Prologue: Shura
Wolf saw fear in the man.
It was in his expression, the open jaws and sputtering words. It was in his body, the overly-clenched fists and wobbling legs. It was in his eyes. The eyes are the gateway to a man's soul. Look through them and you can see what lies secreted deep within the heart. This man, in particular, held nothing different from most others. The primal fear of death was as constant to humanity as the rising and the setting of the sun. Wolf recognized it.
And beheaded him.
The head sailed through the air, the fearful expression fixed upon the man's face, a misty trail of blood following its path. They say a severed head still has but a few moments of consciousness. Enough time to see the sky and the ground swap places. Enough breath for one last, desperate gasp.
"Shura…" the word escaped. A hiss so quiet that a light breeze would have stolen its moment.
But Wolf heard it clear as day. As did the score of armoured men who stood further down the wide steps and had watched the whole killing unfold within a single heartbeat. They bristled, winced at the wet sound of the head hitting the ground, and Wolf saw the same fear in all of them. It was in their faces, their bodies, and their eyes.
No one moved. Wolf looked down on them from the landing above the steps, his face blank and impassive. Behind him, Ashina Castle burned. The roof engulfed in flames reaching towards the night's sky, tiles cracking and shattering under the heat. But yet Wolf stood unflinching as cinders and debris fell around him. To the soldiers of the Interior Ministry below, he must have seemed like a tyrant pondering over their fate.
The Black Mortal Blade in his left hand seemed to growl, its dark glow smouldering like coals along the length of the nodachi. In his right, the Red Mortal Blade was still humming from slicing the man's head. He could sense their displeasures. These blades which were meant to cut gods, the blood of anything less was surely unsatisfying. Nevertheless, they were just tools, just like he—a shinobi—had once been a tool. And they will be used however he saw fit.
He shot forward.
The man who seemed to be the leader stumbled back, sputtering orders. "F-FIRE!"
Four soldiers jerked up their arquebus and fired, and their shots went wide in their hurry. They reached for their ammunition pouch, fumbling the matchlocks of their weapons, so Wolf went for them first.
He leapt over the frontline of swordsmen which had formed to protect the gunmen, stepping and launching off one's helmet. He used the added momentum to contort in the air, his blades slicing out. He heard a clash of metals. A scream. Then he landed, behind the enemy and their backs exposed to him. They could not turn fast enough.
The first gunman fell when the red odachi erupted from his chest. The second had his face divided into two. The third's heart was pierced. And the last went down clutching the wide gash in his neck, as though he could scouped back the blood leaking out, his last breaths all but a choking gurgle.
The others hesitated, frozen to their feet. But Wolf did not stop. The black nodachi lashed out, cutting high then low. He heard the cries—relishing the sound—as eyes and tendons were severed. He danced through their counterattacks, feeling a certain joy knowing that they could not touch him. War and combat had moulded him from an early age, but this was the first time he felt truly alive in it. It was as if a hunger within him was fed each time his blades met flesh.
He saw only red. To him, they were all already dead. Dead by his hand. Dead because he willed it so.
A man with thick brown beard thrusted at his abdominal, and Wolf pivoted on his heel. The sword slid by harmlessly. Mere inches away. Wolf stomped a foot down on the blade, then as the man stumbled forward helplessly, shaved through the beard into the meaty neck with a swing. The man slumped and sagged and Wolf kicked him away to free the blade.
Some were running now. They tripped and fell down the steps, heels over heads rolling. Wolf cocked back his left arm—the arm that had once been severed and which had then been replaced by the Sculptor. A fitting fang for the one-armed wolf. There was a click. The loaded wheel fixed upon the prosthetic forearm began spinning, its rim a whirl of blue pointed edges.
Wolf flung his arm out towards fleeing men and six shurikens shot out. Bright blue lights trailed the flight of the throwing stars until they found their marks between the joints of the soldiers' lamellar armour, puncturing through knees and ankles. The men yelped, then collapsed. When they tried picking themselves, they found that they couldn't for their legs had given out.
Wolf turned away from them. Later, he would finish them. For now, let them wail and cry for help that would not come.
