Reviewers: Serapis: Thanks for the praise. I plan to get on with every cliffhanger. Since no chapter ever follows the last, every chapter is technically a cliffhanger. My way of keeping you people reading. Cookie for you for knowing who Oda is. He'll be expanded on in this chapter. Yithril: I know that is my problem. I get carried away with description because I'm a pompous writer. Also, my work reeks of 'purple prose' so beware. Thanks for encouragement and pointers, ce'st helpful muchly. DemonGod86: If you read more, and review more, I guess I'd happily critique yours. I've played WC enough to know of it. Bribery always works, I suppose. All others, much thanks and gratitude. I think this is my longest chapter yet, so, happy trails.
Disclaimer: Don't own SC2, don't own stuff. Korea owns the city of Pusan. I own nothing sobs
Chapter XIII – The Japanese Incursion
"Archers, show the foreign devils Korean hospitality."
From the walls, windows, crenellations, and every opening in the garrison that rimmed the beachhead, out spurted an endless wave of shafts, arrows hurtled through the air and up into the sky. The wave rained down with ruthless precision on the ships that had hit the elevated beach. Thousands of jagged arrows slammed into the sand, thwacked into the wooden ships, and pierced the thick armor of the Japanese soldiers. Left and right, soldiers and samurai staggered and flipped over ship railing, splashing down into the shallow water below as the rest began to pour off the sides of their vessels and into the wispy sand and haze of dust. The armored and unarmored warriors sped up the dusty beach, enveloped quickly in a sand shroud as Yunsung looked out upon them. He heard the ghastly gnashing noise and agonized groans as blinded men ran head long onto the erected spikes jutting out of the slope, but most managed to avoid the wall of wooden spears and dove onward towards the waiting garrison walls.
More arrows poured down as Hwang and Yunsung watched in awe. The practical legions of armored troops scattered forward, scurrying like so many tiny ants beneath them. From the ships behind, which were massing together on the shoreline, more armored men leapt off under the cover of arrow volleys whizzing from the vessels' sides. The exchange of arrows from each side, Korean and Japanese, found some targets. Though the beach was soon littered with riddled corpses, men fell continually from the ramparts of the garrison, through windows from which they'd been firing, and off the high, overlooking walls, plummeting into the sandy wasteland below them as the Japanese surged across the dipping plane.
They continued closing the distance, more slowly as their ranks were downed, but still steadily. The sand beneath them crunched and quavered spattered with the prints of their sandaled feet and off their blood that sprayed down, reddening the solid, particular sand. Soon, arrows in torrential gusts flew from the ships, and explosions of powdery smoke close behind. The wood and thickly matted mortar of the fortress wrinkled and trembled weakly when the chorus of spherical bolts slammed into it. Men fell from the highest heights of the ramparts and the crenellated windows not far above, until the land directly in front of the garrison was littered with Korean corpses. And still, the Japanese, their helmets' and armored color dulled by ageless wind and sandy breezes, surged upward, downward, and zigzagged like mad cattle in a bladed herd roaring to the garrison, the endless hail behind them acting as a wavering back-up which only served to keep down the Korean heads at the top of the garrison top. This was soon proved unsuccessful, as the archers and others from above continued to pelt the oncoming attackers with everything they had. Far below, the Yari Spearmen of the foreigners felt rocks and chunks of debris ricocheting harmlessly off them after a quick plummet from the elevated ramparts, but they dared not look up.
It was all in vain, though, for both sides. The Japanese archers had not deterred enough of the Koreans, but the Koreans had not deterred enough of the Japanese in turn. The foreign attackers were mere feet from the walls and main door, bolted with solid iron, when the defensive level of the garrison was upped a notch or three. Down in murderous waves the rain came, but still the spearmen and swordsmen came, colliding with the walls and beating their weapons against it, hoping to find weak spots. They were left standing and trying to get in without a lifeline as death poured down, but the wooden walls began to fail, chips and splinters flying off, mortar being dislodged. Burly men rammed the door, some tried miserably to scale the wall, while others simply sought some sort of shelter from the hail of debris. At long last, the Japanese were reinforced…and then again reinforced…and again, as hordes of new troops, fresh are raring to go, leapt from their vessels on the coast and joined the besieging mass. It was too much for the garrison, though its soldiers kept up the fight from above. Slightly within, the defenders rushed behind the nearly broken door of their fort, ramming against it too to prevent it from being brought down from outside, but their might could not stand. The Japanese pressed their firearms against the door, blasting through it and blowing great holes in the barricade, killing and injuring many of those on the opposite side.
