THE MASTER

A stranger marched into the wild north. But the further he went, the clearer it became to him: Hiko Seijūrō, thirteenth of his name, was done with the Land of the Rising Sun.

He stopped on the pebbly shore of the Omono river with the low sun in his eyes. Crouching, he sank his hands into the cold waters to wash off the day from his face. He should be way past Yuzawa by now, flanked by vast rice paddies as he followed the Omono river into the sea. Instead, he'd lost a day chasing an angry boy he'd already saved.

He didn't care for children. Never had, never would—or so he thought. That gaze had haunted him all throughout the night, from the moment he walked away from it and through his wholehearted attempts to drown it with booze and dimly lit rooms. Somehow, the kid's gaze burned hotter than the flesh he gripped to forget himself.

When he woke up alone, even his cloak seemed to judge him from a crumpled lump on the floor. He scoffed. Him, defeated by a foolish sense of responsibility he never had?

Gritting his teeth, he had undone every footstep all the way back to the foot of the mountain, where the low hum of a temple bell called the people of Innai to noon prayer.

The dry greens and dark grays of the ridge overshadowed the post town's every bend. It was vast. Ever-present. Inescapable. But that only meant everything but death eventually ended up in that town. Had the boy so much as tumbled down the hillside, his sullen mug would sooner or later roll all the way down.

Seijūrō cornered everyone who so much as met his gaze by mistake. Unapologetic, he probed and pressed the men, women and geezers who very much wanted to be left out of that drama. But alas, unsurprisingly, nobody knew anything. Nobody ever did.

With winter looming over their fields, nobody could spare a thought for yet another mouth to feed. Those less pressed for food just muttered about poor parents forced to sell their sons and daughters for the family's sake. Then there was the odd one who'd rather play deaf than face reality.

Some part of him still understood—still had that nub of filial piety festering somewhere. But that didn't mean he couldn't hate them. Wraiths, all of them, drifting through life with eyes so dull, so shameless.

None cared for a child lost while being dragged south.

No one wanted a lost boy. So why was he still looking?

Crows were cawing the day to an end. He glared at his reflection in the river, dark-eyed and gruff against the wan yellow sky. Fool. He shouldn't have held such hopes if the land itself was trying to shake everyone off it. Greed and misery had all but bled dry any goodwill he could've found—and now, the black ships had come to pick the bones clean.

His scowl darkened. Those cursed barbarians…

"Ain't nothin' been right since they turned up."

Startled, Seijūrō turned toward the scratchy voice echoing his thoughts—a wiry old man peeking out like a turtle from under a worn straw hat. He hadn't seen the old geezer before, slouched behind some bushes with a flimsy fishing rod in hand. Damn it—was he that much out of sorts because of a goddamn brat?

Narrowing his eyes, he took the old man's measure. He wouldn't have pegged that dim-eyed man for a sage, but…

"Ain't that right, old man," he conceded, tilting his head.

The fisherman nodded sharply at him, grinding his anger between his gums. He fished out a lackluster but hefty jug of saké and jutted it Seijūrō's way—only for the man's hand to pause at the last second, somewhat to his own amazement. He glanced at the sun, edging toward the mountaintops. His fingers curled into a fist. No time for that now.

"Say, you haven't seen a boy around here, have you?" The swordsman asked, clearing his throat. Then, as an afterthought, "An angry-looking one."

"Nope," the fisherman responded. Then, pinching a stone between his bony fingers, he hurled it at a noisy pair of crows lingering too close—only for them to veer off with a lazy flap of their wings. He clicked his tongue in frustration. "But winter ain't kind to mouths that can't work. Do y'rself a favor—stop lookin'. Unless yer takin' him in."

Seijūrō's scowl deepened. What the hell kind of answer was that? But the damned fisherman was not done.

"Ain't nothing to spare here—and if ye'r thrown in a temple, they crack your spine open." His voice dropped to a creak, eyes narrowed until just a sliver of black was left. "And if ye'r not, ye fish or ye starve. If ye'r lucky."

His lips pressed into a hard line, but his brow didn't shift. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it. He'd hoped the boy had made it to the village, found a roof over his head. Finding him one, though? That was a whole other story. Still, he had pushed on, deaf to reason. Why? To drop him anywhere and get on with his life? What good was saving a boy just to leave him to rot?

