The moment Merin charges, two black-clad figures also charge toward him by dividing and flanking him. They are like seasoned hunter and Merin is the prey.
The figure to his right swung his sword toward Merin. Merin evades it, the edge whipping through the air above his hair. While Merin is still bending down tightens his fist and, in a simple, fluid motion, his right fist encased in his inner energy smashes into the figure in front of him. The force propels the figure backwards.
The figure staggers, clutching their stomach, a wet, choking sound issuing from behind the mask. Blood seeps out, staining the cloth a darker red. Merin pivots in the nick of time, evading the lunge of the second figure.
The sword cuts low, aiming for his thigh, but Merin hops back, the steel missing by a hair. Another attack follows, an upward slash. Merin sways sideways, but it is not enough, noticing that the sword would cut his wrists. So, Merin, to mitigate the damage that he would receive, his inner energy appears on his wrists and slows down the attack. So, the sword only grazes him.
Then he counters, not minding the cut, Merin's fist blurs forward and drives into the second figure, right side just beneath the ribs. A crack cuts through the night. The figure stumbles, gasping, its form twisting in pain.
The first figure, no longer gasping, lunges with a fury. Merin narrows his eyes and pivots again, barely sidestepping a downward strike. His energy-gloved hand surges forward again and aims for the same point he struck earlier.
His punch lands true.
A heavy exhale escapes the masked figure as blood spurts from beneath the mask as they stagger back, clutching their stomach. They drop to their knees, coughing violently, and then collapse onto their side with a soft thud.
Merin turns, his gaze steady.
The second figure, witnessing their comrade's demise, charges with a wild, desperate cry. It is too slow and too predictable.
Merin spins into the strike, channelling his momentum, and drives his glowing fist into the attacker's neck. Another loud, sickening snap reverberates through the alley—and the figure collapses instantly, like a puppet with severed strings.
Breathing calmly, Merin lowers his hands, the energy fading from his fists. The alley returns to silence, illuminated only by the flickering lamplight and the two still bodies at his feet.
Merin stands motionless, the silence around him as heavy as a fog. The street lamp overhead cast long, distorted shadows of the three bodies sprawled on the ground. Dark, glistening blood spreads slowly on the cobbled floor.
He stares down at the two he killed. The hands that just moments ago delivered crushing blows now hang loosely. His breathing is unnervingly calm. Too calm. He observes the lifeless forms without so much as a blink.
I killed them, the thought forms in his mind. And there's absolutely no feeling.
His heart doesn't pound. His limbs don't tremor. No wave of guilt rises in his stomach, no bitter taste fills his throat. Only silence. It's as if the violent act never occurred.
He blinks once, slowly. Shouldn't I feel something? He questions himself. Fear? Disgust? Shame?
But there is nothing. It's as if he hadn't extinguished two human lives, but merely flicked away bothersome flies.
He decides he'll analyse this later, when he's safe at home and the metallic tang of blood isn't assaulting his senses. For now, he mumbles, his voice almost lost to the breeze, "Not feeling anything is far better than feeling elated."
A single shake of his head, a slow exhale through his nose. His gaze then shifts back to the bodies—two anonymous assassins and a boy no older than seventeen. The Sky Sword Sect disciple lies on his side, his face still frozen in disbelief, his blade loosely gripped in his hand.
Merin kneels beside the black-clad corpses first. Their clothing is thick and tightly wrapped, designed to conceal their identities. He searches the folds of their robes, the inner linings, their belts—every conceivable hidden pocket. Nothing. No distinguishing emblems, no tokens, not even a tiny scrap of parchment. Just two plain steel swords, and two deceased men. He pulls off one of their masks, confirming they're both male, their faces unknown and unmarked.
No clues at all.
With a quiet sigh, he moves to the disciple's body. His movements are fluid and purposeful. He doesn't enjoy rummaging through the dead—but it's not revulsion he experiences. It's a clear, methodical necessity.
He locates a token—emblazoned with the Sky Sword Sect's sigil—and tosses it aside without a second thought. Not useful, he concludes.
Next, a pouch and he opens it and sees some round and square coins. After tying it back, Merin tucks into his robes. The last item he finds on the waist of the boy is a scroll. He didn't open it as he doesn't think that now is the time.
He pockets it too.
Rising to his feet, he glances once more at the scene. The blood, the bodies, the eerie quiet. A flicker of tension tightens his jaw—then vanishes.
Merin turns without a word, stepping deeper into the narrow alley. Behind him, the flickering lamp fades, his shadow stretching long and silent before vanishing into the dark. The night swallows the bloodied street, a secret buried in silence.
He doesn't go far when clashing steel reaches his ears, echoing off stone and wood. He stops abruptly, pressing himself against the cold alley wall, hidden but close enough to hear. The noise erupts from the street ahead: sharp, swift, intense. Another fight. He exhales slowly, his jaw tightening.
He holds no interest in another skirmish tonight.
The last fight was clean, brief, and simple—not due to Merin's ruthlessness, but because his enemies were inferior. Low-ranking samurai, they lacked finesse, discipline, and true strength. They moved with poor balance, their techniques stiff and full of gaps. They haven't mastered their sword forms, let alone refined them for battle.
Merin, conversely, has. He doesn't merely learn inherited techniques; he alters them, reshaping them to fit his rhythm, his instincts, his inner energy. Every punch he delivers has purpose. Every dodge, precision.
But this fight ahead—this is different.
He has no idea who clashes in the street, and unlike before, they might be his equal—or worse, superior. That makes things dangerous. He isn't affiliated with either side. If he reveals himself, he could become a target for both.
Waiting is better.