He faced seven remaining warriors. To their credit, they stood their ground, cocking their swords up by their shoulders as he moved towards them amidst the bodies and blood of their companions. For their bravery, he would grant them swift, merciful death.
He held the Red Mortal Blade low. Then inhaled, stilling his mind. Everything around him fell away as though he was walking on thin, iceless air. Each step he took was soft, like water droplets dripping. His blades were no longer tools. They were apart of him. An extension of his hands and arms. As if they all belonged to…One Mind.
The red odachi cut. From the low left to high right. It rose like a falcon from a lady's wrist.
And hit nothing but air.
The remaining men of the Interior Ministry's assault blinked confused. Then, perhaps thinking it was an opening to attack, one of them—a lanky man with a scuffed goatee—charged, his katana raised high above his head, roaring a brutal battlecry.
But then he stopped, as if the wind had fled his lungs. His hands flew to his throat suddenly and his katana made a loud clang as it hit the ground. Blood poured over his fingers, and his eyes bulged white. Behind him, the other six soldiers were also clutching their throats, coughing and choking as they caved to their knees.
The lanky man staggered, stumbled, then simply crumpled. He flopped onto the ground and rolled down the steps. Rolled and rolled until he came to a rest beneath the shinobi's feet.
His eyes began closing, looking towards the heavens in their dying light, perhaps to ponder over the truth he had lived his life for. Or perhaps to seek out God before his final breath.
But there was no truth. Nor was there any god.
Only Wolf.
"Shu…ra."
The air was hotter, the fire having spread from the main keep to the rest of the castle. Even now, the flames were travelling down the two walls flanking the wide steps, embers tossed into the fray by the wind. Smoke rose. The night sky was but a veil of smog that seemed thick enough to cut.
Slowly, Wolf raised a hand to his face, touching his blood-splattered cheek. He scanned among the dead for anything he could clean himself with and found a relatively unsullied cloak tucked underneath one of the fallen Interior Ministry warriors. As he pulled it out, it flipped the corpse onto its belly.
Behind him, he heard the cries of the men who tried fleeing. The poison in the shurikens was no doubt working through their bloodstream. Not enough to kill, but enough to hurt. The more they panic, the faster their heart pumped the venom into their muscles.
Wolf spared them no look; instead, watched the castle burn around him, smelling nothing but acrid air. Ashina burned well. It would blaze well throughout the night, and by the crack of dawn all that would be left would be ashes, ruins, and death.
A sudden pang seemed to hit him then. It was a dull ache that rose suddenly within his heart, surfacing amidst the fiery urge boiling within. In that pain, it occurred to him what he had done. He had destroyed the land which had given him everything, betrayed all who helped him. There was Father, who raised and taught him more than all the others combined. There was Lady Emma, who brought him out of the depths of that dark well and nursed him. There was Lord Isshin, who had seen through his eyes the shadows of Shura creeping inside him; had the Sword Saint been in his prime, he would had easily cut down Wolf and ended the Shura.
Then there was Kuro. His lord. Whose divine blood runs through Wolf's own veins. The one who he had sworn to give his own life for. Where was he now, Wolf wondered. The last he saw of the Divine Heir, it was back at the apex of the upper castle tower. It was there where he had abandoned his oath. It was there where everything had gone wrong.
"What…have I…become?" he found those words leaving his mouth but could not understand them.
He stared down at his hands clutching the two mortal blades. They were soaked dark with blood. He tried loosening his grip, but found his fingers glued solid to the hilts. So tightly clenched they were, the blood had crusted and stuck his skin…
The ache left, and so did all thoughts of Kuro and Ashina. Come and gone like a fleeting breeze. And raging back was the violent flames of Shura.
He turned, moving towards the soldiers down the wide stairs, who writhed and twisted from the pain induced by the shuriken's poison. His steps rang loud, even against the roar of the flames. The soldiers—the cowards—paled as they saw him approach and their cries grew every more desperate.
Then Wolf paused suddenly, and looked beyond the crawling men, to the castle gates whose tall iron doors were drawn back and where it spilled to an open outskirt littered with bodies and burning carts. He stared, unblinking. To the wounded soldiers, it seemed like he was waiting.