"Better let it die, save it the trouble…"

A cold emptiness crept in, seeping through the folds of his robes like night chill. The old man didn't even flinch as Seijūrō stood.

"I'll be taking that jug now," the swordsman said, voice flat, flipping a few coins onto the dirt. Their sound brought a glint to the old man's eyes—if only for the second it took him to stuff them in his pouch.

Dead eyes everywhere he went… As if all light was blown out of them.

Without another word, he started toward the blood-soaked mountain. As he walked away, he heard the crows caw in protest once again.

"Those pesky lot, all they want is to steal my haul," the old man rasped, his hand already reaching for another stone. "Ain't nothin' been right since they turned up."

Meanwhile, behind his bent back, two cheeky tits pecked furiously at his bait, entirely unnoticed.

• • •

The pungent stench of day-old blood hit him before he even saw the black patch in the narrow mountain path.

Long shadows stretched over the ghastly trail, lined with the cinders of burnt paper lanterns. Pausing at the threshold, Seijūrō took in the aftermath of last night's slaughter. The scrambled footprints and forgotten trinkets had turned the paved stones into a red and black brocade under the agonizing light of sunset. It looked so… quiet. Eerily beautiful.

Or it would have been, if not for the pair of severed fingers waiting for him at his feet.

He glanced at the Jizō statues standing watch by the roadside, their stone smiles unwavering even in the face of those they failed to protect. Swirling the jug of saké he'd bought from the old geezer, he listened to the meager slosh inside. He winced.

"Next time, I'll bring one for you too," he excused, taking a long swig for himself. The cheap, vinegary stuff burned his throat in all the wrong ways. He relished it.

Wiping his chin with the rough cloth and worn iron of his vambraces, he dropped a small stack of loose stones at the foot of the closest statue. He'd better get moving; he barely had any light left—and he wasn't one to linger around death anyway.

But then again, what was he lingering for?

The world flickered between pools of shadow and dying light as he walked. Every other step crunched over combs, pipes, and shattered tobacco boxes. Their echoes carried through the empty gallery of trees, tumbling down the hillside into the valley below. But that was the thing: Save for a tooth, an eye, or the odd severed arm, the bodies were gone.

Could it be...?

He picked up the pace amidst a dead murder of crows—some of them still with a bite halfway down their beaks. Up the bend, a pair of feet dragged limply through the underbrush. He chased after, heart thrumming in his head. And there, he saw it: a small figure bathed in red, tugging at a body nearly twice its size.

A small figure that breathed.

"You idiot!" He snapped, his voice booming in the empty road.

Swallowing a shriek, the boy stumbled back. Fear flashed clear as daylight in his eyes—his gaze unfocused, darting past Seijūrō's shoulders and catching on the glint of mail, beneath his collar. But then it softened as it traced the worn brocade lining his cloak. Lingered briefly on the dull-crimson lacquer of his scabbard before stilling itself beneath the fraying hood.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" Seijūrō asked, slightly annoyed by the defiant glint in the boy's wary gaze. He'd expected—well, anything but.

"Can' leave," the kid muttered, shrinking slightly even as he held his gaze.

Seijūrō drew a sharp breath. He turned, eyeing the dense underbrush encroaching on the narrow path, the gaps between ancient cedars that once neatly lined the road, and the steep drops just beyond. From up here, the way down wasn't nearly as clear-cut as it had seemed from Innai. The corners of his mouth tightened. Of course the kid couldn't leave…

"Let's go," he grumbled, giving a tentative step toward the valley.

"Can' leave."

…

Seijūrō's brow twitched. What?

"Why?" he spat through gritted teeth. The boy stood slowly, wobbling as he wiped the bloodied dirt from his palms. Without saying a word, he wrapped his arms around the corpse's neck and tugged its dead weight backward—toward the hollow roots of a fallen pine a few steps ahead, beneath which lay a dozen corpses, half-buried beneath dry leaves, pine needles, and sticks.

For the love of Buddha. "They're dead! They don't care anymore!" Seijūrō exploded, throwing his arms up with the exasperation of more than a day of restless, unrelenting—what? Anger? Shame? He scoffed in disbelief. Why the hell had he bothered?

"I care."