At last, they had almost broken through. Inside, most men with any melee weapons in the garrison rushed to the hallway behind the door, bracing for the attack. The door wobbled, quavered, shook, trembled, quaked, and finally fell, broken and mangled, useless.
The attackers, not hesitating, ran inside.
…
"C'mon, Yun, we've gotta go!" exclaimed Hwang suddenly, his hand latching onto Yun's shoulder.
The boy had been lost in reverie of his own, staring down wistfully, shocked and appalled, at the field of battle some levels down. He'd been leaning against the crenellated wall, watching out for stray gunfire, or gunfire aimed at him, and looking with wide, bewildered eyes and the countless bodies of the slain, his mouth hanging slack below his upper jaw. Now, the swift jerk to his furry vest shoulder interrupted him. He turned to Hwang, about to speak, but the man suddenly dove down, taking Yun with him onto the floor just as a crashing sound came from behind him. Something whizzed past Yun's ear, followed by another something. Yun hit the floor, grabbing at his ear. He felt something wet, and quickly looked at his hand. A fine red substance had coalesced there, but Yun felt nothing. He turned to look at the wall he'd been leaning against, and saw two gaping holes in it. He continued staring dumbly as Hwang dragged him carefully to his feet.
"You alright, Yun?" he said, half stern and half tender. Yun, his lower lip actually quivering very slightly, turned to Hwang and nodded, staring at the blood secreted on his open, trembling palm. Before he could inspect it longer, he was being tugged along again. He noticed, only as an afterthought, that Admiral Lee Sun Shin had disappeared from the railing beside them both, but he'd somehow expected that. He continued running (or jogging foolishly backward through the garrison with Hwang Sung Kyung pulling him). His bloodied hand went to White Storm, the reflecting blade that hung at his side, swinging back and forth. He felt the warmth of his drying blood upon the icy sleekness of the blade's hilt and shuddered inwardly. He'd felt blood before; blood of several men, but never his own. This was new to him, and one of the most horrible things he'd ever experienced. Today, as he knew with an inner dismay, he would kill many men. He had always wanted to kill the enemies of his people, but this day he did not want to.
"We have to fight them, Yun! They're breaching the garrison!" shouted Hwang, over the din and chaos created by all the frantically dispersed soldiers around them, running every which way. His voice was barely heard, but Hong Yunsung heard it clearly enough, as the echoing voice of unaccustomed arrogance rang in his head, resounding like a metallic clash of thunder or weaponry. He managed to turn, wrenching his arm away from Hwang, to which the other man did not even react, and continued running through a maze of hallways, gliding swiftly down ladders and stairs, until the messy mass of people became even more cramped and packed. Glinting metal could be seen above every head, spears, zanbatou, and machetes waving, brandished in the air as reinforcing troops neared the broken down door to the garrison. Hwang and Yun, both yanking their weapons from their swinging scabbards, zipped through the rolling waves of troops, working their way towards the hallway were hand-to-hand combat had begun.
Hong Yunsung, throughout all of this, could barely see. His line of vision was continually blocked by all of the commotion He continued looking forward, after he'd unsheathed White Storm, and held his blade high in front of him, trying to tell friend from foe. Suddenly, and finally, he saw someone that he recognized that was not Hwang; a man standing not far off, robed regally, with his noble cloak swinging as he twirled with his military blade whistling through the air. It was Admiral Lee, and the sight of the older man of such stature swinging his sword and cutting down the enemy brought a hopeful light to the darkness that had clouded Yunsung's mind and heart. He tried, though with little success, to plow forward towards the admiral and the men at the front lines. He wheeled his blade up into the air, suddenly brimming with determination, and dove into the fray behind Hwang.
