The ascent to Sakurayama Castle was a treacherous climb up a narrow, winding path carved into the sheer cliff face. Moonlight glanced off damp stones as Isshin Ashina pressed onward, each step testing battered ribs and a shattered collarbone. By the time he reached the outer walls, dawn was still hours away, but lanterns flickering along the battlements threw long shadows against the pale stone. From somewhere deep within, the careless sounds of drunken singing and coarse laughter—pirates at ease—echoed into the chill air.
Isshin closed his eyes for a moment, letting Observation Haki sweep the perimeter. The main gate bristled with armed sentries—dozens of them arrayed in loose formation, leaning on cutlasses, trading jeers. A frontal assault against that horde would be suicide. He traced the crude lines on the retrieved map: an old service tunnel, marked "collapsed," cut through the lower bailey's overgrown courtyard and led directly into the castle's storerooms. The pirates, confident in their numbers, probably hadn't bothered to clear every inch of rubble. Their arrogance would be his advantage.
He crept down a side ramp toward the ivy-thickened wall. A curtain of tangled vines draped over a half-buried rockslide—a near-finished collapse that left only a narrow crevice. Isshin crouched and, gritting his teeth against the pain, wriggled into the darkness. The passage was tight, every fingernail clawing at damp earth. The scent of stale soil mixed with something reptilian—old, undisturbed decay. Muscles burning, he pressed onward, limbs threading through jagged openings in the rock.
After what felt like endless scraping, Isshin emerged into a dusty storeroom. Moonlight filtered in through a barred high window. Barrels of sake, sacks of rice, and half-opened crates of cheap muskets lay scattered. The room's corners teemed with cobwebs. He paused to listen. Muffled footsteps drifted beyond a ramshackle wooden door—no immediate threat. He drew Shura; steel slid free in a near-silent whisper. His Haki flared, mapping the air, tasting for life.
Isshin eased the door open and slipped into a narrow service corridor lit by a single sputtering torch. Two pirates, backs to the wall, were propping themselves up with one shoulder and sharing a wineskin.
"…swear, if Grogg makes us stand watch on these damned leaky walls one more night—" one complained, stretching out a chain of drool.
"—least it's better than scrubbing Kaito's latrines again," the other replied, draining the wineskin in one gulp.
Isshin flowed out of shadow. In a heartbeat, he was behind the taller pirate. Shura's tip pressed against the base of the man's skull; the pirate went limp before a breath could escape. The second spun, eyes wide, but Isshin's free hand clamped over his mouth to muffle the shout. In the same motion, Shura slid in reverse grip between ribs to heart. Silence. He lowered their bodies gently to the cold stone floor, then moved on.
He strode down a winding stone staircase, each step cushioned by the worn, uneven surface so that his geta made no sound. Observation Haki painted the hall ahead: two more sentries pacing in loose formation, the faint outline of sleeping pirates in adjacent chambers, and flickers of lamplight from farther beyond. He stayed close to the wall, shifting from shadow to shadow like a wraith drifting through his clan's fortress now defiled by enemies.
A small courtyard opened before him, illuminated by a single lantern perched on an iron stand. A lone pirate—towering over most men, chain-linked morning star clinking at his wrist—paced past a weathered stone dragon statue. He scratched his groin, yawned, and leaned forward to relieve himself against the cold marble beast.
Isshin melted from the arch's shadow and crossed the courtyard in three silent strides. A Haki-infused chop to the back of the giant's neck ended his life with a soft crunch. The morning star thudded onto the grass. Isshin dragged the body into deeper darkness, muffling limbs and weapons beneath fallen leaves and stone rubble. There would be no alarm.
Reaching a low wall, he scaled it in a fluid motion and dropped onto a sloping roof slick with dew. Above, a lookout paced a narrow wooden platform that jutted from a tower's parapet. The pirate whistled a tuneless shanty, sweeping the grounds below with a battered spyglass. Isshin flattened himself against shadowed roof tiles and let Observation Haki guide his steps. With barely a sound, he crept within two paces of the lookout.
When the pirate turned his back to stamp down a loose shingle, Isshin rose. One swift, rising slash traveled from groin to sternum. The man's whistled tune cut off with a wet gurgle. He pitched forward, but Isshin caught him by the collar to break the fall, then folded the corpse off the edge into a waiting tangle of ivy below. The spyglass rolled away with a solitary clatter.
From the turret's height, Isshin surveyed new patrols: two headed toward a banquet hall, others meandered between flanked archways. He tucked himself under the rooftop eaves and pressed onward, Haki guiding him through a labyrinth of corridors and servant passages. A deliberately loosened roof tile crashed far to his left, sending three guards rushing to investigate. Isshin slipped through a carved wooden door they'd left unguarded. A tossed pebble snuffed a torch in a distant corridor, deepening the darkness where he needed it most. He was a shade, unseen, alive only in the flow of his breathing and the silent hum of Haki.
Deeper in the winding halls, Isshin discovered a converted study. Two pirates hunched over a table cluttered with detailed charts of the Ashina mainland—troop positions, supply lines, garrison orders. They spat curses and mumbled about how their "Admiral would crush the Daimyō soon." Isshin perched behind a toppled bookshelf, listening. Their arrogance left them oblivious.
When one leaned back to stretch, Isshin struck. Shura sang twice:
First strike: through spine, severing the man's back. He collapsed across the map-laden table, papers fluttering.
Second strike: a precise diagonal slash from shoulder to hip, ending the other pirate before he could cry out.
The maps dripped scarlet ink. Isshin gleaned key details: the main keep's guard rotations, the location of hidden armories, and the route to the Lord's Chambers. He sheathed Shura and pressed on.