He leans quietly against the wall, arms loosely folded as he listens. The relentless clang of swords continues—fast, unyielding. Sparks likely dance where blades strike, though he cannot see from this angle. Still, every metallic ring vibrates through the alley.
I should have taken one of those swords, he thinks. Even a basic weapon would help if I'm forced to fight again.
But he was preoccupied. Not by fear or adrenaline, but by that cold nothingness. The blank space where his emotions should reside. He didn't panic after killing two men. He felt no guilt, no relief. Just... calm. As if it meant nothing. And that troubles him, not that he craves guilt, but that he expects some reaction.
Is it because of my time as a tree? He wonders. That silence... that stillness... did it root too deep inside me?
He believed he'd shed that influence once he began to feel again—anger, joy, sadness. But now, he isn't so certain. Perhaps the echoes of that former life still cling to him, shaping his perception of life and death.
His thoughts shatter as a male voice cuts through the air: "Give us the Blood Pearl, and we will cease our attacks."
A pause, then the same voice, sharper. "Do you think you can keep the Blood Pearl safe?"
Screams erupt. Then a flash of silver energy slices past the alley's open end, curling through the night like a crescent moon of light.
Merin narrows his eyes. High-ranking samurai.
A wise decision, he realises. Had he stepped into the street, he would have been caught in the crossfire. And against a high-ranking samurai, surviving would demand everything he possesses—and even then, he'd sustain wounds.
Another loud clash shakes the air—metal against metal, heavy with force.
Then a woman's voice: "Kanturo, do you know what you're doing? Do you wish to become an enemy of the Sky Sword Sect?"
The man—Kanturo—responds coldly, "Rinee, I don't wish to be your enemy. I will allow every member of the Sky Sword Sect to leave the city... if you surrender the Blood Pearl."
"You think without it, my sect master cannot advance?" she retorts. "The pearl only accelerates the process. It's not essential."
Kanturo replies with an edge of persuasion, "Wouldn't it be better if his breakthrough were guaranteed? Hand it over, and you and your disciples will be safe."
"Wishful thinking," Rinee spits. "We risked everything to get the Blood Pearl. You want it without paying the price. Even if the sect master doesn't need it—I do."
A pause.
Then Kanturo's voice darkens. "Then there's nothing left to say. Only one of us leaves alive tonight."
The battle intensifies. The sounds of fighting grow louder, faster—inner energy flaring in the night, heavy enough that Merin feels the pressure against his skin. Two powerful forces, slamming against each other with lethal intent.
Then Rinee's voice rises again, louder, commanding:
"Asuna! Take it—escape to the sect!"
Merin's eyes sharpen.
Asuna... and the Blood Pearl.
His curiosity sparks. He doesn't know the artefact's full value, but anything that could help a sect master reach the Great Samurai Realm is no trinket. It is power. And now, a girl is on the run with it.
His fingers flex unconsciously. Hidden, unnoticed still—yet Merin senses the shadows are no longer a safe haven.
A part of him itches for the Blood Pearl, to claim it amidst the chaos. He could sell it, use it, or trade it. But reason yanks him back. Even if I take it... I can't use it. The overheard words confirm it: the pearl benefits only those at or near the Great Samurai Realm. He's a Middle-Ranking Samurai—far from that level. And even selling or trading it carries immense risk.
Greed means death.
So he leans against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for the storm to pass, intending to slip away, quiet and unseen.
But fate intervenes.
A shadow streaks into the alley. A girl—young, swift, clearly desperate—bursts through the narrow opening, her breathing ragged. Her robe bears the Sky Sword Sect's mark. Her eyes widen on seeing him, and without a pause, she gasps, "Brother, escape with me."
Merin frowns. "What—"
Before he can finish, five figures clad in black stream into the alley behind her. Their eyes lock onto him instantly, and in that moment, he feels it—a killing intent sharp as knives, pressing down on his skin.
There is no time for questions.
Two choices ignite in his mind:
Option One: Stop the girl. Let her face her pursuers and hope he's ignored.
Option Two: Run. Hope the chaos allows him to survive.
He doesn't hesitate.
He chooses the second. He is not the one to hope.
Merin spins and bolts the way he came, his footsteps drumming against the stone as he sprints through the alley. Behind him, he hears the girl's panicked breath—and worse, the relentless, rhythmic pounding of boots.
They're chasing him. All of them.
Damn it!
He twists through alleyways, zigzagging between cramped corridors and shadowed side paths. His energy glove hums faintly, ready for a fight, but he keeps running. Executing sharp turns. Leaping over low fences. Vaulting a broken cart.
But the footsteps never recede. The girl clings to his heels, fast and tireless, and her pursuers do not fall behind. Instead, they multiply.
As he bursts through another narrow street, a pair of Tiger Guard warriors suddenly appear—their eyes fixing on him. Then another two. Black-clad figures and Tiger Guards—somehow coordinated, now hunting the same prey.
What the hell is this?
His pulse throbs as the chase intensifies, growing louder, heavier. Every street he enters, more enemies join. There's no time to think. No time to stop.
Until the alley opens ahead, and he sees it.
The river.
Its dark surface shimmers under the moonless sky, wide and cold. There is nowhere left to go.
He skids to a halt on the riverbank, gravel spattering under his boots. Glancing back, his breath hitches.
The guards and black-clad pursuers fan out, closing in, forming a tight arc behind them. A net. A formation designed to trap and kill.
Merin's eyes snap to the girl. Hatred boils in his gut.
You brought this on me.
But now is not the time for blame. If he intends to survive, she might be his only chance.
He exhales sharply, his hand snapping out to grab hers.
"Hold your breath," he commands.
Then he pulls her with him, and they leap.
Together, they plunge into the river. Cold water engulfs them.