There were men everywhere, and most of them enemies, so Yun began to see how many of them he could kill. Once he singled out the generic color that the Japanese troops were wearing on their uniforms, he ran, ducking and dodging, towards them. The first didn't even see him coming and he drove his blade clean through the man's neck. He looked up, to see another soldier bearing a curved spear lunging. He used the still-standing body of the dead soldier as a shield, grabbing his armor with sweaty fingers and hauling him in front of himself, allowing the spear of the new opponent to slash harmlessly through the corpse. As the Japanese soldier tried to extract his spear, Yun hopped over the fallen carcass and speared the hapless spearman in the chest twice. He staggered back, but Yun grabbed his pulse-less throat as he crumpled and pulled him sideways, throwing him onto the ground towards two more soldiers flying at him. One of them leapt over the rolling body, but the other was tripped by it. Yun jumped up, swinging each leg up. One leg caught the jumping soldier in the gut and sent him sprawling beneath the torrent of soldiers, while the other foot went for the tripping man's face, jabbing his eye and nose. Clutching his bleeding face, the soldier knelt. Yun land and drove his sword through the man's side, coming out in his chest and opening a fountain of blood there. With a final groan, the body fell like a rock and landed with a thud.
Yunsung, barely catching the sight of Hwang, which was instantly blocked by another large, armored man galumphing towards him oafishly, spun on his heel and sent his foot back at the larger Japanese swordsman. The back of Yunsung's leg struck the man's chest, he stumbled, and Yunsung tore forward. He planted White Storm neatly in the man's face, spurting a quick burst of gules, and unsheathed it from its fleshy scabbard after less than a second, watching the corpse crumble like an unused puppet. He turned to see three more figures and had to back step nimbly as three different blades, two swords and a spear, lashed out at him. He grinned, surprisingly, and dove, spinning in mid air, his body parallel to the ground. He managed to flip himself over the three men and, as he landed, he dragged White Storm from the top of the middle man's head to his waist, cloving him almost in two. The man, covered in his own blood, slumped forward, and the other two turned. Yunsung, before he could react, felt one of the swords clip his leg, opening the flesh above the knee. He grunted and his fist flew out, crunching into the offending soldier's face. Suddenly, the iron hilt of another sword struck his cheek, snapping his neck around. He tasted blood on his lips and, growling, he drove White Storm into the last man's chest. Than, taking his hand off the hilt, he jumped and kicked, pressing his heel against the pommel of the sword hard and driving it deep into the armor and flesh of his opponent. Not making a sound, but twitching violently, the man fell, and Yunsung plucked White Storm from his body.
Yun looked around, panting, and wiped the blood that had been dripping from his chin with a dirtied sleeve. There was no one left, no one in the hall! Admiral Lee, almost entirely unscathed except for the slash marks on his uniform, stood near the swinging door. Hwang Sung Kyung, with one arm hanging limp and bloodied at his side, also panting heavily, stood near Yun. The floor was no longer present, for the only floor that the hallway now had was that of bodies, Korean and Japanese. Yun could not take a step without putting his foot upon a corpse, which disgusted him. He tried to ignore the terrible silence, limping forward and looking around warily. 'Why are they not coming?' he thought nervously, 'Why?'
His question was answered by a new silhouette that appeared in the open doorway, much less imposing than a wave of men. It was just one shadow that fell on the carpet of limp carcasses, one man that strode inside. He was somewhat concealed by the shadows of the hall, whose light had faded, but Yunsung could still see him clearly. He was a gruffer man, but looked young despite his probable age. He had a short black beard and stubbly chin, with his hair bound back into the topknot of the Japanese warriors. He wore the shingling of the foreign samurai or ronin and carried a long sword at his side. Though Yun did not know this man, it seemed strangely clear that Admiral Lee did. He was something of a legend, unbeknownst to Yunsung, a single driving force, the One Man Army.
"Very good," said the man, clapping his hands in a mocking fashion, "very good indeed."
"We have won, foreign scum," snarled Hwang venomously, "Leave now and take your wretched dignity."
"Won?" the Japanese man laughed, with more than a little incredulousness in his voice, "You've hardly hit the surface, lad. You've defeated the first wave, at the cost of many of your men. You still have three waves to contend with, but that is unimportant. General Oda shall not need those reinforcements, for he knows that I can take care of all those remaining in this garrison with ease. So, let us get this over with, hmm? Which one of you would like to feel the sting of my blade through them first?" Yun tried to hide the arrogance that would've taken hold of him by now and stepped forward, his fingers tightening harshly on the hilt of White Storm. But, before he issued his own challenge, he was cut off.