Then Wolf threw himself right. He rolled, feeling the asphalt scrape against his sleeves, and heard a loud crash—almost like a clap of thunder. When he was back on his feet, he saw that there was a smoking crater where he had been standing a mere heartbeat ago.
Sticking out in the middle of the crater was the butt of a single, black arrow.
A deep voice spoke, out of the very air, it seemed, "Should have known that sneaking an attack on a shinobi was an exercise in futility." A soft chuckle followed.
Wolf traced the source of voice up to the roof of the castle gatehouse, but saw no one. Just flames licking up towards the moonless sky.
"Ah Nippon, land of my birth. It's been too long," came the voice again. It seemed to echo all around. "Or should I say, too early."
Then, out of the thin air, a man in red appeared. It was as if he came into existence at that exact moment in time. First: his legs, long and lanky; then his torso, broad and muscular; before finally the head, a stern face of many angles. His hair was white, and his skin olive tanned. The clothes he wore was unlike any other Wolf had seen: a red flowing coat that reached the knees; underneath, he wore a dark leather tunic and dark trousers. He stood on top of a wooden beam sticking out the roof, looking down at Wolf, and in one hand was a great black bow that was nearly as tall as a man.
"Who are you?" Wolf asked. If he was surprised at all, he did not show it.
"My name will mean nothing to you, Wolf," the man in red said. "Or do you prefer Sekiro?"
Wolf said nothing, his gaze fixed upon the newcomer, watching the easy manner in which he held himself. It spoke of boldness. Confidence. This was a man entirely assured in his position that no harm could befall him. Wolf would prove that wrong. At range, an archer is king. Close the distance, and he was nothing but carrion.
The man in red smirked. "I suppose it doesn't matter," he said. "Though, I am glad that Alaya wasn't speaking in the literal sense when they sent me to kill a one-armed wolf."
Wolf narrowed his eyes. "Alaya?"
"Call it the World. Or rather, call it humanity's uniform will to survive. Whenever there exists a threat of extinction, it summons a Counter Guardian to rectify the situation. Usually, through means of elimination." The man spread his arms wide in gesture. "So here I am."
Again, Wolf did not speak.
The man in red made an amused noise. "I see that you shinobis are not only silent killers, but are…just silent."
"No," Wolf said.
The white-haired archer opened his mouth to retort, but at that instance Wolf launched a shuriken at him.
The man was unfazed, easily batting away the throwing star with the thick portion of his bow stave. But that was all the time Wolf needed. The grappling hook shot out of his prosthetic arm, catching the ledge of the gatehouse roof. He yanked and the ropes immediately retracted to its reel, pulling him up to the top of the castle gates.
The momentum saw him fly above the archer's head and he swung his blades down as the distance closed. The man in red brought his bow across to deflect. A metallic shrill rang as the Red and Black Mortal Blades connected with the stave. Wolf landed in a crouch, then immediately pushed off, cutting low.
The man in red jumped. Higher than any mortal man could. When he descended, it was not a bow in his hands, but two swords. Wolf saw them glint against the firelight and with the night sky behind, they look like shooting stars. They shot towards Wolf and in that short moment he knew he could not dodge and swung his blades up in a desperate parry.
The sound the clashing blades made was akin to a cannon—bronze culverins that shook the world as they fire. Wolf stumbled back, the Red Mortal Blade flying out of his hands. It clattered on the wide stairs below. Before Wolf could regain his balance, the man in red struck from down low, slicing a straight line from navel to collarbone.
A world of pain erupted in Wolf, driving him to his knees. He clenched his jaws, gritting his teeth, but despite his best effort, a low groan escaped his throat. Only by timely stabbing his nodachi into the tiles of the roof did he stop himself from planting face-first.
"I respect the effort, shinobi. But I know a thing or two about catching people off-guard," the white-haired man said. He stepped closer, pointing one of his swords to Wolf's chest. "Attacking while they're too busy running their mouth? Predictable."
