Chapter 3
Taunt him.
A maddening silence fell over Kyoto. Streets once filled with the hustle and bustle of people, every twist and turn stuffed with stalls and performers and children, were striped bare, merely a ghostly reminder of the day. Now completely deserted, the winding paths stretched on into oblivion, seemingly more narrow and claustrophobic than it ever was before. Silence permeated on, lingering undisturbed through the empty streets—an eerie soundlessness. Enough to drive man into madness.
A half-moon barely escapes confinement behind black clouds, illuminating the skeletal streets. Uncannily bright against the absence of a single lit flame. Elongated shadows projected grotesque figures against fences and buildings; growing slowly, gluttonously, as if it were consuming what lay in its path. Laying Kyoto to waste.
It was times like this, in the utter dead of night, would some living soul feel the sudden rushing current of a shadow flit past, but hear next to nothing. Or see the mirror-like surface of a puddle break, ridden with ripples, still without the slightest of noise, all in an instant. But as the pathways became marred with blotchy, pigmented smudges, so telling of something being splattered over it; and people, officials, vanished into thin air, the watchful nights collapsed. Come sundown, there was no law. Come nightfall, not a single soul could be found outside the barricaded domains of closed doors, bolted windows and curtains drawn to a close. Don't taunt the shadows, and they won't come to you.
This was Kyoto.
A coarse, metallic scraping of metal sounded upon the rooftops, drawn out slowly to reverberate though the air. It was a sound in which no soul in the era of Bakumatsu would not come to know. And dared break the silence. The blade of a katana had been unsheathed, one side sharpened to perfection, glinting brightly—as if in mockery of the moon. A man sat alone atop the brickwork, hunched over the weapon, and streaking a cloth over what was yet to be tainted. Habitual polishing had become ritual, and the man would repeat it over and over, cleaning soon-to-be impurities even if only to pass the time.
He sat in wait, careful to keep his stoic demeanour shrouded in darkness. He was calm, but alert, fully aware of every passing second, and absolutely on guard.
Sheathing away the katana at his side, the man almost seemed to stop ticking altogether—achieving a stillness that no human could possibly be capable of. Don't taunt the shadows and they won't come to you. In Kyoto, the shadows were where demons prowled, where wolves hunted. And his name was renowned. A shadow out for blood.
Suddenly, emerging form the streets, was the flickering of an oil lamp, its yellow light oscillating and irresolute. In its circular radius, stood the men who dared light a flame. Four bodyguards surrounded a middle-aged man in flamboyant dress. The hitokiri could tell at a glance, simply by the way he took his strides, that he was the official. But tonight, he was nothing more to him than a target. He had been given his name, but there was no point in remembering it. After tonight, all he would be was a dead corpse. As soon as he stepped into the hitokiri's sight, he was, just another dead corpse.
The hitokiri squinted, his eyes adjusting, unaccustomed yet to the pool of light below. Inhumanly still, he lay on the rooftop, his left hand drifting unconsciously to the sheath in his belt. The four men below were armed, each clutching their katana until their knuckles became white. Clutching on for dear life. He could almost smell their fear. Their incompetence. Their sacrifice. Don't taunt the shadows and they wont come to you. They had chosen their allegiances, they had sided with the shogunate—and that was enough for the hitokiri. Tonight, there won't be just one corpse in the streets of Kyoto.
His heart was beating now, faster and faster as he shallowed his breath. The men were drawing nearer. The hitokiri daintily clasped his hand over the hilt of the katana, finding his mark. His muscles tensed around the fabric-like texture, and he was lost in his trance. Every breath was a last count-down. Every footstep closer sounded in his ears. He could feel his own blood pulsating though his veins. "For the Ishin Shishi" he muttered. "For tenchuu." Light bloomed onto his face from below. "For the new era."
He charged.
Glossary
Shogunate: The existing feudal regime that the Ishin Shishi fought against
Ishin Shishi: The imperialists, pro-emperor, revolutionaries, the side that Kenshin fought on.
Hitokiri: An assassin
Tenchuu: 'Heaven's judgement'- phrase used by the Ishin Shishi hitokiri to kill- at least in the manga
Notes
Yay! Another story!
This is Kenshin- Hitokiri Battousai- at the height of his reign in revolutionary Kyoto! It's one of the hundred murders he did in his early year/s under Katsura, according to the Trust and Betrayal OVA. So he hasn't got any intense doubts about his job yet and is totally convicted. Theres no scar on his face yet. He's like, 14/15 here ._.
The top kinda overlapped a bit with the first chapter...oh well.
More to come :)
-earl