By Shawn Carman and Rich Wulf

The wind was a fact of life when one dwelled in the mountains. A person could become immune to the sense of constant gales constantly whipping at exposed flesh, growing tougher in the process. The sound was more difficult to ignore. At times it howled through the narrow passes like a beast. At other times it sang along the jagged cliffs like a gentle maiden, or cried through hidden tunnels like a newborn babe.

Today, it howled, and refused to be ignored.

The streets today were empty. It was possible that the people of the city were simply engaged in their normal daily activities elsewhere, or perhaps they were hiding inside their homes. Mirumoto Kenzo suspected it was the latter. Kenzo could not help but feel a mild sense of disgust. Peasants they may be, but these men and women were still Dragon. Did they not recognize the man that now walked their streets, the face of their lord, Rosanjin? Kenzo felt a dull hatred well up within him at the sight of the closed doors.

Recognizing the source of the feelings, he drew focus and brushed them aside like bothersome insects. Kenzo cast an irritated frown at the wakizashi that hung at his hip, the strange blade he had discovered in the vaults of Gisei Toshi. The Tamori had studied the sword briefly and confirmed that though it did not radiate Taint, it was of Bloodspeaker design. They warned Kenzo of its power, but also of its curse. As difficult as it would be to destroy such a blade it would be even more difficult to set it aside. Now that Kenzo had wielded it in battle it was, in a sense, bound to him. It would not matter if Kenzo never touched it again – the blade’s whispers would still echo in his ears. The best way for him to escape its curse, they said, was to understand the nature of the blade. Far better, he concluded, for him to keep the blade close by while he discovered its mysteries than risk another would be accursed. The whispers were annoying, at times, but nothing a son of the Mirumoto could not rise above. The more it whispered, the more he learned about it – and one day he would learn how to destroy it.

Beside Kenzo, Rosanjin’s form was tense. Though he gave no outward sign of emotion, Kenzo could sense his lord’s quiet anger. He had not spoken in nearly an hour, his face a mask of determination as he led the way down the mountain road. Kenzo glanced ahead to their destination, a shrine that stood near the city’s center. Seido Sanzo was a recently constructed shrine, but one that was dear to the common folk who served the Dragon. Sanzo had been a Mirumoto samurai who became ronin and earned some amount of renown during the Clan War. Though details of the man’s life were hazy, the people of this village spoke of him as a hero. When tales of the Legion of the Dead reached this village from distant Crab lands, they built a shrine to honor the man whose wandering soul now acted as a guide for lost heroes – not quite a Fortune but more than a mere ancestor. Kenzo felt a strange sense of peace as he looked upon the temple. Even the whispers of his sword grew calmer. If Sanzo truly watched his shrine, he hoped that the ronin would offer guidance.

An old man in green and gold robes stood waiting as Rosanjin and Kenzo approached. He bowed low before Rosanjin. “Good fortune, Rosanjin-sama, Kenzo-san.”

Rosanjin was clearly uninterested in pleasantries. “What news, Otojiro?” he demanded.

“Two more deaths, very much like the first,” the Kitsuki replied without hesitation. “A brutal crime. One of the shrine’s brothers is offering prayers for the fallen. We may enter at our leisure.”

The Mirumoto daimyo’s eyes narrowed. “I gave explicit instructions that no one was to enter,” he said sharply. “I spoke to the temple master. He assured me he and his brothers had vacated the shrine that we might conduct our investigation.”

Otojiro smiled slightly. “Quite astute, my lord,” he mused. “The man is indeed an obvious impostor. I noticed his robes were pleated improperly from the start; perhaps he hoped that I would not know the finer traditions of the Order of Fury. As if I would let knowledge like that escape me.” Otojiro rolled his eyes. “At any rate, he had the air of a dangerous man, so I assumed it would be better not to upset his ruse before you arrived to inspect him. I have a man monitoring him.”

“Well done, Otojiro,” Rosanjin said. “Who do you think it is?”