Despite the pain he was in, Wolf managed to shake his head. "No," he croaked, blood leaking out his mouth. "Better not to waste a breath telling a man you're going to kill him than to just do it."
The man in red chuckled. "Fair point." Then his face turned serious. "But regardless, it seems our brief acquaintance ends here." And drove his sword through the shinobi's heart.
Wolf felt his chest explode with the force of a thousand raging bulls. In the brief moment after he felt everything turn cold, as if a howling blizzard had descended in the midst of summer, as if all the fire in the world had gone out. He coughed, spluttering blood.
Then darkness.
"Loyal Wolf, take my blood and live again."
Those words played in his mind every time without fail. A faded memory on repeat. Resurfaced like a long-buried tune hummed by one's mother all those years ago.
But he was no loyal wolf any longer. The oath he swore, shattered. He was Shura awakened. Death incarnated.
He felt a heat like nothing before rise up from the pits of his stomach. It spread like wildfire, like a barrel of tar poured on top it. It warmed his insides as though he was made of coals, from his chest to his hands. His vision darkened to red, his body fuel to the flames.
There was a hole in his chest, he could feel it and looked down. The white-haired archer had thrusted so deeply even the hilt was buried within. He reached behind and grabbed the blade sticking out his back, feeling the edge cut into his hand, enjoying it, savouring it. With a roar, he yanked the sword out, feeling the entire blade—hilt and all—pass through his body to exit out his back.
The foreign weapon clattered down to the edge of the roof, covered in Wolf's blood. The man in red's eyes widened and he retreated to the other end of the roof, but then settled, his surprised only temporary.
Wolf pushed himself up to stand. As he moved, his wounds seared, flared, then began to repair themselves. Bit by bit, flesh by flesh, blood by blood, the hole in his chest was filled as if time rewound. Before long, it was whole once again, the skin fresh as a newborn and inviting to stab.
"Now I see," the man in red mused. "A demon who cannot die or be killed. So that's why Alaya sent me." He whispered a phrase, too soft to hear against the sound of Ashina burning, and another sword materialized to replace the lost one. "Well then, let us see if there's any limits to that."
Wolf pulled the Black Mortal Blade out of the tiles. He placed both hands on the hilt, cocked up on his right shoulder, and had his feet set wide apart. "More," he said, his breath a scalding steam.
The man in red stood unmoving. The easy confidence he held was still there, but now Wolf detected a hint of tension in his shoulders. Hesitation. Only the slightest of it.
Then, the man was gone. The ashes that had gathered where he stood was suddenly in the air.
Instincts made Wolf look right. The attack that came was quicker than lightning. Wolf felt his arm ring from the blow but recovered to deflect the next strike coming from the left. He backpedalled, defended an overhead swing, ducked under, spun to protect his rear.
The white-haired archer was but a blur—a fleeting glimpse of red in the wind. He was faster than Father. More elusive than Lady Butterfly. And when he struck, it was harder than the Guardian Ape. Wolf dared even to think that he was stronger than Lord Isshin.
But Wolf felt no fear. All he felt was the fires. The black nodachi was a brand of molten metal in his fist.
The white-haired archer appeared in front of him, visible for a mere heartbeat. Wolf thrusted at him, but it was like thrusting at a wraith. He received a cut to the left shoulder. An ill-timed parry saw his right calf spill blood. Yet his pain fed the flames.
There was a pause in the attacks. Wolf searched for the man in red and for a moment could not find him. Then he saw him floating high in the air. The great black bow had returned and Wolf saw three arrows nocked in half a heartbeat.
Wolf raised his prosthetic left arm before him, heard it click, and one of its many tools fanned out to form a large metallic umbrella. He tucked himself behind it and each arrow shaft pounded like a battering ram. One, two, three, ringing bells as they met the umbrella-shield.
Thunder clapped from above. Rain fell. A drizzle and then a torrent within a split-moment.
Wolf peeked out from the umbrella, feeling the water droplets fall on his face. He saw the man in red land on the wide steps below, staring up at Wolf on top the gatehouse roof. Around them, the flames began to fizzle under the rain, hissing as pockets of fire dimed and subsided.
