The fire warmed his hands and the food his stomach, but the thoughts never sated his mind. At every distance fields of hills, sparse tree scattered the landscape until the hills cracked into mountains and the scars of the Earth rippled across the far distance.
Each bite lingered on a thought he feasted hungrily on, but not a single one sparked that wonderful sense of realization and clarity he so yearned.
Each step beyond the fire was a beat of his heart, the only song he could hear. The faster it hit, the closer he felt to his goal, but this time, he wasn't quite sure where that goal would take him.
Kenshi Takahashi sat in complete silence, with only his heart and the soft chattering of the fire to accompany him. Once the rations were spent, there was only time to sleep. Night, day, it didn't matter on this journey, only the destination, only that it be reached.
To find it, he would have to lose himself in the journey, and in the expectation that it could very well be his last. Would this be his last time to taste whatever he had eaten, or to sleep again? Would this be the last night to think and enjoy his own thoughts as they became the only company he could maintain on this journey?
He was not quite alone.
His head rested on the pillow of the Earth and his hand rested on the handle of his sword, a japanese katana made of the finest steel, but cursed.
The moment his fingers pressed against the fabric wrap of the handle he could feel his entire body pulse. His heart became erratic and only through breathing in tune with the grip of the sword on his heart could he find some balance and rest.
In his sleep, night or day, he could hear it speak to him. The voices of men and women that extended their hands through their spirits to guide him through these uncharted lands.
Mercy. Compassion. Forgiveness you lack.
He listened.
For those regarded as warriors, the languishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern.
He could feel the hands reach around his at the handle and enter him, but no vision planted like a seed in his brain the faces of the voices, the distance he travelled, nor the destination he sought.
We are near.
We are many.
The further he travelled the louder another voice was that had crawled into the blank canvas of his dreams. These nights, as that voice which echoed that of many voices caused found him awakened with the blade of Sento drawn and laid across his chest like a barrier to ward off the yokai that roamed the Japanese foot hills.
Seek us at the bone eater's well.
The fabric pressed back on his eyes as he wakened. He brushed the sleep from his face, the grit of his hair scraped across his hands and fabric wiped away with a simple tug.
Sento again rested heavily on his chest and his hand tight around the handle. It took another to pry his fingers from it and even more to will himself to return the blade to its sheath.
When the cold air whispered to him, he realized it was time to brush away the last embers of the fire and gather what little belongings he scattered around the camp close to him.
There was only the destination.
Nothing else mattered lest he fail.