“An ambitious samurai, perhaps?” Otojiro theorized. “Some local magistrate seeking to make a name for himself with this investigation?”

“Or perhaps just someone fascinated with the gruesome,” Kenzo offered. “Someone with a hand in these crimes.”

“It is not impossible, though I detected no violent intent,” Otojiro said. “It is not uncommon for criminals to be overcome with curiosity or remorse, leading them to return and admire their work or even seek forgiveness from the dead.” Rosanjin said nothing. He gripped the hilt of his golden katana tightly and led the way into the shrine’s main chamber.

The interior was largely as Kenzo had expected, having seen the aftermath of the earlier crime firsthand. A male monk and a woman in the orange robes of a shugenja lay dead, their cold bodies cast onto the stone floor on opposite sides of the chamber. The monk had been cut from hip to shoulder. The shugenja had nearly been cut in two by a powerful blow from hip to hip. There was enough blood spattered across the shrine to make even Kenzo’s battle hardened stomach churn with disgust. As they entered, Otojiro’s peasant servant quickly exited the shrine.

“Do not move, stranger,” Rosanjin commanded. Kenzo stood ready beside his lord, hands on the hilts of his swords, warily watching the large man that knelt across the room. The man was clad in thick traveling robes and a basket hat that obscured his face from view. He hunched over one of the bodies, regarding it curiously. Kenzo wondered if the man’s features would be twisted in disgust, or perhaps curled in delight.

“What are you doing in this temple?” Rosanjin demanded.

“Just thinking,” the man said. “This is no way for a samurai to die.”

The daimyo frowned, his grip on the blade visibly tightening. The words were keenly familiar. “I know that voice,” he said in a low, menacing tone. “So we have found a killer after all, if not the one we sought. What business do you have in our lands, Kaelung?”

Kenzo caught his breath at the name. Kaelung – he was a traitor to the Hoshi family and criminal to the Dragon Clan, but if the tales were to be believed he also once fought the monstrous renegade, Kokujin, beside Lord Satsu and Togashi Mitsu.

The large man tilted his head to the side. “Why do you believe I have only just returned? Because you didn’t see me until just now? Your curiosity is irrelevant, Rosanjin. My business is with Lord Satsu.”

“You will never reach him,” Rosanjin insisted. “You are not worthy to step into his presence.”

“Is this the honor of the Mirumoto?” Kaelung asked, his voice now a low growl. “Is this how a lord of the Dragon greets a man who saved his life?” The monk shed his robe, revealing his loose hakama of a sohei warrior monk. A thick-hafted axe hung at his belt. “If that is the way things will be, Rosanjin, know that I will not enjoy taking back what you owe me.”

Rosanjin’s hands twitched, then fell away from his swords. His face burned an angry red; he hung his head before the kneeling monk, obviously struggling to rein in his anger. “You deserve little mercy,” he said. “You killed three samurai, magistrates.”

“I defended myself,” Kaelung replied. “I have come to atone. Does my service to your lord in the Twilight Mountains amount to nothing?”

“You helped us before out of concern for your own survival,” Rosanjin replied. “I will not endanger Lord Satsu with your presence.”

“You would deny me the right to speak to my lord?” Kaelung asked.

“You gave up the right to call him your lord,” Rosanjin answered in a cool tone.

Kaelung deftly lifted the ax from his belt. The gesture was answered with the crisp sound of steel against wood as Rosanjin answered by drawing his blades. For a moment, the two men stared at each other without flinching, and Kenzo thought that he might witness one or both of their deaths.

If Rosanjin fell, how easy it would be to strike down Kaelung and be named a hero.

If Kaelung fell, surely Rosanjin would be wounded. One swift blow and only the Kitsuki would remain to question him. Otojiro was surely no match for…

Kenzo scowled at the wakizashi and pulled his hand away.

Kaelung shook his head and lowered the ax. “Your stance is as keen as ever, Rosanjin-sama.” He said with a bow.

If the Mirumoto daimyo was surprised at the monk’s sudden change of attitude, he did nothing to show it. He lowered his swords. “What involvement do you have with these murders, Kaelung?”