The man in red spoke, "I've killed you twice now, Wolf."
Wolf narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Then, a fourth arrow pierced him from behind, punching through his ribs and out his chest.
The darkness came quicker this time. And so did the fire within him. It roared with a vengeance, hotter than before.
He grasped the arrowhead, snapping the shaft and pulling both front- and back-ends out. He tossed them down with disdain.
"More," Wolf growled, the word an iron spattering in a forge.
"I see myself growing tired of this soon," the white-haired archer said with a sigh, but then replaced his bow with his two swords.
Once again, he disappeared, the disturbance in the falling rain the only sign he was there at all.
Wolf could not dodge this time. He heard a faint whisper in his ears, "Three." Then he was suddenly falling, a blade stuck in the side of his chest, blood trailing his descent to the ground below. He struck the floor hard, bounced once, twice, and the darkness came as his head connected with something.
There was hatred in the flames now. Before it was only heat, now rage seared and scorched as well. Wolf reached for it—he was made from it.
The man in red jumped down to stand over him. This was wrong, Wolf felt. No man should stand over him. A walking dead man, perhaps.
His right hand sought out the hilt of the Black Mortal Blade, sifting through the grit and ashes.
An iron-shode boot crunched down on his fingers. He strained and squirmed, but no matter his rage or how hard he struggled, there was no freeing them.
"Four," came the man's cold voice, and Wolf felt a blade drive through his spine.
It was all familiar to him now. The blade, the darkness, the fires. And as he looked into the flames within, he saw a new world. A world filled with corpses. Corpse strung up by the nooses. Corpses torn and stripped to the bones. Corpses piled into pyramids, and towers, and mountains. All burning. All made by his hands.
A deep, guttural, feral roar came out of his throat then. His prosthetic arm reached for the boot stepping down on his right hand, grasping at it, clawing at it. He tried crawling forward but found himself still impaled to the ground by the sword in his back.
"I wonder if I cut you to many pieces and bury them separately, will you still be able to come back?" the man in red said, pondering aloud. There was a sound of metal slicing, and Wolf suddenly found himself severed at the right elbow, his right arm still pinned under the man's foot. Blood leaked out onto the ash-covered floor.
But that freed Wolf to twist his torso. With his knees and prosthetic arm underneath him, he pushed, prising the tip of the impaling sword out of the stone pavement. But as he brought himself up to stand, the man in red planted a foot on his chest and kicked.
Wolf tumbled back, slipped on the rain-slick floor, and landed on his back. Then the man in red was on top of him, his sword swinging for Wolf's neck. By reflex Wolf raised his prosthetic arm and felt his entire left side jarred as the blade bit deep into the forearm. The white-haired archer brought his other hand to press down on the blade and the prosthetic arm creaked heavily under the added pressure. The man leaned with his whole weight and the sword's edge inched towards Wolf's throat.
"Have you ever heard the phrase 'when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object'?" the man in red asked.
Wolf bared his teeth in reply.
"I suppose this applies to us now. I can kill you a thousand times, and a thousand times you'll just revive. So how do you suppose we end our predicament?" And the man in red raised an eyebrow.
"You die," spat Wolf.
At that, the man in red chuckled. "Perhaps. But I'm thinking of another way," he said as he pressed down the sword harder. "But it's not one that I particularly like."
The blade's edge was now touching the skin of Wolf's neck. A thin line of blood dripped out, mixing with the falling raindrops. Overhead, lightning spidered across the night's sky, shining light on the darkened area as the raging fires extinguished. Both Wolf and the Counter Guardian were close enough to hear each other breathe.
"How do you kill a man who can't be killed?" the man in red continued, his voice cold and flat. "You don't. The best you can do is take them somewhere far, somewhere where they cannot harm anyone, and keep them there. Alaya knows this, and that is why I think she sent me specifically.
"I would explain more to you, but I doubt you would understand," the man in red said, weighing down more heavily. "I can see it in your eyes, you're no longer there, are you, Wolf?"
The rage within Wolf seemed to respond, flaring like a furnace stoked by an iron rod. He squirmed to roll to his side but with one arm missing, he could not find the leverage to escape under the archer's weight.