…

Wild-eyed, Seijūrō stared at the stupid boy, nearly swallowed by the nobody he dragged toward a grave kinder than the bastard deserved. There was an obstinate stubbornness in the way he struggled with a weight probably three times his own—but also something of a steadfast tenderness and care not to pull or rip anything as he did it. He'd seen that care. That mulish glint beneath the boy's hood.

Damn those eyes.

"… Move."

Hoisting the corpse onto his own shoulders, Seijūrō crossed the distance to the hollow pine in a few strides. He found a spot between a large, bloated lump and a bird-boned girl in a pink, flowered dress—and laid the body as gently as he could manage, despite the way his skin crawled.

The boy shuffled next to him, carrying an armful of dirt, leaves, and pine needles to blanket the poor bastard with. He'd been too thin for a bodyguard, yet too wiry for a merchant. "A slave too?" Seijūrō asked as he watched the boy pick small handfuls at a time to cover him from head to toe.

"Mm. Bandit."

Seijūrō stared.

"He can't 'urt no one now though."

It was the most idiotic answer he'd ever heard. Borderline insane. As if that pink, flowered strip sewn onto the boy's hood marked precisely where his head had split.

His gaze drifted to the bird-boned girl's dress, its bloodied sleeve missing an inch of cloth.

"Stupid boy," Seijūrō muttered, shoulders sagging slightly.

He stood back as the kid continued to cover what was left of them with stones and sticks. He didn't point out how futile it was. A stubborn crow could easily undo all the boy's work—let alone a peckish bear. He just waited in silence until the kid stuck an upright branch at the head of each mound. Then, slowly, almost affectionately, Seijūrō uncorked his jug of saké and poured it onto each one—its scent swept away by the rising wind.

"I have no incense, no offering but this," he began, his voice rough around the edges. "But to die without knowing the taste of a good saké is a crime—be it man, woman, or child."

Glass-eyed, the boy watched the last drops scattering in the fading light. His fingers uncoiled. Then, a slight, shallow nod over an even shallower breath—a silent 'thank you'.

Seijūrō corked the empty jug with a grunt. Stepping back towards the road, he winced at a rough spot, still parched right at the back of his throat. Such a waste… Had he saved a drink or two, he could've enjoyed it under the first stars, aggressively shimmering against the blueing sky above his head. He could already feel the chill seeping inside his collar. That would be a cold, cold night…

"Come," he beckoned over his shoulder as he bundled up for the road back.

A quiet shuffle snapped him back and he turned to face the pair of large, clear eyes emerging from the underbrush. The boy swayed in place, waiting—ready to follow him home like a lost pup. What was he going to do with that kid? Winter ain't kind to mouths that can't work, Seijūrō remembered with a wince. The boy could definitely use a bowl or soup or two, and he certainly didn't see how he could fare against the smallest bale of rice, but to put him down just because he was a bit of a runt…

But what was the difference between letting him rot on a mountain and letting him rot in life in such a dead-eyed, backwater village?

Well… to hell with that.

His grip tightened around the empty jug. "Let's go," he ordered, decidedly turning his back to the valley up north. "Leave the dead to their rest"

The boy looked back to the silent graveyard hidden in the underbrush. And didn't move.

Seijūrō's brow furrowed. "You won't forget them," he assured. "You will remember the weight of their lives, of the things they never did. But wallowing won't help you—or honor their memory."

The woods sighed in the breeze. He couldn't see the boy's face under his patched hood, but what he could see were his small hands, squeezing and twisting the bloodied front of his robe. Fair enough, Seijūrō thought as he took a deep breath in: He had needed a little nudge long ago too.

"Boy. Name?"

For a moment, the wind stilled.

Then, barely a whisper: "… Shinta."

A soft smile curved Seijūrō's lips as he turned his back to the boy, picturing the vast paddies of the valley, ripe rice swaying softly over the quiet pools mirroring the skies. "That name is too soft for the world you were born into."

A low rustle, like cloth folding onto itself.

"Your only chance is to become strong yourself," he continued, placing a heavy hand on the hilt of his sword. "From now on, you'll be Kenshin."

"… Ken… shin…"

Looking over his shoulder, Seijūrō sized the scrawny little figure now facing him straight on. Beneath his small hood, the boy's eyes were ablaze. He smirked.

"I'll make sure you grow into it."

But he wouldn't know how quickly that promise would sour.