“None,” Kaelung answered. “I was traveling to the High House of Light, and came across this gruesome spectacle. I thought perhaps I could help.”

“A likely story.” Rosanjin was flushed, and it seemed to Kenzo that he was growing even angrier despite that Kaelung had backed down from the challenge. It was no surprise. His lord’s opinions of Kaelung were no secret. He took a step toward the monk.

“Rosanjin-sama,” Kenzo interjected cautiously.

The older man turned to glare at Kenzo fiercely, but his expression softened. “You’re right Kenzo,” his voice trailed off absently. “This is not the time.”

Kaelung drew in a deep breath and peered around the room. The sohei reminded Kenzo of a bear searching for a faint scent. “There is an evil pall over this place,” he said. “Something wicked and unnatural has cast its web here.”

“There have been an increased number of violent incidents throughout the city,” Otojiro offered from the doorway. Kenzo noticed that the Kitsuki had been watching him carefully. “I have been examining the reports of local magistrates regarding the matter. It would seem that they predate the first murder by a matter of weeks.” He paused for a moment and rubbed his chin. “I must say, I have found myself far more irritable than normal during my short time here, and I am by no means as young and vigorous as you, Rosanjin-sama. I find the entire affair quite curious.”

Kenzo glanced back at the Kitsuki briefly, the looked back to Rosanjin. The anger that he had seen there moments ago had subsided, replaced with an expression of grim concern. “Do you believe the two are related, Otojiro?” he asked quietly.

“I do.” The old magistrate stepped forward into the shrine, gesturing for his eta servants to follow. “With your leave, my lord, I will summon a shugenja to substantiate my suspicions, but I believe that there is a supernatural influence at work.”

“And how can we know which was the cause and which was the effect?” Rosanjin finally sheathed his katana. “Did the spirit of rage cause the murders, or did the murders give rise to this phenomenon?”

“I cannot know for certain until I consult a shugenja.”

Rosanjin nodded. “Do so as soon as you have finished here. What can you tell me of the woman who lies dead here? She has the look of a Phoenix.”

“Asako Tsuruko,” Otojiro said with a sigh. “She came to study with the Dragon after the end of our war with the Phoenix, a gesture of peace. By all accounts, she earned the Tamori family’s trust and aided them in their research to a degree. She was well regarded by those who knew her. Well regarded enough that she was appointed a Mirumoto yojimbo.”

“And where is he?” Rosanjin asked.

“Unknown,” Otojiro said. “I’ve not ruled him out as a suspect, or perhaps an undiscovered victim. Those who knew him here claim that it is unlikely he would kill Tsuruko. He was extremely loyal to her.”

“Unfortunate,” Rosanjin said. “I will make apologies to Shiba Mirabu and the Council for her death.” He turned back to Kaelung slowly, regarding the taller man with an expression that masked many different emotions. “What do you know of this?”

Kaelung rubbed his shoulder absently. “Not much more than you,” the monk confessed. “There is something amiss; that much is certain. I can sense it on the wind, like a foul scent. It whispers in my ear, but I am beyond it.”

“Tattoo magic?” Kenzo asked.

Kaelung quirked a small smile. “Not at all,” Kaelung said. “Rage is no stranger to me. It washes over me always, like a stone in the surf. I am beyond its control. I can help.”

Rosanjin considered the matter for several moments. “We do not need your help, criminal.” He drew a deep, calming breath. “But if agree to surrender yourself to our custody and prove yourself trustworthy, then perhaps you might yet get your chance to speak to Satsu. At that point, any obligation you imagine I hold toward you will be fulfilled.”

 “A chance to prove myself?” he said with a coarse laugh. “You sound like Mitsu.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Rosanjin said.

“If you must,” Kaelung answered. “I agree to your terms, Rosanjin-sama.”

Kenzo saw the corner of Rosanjin’s mouth twisted up in a sardonic grin. “Kenzo will accompany you and ensure your good behavior.” He turned to face Kenzo and nodded, and Kenzo bowed deeply.