"Let us continue our battle elsewhere, Wolf. Maybe, till the end of time," the white-haired archer said, and his eyes closed. When he spoke again, it was in a different tongue. A voice that sent Wolf's steaming skin crawling. "I am the bone of my sword…"
Wolf could not understand the words, but at the sound of them the air around them began to glow. An unnatural blue aura that seemed to hum in a secret speak.
"Steel is my body, and fire is my blood."
Wolf suddenly knew that the words being chanted must not complete. He did not know what lied at the end of it but knew better than to find out.
"I have created over a thousand blades."
He thrashed, his legs kicking to create any separation between him and the archer. He tried rolling to his side again but the man's pressure was as tight as iron. His stump of a right arm flailed uselessly in attempt to gain purchase on the wet floor.
The face of the man in red was so close. Just reach out, somethingshouted inside him. Grab his tongue. Rip. It. Out.
Then, amidst the raging anger and animalistic howls roaring inside his head, some small remains of his old wits seemed to return. With that, came a moment of clarity.
He took a deep breath, watched the pouring rain, and let his prosthetic arm fall. In the absence of resistance, the white-haired archer's blade sailed into his neck.
And chopped.
The flames within him exploded. It blasted like a thousand firecrackers squeezed into a single barrel. His ears filled with the sound of a hundred arquebus firing at once. His head seemed to erupt white with rage, as if some unconscious part of him knew what was happening, and he screamed.
But then Wolf felt the change. A fresh wind flowing through his limbs to the tips of his fingers. He felt the weight of his opponent even less and his growing strength even more. The world burned, and he burned at the centre. Slowly, steadily, he pushed the sword away out of his neck, felt the cool metal releasing his scalding skin.
The man in red's eyes widened and he threw more weight in an effort to containing Wolf.
"Unknown to death,
Nor known to life."
Wolf's right arm was taking its sweet time to reform; strand by strand, they pieced together from his elbow. Faster, faster, he willed it. He twisted and twisted, until the sword stuck in his prosthetic arm was in no position to strike at his neck again. He stared straight into the white-haired archer's face, which was straining from the effort of holding Wolf back. His lips curled up to form a crooked, jagged grin, showing teeth darkened with blood.
"Have withstood pain to create many weapons."
Finally, his right arm fully formed, and his hand shot for the archer's neck, his fingers wrapping around the thick cords of muscles there, and squeezed. Squeezed hard, white, and tight as a coiled snake. The rainwater dripping down the skin of the man made it more difficult, and Wolf dug his fingernails like hooks.
Despite this, the man seemed barely fazed and he continued to speak, his voice raspy due to the pressure on his vocal cords:
"Yet, those hands will never hold anything."
Wolf reached deep to the flames within, deeper than he ever had before. He reached like a man sticking his arm to touch the base of a furnace. And the flames gave him strength.
The man in red's eyes bulged and he released his sword to pull on Wolf's hand, trying to prise the iron grip away. As he did so, Wolf bridged his back, threw one leg over the other, while his now-free prosthetic arm pushed at the man's waist. The manoeuvre saw him flipped the archer onto the ground, gaining the top mount position.
The white-haired archer gasped as his back hit the ground, but then continued without slowing another beat,
"And now an undying demon I must trap, in the world of my blades."
Wolf choked the man with two hands. He pressed down with all he had, summoning all the rage within. It felt like all the anger in the world, and he roared an inhuman howl. But still, the man kept going.
"And so, as I pray…"
Wolf released the man's throat, yanked the sword stuck in his prosthetic forearm out, and stabbed down with both hands. The man in red caught the blade between his palms, stopping the point several inches from his face. His mouth twisted to form the words:
"Unlimited…"
Wolf threw his weight on top the sword. He felt it sink, sliding between the hands of the archer. But it was slow. Slow like the narrow river steadily eroding the earth to form the steep gully.
"Blade…"
The sword's point touched the bridge of the archer's nose, scoring a line that trickled blood.
Wolf yelled, screaming his hatred into the weapon.