"I will fight you, Heishiro Mitsurugi!" cried Admiral Lee, calling out the man by name. The ronin, name known at last, turned fully to face the Admiral. In a flash, his hand held a glinting katana firmly, upheld, and his other hand grasped the hilt below the first. His deep, dark eyes, met Lee's softer ones as Hwang quickly grabbed Yun and pulled him back forcefully, causing the weary boy to stagger. Yunsung quickly spun towards Hwang, pushing the older man's hand from his shoulder and protesting loudly. "Hwang, we can't just let Admiral Lee fight alone! We should help him!"
"Quiet, Yun. This is part of war, as I told you before. We must not get in the way."
Though he was confused, Yun nodded and turned, moving back towards the opposite wall with White Storm at the ready. The two Koreans looked to their commander as he stood, facing off with the foreign warrior. The two opponents now had their weapons out, held steady and still in their hands. Admiral Lee, taking strange initiative, executed a respectful bow, which was responded to with the same action from his enemy. Still, Yunsung did not entirely understand these customs, but he watched anyway, rooting silently for Lee. As he prepared himself mentally, he saw the feet of the fighters moving, and they were both in the air as he watched.
They flew forward, one with the tails of a tattered robe behind and the other with the fringes of his armor trailing off of him like the tail of a fiery comet. They seemed to strike at the center of the hall, causing a momentary pause and ripple in the fabric of the moment, before each warrior bounced back, skidding through the mass of bodies and sending useless corpses scattering across the room. Mitsurugi was the first up, pushing off from the floor with his sandaled feet, and he leapt high into the air with his katana up. Lee pulled up his curved sword, grasping the elongated hilt with each, white-knuckled hand and holding as one would a staff for blocking. The blades collided again, resounding and vibrating, as the force of the clash sent each a step or two backwards and breathing hard as they ran in opposite directions to each side.
Their swords clashed again, the sound of metal on metal singing in a symphonic beat as each blade soared, cutting the air as it stabbed and slashed at the other, trying to find something to strike. They ended up backing to and fro, swirling in a deadly dance across the floor of lifeless husks, and batting at each other madly. Every so often, one man would find the other's blood, often eliciting a noticeable wince from Yun, who still cheered mentally for Lee Sun Shin. Mitsurugi's katana clipped Lee's chest, slitting his uniform open and drawing a narrow line of blood. Lee dragged his blade down the length of Mitsurugi's arm, bursting open the cloth and armor there and sending a neat spray of blood into the air, though the ronin didn't seem to notice as he continued doggedly. His blade, searching like a predator for prey, found new marks and made more. Lee's arm was slashed at the shoulder, drawing little red from the vague, slithering gash, but the jab into his gut lapped up a spurt where his flesh was punctured. The admiral, blood dribbling from his mouth and flaring nostrils, began to slow his pace as Mitsurugi quickened his own. Yun, watching, looked more ruefully at the fight, bringing up a foot to move forward, but Hwang again held him back, though the task was now made harder by the dedicated youth.
Still they fought, like men possessed, bashing away at each other. Their blades sung in the cold air, let in through the opening at the end of the hall, and they slashed the walls and floor as they leapt about, spinning, whirling, jumping, tumbling, diving, executing perfect thrusts and equally perfect deflections that dwarfed anything Yun could remember doing. Lee flipped back, out of Mitsurugi's range, a movement unexpected from a man of his age. The admiral landed, feet spread, blade clasped vertically before his eyes, and lunged, pulling the blade back. It came down, slicing the skin from Mitsurugi's arm neatly as he sidestepped and spun, all in one fluid motion, and swerved fully. The hilt of his katana bashed into Lee's side and back, sending him forward, but the Korean caught himself with his right foot and jabbed up with his left, cudgeling Mitsurugi with his heel in the jaw. The bleeding foreigner staggered, but leapt back as Admiral Lee spun and dove, swiping diagonally at the bewildered ronin. Mitsurugi, after dodging, took his chance. While Lee's blade was out to the side, Mitsurugi ducked and, as Lee soared over him, drove himself up. The mercenary's fist, with the metal hilt in it, struck Lee in the gut and he flew up into the air. As he came down, Mitsurugi swung his foot up in a mighty ax kick, arching it through the air, and caught Lee in the neck. The admiral thudded to the ground, rolling onto his back, and tried to spring up, but he was now very weakened.