Kaelung’s deep chuckle seemed to fill the room. “You would send a sheep to keep watch over a wolf, Rosanjin?”

Kenzo straightened and met the monk’s eyes. “Say that again,” he said coolly.

Kaelung looked at Kenzo fearlessly. He scratched the side of his nose with one finger then showed square white teeth in a broad grin. “I stand corrected, Rosanjin-sama,” he said. “He will do.”

Lady Moon’s light was dim at this time of month. With his back to the campfire, Kenzo could make out the lantern lights from each individual house throughout the city, including the shrine. Otojiro had completed his investigation and the eta had hauled away the bodies, but it would be another day before the stones were cleaned and purified, and likely a long time after that before the people of this town returned to the shrine.

How ironic, Kenzo thought, that Sanzo’s legacy was tainted by blood.

As soon as the curious and random thought crossed his mind it was gone. Where had that come from? He knew little of Sanzo’s life. He looked at the wakizashi, laying on the earth just within grasp and he scowled.

There was a stirring of air behind him, too quiet for the wind but to distinct to be his imagination. Kenzo turned cautiously, ready to draw his katana, but was unsurprised to find Kaelung lounging by the campfire. “Your senses are sharp,” the monk said with a nod. “They will serve you well. I’ve only been here ten minutes.”

“Watch yourself, criminal,” Kenzo answered. “A condemned man should not tempt fate.”

“Fate brings us where we are meant to be,” Kaelung answered with a shrug. “What will you do if I tempt it? Will you strike me with your sword?” Kaelung’s eyes drifted to the wakizashi.

“Perhaps you are correct,” Kenzo hissed. “And fate has brought you back to face justice. Satsu will execute you for your crimes, Kaelung.”

“You are quick to deny me a chance at redemption,” Kaelung said. “I wonder how your father would feel about that.”

A cold certainty filled Kenzo in an instant. He saw himself draw the wakizashi and bury it in Kaelung’s chest. He focused, pushing the images away. “My father,” he said quietly, “would know an honorless dog when he saw one.”

The monk nodded. He reached into his robe and withdrew a small clay jug and cup. “Then we are fortunate I am no honorless dog. Let us drink to Mirumoto Junnosuke.”

Kenzo tensed, studying Kaelung’s face. He saw no trace of mockery there. “He was a great man.” Kenzo’s voice was still quiet, reverent. “Taken from us too soon.”

Kaelung warmed the flask over the fire. “I have heard tales of how Shahai sought to corrupt him,” he said. “He became a wicked man, but in the end he remembered the Way of the Dragon. He sacrificed himself and saved the life of Toturi Tsudao. Tell me, Kenzo, do you believe that a man who betrays all that worthy can be redeemed?”

“You compare yourself to my father?” Kenzo asked.

“No,” Kaelung answered, pouring a dark liquid from the jug into the cup. “I seek to understand him. If not for Junnosuke, Tsudao would have perished. The Sword would never have led the charge against the City of the Lost. Fu Leng would still reign in the heavens, and there would be no Emperor. Rokugan would be a dark place indeed without Mirumoto Junnosuke. Of all the clans, the Dragon have the clearest view of what is to come and what has gone before. Is it any wonder the Togashi are quick to forgive? This is what I hope, at least.”

“So is that why you are here?” Kenzo demanded. “Is it forgiveness you seek? You wish to return to those you abandoned? To those you murdered?”

“I never abandoned the Dragon Clan,” Kaelung answered. “They abandoned me. Those men were not murdered. They faced me as warriors. They died as warriors.”

“You believe the Dragon abandoned you?” Kenzo asked. “If you seek revenge, Rosanjin will never permit you to harm Lord Satsu.”

“Lord Satsu can protect,” Kaelung said, offering the cup to Kenzo, who took it warily. “Satsu is an interesting man. There are many interesting people among the Dragon. Not long ago, I heard an interesting story about another. A man named Hitomi Kobai.”

Kenzo nodded. “He has returned. Lord Satsu welcomed him home.”

