Death March

The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the warriors gathered in the great courtyard of Sapporo. The air was thick with tension, yet it was not the fear of death that weighed upon them—it was the anticipation of battle.

Reika had never seen so many great warriors assembled in one place.

The clan heads of Hokkaido stood side by side, their armor gleaming in the sunlight, their legendary weapons resting at their sides. Some were old, battle-hardened veterans, their faces lined with scars and wisdom. Others were younger but no less fearsome, their reputations forged in duels and bloodshed.

These were the warriors she had grown up hearing about. The monsters of the battlefield. The unstoppable swordsmen. The tacticians who could turn the tide of war.

And among them, standing at the forefront, was Yoshinobu Yamamoto.

A titan among samurai.

His pristine black armor reflected the light like obsidian, his sword—the legendary blade Shirōgane—hung at his hip, its silver sheen untouched by rust or imperfection. Even his mount, a powerful steed, was an icon of battle, a warhorse that had carried him through countless victories.

But it was his presence that struck Reika the most.

Even amidst the greatest warriors of the land, he was different.

Yoshinobu stood perfectly still, yet his very existence commanded attention. He was completely locked in, his focus like an unsheathed blade—razor-sharp and unyielding.

Reika had not seen him like this in a long time.

She had watched him spar before, had seen him effortlessly dismantle men twice his size, but this was something else.

This was war.

And he was ready for it just like the others.

Around him, every samurai bore the same look—a quiet acceptance of fate. There would be no retreat. No surrender.

They would either stand victorious…

Or die with honor.

There was no other way.

The samurai stood in a tight formation as Yoshinobu moved forward, his voice carrying across the gathered warriors with the strength of a seasoned leader.

"Brothers."

The single word silenced the murmurs.

"Today, we stand as one."

His voice was deep and steady, not the voice of a man seeking to inspire with flowery words—but the voice of a man who knew war, who had lived it, who had survived it.

"The invaders come with their numbers. Their machines. Their fire." He gestured toward the distant horizon, where the enemy's fleet blackened the sea. "They believe that because they are many, they are strong."

His lips curled into a slight, humorless smile.

"They have never fought samurai like us."

A ripple of agreement swept through the ranks.

"They think we will break. That we will scatter like leaves in the wind." His hand went to his sword, fingers resting on its hilt. "But they do not know our hearts. They do not know that the land they set foot upon is sacred."

He took a step forward, his gaze sweeping over every warrior present.

"This is our home. Our ancestors bled for this land. Our fathers and their fathers before them stood against all who would take it from us."

His voice rose.

"Today, we do the same."

The samurai let out a single, sharp exhale, like a beast coiling before it struck.

"Let them come with their armies. Let them march upon our shores. Let them believe they will leave here victorious."

He drew his blade, the pristine silver edge catching the morning sun.

"By nightfall, they will know the truth."

The samurai erupted into a thunderous roar and began their march. 

...

The army moved as one, a tide of steel and horseflesh riding toward the shore.

Reika rode near the front lines, her breath steady, her mind focused. Her father rode beside her, his face grim, unreadable.

Their destination—the port city of Yoichi.

They would begin taking back the city, driving the enemy into the sea. Their goal? To liberate the city, find any survivors, and fight back with everything they had.

As they neared the battlefield, the sky began to darken with the smoke of burning villages.

Then, at last, they saw them.

The Mongols.

Thousands upon thousands, a flood of soldiers marching toward Sapporo, their banners filling the sky like a storm.

Reika's stomach twisted, but she did not falter.

Her hands tightened around her reins.

Her father raised his sword.

The samurai charged.

And the battle for Hokkaido began.

The sound of clashing steel, war cries, and dying screams filled the air like an unholy symphony.

From their vantage point on the outskirts of the battlefield, Reika and her father watched the samurai of Hokkaido collide with the Mongol invaders.

It was not a battle.

It was a massacre.

At first, it was almost beautiful in its brutality.

