Author's Notes: This particular themefic takes a tad more precedence over the others, because it is a dedication themefic to a LiveJournal buddy of mine, Moon Doggy. I wrote this not only as Theme 10 for YST 20, but as a New Year's Resolution gift for someone who loves YST as much as, if not more than, me. So hopefully, this fic is to her exceptionally high standards, and that I did not unintentionally botch any historical details in the making of this fic. *gnashes nails*

As with most of my stories, a little research/background info is helpful for understanding the plot/general going-ons. In particular, it might help to understand the background of Anubis, the series-long archnemesis of Seiji (Anubis was changed to Cale and Shuten to Anubis in the American version, for reasons I cannot fathom, so before you PM me screaming "THE NAMES ARE BACKWARDS!111," please remember that all my stories are written for YST, NOT the American counterpart, Ronin Warriors). No doubt you'll pick this up in the fic, but Anubis' real name is Sasaki Kujuurou and this particular fic focuses on his "first life" (before his recruitment as a Masho) in the "Sengoku" (i.e. "Warring States") period of Japan. Considering the prompt for this themefic is "Scar," it stands to reason this story is my take on the origins of the character Anubis' prominent facial scar.

Originally, my plan was for Kujuurou to cross paths with Date Masamune, Seiji's blood ancestor, except Sasaki's birthdate is listed as 1550 A.D., and Masamune isn't born until 1567, putting Sasaki at 17 years of age at the time of Masamune's birth. Date Masamune is fourteen when he leads his first campaign, which would have put Sasaki at roughly 31 years of age. I'm pretty sure none of the Masho were physically older than their twenties in the show, making an encounter between Sasaki and Date Masamune in the "real world" a timeline impossibility. (Not to mention, Date Masamune is renowned for being a ruthless bastard, in which case the Sasaki of my story would have had a very different outcome than the one given in this fic.) So I axed the Sasaki-Masamune encounter and went a different route, though Date Masamune is mentioned briefly in the fic.

I also wanted to point out that, while Sasaki is the shortest of the Masho (or pretty close), I always thought of him as a "bulkier" man (maybe it's the armor), so I describe him as such in the fic. Might be taking a bit of a liberty there, though his "bulkiness" should be kept in perspective to the relative size of the general Japanese populous (in other words, Sasaki might not be "big" by American standards, but "bigger than the average Japanese," who are demographically smaller than your Caucasian and African-American races).

Oh, and YST Encyclopedia lists Sasaki's occupation as "farmer," though it doesn't specify the kind of farming he does. So I went with rice farming because, well, it's Japan after all. ^^ I really wanted to go the apple orchard/farming route, since Aomori Prefecture is the largest producer of apples in Japan, except Fuji Apples weren't introduced until the 1930s or something, LOOOONG after the events of this fic. ^^

As always, your feedback is appreciated. I do hope you (and moon_doggy especially) enjoy the fic.

Disclaimer: Ronin Warriors/Yoroiden Samurai Troopers is © to Sunrise, Nagoya TV, and Sony Music Entertainment.

YST 20 Prompt 10:
Scar

The water was cool, but soothing as Kujuurou waded by the river's edge. He considered himself fortunate to have such an abundant supply of water near his homestead. Not only was it a necessity for growing rice, but it made cooking, cleaning, and bathing much easier than drawing water from a well. Of course, river water would be frigid in the winter months, but even that was of little consequence to Kujuurou. He toiled and sweltered under the summer sun; the brisk winter winds were a welcome reprieve.

Kujuurou leaned his head back against a rock, staring off into the fading sky. The colors of dusk were pretty, and the calm of the coming night soothed his soul. Farming, though fulfilling, was strenuous work, and though he took great pride in tending the fields, he couldn't help but smile when the day was done. A part of him, he sensed, longed for something more-something beyond the rice paddies and riverbanks of Aomori. An adventure, strange and wild, calling to him from the edges of consciousness...

