Blood streaked across the parquet floor as the moonlight seeped through the intricate latticework of the shoji doors, splashing uneven patterns of silver on the crimson-stained wood. Every muscle in Aki’s body tensed as she pressed her back against the cool lacquered wall, the tang of iron in the air sharp against her senses. Outside, the sounds of laughter and muffled conversation emanated from the grand courtyard, where a nobleman’s celebration masked the carnage within his chambers. Aki adjusted her grip on the daggers, their blades honed with the precision of master artisans, their mirrored surfaces reflecting her own steely gaze. Tonight, she wore black—form-fitting silk interwoven with thin panels of lightweight armor, designed for speed and silence. Her knee-high boots creaked softly as she shifted, her body as lithe and agile as a shadow. A blood-red sash belted her waist, the only dash of color against the midnight ensemble.
The fox mask hanging from her side bounced lightly as she moved toward her next target. She had made it a habit to carry the mask, a token from her now-forgotten life as the adopted daughter of a toymaker—before her apprenticeship turned her into a weapon. Beneath her feet, the tatami creaked with a delicate protest, but years of training allowed her to blend her movements seamlessly into the creaks and groans of the old castle.
Sprawled across the center of the chamber was the first guard, lifeless. The man hadn’t even seen her coming. Her mastery of the crimson-hand technique—a lethal fighting art passed down from her predecessors—ensured no squandered movement; the flicker of her blade was the final moment in the man’s short, startled life. As she crossed over his fallen form, Aki glanced at her reflection in the polished black window. The moonlight illuminated her face, framed by her straight, jet-black hair that skated down her jawline. A single bead of sweat slid down her temple, but her piercing eyes, defined by dark kohl and the smudged residue of battle, betrayed no hesitation. She wasn’t just an assassin. She was a ghost of vengeance.
The backdrop to her mission was an idyllic one—a sprawling mountaintop keep surrounded by autumnal brilliance. Hundreds of flaming maple trees stood sentry around the estate, their fiery hues rich in the candlelit glow of the paper lanterns lining the pathways. But Aki had no time to admire the scenery as she calculated her next move. It was here, years ago, that her family was taken from her. Here, between stone walls and tea gardens, that her childhood was reduced to ash. And it was here that she would end the life of Takagawa Noburu.
A sudden shift in the ambient noise—footsteps. Three guards hustled in the hallway to her left. Aki sprinted forward, her boots silent over the tatami. She vaulted nimbly onto an overhead rafter, crouching low within the shadows as the trio burst into the chamber. They stumbled onto the grisly scene, their shouts filling the room as they unsheathed their spears, darting their eyes fervently in search of an intruder.
Aki steadied her breathing. Her heart thudded in a controlled rhythm as she watched them below, waiting for the perfect moment. Years of training under her mysterious mentor, Kajiwara, had taught her patience. “The blade that strikes with haste finds only air,” he’d often said. So, she waited. And when one of the guards moved too far from the others, she dropped, her strikes impeccably quick. The assassinated guard gurgled only briefly before collapsing soundlessly to the floor. The remaining two turned too late. Aki lunged, evading their attacks with serpentine grace. She dispatched them with flurries of steel that mirrored the moonlight filtering in through the doors.
It was over in seconds.
The Bitter Past
The scent of plum blossoms drifted faintly in through the open doors, carrying memories she wished to bury. The castle, once her home, had belonged to her family eight years ago, before Takagawa’s betrayal. He’d come under the guise of friendship, a young diplomat and ambitious samurai eager to carve his name into the annals of history. Instead, his ambitions saw her family burned alive and their legacy erased. He had accused her father of treason to the feudal daimyo, seizing the estate and claiming all their wealth in one orchestrated stroke.
At the time, Aki had been only fifteen, hidden in the hollow tree of the garden by her mother’s trembling hands. She had borne witness to the massacre, her eyes watching flames consume everything she loved while her screams were stifled by the bark against her lips. It was Kajiwara who found her under the stars that night, a wandering warrior who had sensed the massacre from a distance. It was Kajiwara who trained her to become death itself and to reclaim her destiny.
The Final Confrontation
Aki now stood before the grand doors of the inner sanctum. Two massive courtiers guarded Takagawa’s inner chamber. They towered like statues, their armor shining beneath ornate helmets topped with crimson crests. These weren’t ordinary men. Each held a naginata—a curved blade affixed to long, lethal poles, their muscular arms flexing as they gripped the weapons.
“Your kind should have stayed in the dirt a long time ago,” one sneered. Aki said nothing. With a flick of her wrist, her daggers sang in the silence, one of the blades leaving her hand and striking the man’s wrist so precisely that he dropped his naginata. His curse echoed as she lunged, her blade severing the straps of his kabuto (helmet) with surgical precision, leaving him exposed. A span of three heartbeats later, he joined his ancestor spirits in the void.
The remaining guard was less brash but just as fierce. Their duel was a dance, the naginata sweeping mere inches from her chest as her boots glided across the polished wood. She capitalized on his momentary hesitation—a feint toward her mask—and drove a blade into the unprotected flesh beneath his arm.
When the doors finally opened, she found Takagawa seated in his gilded throne, a smug look etched across his weathered face. He wore a lavish crimson kimono, stitched with golden cranes that seemed to soar in the candlelight. His greying hair was tied elegantly, his imposing figure seated as if mocking her approach.
“So, you’ve come at last,” he said, his voice like gravel. He drew a katana, its steel humming with latent energy.
Aki said nothing. Words would not return her family to this earth. The silence of her cold fury spoke louder than anything she could ever say.
The clash between them would become the stuff of legend, whispered by wandering bards and feared in the hearts of noblemen drunk on power.
Genre: Historical Fiction/Action
The Source…check out the article that inspired this amazing short story: Sleek Black Assassin Outfit Ideas: Yor Forger Cosplay Inspiration
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