Yun, his eyes wide with confusion and concern, tried to rush forward to his injured commander, but again Hwang, who looked equally displeased with the situation, held him back, grasping his shoulder with an iron hand. Yun tried madly to break free as Mitsurugi, dusting himself off as if nothing had happened but a minor inconvenience, walked over to the wrenching body of Admiral Lee Sun Shin, which lay half limp upon the floor, and raised his katana. The young, fire-haired Korean jerked and forced his way from Hwang's grip and began to sprint, but Hwang, not even entirely sure what he was doing, tackled Yunsung to the ground and hauled him back. "This is their fight!" he cried, "You shall have yours!"
"No!" Yun said, loudly this time, "He'll kill him! He'll be killed, Hwang!"
"I…I know."
Confused, saddened, and lost, Yun fell from Hwang's grip to the floor, looking up at his former tutor and friend as if he didn't know him anymore. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Slowly, his neck and head turned. Mitsurugi stood over Lee, his katana up vertically. Yun's eyes closed and he looked away as the blade fell, spearing the man who he'd been told such glorious tales about and rending the last breath from him. Slowly, his eyes opened, eyelids peeling apart reluctantly, and he looked at the ronin who now stood over the motionless body of Admiral Lee Sun Shin. The Korean staggered to his feet, looking at the body, then at the mercenary, then at Hwang, than at his enemy again.
"He put up a good fight," said Mitsurugi glibly, scratching his injured shoulder, "but not good enough."
He looked, with a stern expression, at the young Korean boy, his eyebrow cocking, and he turned, sheathing his bloody blade. "I don't have to kill you, you know." He murmured icily, breaking the silence. "Even though I do not usually allow my enemies to escape, I would not need to slay you if you left now. I'll probably kill you another day. Take your leader and bury him however you wish, for I have no need of him. Tell your people that the One Man Army has come, and that they should leave this land for us. Go, and you shall not be followed."
Yun's emotionless face turned into a glare as he looked angrily at the ronin, but Hwang steadied him and walked past him, towards the enemy. "Though I shall tell my people no such thing," he said, "I thank you for your honorable actions. But, Heishiro Mitsurugi, know this. The next time I see you, you shall die. This I swear upon my father, and his, and all my ancestors. Hold your next days dearly, ronin, for they shall be your last."
"Boy, I've gotten more of those threats than I've bothered to count. Take your general and get out."
His eyes narrowing grimly, Hwang knelt beside the body of Lee. He was about to haul up the body, but decided against it. As the warrior he was, Admiral Lee would want to remain where he fell, a high water mark upon the field of battle. So, with quivering, sweat-soaked hands, caked with dry red, Hwang gripped the spiraling, metallic hilt of he finely crafted blade, with his name etched into the length of the sword, and drew it up. He examined it, using the fringes of his uniform to swab the crimson residue from its edges, and stuck it in his belt. He got up, bowing unnoticeably to the dead commander, and turned, taking Yun, who was still confused beyond reason, by the arm, and taking him out of the hall. Behind, Mitsurugi chuckled quietly as he walked through the river of death, searching for the last signs of life in the garrison.
…
Meanwhile, Taki was equally busy, though she considered her plight much less dire. She had escaped from situations like this time and time again. At first she tried all the simple methods, not expecting any actual way out. She simply tested the strength of the bonds that held her, but it was foolish to think that her captors would be so stupid. After weighing the strength of her restraints, she searched for other methods. She could've somehow convinced a guard to free her, but there were no guards, which was even more puzzling. She looked around, scanning the dim room. The sounds of intense commotion from outside had died down, and were now replaced by an arctic silence. Warily, Taki continued toying with escape routes until, to her surprise, the door of the holding cell swung open on its hinges.
"Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here." Grinned Heishiro Mitsurugi, clad in rough battle armor as she strode into the room, his hand moving slowly to the katana at his side as he smirked victoriously. "Heishiro!" gasped Taki back, "What are you-"
"What do you think I'm doing here?" he cut her off angrily, "Most of the ships on the attack front belong to the Urakami Navy of the Mori Clan, my old clan. When they went on the offensive against the gaijin, I felt obligated to come along for the ride. The spoils will surely be great…" he paused, his grin widening with a satisfied rumble in his throat as he paced towards Taki, gracefully unsheathing his sword and letting it hang in his grip on the right side. Slowly, he bent down, nearing the restrained ninja. His speech was softer as he looked into her eyes, "Even though, I think I've just found the best treasure of all. I didn't expect to find you, of all people, captured by the garlic eaters, but I guess it's just better for me, isn't it?"
"I don't want to have to hurt you, Heishiro." Snapped Taki, trying to look as nonchalant as possible as she struggled madly against her bonds. This was most definitely not how she wanted to die. She searched mentally for another way out, but found none at the moment. She had only one choice, and she didn't like it. She would have to stall. "You, hurt me?" Mitsurugi's cocky voice interrupted her thought train, "I'm not the one tied to a pole!"
"Don't underestimate me, mercenary." snarled Taki. As she spoke, she continued working away at the ropes until she felt a cracked section in the column she was tied to. Almost dislocating her bruised shoulder, she pulled a splintered off a sliver of wood from the pole, curled her fingers around it quickly, hiding it from view, and began to saw away at the bulky cords. "I wouldn't dare." Responded Mitsurugi, swinging his katana nimbly for practice, "I've know you too long, Taki, and I'm getting awfully tired of having to think about that fact. So, just to get it off my chest, I think I'll kill you right now and get this all over with." Taki, smiling at the mercenary to distract his attention, spoke softly. "I would've expected better from you, Heishiro Mitsurugi." Mitsurugi's eyebrow raised, but he dismissed this, still twirling the katana clutched in his firm hand, flipping it about in his grasp to exercise the blade. "Hey, I would fight you fair and square, but I'm not in the mood right now, sorry." Taki's grin faded. The ropes were almost loose enough to break free; she just needed to stall a little longer.
Mitsurugi stopped right in front of her and knelt further towards her level, his smiling face suddenly an inch from her own bloodied one. She felt his breath on her and flinched, only giving another reason for the expansion of Mitsurugi's grin. "We've fought many times, you and me. If not a battle on the battlefield than in the mind of one or the other, since ours is a conflict of more than blades and insults, Taki-sama. But, I suppose all good things do come to an end, though this suddenness is far beyond my tastes in suspense. There is no more challenge, which is displeasing, but it will have to do. After victory and defeat by your hands, ninja, I'm going to relish killing you. I'm sure I'll be missing something without you around, around to shoot scathing remarks at me and always elude my grasp, but you'll be missing a lot more…your head, for example, along with a few other things I'll be taking as souvenirs."
The ronin, his face plastered into a solemn expression, his fingers curled readily around the hilt of hi blade, Shishi-Oh…
His moment was interrupted by footsteps, loud footsteps, behind him. "Ah, Mitsurugi," proclaimed a voice, "Taken a prize, have we?"
Heishiro Mitsurugi turned swiftly, straitening his form quickly, and Taki looked up. Walking into the room, flanked by two heavily armored guards, was a man who seemed far too old to be in battle at all. He wore a helmet, bronzed and shining, upon his head, with a topknot of hair slipped through the top revealing long strands of jet black dappled with aging grey and white. The man's hands were on that helmet, and removed it slowly, revealing a pale face and a long, uncut beard that dangled across his ridged breastplate and shingles of plate armor. He had a thick brow, and eyebrows furrowed. His skin was somewhat wrinkled, adding to his wizened but grizzly appearance, though he looked of noble upbringing. His eyes were dark, the color of Mitsurugi's, but darker and more foreboding, and the edges of his beard were neatly trimmed. He wore armor resembling that of the ronin, but far more flashy. It was ebony black, deep and flawlessly colored, with many iron plates and rivets to hold it together. Finely embroidered cloth lay beneath the layers of armor and a smooth robe hung down to his knees. Great epaulets and numerous decorations were hung upon him, indicating his status.