...But there was little time for daydreams now. Soon night would be upon him, and sooner still, the day. As much as Kujuurou hated the early rise, he hated a poor day's work even more. And he couldn't perform his best with sluggish hands and weary eyes.

Heavily, Kujuurou pulled himself from the waters, hoisting himself onto dry land. He stole a glance at his darkening reflection, his naked body strong and his muscles taut. He regarded himself-his toes crunching against the cool grass and his manhood constricted from the chill of dusk. His extremeties were large and calloused, and both his nose and jaw were strong and pronounced. Everything about his physique screamed "strength" and "power," distingushing him from many of his male peers.

Even so, Kujuurou was not a handsome man. He was average, at best, even with his bulging muscles and impressive loins. There was something intimidating in his size, his charmless scowl of a smile, and the almost predatory features of his face. More than once his appearance and countenance had been likened to a wolf. Kujuurou did not think himself undesirable or unpleasant; indeed, he considered himself the manliest of men. And yet, he held no appeal to women. Even into his twenties he remained unattached-no wife, no children, no family.

But these things did not trouble Kujuurou. Some men were simply not meant for marriage. Truly, it was hard to envision himself with a woman, with little ones. The very thought seemed so...mundane. Bigger things lay in wait for Kujuurou. He was certain of it.

Kujuurou admired himself in the water a minute more, giving his body ample time to dry. Then he collected his clothes and dressed, adjusting the sleeves and belt to his liking. Finally, he reached for his most prized possession, a samurai sword resting carefully by the riverbank. Like Kujuurou, the sword was broad and powerful, and he'd disciplined himself to several hours practice a day. He was but a low-ranking bushi, a nameless warrior amongst many. But he wielded the sword with a pride and dignity only a samurai could ascertain.

It was his only defense against the Dates and their clan of elite swordsmen, who presided over much of the lands of the North. Though Kujuurou had no immediate kin, his clansmen had fought with the Dates from before he could remember. A man's enemy was the clan's enemy, as was their way, and so Kujuurou scorned the Dates, biding his time for the chance to prove his worth.

Already the daimyo had two sons, one of which had recently lost an eye, reportedly to smallpox. It was an ill omen for such tragedy to befall the eldest son, and Kujuurou laughed, imagining the impending collapse of the powerful Date regime. No man with one eye would be worth anything, especially in battle.

Kujuurou envisioned himself at the front lines, standing face to face with the Date daimyo. What honor it would bring to lead the campaign that crippled the Date clan once and for all. What victory to watch the daimyo take his own life at the jaws of defeat. And what better man than Kujuurou, most fearsome bushi of the North, to hang Date daimyo's head on a post?

Kujuurou chuckled at his musings, unsheathing the blade for but a second to stare at his cold reflection in the steel, before sheathing it once more and turning heel for home. He'd fooled around long enough; it was time to call it a day.

As he made his way to his house, a strange halo of light shone in his peripheral vision. It was hazy in the distance, but no doubt there, moving at an incredible speed. It was difficult to discern much, so far away, but the orb of light seemed to be growing brighter, darting its way along the far edges of his field.

Annoyed at the intensity of the light, Kujuurou turned from the direction of his home and instead pursued the quick-moving ethereal presence. He maneuvered around the rice paddies, fearful his large feet would trample his crops. It would take longer that way, but there was no sense in destroying his yield over something that was-probably-nothing. Still, he kept his sword at the ready. One could never be too careful, especially in times of war.

His footsteps were soundless against the grass as he ran, and always he kept his hand at the blade. A bushi was never caught off-guard. A bushi was always ready for the attack.

Farther ahead, the light shone brighter still, but stopped unexpectedly near a large rock. Kujuurou used the opportunity to pick up speed, hoping to corner the presence-or whatever it was-before it disappeared. Something about it seemed unnatural, as though it might dissipate into thin air. Though as he closed the gap between himself and the orb of light, he realized, with the squint of his eyes, that it was no celestial being or ethereal presence. The outline, which Kujuurou could now clearly see, was that of a suit of armor, crouching near the rock.

