White Storm crashed against the tough leather armor, tearing at the stitching, and then penetrating. The heavy weapon moved through skin, ripping the insides of the body asunder. The samurai fell onto the blade; his dying mass rested against the hilt of the sword. His eyes trailed up the length of blade, and arm, that protruded from his guts. The samurai's vision began to blur, first seeing two, and then one. The image cleared for a single moment, and he could see clearly the outline of his superior.

White clothing drenched in blood, Yunsung locked his eyes with those of the samurai. The expression of fear, and of hatred, the resonated from the warrior's fading eyes unsettled even him, and Yunsung jerked his sword upwards to end the cold, penetrating gaze.

The Samurai feel deeper onto the sword. Then, in a mad act of defiance, jerked his head upward with sword raised, but only served to tear open his own wound, and have what remained of his blood spill out across the battle field.

Yunsung let the dying man roll off the edge of his sword, and then with a strained nervous laugh kicked the body aside, and let it gather amongst the remains of the fallen.

Yunsung raised White Storm to the ready position. Beside him two Korean warriors emerged from the fog, their spears brandished against the onslaught of progressing samurai. A wave of Japanese moved forwards, perhaps five, perhaps more, impossible to tell in the fog.

The two Koreans raced towards them, and drove their spear points into the encroaching formation, but were soon after cut down by Japanese swords. The formation then quickly dissipated as each individual warrior moved out into the mist to pursue the scattered Korean forces.

The fog suddenly fell thicker on the field, so thick that not a single thing could be seen in any direction, and the countless screams of anguish seemed to come from everywhere about Yunsung.

On all sides three samurai quickly emerged into sight, their swords brandished to strike. Yunsung now found himself inside a small pocked of the enemy advance, as his countrymen continually fell backwards.

White Storm flew against them in a series of quick motions, and the three samurai fell to their knees, their heads rolling off their shoulders. Four more soldiers stepped out of fog, to take up ranks for those that had fallen. Yunsung stepped backwards as the mass of samurai opposing him continued to swell; their collective arms raised to strike against him.

"You psycho bastards would probably kill yourselves if you were in my position, but I'm Korean, and we don't go down without a fight!" Yunsung voiced with as much bravado as he could muster.

The Japanese charged.

"Shit!" Yunsung hollered as his sword dropped low to deflect a series of spear points from piercing his abdomen, while he somersaulted backwards over the heads of the samurai. The Japanese instantly turned on the heels of their feet to face him again.

Yunsung slowly moved away from them, and into the fog. The samurai advanced forwards with his every step, their swords raised. The Japanese moved to circle him again, their bodies forming a wall around him.

Yunsung held his sword ready at his side. The samurai moved closer, the circle tightening around him like a noose, the heavy fog like a heaped blanket. His nerve began to break. A thick drop of sweat fell down from his blood crusted hair and struck the dirt and mud over his face. The samurai lunged at him.

He leapt backwards. The edges' of the samurai swords slashed through the air, moving only a hair's width from Yunsung's throat.

He had become exhausted. An entire morning of bitter fighting under the harsh cold had drained his energy, and left him gasping to draw in the icy air. The samurai moved closer again, their swords raised in unison to strike.

A war cry echoed from somewhere in the fog, and in the distraction Yunsung slit open the underbellies of those closest to him, before he dashed back out of range of the enemies vengeful blades.

The war cry was heard again, and at that instant hundreds of samurai raced backwards through the hearts of their ranks, trampling their countrymen in the midst of their mad route. Yunsung looked back at the warriors that had only instants before been pressing him against the very brink of death, and saw them consumed within the onrush of fleeing soldiers.

Yunsung readied his sword as a heavy trampling sound echoed through the thick mist. His eyes began to focus on the hundreds of armored fighters that raced like startled sheep through the endless fog. Then, behind him, hundreds of spear points began to emerge from the cloak of white.

Forms now began to materialize from behind the spears. Korean soldiers, hundreds of them, each more exhausted than the last, but their valor strengthened by a collective furor. The Chosen army charged forth behind the fleeing Japanese.

Friendly warriors moved to either side of him, and Yunsung found himself in the heart of the Korean advance, his weakened body finding strength in the rage of those around him. The terrain ahead suddenly made a sharp incline, and the many Japanese that found themselves too drained of strength to climb the opposing hill were quickly cut down by Korean steel, and soon after trampled under the boots of the progressing line.

The mist ahead was thicker over the top of the slope, and only the kicked up mud from the soles of the samurai's sandals lingered in view of the Korean advance. Legs, arms, and other such Japanese limbs moved fiercely through the fog, each leather-strapped body racing to flee the encroaching furry.

Then, from the very peak of the hill an opposing wall of soldiers seemed to suddenly appear. Countless samurai stood with their weapons drawn to meet the Korean army.

Injured, and exhausted from hours of fighting, the Korean force charged against the fresh troops of the Japanese. As if they had thrown themselves onto the spears of the enemy, the Koreans were slaughtered, like cattle, under the sudden force of samurai steel.

The fog and the queer angle of the incline seemed to encourage the mass extinction of the valiant Korean fighting men. Those whom had been in the back rows were entirely unable to see the slaughter ahead, and pushed with ever greater furry to pursue an enemy they assumed in route. Those in the front rows found themselves squeezed between the wall of their friends coming up from behind, and the wall of the enemy coming in from in front, and they were thus, unable to find refuge in either direction, quickly, and mercilessly impaled upon.

Yunsung fought with renewed vigor as he too was shoved against the full force of the Japanese. White Storm crashed against the onslaught of samurai, and tore into tough armor. The sword hung transfixed within the air, and amongst the bloodshed, only to come down in a decisive, and clean stroke against the enemies' vital points.

But no matter how ferociously Yunsung fought, the Korean army was being slaughtered all around him. Men fell to their knees; their insides cradled like precious children inside their arms.

All around him the eyes of every warrior had sunken into their respective sockets. Those fighting, including him, had lost all sense of what was real. These were the men that were dying, or had already considered themselves dead.

And those that teetered most dangerously upon the brink between the world of the living, and the world of the dead, fought as if possessed by some sort of sadistic demon, urging them, willing them to take that final plunge into the outreached arms of hell; and to take as many men as possible with them.

White Storm ripped through the innards of another soldier, and the young man attached to its hilt, his body panting with each heavily strained breath, seemed to fall backwards under the weight of his own exhaustion. The Korean army, far too tired, and far too overwhelmed by loss of life, had begun to race back down the hill now. Only Yunsung, and a few others, remained to challenge the entirely unshaken Japanese formation.

There was no point in fighting now. Fighting would only bring death, and serve no greater good. Yunsung knew this; and yet, he continued to stand, as if fastened to the ground upon which he had fought so hard to claim. The Japanese began to approach with ever greater determination now, arrows flying from their bows to strike down those that sought refuge in the fog.

Yunsung felt himself grow heavy under the mass of blood cloaked to his clothes and skin, and from the thought of more fighting. He turned his head and looked down onto what trace amounts of the Korean force could be seen scattered and routed amounts the fog; as arrows screamed about his face and limbs.

Those that had stood defiant beside him had been slain now, their bodies left to roll, impaled and lacerated down the steep incline into the collection of dead bellow. Yunsung stepped backwards towards the edge of the hill, his sunken eyes piercing of malice into the souls of the soldiers that moved against him.

Then, as if even the blood luster of that morning couldn't take away his youth and arrogance, Yunsung let a wide, daring smirk grow across his face, before he too, turned and ran down the slope – to disappear into the mist.