"Oda-chan," said Mitsurugi, bowing respectfully, "the day is won. We are victorious here."
General Oda Nobunaga, grinning youthfully to himself, waved Mitsurugi off, "No, not yet. Victory has not come in its entirety." Mitsurugi nodded, somewhat incredulous, and backed out of the way as Nobunaga, still grinning with a strange twinkle in his narrowed eyes, moved towards the bound ninja. "So, this is Taki of the Fu-Ma." boasted Oda to no one, even though there were enough people in the room to hear him, "This is the oni hunter, the demon slayer, the legend. Do you know that tales of your exploits are boundless back home, especially after you left the country? The Samurai, the Ninja, the mercenaries, the military, all talk of you as some sort of ghost, a shadow, impossible to see or hear. And here you are, ninja of ninjas, subdued and capture by a band of millet farmers. You do not do justice to the stories, but I suppose stories are overrated, don't you agree?"
"Baka!" spat Taki, "You know nothing of me, so don't assume you know!"
"Heishiro has told me more than enough, whore of the Fu-Ma," said Oda Nobunaga, filled with a frustratingly solid confidence as he leaned down again, "and I trust his word over even yours." Oddly, Taki found his breath to be much more caustic than Mitsurugi's. Suddenly, very much so for her, she felt a hand on her cheek, ice cold and rough skinned, as if he wore armor upon his hand even though there was none. She almost forgot about cutting away the ropes in her sudden hurry to get away from his touch. She flinched openly, but Oda persisted.
"He told me…that you were beautiful" Oda whispered, "…But that was the one thing I did not believe…until now."
"Get away from me!" she roared, wheeling her foot around nimbly beneath him. Though she had clearly aimed at his manhood, for apparent reasons, her foot only collided with his gut, which was still very painful. Oda, growling murderously, staggered backward, but before Taki could even move another inch, there were three glinting blades hovering just beside her throat in every direction. Having taught herself to be perfectly still, that was exactly what she did, knowing that the slightest movement might result in someone opening her throat. Oda, actually smiling despite the hand he now had fixed against his injured spot, pushed through the three, waving them off, beginning to laugh, which annoyed Taki to no end. "Oh, so you have your morals after all. How quaint. And all this time I thought you were just a miserable wench for a pack of prepubescent ninja trainees. Apparently, I might have underestimated you," he said through a raspy cackle, "but I doubt it. Anyone defeated by garlic eaters is no legend, not by a long shot."
"I wasn't defeated by garlic eaters" shouted Taki, getting very irked that everyone was suddenly making assumptions about her power level. Usually, she would've just sat where she was and been silent, but this lord was simply so much more painful to be around. Oda turned to her, a look of quizzical intrigue on his face. After a long pause, Taki continued. "…It was a ninja…One of the Fu-Ma ninjas…in your employment, no doubt." Oda's face remained neatly slated as she spoke, unemotional in every respect as his right eyebrow elevated. "Hidosu? We found him dead on the road, how could he have defeated you."
"You sent him to kill me, didn't you!" growled the ninja, suddenly beginning to piece together what had actually happened. But, shattering her concentration in thought, Oda shook his bearded head sadly. "No, I sent him to kill the gaijin boy who you were following. We thought both he and the other ninja I sent had failed in their duties…" He paused, his face twisting into a scowl, "You….you protected that little whelp from them! Traitor!" Taki felt the back of Oda's hand driven across her face, which whipped sideways. She felt blood on her lips, but turned and spat it right back at Oda. Growling furiously, Oda's hand flew forward, his wrenching fingers closing around Taki's throat and hauling her up the length of the pole. "Miserable bitch, you've betrayed Japan enough! Do you know how much is on your head now? How many deaths? How many rewards? The combined bounty on you of the Fu-Ma and the Imperial Army is enough to make any man a lord! You're no more than a wanted criminal now, and a traitor, a-"
"You're the traitor here, Oda. I've heard more tales of you than you of me. Backstabber and turncoat, that's what you are, a sniveling errand boy who killed so many people that there was no one left to oppose you when you became a lord. The name of the Samurai, as vile as it is, should not be pinned on you, for it would degrade every other. You call me a traitor when you've killed more of your own people than you have your enemies!"