The Mongols charged like a tidal wave, their sheer numbers blotting out the horizon, their war cries merging into one overwhelming roar. But the samurai… the samurai stood firm.

The first clash was like thunder, and in an instant, the battlefield was awash with blood.

Reika's breath caught as she witnessed what true warriors were capable of.

Where Mongols fought like a relentless horde, overwhelming their enemies with speed and chaos, the samurai fought with precision, discipline, and lethal efficiency.

For every twenty Mongols that fell, only one samurai did.

The Mongol front lines shattered against their blades. The samurai cut them down in droves, their fluid movements making it seem like a perfectly rehearsed dance of death.

And at the center of it all—Yoshinobu Yamamoto.

If the samurai were a storm, then Yoshinobu was the eye of the hurricane.

He rode through the battlefield on his steed, his pristine armor stained with the blood of dozens of men.

His sword—Shirogane—flashed like lightning, and with every stroke, another Mongol fell.

Wherever he rode, death followed.

A group of five Mongols rushed him, spears and swords raised. In an instant, Yoshinobu's sword whipped through the air.

The first warrior fell before he even finished his battle cry.

The second managed to swing his blade—only for Yoshinobu to sidestep, severing the man's arm before taking his head.

The third and fourth died without even touching him.

The last one hesitated. Terror flashed in his eyes.

And Yoshinobu cut him down just the same.

He was not a man.

He was a force of nature.

A tempest of death.

Reika had seen him fight before, had witnessed his skill in duels and spars. But this… this was different.

This was Yoshinobu unleashed.

Even the Mongols, known for their ruthless warfare, hesitated before facing him.

But still, they kept coming.

And that was the problem.

There were endless waves of them.

The samurai were winning for now, but they were tiring.

For every swing of the blade, every enemy cut down, another Mongol stepped forward.

Fresh warriors replaced the fallen without hesitation, as if their numbers were endless.

Reika could see it happening—the shift in the battlefield.

The samurai were not losing. But they were no longer pushing forward.

They were being forced to hold their ground.

"This is what makes them dangerous," she realized, her grip tightening on her reins.

"They don't stop."

Her father seemed to recognize it, too. He turned his horse toward their men.

"We move now."

Reika took one last glance at the battlefield.

Yoshinobu was still cutting through enemies, but even he could not fight forever.

The tide had not yet turned.

But it would.

She had no doubt.

The ride to Yoichi was tense, the thunder of hooves echoing against the ruined landscape.

The port city lay ahead, its once-bustling streets eerily quiet.

Smoke still rose from parts of the city, the Mongols having already left destruction in their wake.

The samurai split as planned—some forces began retaking the city, while others, including Reika and her father, set up camp just outside the city.

Then—an arrow shot past Reika's face.

"AMBUSH!"

The world exploded into chaos.

Mongols emerged from the ruins, hidden in the rubble, waiting for them.

Reika barely had time to react before an enemy warrior lunged at her.

Her training took over.

Her katana flashed, parrying the strike, her horse rearing beneath her as the battlefield erupted into a desperate fight for survival.

The battle of Sapporo was left behind.

Now, she had her own fight to win.

Reika's breath steadied, her heartbeat slowing as her fingers tightened around the hilt of her katana.

The battlefield was chaos—clashing blades, war cries, the heavy thud of bodies hitting the dirt. Yet in the midst of the madness, she found clarity.

The Shirakawa style was not built for overwhelming force like some of the mainland schools.

It was a river cutting through stone.

It was grace and precision, fluid and unrelenting.

Her sword stance was low yet balanced, her katana raised above her head, held horizontally in both hands.

A single moment of stillness.

Then, she moved.

The first Mongol rushed her, a massive warrior wielding a curved sword in both hands.

Reika saw everything.

The tensing of his shoulders, the shift in his stance. The subtle angle of his weapon, telling her where he would strike.

She exhaled—and time slowed.

Her perception stretched, her mind working at inhuman speeds. The world moved like molasses around her.

