Chapter 4

Man and boy, meet again.

The streets of Kyoto were orderly. Kept neat. Dimly lit, but well frequented. A festival burlesquing in a time like this. Incredulous, he thought. And people drank, and music played— like Kyoto was drunk under the pretence, that war wasn't raging. The man in the long coat ambled though the lightly lit streets, holding onto the red hems of his coat. Damn. As if being 3 heads taller than most people would help, the mantle of the Hiten Mitsurugi was certainly doing him no favour. He pushed forward, carrying himself with a grace unexpected for a bulky man.

A katana was tucked under the cloak. His gait was sauntering. His eyes fixed forward, disinterested. Around him, a dozen hostile ki's flared in his direction. Since when did a simple sake-run become so bothersome? Hiko Seijuro sighed, blowing the bangs out of his face.

The city was overrun by spies and conspirators. He was big and noticeable: parting crowds with his long strides. This was kami-damned Kyoto. Someone was bound to jump him, for one thing or another. Like I want to hear another bout of propaganda from an army conscriptor—or another one of those delirious revolutionaries.

How troublesome. He ducked into a liquor store, bought the most expensive sake available, and sat down at a table with a cup of tea. He didn't want to drink now. He couldn't enjoy it here. Kyoto tasted like blood, whatever he tried.

The bulky man scoffed, sinking into his seat in the corner, and didn't movie again until the lights blinked out. When Kyoto stopped masquerading under the lanterns. And the wolves were set free. The demons released. Hiko stepped out onto the streets once more, and it was a different world. Still and silent. Like the dead. Deserted.

The lights lit up his eyes, and Hitokiri Battousai stood mesmerised by the people. Tonight, the war was on stalemate, and the people milled around him, close enough to brush past his clothes and tangle his hair. No one glancing back twice, flinching away like he was the plague.

Here, he could wear the face of a human. Play a civilian. A child, lost in the crowd.

But this was Kyoto, and no children pranced around here, festival or not. But under the guise of the bright moonlight, the smell of food filling his senses, he let himself forget, wafting around the crowd like any other. But a man strolled toward him from the distance, eyes seeking him out, an intensity siphoning out of his ki. Battousai darkened, making the colour of amber seep into his eyes; grimacing inside to keep his face impassive.

For any well-trained eye…or not… this spy was so very-goddamned-obviously a spy. Walking in a straight line with murder in his eyes.

Well, that's quaint.

You will not need to murder once in your life, should the Shishi choose you wisely. I have that pleasure, Sir. My burden to bear.

And he passed him without a word, hearing paper scrunch into his sleeve. Stopping at a small crowd off the path, he tossed a coin to a street busker: letting the strums of their 17-stringed-koto simmer over his thoughts. The music was cheery, and the wind carried it over their heads. He was wrong. The war did not wait. The war did not still. He was needed again tonight. And he stood with the music droning into the background of chatter and laughter, waiting for the lights to go out, and the killers to come out.

If the ki flares from before really wanted to die tonight, should he really have to draw his sword, then no one else had to feel their blood. No one needed to know. He wouldn't addd to their nightmares. He'd make it clean. Quick. And for a stocky man his size, Hiko slunk into the shadows with a certain ease, pace picking up.

He had entered the outskirts, when a flurry of ki's emerged into his senses. He faltered, edging behind of wall. There was no point in making a commotion— it was wiser to just let them pass. And the escorts marched forward in one, large body, proudly, gloriously; like a kami-damned parade. And with a blink of an eye, Hiko Seijuro was watching blood spill.

It caught even him off guard: a flurry of raised voices, the clash of sword against sword, and glints of metal—strikes flashing like lightning striking. The men encircling the rich man were falling without the knowledge of ever being hit. Dead. But Hiko's eyes were darting about, drinking in the movement of the Hitokiri's fight. Fight. That was a merciful word. This, is a massacre.

He traced his strokes, picking out the dead men before they died. Watching the slaughter play out, Hiko was repelled by the Hitokiri's cruelty; and yet, he found himself darkly admiring his art. And there was something hugely unsettling about the way he moved— the way he spun on his toes and impaled men with an ease. The way he ripped apart flesh and took off their limbs. Adjusting his step ever so slightly, as if leaving room for the corpses to fall. Treading on still-warm bodies, so as to not slip on their blood.

Fighting, as if breathing.

As the sword fell more deadly, the strokes became familiar, familiar; even the way blood spattered, was like remembering a memory. The Hitokiri fought, like Hiko Seijuro.

His blood ran still in their veins as the realisation came over him like a sickness.

In the Hitokiri's ki, there was a stranger. It was cold, unforgiving, unyielding. Not really like the living. Soulless. Hollow. He held onto some last flicker of hope, that he was wrong. But he was right about too many things he wished, were not. A sliver of moonlight beamed by, passing quickly back into darkness. But when he closed his eyes, that tinge of red hair was all he could see.

My baka-deshi is dead. The dogs had finished picking off his bones. And Hiko Seijuro stood, concealed, watching his boy drop the mark of the Shishi amongst the dead. Seeing him chisel away at his soul. Baka-deshi…why did I feed you to the wolves? Look at what you've done to yourself. Kenshin…Hitokiri. Battousai.

He finished wiping his blade, wiping his hands, his face. He scrunched up, revolted, and spat on the roadside. Was there blood in his mouth? Maybe. Probably. He couldn't tell.

It was random, miraculous even, but for a moment, he twisted around, eyes blaring into the dark. For a fleeting moment, he thought he had sensed him. There was nothing in the gloom. The rasps of the downed had stopped, and he was alone.

The hitokiri's eyes drooped, disappointed, but at the same time, he was relieved. He would never see his master again. He would hope that he'd never see him again. Battousai smiled weakly. In his Shishou's eyes, he could still be that little, green boy who played spinning top and cried at a grazed knee. Mourning for the passing of a butterfly. Untainted. Still human. To him, he could still be Himura Kenshin. And he'd give anything to keep his Shishou from seeing the monster he'd become.

You were right, Shishou. You were always—right.

In the dead of the night, two figures walked alone, drawing further and further away from one another, into the opposite direction.

Glossary

17-stringed-koto: The Koto is a traditional instrument with 17 strings. Check it out here- wwwdotyoutubedotcom/watch?v=pxS7J3jswPk

ki: Um, this is like, a person's aura or energy.

kami: God. So, phrases like 'Kami-damned' was used :3

no one else had to feel their blood- I wanted to explain this phrase, its talking about how Hiko didn't want to involve civilians or fight near them. If he did, innocents would feel blood spatter from him fighting ._.

Notes

Mr. Spy, get your stuff together, man.

Ok, I realise that "Anthology" actually refers to a series of stories about the same subject, written by different authors. So what I'm writing is really a "collection," by the same author. Forgive me for not changing this- 'anthology' just sounds so much cooler :3

Yay, another chapter! Hope you like it. Ok, this is kinda important, I highly recommend that you read another one of my mid-length oneshots, 'The Morose' here as a sort of a 'Chapter 4.5.' I'm sorry to have to make you go searching for it, its under my name, but I just didn't want to post the same story twice thats not good. Its not compulsory of course XD, but it accounts Kenshin's last assassination job and it makes perfect sense for it to be read between chapters 4 and 5. Check it out before the next chapter if you wish. 'The Morose' is the most action-packed piece I've written so far.

Thanks for reading!

I would love nothing more than a review.

Now off to the next chapter!

-earl