"Work—"
Then Wolf slumped suddenly, and the man in red stopped his incantation, his expression replaced with confusion. Wolf looked down on his chest and found the blade of an odachi sticking out. It glowed with a red mist that was not of the natural world. The Red Mortal Blade, some dutiful part of his mind thought.
He felt drunk all of a sudden, swaying left then right. The air felt colder than it had been a moment ago. A fire doused by water.
The man in red was staring at him, but Wolf paid little attention to him. He touched the Red Mortal Blade, running his hand along its length, feeling his hand go slick from his own blood. Then, finally, he turned.
"Kuro-sama…" he muttered.
The Divine Heir of the Dragon Heritage stood behind, both hands clutching onto the hilt of the odachi. Soot and ashes marred his skin, his kimono sporting burnt marks across the sleeves and hem. His face was one of sadness and it looked as if tears were leaking down from his eyes, though it was hard for Wolf to tell under the falling rain.
The darkness crept at the corners of his vision, circling in from all sides. This time he knew that there would be no additional chance at life. The flames of Shura was gone, simmering then burning out, fading, fading, fading...
"My shinobi, I have failed you," Kuro spoke, his voice low and sombre and yet steady. "I have asked too much of you. This curse of the Dragon Heritage which I bear, which has corrupted the lives of so many men…I was foolish to think that you too would be immune to its temptations. But you have served me well till now. This, I will never forget."
Wolf opened his mouth to speak, a hundred things crossed his mind to say, but no words came out.
"I realize now that this curse is mine alone to shoulder. That I should ask of no help; this, my grave mistake, which I won't repeat." Kuro paused and Wolf detected a faint tremor in his shoulders. Right there, for but a moment, he looked every bit of the young, thirteen-year boy that he was: cold, shivering, and scared underneath the thunderous rain.
But then the moment passed, and the Divine Heir fixed his eyes into Wolf's. "With this Mortal Blade, I have severed our bond. No longer will my blood stagnate in your body. May you find rest, Wolf." And Kuro thrusted the odachi deeper. The blade made a wet swish noise as it plunged further into Wolf's body. In that one motion, Kuro was brought closer to Wolf and the shinobi saw that indeed his lord was crying.
Wolf had never seen his lord cry before. Even as young as he was, defenceless as he was, years of being nothing but the captive of all those who coveted for his divine bloodline, Kuro did not cry. But yet he cried for Wolf. Why?
Wolf wanted to ask his lord to stop crying, but as he opened his mouth, felt a sudden shifting vertigo. He collapsed to his side, eyes still focused upon his lord. As the darkness claimed him for the final time, he thought only of his betrayal, the thing he had become, and Kuro's tears. The rain continued to fall, stinging and freezing. Around them, the land of Ashina laid in ruins, its pride and glory now confined to history.
Thinking of this all, Wolf died.
Author's Notes: Sekiro: Shadows Dies Twice is my first FromSoftware game, though I'm quite familiar with the other Soulsborne games, just that I haven't played them. I absolutely loved it. Aside from the exceptional gameplay (and hundreds if not thousand times dying), I fell in love with the setting and spent so much time just browsing youtube for lore-hunting videos and then going back in game to search for those clues myself. More than that, I've come to love the characters of Wolf and Kuro; although FromSoftware games have a very minimalistic storytelling style, I just can't help but feel that there's so much more than what meets the eye with Wolf and Kuro's relationship. Is it a lord-servant bond, or a protector-victim bond, or a blood bond (literally), or maybe something deeper? Either way, I figured that I really want to write something with these characters.
This takes place after the Shura ending of Sekiro: Shadows Dies Twice if you can't already tell. One thing I realized in the case of this ending is that Sekiro basically becomes an undying demon set on killing everyone. And even if people somehow managed to stop him by repeatedly killing, eventually everyone would die of dragonrot. To me, that sounds like a threat big enough for Alaya to send a Counter-Guardian to deal with. Thus, this prologue was born. It also begs the question what happens to Kuro after Wolf turns Shura.
Anyway, enough rambling from me. Let me know what you think of this prologue. I will try to update as soon as I can.