She remembered the day she lost the one person she had ever loved. At first, she thought it was a love for a father, but now, she realized, it was more. For the longest time she thought it was impossible for her to love anyone, she still found it hard to believe she could love the man that had taken her off the streets.
She remembered that night, when she had been a child of only eleven. Racism had been strong in Japan, her physical features hated by all. Driven from her home, she walked the streets as a beggar, nobody cared for her, nobody stopped to assist her, even as she lay in a gutter sleeping, freezing in the night air.
Then one night, a local pimp had spotted her walking along a deserted street. He had followed her for ten minutes before she realized, by then however, it was to late.
A local had been casually strolling down the street when he heard a cry, then screaming. He looked and saw a man attempting to tear the clothes off a young street walker, he had her by the hair, holding her scrambling body off the ground, her feet not touching the road. His other hand was ripping her shirt open, the local could see she was a female, a young female.
Usually, in this part of town, such things were a common occurrence, women were not respected much in Japan, and one being raped was of no concern to most people, most felt indifferent, even when they saw it firsthand. But this man, he felt a boiling in his stomach, a deep hate filled emotion. An emotion brought on when he had saw his mother raped and slaughtered in front of him when he was a child. They made him watch, they made him do things to her screaming body, they laughed, even as he cried.
He unsheathed his katana and charged. The pimp heard somebody running up behind him, he turned, dropping the crying girl. He unsheathed his own katana and tried to parry a strike from the attacking man, but the man faked, bringing the blade back from a vertical slice, instead going sideways, cutting the pimp's leg's off.
He screamed, his eyes bulging at what just happened. He fell to the ground, feeling hot wetness where his legs once were, then excruciating pain. The man looked down at the writhing pimp with unsympathetic eyes, even feeling a sense of happiness, a feeling of ultimate revenge.
Something garnered his gaze ahead, he looked up and saw the girl, she had scooted herself to the side of a wall, her clothes ripped, the night air freezing her naked body. He realized she was now his responsibility. He went forward and picked her up, she felt dazed, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
And that was how she had met him, but now, he had died. She came back from her quest, a journey. She had been so happy to return, to finally tell him how much he had missed her, how much she had wanted to be in his arms again, how much she had loved him.
He had been ill from an infection, an infection from a wound. A sword wound.
His last words were "Don't be angry Setsuka, it was my choice. I've never felt so alive, at that moment. I finally found a warrior worthy of me, and he proved the better. I am now, truly happy." She grew even sadder at this, wishing his love for her was enough, but it hadn't been. She asked, her voice quivering. "Who was it?" He looked at her and answered. "Revenge, Setsuka, is not what I trained you for." She asked again, on the verge of tears. " Who was it?" He understood. "His name was... Heishiro Mitsurgi."
His eyes glazed, the life behind them fading away. He uttered one last thing. "I love you Setsuka, I always have. From the moment I layed eyes on you." With that, he died. She dropped to the floor crying.
Now, she stood at the top of a hill, overlooking a vast landscape. This swordsman was out there. This swordsman who killed the love of her life, and for what? Honor? Pride? Whoever he was, he was going to die, her blade would be the killer, she, its composer. She knew it, revenge coursing through her blood like fire.