Taki's tirade was interrupted now by a clenched fist in her jaw, which snapped her head the other side, bleeding profusely at mouth and nose. Despite feeling a merciless lance of pain working its way through her, Taki managed to turn back to Oda, who was panting angrily and wiping Taki's blood off his hand on the cloth fringes beneath his heavy armor. "At first, ninja," he said as coolly as possible, "I thought I'd just kill you here and now, along with any other gaijin who are taken prisoner, but I see that there is more to be gained keeping you alive. Let us see who is willing to bid the highest for you, let us see which of the many wronged by you will pay the most to see you tortured and killed in the same cold blood that you killed their brethren in." He leaned down, his bristling beard an inch from her face as he whispered in here ear. "For the rest of your time in this land, I will make your life a living hell. You'll be an example of why no one should betray the glorious cause. I will show your broken body to my troops to boost morale and I will give you to them alive. You have made a very dangerous enemy today." With that, Oda stood to his full height, towering over the sitting ninja, and spun, walking towards the door. "Come," he said to the two guards, but not as much Mitsurugi, "The garrison must be fully secured."
"Lord Nobunaga, what of this one?" said Mitsurugi, holding his katana at the ready as he walked towards Oda. Nobunaga spun again, his icy gaze halting Mitsurugi in his tracks. "Do what you want with her," he said, his voice holding a single, immobile pitch, "But do not slay her yet. I need her for other things, you shall see. Until that time comes, she's all yours." Then, leaving the whole room very unsettled, Oda Nobunaga and his guards left with a dignified flourish, leaving an ominous silence behind. Mitsurugi's breathing slowed as the men and the general went out, and his face, eyes aglow, turned with a furious glint towards Taki as he began lifting his shimmering katana. Taki, taken aback by the whole incident, swiftly resumed toying with her restraints as she realized that time had nearly run out. "You sure you don't want one more battle, for old time's sake?" she looked up, with what resembled a pleading look on her face. It was, of course, an act, and Mitsurugi saw right through it, chuckling menacingly as he advanced, raising the katana to the level of Taki's throat.
"Nope, I'm pretty sure I know what I'm doing." He nodded grimly, looking away, "Have fun in hell, ninja."
"You first."
It was perfectly timed, or would've been had Mitsurugi not been ready. The last rope holding Taki in place was severed and, whirling the jagged wooden splinter about in her hand, she rolled beneath the mercenary's blade, throwing the bonds away and wheeling around, sending the splinter of a weapon at her foe. She crashed the jagged wooden blade into his side, but even with her bare might behind it, the simple shaft did not pierce his armor. Laughing, the ronin spun, the solid hilt of his katana crashing into Taki's jaw. The ninja careened back, sliding across the floor and clutching her bruised cheek, red and swollen. As she reared up, she saw the mercenary coming at her. She flipped back on the floor as his sword came down, stabbing into the floorboards. A mighty kick dislodged the blade from the ground and Mitsurugi's hand, sending it skidding to the side of the room.
The two stood fully, both in battle stances, though neither of them had weapons. Mitsurugi wasted no time plunging forward, his fists hammering, but Taki moved swiftly out of the way, dodging her way across the room, Her wrists still hurt, as did her neck and jaw, and the effects of the poison had not yet worn off. Some of her senses were numbed, but she tried to ignore the fact, jumping and bringing her sandaled foot up. To her shock and dismay, Mitsurugi caught the kick, grabbing her ankle and knee, and threw her down. Her head was bruised and she tried to spring up, but the ronin dove, pinning her down. His hand grasped her throat, pulled her up, and shoved her against the wall, causing a spasm of pain in her back. She breathed disjointedly as Mitsurugi pulled her up higher, his face nearing hers, as she struggled in vain. She closed her eyes, awaiting the inevitable.
"The poison has left you weak, ninja. Be thankful that my mood is good, or I would kill you here."
She opened her eyes, looking deep into his for but a moment. His narrowed eyes softening very slightly, Mitsurugi suddenly loosened his grip and swung Taki down, throwing her onto the floor. The ninja, weak and injured, let her darkening eyes follow Mitsurugi out of the room after he picked up his fallen sword. Her ears heard the dissatisfying thud of the door being slammed and let the pleasant darkness of unconsciousness take her swiftly.