The Samurai Attack

The air was thick with the stench of smoke and death.

Reika guided her horse through the ruins of Yoichi, her grip firm on the reins as she took in the devastation around her. The once-thriving port city, nestled between the ocean and the cliffs, was now little more than a graveyard. Smoke still curled from collapsed buildings, the embers of destruction casting an eerie glow in the midday light.

The scent of salt mixed with the acrid burn of charred wood. Seagulls circled overhead, their distant cries sharp against the silence that clung to the streets.

Corpses littered the roads—men, women, children. Some were butchered where they stood, their bodies twisted in final attempts to flee. Others had been slaughtered in their homes, blood staining the doorways where they had sought refuge.

Reika had seen death before. She had witnessed the brutality of battle. But this… this was completely different. 

Her stomach tightened. She forced herself to keep looking, to memorize the horror of it all. This was the enemy they faced.

A force that sought more than just victory.

The Shirakawa samurai moved carefully through the city ruins. They searched for survivors, but deep down, Reika knew there would be none. The Mongols had been thorough.

Her father's orders were clear. They would reclaim Yoichi, secure what remained of the city, and use it as a foothold for the battles to come.

But seeing it like this, she wondered—was there even anything left to reclaim?

Her fingers curled into fists.

Let them run, her father had said. They'll be back soon enough.

Good.

She wanted them to come back.

So they could die.

From the cliffs overlooking the city, the Shirakawa encampment stood as a stark contrast to the destruction below. Tents lined the hillside, banners bearing the clan's crest fluttering in the salty wind. Warriors moved through the camp with methodical precision, preparing for the battles ahead.

The ocean stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs, its deep blue surface calm, almost peaceful. It was deceptive.

Somewhere out there, enemy ships lurked.

Reika dismounted as she entered the camp, ignoring the stiff glances thrown her way. The blood on her armor had dried, dark against the silver trim of her plates. Her body ached, but exhaustion was secondary.

She had to see her father.

She strode toward the command tent, her presence parting the gathered samurai as they whispered among themselves. A few men bowed as she passed, but she barely acknowledged them.

The guards at the entrance hesitated as she approached. One straightened, clearing his throat.

"Lady Reika… your father is inside."

She didn't stop walking.

Inside, the air was heavy with incense, the lingering scent of steel and sweat woven into the fabric of war. A lantern flickered at the center of the room, casting restless shadows over the maps spread across the wooden table.

Shirakawa Haruto stood before them, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the battle plans. Even in stillness, he commanded presence.

Reika stepped forward, the sound of her boots breaking the quiet.

Haruto looked up.

Their eyes met and for a moment, neither spoke.

Then, Haruto's hand pressed against the table, fingers curling slightly.

"You have returned," he said, his voice steady.

Reika removed her helmet, shaking loose strands of dark hair. "I have."

Haruto's sharp gaze took in every detail—the blood, the exhaustion, the hardened set of her expression. He nodded slowly, a glint of approval in his eyes.

"You fought bravely," he remarked. "Your presence on the battlefield inspires our men."

Reika's grip tightened around the hilt of her sword. "I learned from the best."

A faint smile touched Haruto's lips. "Our enemies underestimated us. They do not understand the strength of our resolve."

"They will," Reika replied, her voice firm. "We will show them."

Haruto's expression hardened, his eyes reflecting the weight of leadership. "We fight not just for survival, but for the honor of our people. Remember that, always."

Reika nodded, determination etched on her face. "I will, Father."

Reika stepped forward, her voice steady. "What's our next move?"

Haruto's gaze remained firm as he gestured to the hand-drawn map before them.

"The enemy has established a war camp on the outskirts of the city," he said. "They haven't had time to fortify it yet. If we strike now, we can cut them down before they entrench themselves."

Reika's sharp eyes scanned the layout. The enemy had positioned themselves near the broken walls of Yoichi, using the natural terrain as makeshift defenses. If left unchecked, they would reinforce their camp, establish proper barricades, and turn the city into an unbreakable stronghold.

Time was against them.

"How many?" she asked.

