Gyakkyou: Chapter Three

Chapter Three: Finding Purpose

Blood-soaked fields of red, 

Silent cries beneath cold skies, 

Ashes drift like snow.

***

The narrow mountain pass wound through the valley like a serpent, flanked by sheer cliffs on either side, their jagged edges reaching toward the overcast sky. A persistent drizzle fell upon the ground, turning the dirt beneath the soldiers' feet into a muddy soup. Kurosawa Mitsuharu rode at the head of the column, his face set in a grim expression, eyes fixed on the horizon where the Hinokuni mountains loomed like a prison wall. His uncle, the Daimyō, had sent him on this miserable mission to chase the remnants of an Akaoni rebel force that had plagued the region for months. The rebels, a ragtag band of deserters, peasant militants, and shinobi, had evaded his soldiers at every turn, retreating further into the mountains where their intimate knowledge of the terrain made them impossible to root out.

"Taishō, the men grow weary," remarked Shiro, Mitsuharu's favoured retainer, a grizzled veteran who had served the Kurosawa Clan for decades. His tone was respectful, but the underlying concern was clear. "Perhaps we should make camp soon."

Mitsuharu's mouth twitched, but he did not turn his head. "We push on until we catch them, Shiro. I will not return to the capital empty-handed."

Shiro, who rode just behind his commander, glanced up at the darkening sky, past the drizzle. It was still midday but the mist and poor weather severely hampered visibility. "With all due respect, Mitsuharu-sama, the mountains are treacherous. The rebels know these lands far better than we do."

"And that's precisely why we can't afford to stop," Mitsuharu replied, his voice laced with irritation. "If they escape into those peaks, we might as well abandon the pursuit. My uncle would have a mockery made of me if I let them slip through my fingers again."

The mention of his uncle caused Mitsuharu to grind his teeth. The Daimyō had deliberately sent him away from the capital, away from the court. It was punishment, thinly veiled as duty—a means of keeping him at arm’s length. His ambitions had grown too apparent, it seemed, too bold for the Daimyo's liking. This backwater assignment was the result.

Annoyed, Mitsuharu muttered, “Why must we follow these fools into the wilderness?” His voice was low, though it carried easily in the quiet valley.

The retainer gave a noncommittal grunt. "Duty, Taishō-sama?"

"Duty?" Mitsuharu's lip curled into a sneer. "What duty? I should not be here. I should be in the capital where I belong, not chasing a bunch of bedraggled rebels into the mountains like a common bandit hunter. This is beneath me."

In response, Shiro nodded sagely as though he had heard this complaint many times before. "Of course, Taishō. It truly is beneath you; there is no glory in one as honoured as yourself traipsing through the wilderness after rats. Yet, sometimes the heavens seek their amusement at our expense; what is a man to do except endure silently?"

The two fell silent for a long moment before Shiro spoke again, subtly distracting the general from his disgruntled musings. “I do not think we’ll catch them before they reach the mountains, my lord.”

“We’d better,” Mitsuharu replied, his tone flat. “Once they’re in there, we won’t drag them out again, not without bleeding half our men for the effort.” He pulled on the reins, slowing his mount. “At this point, I’d almost prefer letting them go and return home to bear Uncle’s scolding instead. Let them starve in the hills or rot in the mud; why should I be dragged into the filth as well?”

As if summoned by their conversation, one of the scouts sent ahead appeared down the path, riding hard towards the army’s main body. Moments later,  a wiry young samurai pulled to a stop just ahead of Mitsuharu. He bowed swiftly, rainwater dripping from the edge of his straw hat. "Taishō, we’ve come upon a village. It's been razed, the work of the rebels most likely."

Mitsuharu straightened in his saddle, his eyes narrowing. "Show me."

The village was little more than a scorched, muddy ruin, blackened remnants of huts and granaries standing like the bones of the dead. The stench of charred flesh and burnt wood hung heavy in the air despite the rain, and the once-lush fields surrounding the village had been reduced to a barren wasteland.

As Mitsuharu and his men entered, they were greeted by a grim sight: bodies. Some of the villagers had been burned beyond recognition, others left to rot where they had fallen, their faces contorted in final moments of terror.

"These animals," Shiro muttered, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his katana. "They will pay for this."

"Indeed," Mitsuharu said coldly. "But first, we must find them."

Just as he was about to order a search, another samurai returned, dragging a boy by the arm. The child, no more than sixteen summers, was caked in ash and dirt, his face pale and gaunt. 

"We found him burying the villagers, Taishō," the samurai reported.

Mitsuharu dismounted, his boots sinking into the damp ash as he approached the boy. The child did not flinch under the Taishō’s cold gaze, though his eyes were red with grief. Mitsuharu's lips thinned. "Tell me what happened here."

The boy's voice was hoarse but steady. "They came at night... they killed everyone. Burned everything. My brothers… my family… they’re all gone."

Mitsuharu regarded him for a long moment. There seemed to be no lie in his words, only the dullness. "You're fortunate to be alive."

The boy's fists clenched at his sides. "I hid. In the fields,” he replied, answering the implied question. “I don't feel fortunate."

"...What's your name, boy?"

"Gyakkyou."

Mitsuharu gave a dismissive wave. "You're free to return to your tasks. Your duty here is done."

To his surprise, the boy hesitated for a long moment before resolutely stepping forward. "Let me come with you, my lord."

Mitsuharu raised an eyebrow, amused by the boldness. "Why?"

"I want to kill them," the boy said, his voice now firm, hatred flickering in his eyes. "I want to kill them all."

Shiro scoffed. "A peasant like you? You wouldn't last a day."

Gyakkyou shot a defiant look at Shiro, but his focus remained on Mitsuharu. "I have nothing left here. Let me fight."

Mitsuharu’s amusement deepened. There was something raw in the boy, something unrefined but promising. Perhaps it was the bitter boredom of this chase, or perhaps it was the annoyance he felt from his pseudo-exile from the capital, but Mitsuharu found himself intrigued. He glanced at Shiro, who shook his head in disapproval, and then back to the boy.

"Very well," Mitsuharu said, surprising even himself. "You may come. Someone find the boy a spear."

The protests from his retainers were immediate, but Mitsuharu silenced them with a raised hand. "Enough. I will not turn away a willing sword. He has as much right to seek Hachiman’s favour as any of us. "

Gyakkyou bowed low. "Thank you, my lord."

As Mitsuharu mounted his horse again, he cast one last glance at the ruined village before turning his gaze to the mountains ahead. "Let’s move," he ordered, his voice cutting through the rain. "Those rats won’t escape us this time."

And with that, the column marched forward, the boy trailing behind, his fate now tied to the will of a Taishō who had far more use for tools than sentiment.