"Trespasser" was the first word that entered Kujuurou's mind. They were samurai, obviously, so it was doubtful they'd come to steal rice. They seemed oblivious to his presence and had hugged only the outer edges of his land, so they were clearly not interested in harming him. Crouched so cautiously, so elusively, it could mean only one thing.

Kujuurou heard the shouts of men and the sounds of conflict off in the distance. Was there a raid nearby? Had the Date clan attacked? Was a campaign assembling to charge the daimyo? No. No, Kujuurou understood the intent. He knew what it was the men pursued.

Boldly, Kujuurou marched forward, grass crunching beneath his feet. The rogue samurai whirled his body in the direction of the noise, his senses on high alert. Even with the poor visibility, the intensity of the samurai's gaze sent a trill of excitement down Kujuurou's spine. His posture readied for the attack, as the tips of his toes ground into the earth.

At this range, Kujuurou now realized that the "halo of light" had been the moon reflecting off the metal of the samurai's armor. Though he couldn't quite figure out how a crescent moon could reflect such concentrated light. And now, standing before him, the light was almost...blinding. The brightness of it pained his eyes and he blinked twice to rid himself of the glare. Yet nothing he did seemed to eradicate the glow. It seemed to grow, suffocating the beautiful night. Oh how he hated the light!

So paralyzed by the magnificent glow that Kujuurou did not notice the samurai's lightning steps as he lunged for Kujuurou's head. All he heard was the sliding of metal against scabbard and a precise "whish" as a blade swung swiftly through the air. Kujuurou took a sharp backward step-his only defense against the menacing assault-tripping over a clump of soil in the grass and landing flat on his backside.

With confused but conscious thought, it was clear to Kujuurou that he'd kept his head. But a stinging pain and the trickle of liquid across the left side of his face indicated he did not escape the encounter unscathed.

Whether it was the throbbing ache or the clarity of what was to be certain death, the blinding light seemed to dim, and the nameless warrior stood before him, in all his elegant glory.

Bathed in darkness, only now could Kujuurou distinguish the individual features of the warrior man. His face, though partially hidden within the helmet of his samurai armor, was angular and pleasant. His eyes were a piercing grey, and his stature, though bulkened by the suit, was tall and lean. Most other features were impossible to discern, but the beauty of the man was unmistakable. And now this specimen of a samurai would strike him down, his face filled with blood and his ass planted firmly in the dirt. And that would be the story of Kujuurou...

An echoing yell down the road pried the samurai's icy focus from Kujuurou's throat and to the feral snarls of his pursuers. Through his mask the samurai's eyes narrowed, before turning his attention back to Kujuurou. He stared into the fallen man's eyes hard, then pointed the tip of his blade at Kujuurou's nose. Then suddenly, both the blade and the samurai were gone, leaving Kujuurou bloodied and beaten, comforted only by the blackness of night...

Anubis peered over the mountaintop as he stalked his prey, trudging through the snow-covered trails of Taisetsuzan. Korin no Seiji, as he was called, led the way, trailed by a tall and pretty girl. He studied the boy's face, finding his features distantly familiar, and their angular attractiveness rattling to his nerves. He was muscular and lean, with piercing ice-like eyes and a merciless gaze...

Absently, Anubis brought a hand to his face, stroking the cross-patterned scar across his left upper-cheek. A long-forgotten rage boiled inside him, recollecting something-a memory, perhaps-from centuries past. He couldn't pinpoint quite what, but this Korin no Seiji fueled both anger and excitement in the Yami Masho. Anger, excitement, and a need for...a need for what?

Anubis smiled wickedly. Whatever it was, this Korin no Seiji character brought out the devilishness in him. The day was young, and the possibilities were endless.

What a story it will be to tell, Anubis thought to himself. Oh what a story it will be.