"Perhaps a hundred," Haruto answered. "More will arrive if we hesitate."

Reika's jaw tightened. "And our forces?"

A faint smirk tugged at her father's lips. "Fewer." He tapped a finger against the table. "But much better."

Reika didn't return the smile. She knew her father wasn't exaggerating. The Shirakawa warriors were among the finest in Hokkaido. Their skill, discipline, and resolve made them a force far deadlier than mere numbers.

Still, it was an uphill battle.

"A direct assault?" she asked.

Haruto nodded. "Through the front gates." His tone was absolute. "We ride as one. We strike as one. With honor."

Reika frowned slightly. "A siege would be safer."

"And give them time to call for reinforcements?" Haruto shook his head. "No. We do not hide behind walls. We do not slink in the shadows like cowards. We strike like a blade through the ribs—swift, precise, and lethal."

Haruto's gaze did not waver. "We will meet them in open battle. We will cut them down face-to-face and show them that this land is not theirs to take."

Reika remained silent, considering.

She knew her father well. He was not reckless. He did not gamble with the lives of his men. If he had chosen this strategy, it was because it was the best course of action.

Still…

"They will have barricades. Defenses."

Haruto nodded, his expression unreadable. "Their fortifications are crude, hastily built. A samurai does not fear walls—we ride through them. Their gates will not hold against us, and their formations will break once our steel meets theirs."

He gestured to the map, tracing a direct path through the main gate. "We will advance in formation, spearmen leading the charge to break their defenses. Archers will provide cover fire, and once we breach their lines, we press the attack with overwhelming force. We do not stop until their command structure is shattered and their will to fight is broken."

Reika exhaled slowly. It was bold. Risky. But war was always risky.

This was not some reckless raid—it was a decisive strike, built on centuries of perfected warfare.

She straightened, her voice sharp. "Then I will lead the first charge."

Haruto's gaze flicked over her, his expression unreadable. "You're fatigued."

"I'm fine."

A pause.

Haruto studied her for a long moment. His face remained impassive, but there was a weight behind his silence—an unspoken assessment. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Very well. Take your men and ride with the vanguard. We strike at midday."

Reika turned to leave.

Then—his voice stopped her.

"Reika."

She glanced back.

His frown remained, his posture rigid, his eyes sharp as ever.

"Do not die pointlessly."

It was not an expression of warmth. Not an admission of concern. Just a simple command.

But Reika understood it for what it was. She gave a single nod.

Then, without another word, she stepped out into the cold afternoon air. The scent of salt and steel mingled with the distant echoes of battle, carried on the wind like a whispered omen.

Ahead, the battlefield stretched before her.

The midday sun hung high, casting harsh shadows over rows of polished armor. The air was thick with the stench of blood and burning wood, the distant crash of waves against the shore drowned beneath the rhythmic pounding of war drums.

The Mongols had already seen them.

From behind their makeshift barricades, archers lined the walls of the half-formed war camp, their bows drawn, arrows nocked. Their commanders barked orders in their guttural tongue, and in unison, the archers raised their weapons to the sky.

A moment of silence.

Then—the first volley.

Hundreds of arrows darkened the sky, their sharp, whistling descent accompanied by the hiss of ignited oils. Fire licked hungrily at the tips, streaking through the air like falling stars. The Mongols had no honor—no discipline like the samurai. They did not announce their battle. They struck first, with overwhelming force.

Reika watched from the front line, her horse shifting beneath her as the flaming storm fell.

"Shields!"

The order was roared from their ranks, and in an instant, samurai and warriors alike all lifted thick wooden shields overhead, forming a tight wall of defense. The arrows struck down like a rain of death—some embedding deep into the shields, others missing entirely. But a few found their mark.

A pained cry to Reika's left—one of the warriors fell to the ground, an arrow piercing through the slit in his helmet. Another man's sleeve ignited as the fire spread from the oil-coated tips, but he quickly slapped it out, gripping his spear tighter.

Reika barely flinched. She had expected losses.

And now, it was their turn.

A second order was bellowed from the rear.