“Yes,” Kaelung agreed, taking a long pull straight from the jug. “A man who was once a friend, then later a traitor, and then much later dead. And yet despite that, he was forgiven, permitted to return.” He sat for a moment, staring at the fire thoughtfully. “It makes me think. When we defeated Kokujin years ago, I fled afterward rather than face Lord Satsu. Yet if such a man as Kobai could be forgiven, then perhaps I could as well?”

“You killed three Mirumoto,” Kenzo said, sipping the bitter drink carefully. It was powerful shochu, burning his throat and leaving warmth in its wake. “Unlike Kobai, you were not under another’s control.”

Kaelung chuckled and stirred the campfire with a long stick. “I would not be so sure,” he said. “Who among us is truly his own master, Kenzo?” He glanced at the wakizashi again. “I was arrogant and foolish. I believed the Dragon to be weak because they could not stop Kokujin, and I sought a new source of strength. Ironically, I let the power of a corrupt tattoo control me – just as Kokujin did.”

Kenzo frowned. “One of Hoshi’s tattoos?”

“I speak of this.” Kaelung held up his wrist and revealed a strange symbol, a pair of swirling lines next to a small cross.

“That symbol is unfamiliar,” Kenzo said.

“Be grateful,” Kaelung replied.

“What is it?” Kenzo asked.

“It is the symbol of noble men, with noble ideals,” Kaelung said wryly. He threw the bottle back and emptied most of the shochu, wobbling slightly as he did so. Kenzo stared, amazed at his ability to sit upright after drinking so heavily. “Noble men who would order me to kill honorable samurai… for noble ideals.” The monk withdrew the stick from the flame and regarded the red-hot tip with curious resolve. Before Kenzo realized what he was doing, Kaelung touched the glowing ember against his wrist, searing the tattoo from his flesh. His face twisted in a grimace, his shoulders shuddered, but he said nothing.

Kenzo was revolted by the smell of burning flesh, but did not look away. “I have heard the Hoshi tattoos protect from pain and injury,” he said mildly.

“Don’t believe it,” Kaelung answered through clenched teeth. He dropped the stick and picked up the shochu bottle, upending its contents over his scorched wrist with a sizzle. Wincing, he tore a strip of cloth from his own robe and began to bind his arm.

“What will you do if Lord Satsu chooses not to forgive you, Kaelung?” Kenzo asked.

“I will answer that if you answer this,” Kaelung said. “What will you do after you have redeemed your father’s name?”

“I have given it no thought,” Kenzo said tersely. “Any energy spent considering such a day is energy wasted that might have brought that day to fruition. I can only focus on what must be done.”

The monk frowned, then shrugged. “You understand me better than you think, Kenzo.” He picked up the shochu and tried to shake out another drop, then set the empty jug aside in disappointment. “Now tell me about these murders.”

Kenzo relaxed, glad to discuss less complex matters. “The first was weeks ago. A magistrate was killed outside a teahouse. The crime was particularly violent, and more importantly was committed with a katana. Rosanjin ordered Otojiro, the same magistrate who inspected the site of Mirumoto Uso’s murder, to examine the scene. He believes that the two crimes are related, as well as the two murders in Seido Sanzo.”

“Is Otojiro trustworthy?”

The younger man nodded. “He is Kitsuki, and everything that implies. Only the truth matters to him. It is said that once he begins tracking a criminal, there is no escape. It is only a matter of time.”

Kaelung snorted. “Uso was murdered years ago. If it is only a matter of time, then Otojiro is taking his time.”

“That was a unique case,” Kenzo said, his tone defensive. “The scene of Uso’s murder was altered, most likely by magic. By the time Otojiro could determine what happened and summon a Tamori to assist the kami were confused and uncooperative. The murderer covered his tracks well.”

“A shugenja,” the monk mused. “Magic always makes things too complicated.”

“There are other considerations,” Kenzo said. He reached into his pack and retrieved a scroll, handing it carefully to the monk across the flames. “All the murders were performed with a single blade, but Otojiro insists that the style and position of the wounds inflicted indicate that the murderer is well-versed in the Nitten style.”