To the Mongol, he was attacking at full speed.

To Reika, he was moving in slow motion.

He swung a powerful diagonal cut aimed at her side—but she was already gone.

She sidestepped, twisting her body just enough to let the blade pass harmlessly through empty air.

Before his attack had even finished, her counter was already in motion.

A fluid upward slash—the first cut of the Shirakawa technique.

The tip of her katana carved through his ribs, and before he could even react, her second diagonal cut tore open his chest.

The third strike—a brutal overhead cut—split his collarbone, sending him crashing to the dirt.

Another warrior lunged at her.

Reika flowed into the next motion of the technique, transitioning into a flurry of strikes.

Her blade dipped low, then—three lightning-fast cuts.

One—a rising slash from her lower left to upper right.Two—a second strike in reverse, carving across his stomach.Three—a final, horizontal cut, severing his throat.

He collapsed before he even realized he was dead.

Her enemies hesitated.

Good.

She took a slow step forward, her katana dripping with blood.

"Come."

They rushed her all at once.

She welcomed it.

An axe came from the left—she ducked, feeling the wind of its passing.

A spear thrust from the right—she sidestepped, her blade severing the shaft in half before driving through the attacker's heart.

A curved sword from behind—she twisted, her tanto flashing out to cut through the tendons of her enemy's wrist before finishing him with a clean slash across the throat.

Reika moved like water, her body constantly flowing between attack and defense, never stopping, never hesitating.

For every one movement her enemies made, she made three.

She became untouchable.

A specter of death weaving through the battlefield.

More fell.

Five.

Seven.

Ten.

Her sword never stopped moving.

Every strike was measured, precise, and fatal.

The battlefield was a ruin of blood and bodies.

Reika's breath came in slow, measured exhales, her katana dripping crimson onto the broken earth. Around her, the surviving samurai of the Shirakawa Clan stood among the fallen, their once-pristine armor now stained with battle. The Mongols had fought viciously, but they had not expected resistance of this magnitude.

The enemy was retreating.

Distant figures darted into the trees, vanishing like specters into the early morning mist. The battlefield, which had been chaos mere moments ago, had fallen eerily silent, save for the occasional groan of the dying.

Reika turned, scanning the survivors.

Her father still stood, his stance strong despite the slight gash along his left arm. Blood dripped down his armor, but if he felt the wound, he gave no sign.

Her uncle was nearby, breathing heavily, his katana lowered but still firm in his grip. He caught her gaze and gave a single nod—he was alive.

She exhaled, letting the weight in her chest ease ever so slightly.

They had held.

But at what cost?

The ground was slick with blood, bodies sprawled in twisted heaps. Samurai and invaders alike lay motionless, their weapons either still clutched in stiff fingers or scattered across the battlefield. The Shirakawa warriors had stood their ground, but their numbers had noticeably lessened.

Reika wiped her blade clean, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle into her bones.

"Let them run," her father said, his voice quiet yet firm. "The rats always scatter when the fire grows too hot. But they'll be back—more of them, stronger than before. Next time, we'll make sure none leave alive."

She sheathed her katana, forcing herself to focus. He was right. The enemy was regrouping, and this battle was just one of many to come.

The remaining Shirakawa samurai gathered, forming a loose circle around Haruto. Their armor bore the marks of war—dented plates, torn fabric, blood both theirs and their enemies. Though they had won this battle, there was no celebration, only the quiet understanding that war had just begun.

Haruto's gaze swept over his warriors, sharp and unreadable. "We move into Yoichi," he announced, his voice cutting through the still air. "The city is still overrun our job is not yet finished."

Reika exhaled slowly, her grip resting around her sheathed katana.

There was no victory here. Only the knowledge that they had not yet fallen.

Author's Note:

You may have noticed that both main characters experience moments where time seems to slow. This is no mere coincidence—it is an innate ability, a talent they were born with. The true nature of this phenomenon, and the role it will play in the story, will be explored in future chapters.

Hope you're enjoying the story so far!