"Archers—LOOSE!"

Their counterattack was swift. Rows of archers, kneeling behind the main cavalry, drew their bows in perfect synchronization. The sound of taut strings releasing in unison was followed by the deadly whistle of their own volley.

The Mongol archers on the walls barely had time to react before the counter fire rained upon them. Some ducked behind wooden cover—others were not so lucky.

Reika saw one man clutch at his throat, an arrow buried deep in his flesh, before toppling over the barricade. Another invader collapsed, writhing, as an arrow found his exposed thigh, severing the artery. The Mongols were brutal warriors, but they were not invincible.

The exchange of arrows did not last long.

Because now—it was time for the real battle.

The sound of hooves pounding the earth shook the air as the samurai spearmen surged forward.

The first wave.

They rode with absolute discipline, their spears angled forward like a field of deadly thorns, their banners whipping violently in the wind. Unlike the Mongols, who relied on overwhelming numbers and relentless aggression, the samurai moved with precision—one solid unit, surging toward the enemy's front lines.

The Mongols had anticipated this.

The gates of their war camp groaned open, and their own cavalry poured forth—short recurve bows in hand, loosing arrows even as they rode to intercept.

But the samurai had been trained for this.

The clash was a brutal thing.

The first impact was a thunderous collision—the tips of spears finding flesh, the cries of men and horses filling the battlefield. The Mongols were excellent riders, agile and ruthless, but the samurai's spear formation was unyielding. The first rank of invaders was impaled instantly, their bodies thrown from their saddles, their mounts screeching as they collapsed into the dirt.

Yet still—they kept coming.

The Mongol cavalry did not hesitate. Those who survived the initial charge wove between the ranks, using their smaller, faster horses to dart through gaps in the line, loosing arrows at point-blank range. Samurai fell, arrows burying into exposed necks, piercing through weak points in their armor.

The battlefield was chaos.

And that was when Reika's turn arrived.

Her horse surged forward, her katana gleaming beneath the unforgiving sunlight.

"FORWARD!"

The Shirakawa samurai followed at her back, their weapons raised, their battle cries ringing above the madness.

They did not weave through the chaos like the Mongols. They pushed straight through it.

The clash was devastating.

Reika barely registered her first kill—her katana sliced through the gap between an invader's helmet and armor, cutting deep into the side of his neck. The spray of blood was warm against her cheek, but she was already moving past him before his body hit the ground.

To her left, one of her men was pulled from his saddle, dragged screaming into the mass of enemy soldiers. To her right, another samurai drove his spear through a Mongol's chest, but before he could pull it free, a second enemy cut him down from behind.

It was not a battle.

It was a massacre on both sides.

Reika's mind moved faster than her blade.

She swung left—her katana meeting the curve of a Mongol sword, sparks flying as the steel clashed. The force of the blow rattled through her arms, but she twisted with it, redirecting the attack before plunging her blade through the invader's ribs.

Another enemy charged her from the side.

She ducked low, twisting in her saddle—his sword barely missing her head before she drove her sword into his gut, a single, brutal upward thrust. The Mongol grunted, eyes wide in shock, before she yanked the blade free.

She did not stop moving. Did not stop killing.

Her father had been right. The Mongols had numbers. But they lacked the discipline of the samurai. Where the invaders swarmed like wild beasts, the samurai fought with controlled precision. Where the Mongols screamed and charged recklessly, the samurai held their formation, cutting down those who strayed too far from their pack.

And yet—

The battle was far from over.

Reika stole a glance toward the camp's main gate.

The barricades were starting to crumble. Their warriors were pushing forward. They had gained ground. But reinforcements were bound to be coming any time soon. The Mongols never sent a small force unless there was a larger one behind it.

Reika's grip tightened around her reins, her horse skidding to a stop near the wreckage of an overturned cart. Blood splattered her armor, staining the silver embroidery with dark crimson.

She looked ahead—where the Mongol commanders had begun regrouping near the far end of the war camp. They were preparing for something. She could feel it.

Reika narrowed her eyes, her heart pounding.

The real fight was about to begin.