Kaelung looked up from the scroll with a frown. “Magic and swordsmanship?” he asked. “So the murderer has an accomplice?”

“No,” Kenzo said, shaking his head. “Otojiro and the other Kitsuki are absolutely certain that only one person was present at each of the murders. They go on to discuss footprints and things of that sort. Evidence – that curious magic of the Kitsuki. I did not follow it exactly, but they seem quite convinced.”

“No shugenja practices Nitten,” Kaelung scoffed. “Magic and the Mirumoto technique each require too much focus, too much dedication for a single soul to learn both in one lifetime.”

Kenzo drew a deep breath. “I cannot explain it either, but I think that something has changed. Seven years of nothing and now this? Uso’s murder was clean, trackless. Our quarry has made a mistake. The shrine murders were rushed, chaotic. I feel certain Otojiro will have the scent of our prey by morning.”

“Time for sleep, then,” Kaelung said. “I want to be rested for the hunt.”

It was shortly after dawn when Rosanjin gathered the city’s magistrates and his personal guard together. Otojiro’s investigation had discovered that Asako Tsuruko’s yojimbo, had been seen entering the shrine shortly before the murders. Otojiro reported that the wounds inflicted on the corpses were dealt by a left-handed attacker. Kazunori was also left-handed. The evidence was slim, but enough for Rosanjin to send all available samurai to hunt for the missing yojimbo.

It was Kaelung who found the shrine. The monk moved through the woods like a great cat, his massive bulk moving with speed and grace that Kenzo found disturbing. Occasionally, Kaelung would stop and seem to sniff the air. Kenzo found it difficult to keep pace, but with effort kept the sohei just in sight.

Kaelung waited for him on the shrine’s steps, pointing to a line of faded kanji on the corner column. “The Fortune of Stone,” he said quietly. “His shrines are rare, usually hidden among the mountains. Rarer, since Fu Leng killed him. I wonder what happens to a dead god’s shrines?”
“Let the shugenja worry about such things,” Kenzo said. “What have you found?”

“Someone moved through here,” Kaelung warned. “We must be cautious.”

Kenzo drew his blade. “I will enter through the front. You ensure that no one flees from the rear.”

“No,” the monk answered. “I will go in the front.”
“I am a Mirumoto,” Kenzo said firmly. “This is my duty, not yours.”

Kaelung sneered, but nodded in agreement and circled about to approach from the rear. Kenzo waited a few moments to allow the monk to make headway toward the back, then rose from where he lay concealed and approached the front cautiously, careful to make no noise as he stepped through the darkened doorway.

The shrine’s interior was as dark as a moonless night, with only minimal light filtering in from the morning sun outside. Kenzo stood very still, making no sound and allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He listened, and in the darkness he could make out a faint, whispering sound. Slowly, his eyes adjusted, and he could make out the form of a man sitting in the darkness. His back was to the wall, his blade laying on the stone floor beside him, both hands buried in his unkempt black hair. The man whispered madly to himself. Kenzo could not make out the words, but it sounded like he repeated the same words over and over again. “Good fortunes, cousin,” he called out.

The man leapt to his feet, clutching his sword tightly in his hand. “Who’s there?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

“I am Kenzo, vassal of Mirumoto Rosanjin,” Kenzo answered. “Are you Kazunori?”

“You know!” the man screamed suddenly. “You know what I’ve done! I couldn’t help it! You don’t understand!”

Kenzo moved his hand to the hilt of his katana, but kept his voice even. “Rosanjin-sama needs your help,” he said calmly. “He asked me to bring you back to the city. Will you come with me?”

“I’ll kill you!” Kazunori screamed suddenly. He brandished his blade and leapt forward, crossing the room in an instant. Kenzo barely had time to draw his blades and block the man’s first, wild attack. Even so, the force drove him back a few steps toward the doorway. “I’ll kill you!”

