over Japan."
Shibuyen smiled slightly, as if testing her. "Oh? That sounds like a big thing to do, so much work. I thought you said you only wanted revenge against the Seta? Why include the whole of Japan in your master plan?"
"I told you, didn't I? The cunning shall take the place of the strong."