There was a loud crash and a blur of movement from the rear of the shrine, and then Kaelung was there. The tattooed man delivered an elbow strike to Kazunori’s face, driving the warrior back with sheer strength and bone-crushing force. Kenzo fought back a hiss of outrage at having his prey taken from him; even in battle he pushed aside the wakizashi’s whispers.

“Die!” Kazunori screamed, and this time leaped at Kaelung. The monk’s eyes widened in fear, but Kenzo quickly surmised it was not Kazunori that the sohei feared. His eyes were fixed on the man’s sword, now gleaming a dull red. Kenzo leapt forward to attack, separating Kazunori from the monk.

With a fierce kiai shout, Kenzo collided with Kazunori. He whirled and feinted, attacking with such speed and force that his opponent was forced on the defensive. The sword glinted with the same strange, red light, echoing the fierce blue gleam that arose from Kenzo’s wakizashi. Kenzo paid it no heed. He forced Kazunori back, toward the shrine’s southern wall, not relenting for a moment. In one powerful move, he brought both blades down over his head and met his opponent’s blade in a cross between them.

The two men struggled for several seconds, each seeking to overpower the other. Kenzo’s mind was a whirlwind, with nothing but his enemy’s total destruction filling his thoughts. As he stood, blades locked, he saw something flash across the surface of his enemy’s blade. It was a face, one in torment, and the pain was reflected, for that one moment, in his opponent’s eyes. It was a face that Kenzo knew very well.

“Father?” he whispered, his strength and power suddenly gone.

Kazunori screamed and threw Kenzo away, tossing him easily ten feet across the shrine and leaving him flat on his back on the cold stone floor. Kenzo struggled to his feet as his attacker leapt to finish him, struggling to understand why he had seen his father within the blade.

“Fight, fool!” hissed the voice of his cursed blade. “Ignore the madman’s illusions. Destroy this pretender.”

Clarity returned and for once Kenzo felt in harmony with the strange blade. He blocked Kazunori’s attacks easily, knocking aside one blow after another. Kazunori glared at him, his eyes strangely haunted and somehow familiar. Was this what he might become if he let the cursed blade dominate him? Then he saw a sudden blur of movement from Kenzo’s right.

“Kaelung, no!” Kenzo screamed.

There was a sound like firewood splitting. Kazunori spasmed suddenly, his forward momentum suddenly gone. Kaelung’s axe jutted out from his head, buried deeply in the man’s skull. Both man and blade fell to the ground floor unceremoniously.

“Now destroy the pretender,” the sword hissed in his mind.

 “But Kazunori is dead,” the young Dragon said, confused.

Someone had lit a fire within the shrine, illuminating the stark and dilapidated interior. Rosanjin faced Kaelung in the far corner of the shrine, demanding an explanation.

“Of course I killed him,” Kaelung was saying irritably. “He was trying to kill us. It is obvious that he is the murderer, and you and I both know why.”

“I wanted him alive so that Otojiro could question him,” Rosanjin answered, his voice heated. “He may have committed these crimes, but now we cannot be certain.”

Otojiro was carefully examining the blade that Kazunori had wielded, walking around it and examining the sword carefully. “I believe that the magistrate, the monk, and lord Uso-sama were killed by the same assassin, wielding this blade,” he said. “Tsuruko, however, was killed by someone else. Kazunori, I believe.”

“What?” Kaelung demanded. “How could you know that?”

“His height, the length of this blade, and the way you describe his fighting stance,” Otojiro responded. “It is consistent with the wounds Tsuruko bore, but not those of the monk or any the others. They were much different.”

“You knew that two different killers struck at the temple?” Kenzo asked.

“I suspected,” Otojiro said with a shrug. “The Kitsuki Method must consider many variables. Until I saw the blade, I could not be sure.” He reached and withdrew a well-worn scroll that was tucked into Kazunori’s obi. He unrolled it carefully and began to read.

Rosanjin frowned. “We still do not know who killed Uso, thanks to Kaelung’s gentle hand at diplomacy.”

“What is that blade?” Kenzo asked suddenly, interrupting Kaelung before he could return Rosanjin’s barb. “You said you both know why this man was a murderer. It is his sword, isn’t it?”

Kaelung and Rosanjin glanced at one another. “It is,” Rosanjin answered. “This is a Shamesword, Kenzo. A blade forged by a Kokujin, from the soul of a disgraced Dragon.”

Kenzo’s expression was strangely blank. “I saw my father’s soul in that blade, but that is impossible. How could it know what I seek?”

The two older men glanced at one another again, and Rosanjin began to speak, but was interrupted by a thoughtful grunt from Otojiro, who handed Rosanjin the scroll. “Perhaps we know the truth after all,” he said flatly.

Rosanjin read the scroll quickly, then handed it to Kaelung. The monk read it and passed it to Kenzo, who quickly read its contents.

Kazunori,

I pray that you will read this letter, because if you do then it means I have overcome the murderous spirit that consumes me, and I have regained my freedom at last. I have greatly enjoyed my time with you and your people. These mountains are my home now, and it is with great regret that I recall the circumstances surrounding my arrival.

Since my youth, I have been associated with a group of like-minded individuals who share my unique philosophies, seeking to restore that which has long been lost. It is important that you believe me when I assure you that we were never violent, nor intentionally treasonous. I suppose our evil was one borne of curiosity, that most damning of sins. I never knew until it was too late that my order was a cell of that brotherhood known as the Bloodspeakers. When the war between our clans came to an end, they urged me to take the opportunity to travel here, as you Dragon have ever been difficult to infiltrate. I did so, and was overjoyed to find how well I fit in with your people.

Until I found the sword.

How the sword came to me I do not know. It was simply among my possessions one morning. I could sense that there was something unique about it, and I sought a way to understand its power. I fear that I only unleashed its power, and it consumed me. Its murderous influence drove me to use my magic in ways I had never conceived. I infiltrated Shiro Mirumoto, and with my magic and the blade’s power, I murdered your Lord Uso.

The blade’s influence is powerful, but for a time I overcame it. My remorse was genuine. In that much, at least, I hope you find truth. I hid it away and struggled to understand it, to discover a means by which I could destroy it. But to no avail.

Years have passed since Uso’s death, a grim nightmare that I relive each day. I have resisted the urge for further violence, though I have given the Bloodspeakers much information on the Dragon Clan. The seditious impulses are far more seductive and difficult to resist.

Two nights ago, the sword overwhelmed me, and I killed again. One of your Mirumoto brothers is dead, and I can feel the blade growing in strength. I fear this is not the end. I long to take my own life, but I am too afraid.

I no longer know what to do.

Asako Tsuruko

Kenzo rolled the scroll back up and handed it to Rosanjin. “A Phoenix murdered Uso,” he said in disgust.

“Hardly a typical Phoenix,” Otojiro said.

“She was a Bloodspeaker,” Kenzo added. “She was a blasphemer long before she found the blade, no matter how she may seek to cover her guilt.”

Kaelung shook his head. “I find it strange. I do not think Kokujin would intend his creations to be used by the Bloodspeakers. The madman’s agenda does not include competition such as Iuchiban.”

“Who can say why Kokujin does anything?” Rosanjin said. “His swords are as mad as he is.”

“And evil cannot be anticipated,” Otojiro added. “No creator of such foul weapons can anticipate the actions of his creations.” Here he glanced at Kenzo again, his gaze scrutinizing.

“I must take the blade to the High House of Light,” Kenzo said firmly.

“Take Kaelung with you,” Rosanjin said. “He has an appointment with our Lord.”

“Arigato, Rosanjin-sama,” Kaelung said sincerely. “A single chance is all I ask.”

“I do not know what the greater mercy would be,” Rosanjin said. “For Satsu to give you the opportunity to redeem yourself or for him to execute you before you become another like Kokujin.”

“You may be surprised, Rosanjin-sama,” Kaelung replied, gently rubbing the bandage on his wrist. “I have asked myself the same thing.”