Ahead lay the threshold of the main keep—an ornate set of sliding shoji screens rimmed with gilded wood. Voices surged beyond: boisterous laughter, clinking goblets, the braggadocio tone of officers issuing orders. Isshin's Haki shivered at the aura of authority within. This was the heart of the den he'd sworn to destroy.
He crouched in a carved alcove, tracing calloused fingertips along the gallery's woodwork. Two guards patrolled each side of the alcove, chatting lazily. He reached into his uwagi and extracted three small, smooth stones. With a flick of his wrist, he sent one clattering against a distant lantern stand. Its faint rattling echoed through the corridor.
"Wha's that?" the first guard grunted, swiveling his head.
"Prolly just a rat or somethin'," the second scoffed, but they both moved away, leaving the alcove unguarded. Isshin slipped through the lattice-like railing and dropped to the floor with catlike grace.
He crept behind the first guard, Shura's black Haki aura flickering beneath his grasp. In one flowing motion, he pressed Shura's flat to the man's kidney, driving the blade tip outward through the sternum. The guard's eyes widened, chest holed, then slack. Without a sound, Isshin dragged the body behind a potted bonsai, where it blended with embroidered banners and fallen petals.
The second guard whirled, reaching for his blade, but Isshin's Haki-imbued slash took him through the nape and out the other side. He slumped silent, blood painting a crimson arc on the moss-carpeted tile.
Isshin paused by the screens. The voices had grown louder—officers laughing about the siege's success, toasts to Ironfang's prowess, furtive talk of "tonight's feast" in the Lord's Chambers. He pressed an ear to the translucent rice paper: "—and then, Ashina's capital will be ours by dawn—" a sneering voice declared.
He placed Shura's tip between the screens and slid them open. The throne room was a cavernous hall lit by crystal chandeliers dripping candlelight. A long oak table ran down its center—wine goblets and platters of stolen Ashina silver scattered along its length. Four officers in studded leather sat at one end, jeering over a map of the mainland. At the far end, towering on a dais, sat the usurper—a scar-faced pirate captain draped in stolen samurai armor, toasting a rusty cup of sake. His eyes, sunken and cunning, scanned the room like a hawk.
Isshin inhaled slowly, tensing every muscle. His Haki stretched outward, rooting out every heartbeat: a drunken guard slouched by the dais, two officers standing over spilled wine, a pair of sentries stationed behind ornate screens.
He stepped across the threshold like a wraith, shadows swallowing him. The captain's back was to the door; he did not notice. A sentry at the dais turned, sensing movement, but Isshin's Haki-accelerated step closed the distance. The blade pierced the guard's throat before he could speak. He slumped forward, collapsing into the dais's gilded tapestry.
With glacial calm, Isshin flowed down the long table. Officers leapt to their feet, swords drawn, but he was already upon them:
1The first officer reached for a falling chair. Isshin's Haki-charged fist crushed his windpipe before he could even swing the chair aside. He crinkled to the floor, unmoving.
The second lifted a scimitar. Isshin spun under the raised arm, his own blade flashing in an upward arc that took the pirate's hands off at the wrists. He staggered, dropping bloodied stumps as he crumpled.
3The third flung a dagger. Isshin's Haki trailed the blade's arc. He caught it midair, shattering the hardwood floor under the dagger's flight, then swept his katana in a horizontal slash that clipped the man's neck and severed it with a muted thock.
The final officer, a hulking brute with a spiked mace, charged. He swung the mace in a wide, overhead arc. Isshin knelt at the iron-shod dais, letting the blow pass overhead. The mace thundered into the floor until a fragment of embroidered carpet caught between wood and iron, momentarily halting its rebound. In that sliver of time, Isshin leapt, Shura's edge driving upward beneath the final officer's ribcage. The force lifted the man off his feet; he collapsed with a strangled groan, chest shattered.
Now only the usurper remained. The scar-faced captain rumbled to his feet to face Isshin—eyes wide, fury contorting his features.
"Who—? You—Imbecile!" he snarled, dropping the cup that shattered on the floor. He reached for a small wakizashi at his hip. "You dare—"
Before he could draw fresh steel, Isshin was upon him. Haki flared along Shura's length, casting the chamber in a dark shimmer. With a whispered curse, Isshin spun, drawing the captain's wakizashi out of its scabbard mid-draw and diverting it aside. Then, in a single, fluid motion, he severed the wearer's off-hand at the wrist, sending sword and arm flying.
The captain recoiled, both startled and enraged. He tried a desperate kick to create space, but Isshin's Haki-laced block caught it at the shin. With a reverse-hilt motion, Isshin's blade flashed under the man's ribs and out his back, puncturing lungs. The captain spat blood, staggered, then fell forward, collapsing at Isshin's feet.
Isshin sheathed Shura with deliberate slowness. He looked down at the fallen pirate captain—once lord of Sakurayama Castle, now nothing more than a broken heap. Behind him, through the shattered window, the first pale light of dawn crept over the horizon, sending molten gold across stained walls and toppled banners.
Silence settled in the throne room. The only sound was Isshin's steady breathing, mingled with distant church bells in Ashina lands—an eerie echo of the life that still needed saving. He knelt at the captain's fallen form and closed the man's eyes, offering a silent prayer to the ancestors both in Ashina and those lost at sea.
Rising, Isshin stepped to the dais and surveyed the chamber: maps of invasion plans, forged orders commanding loyal samurai's heads on spikes, a ledger of coastal forts to besiege. He rammed the scabbard into the floor, Haki flaring briefly as he ripped the wall map down and strapped it to his back.
With that, he turned and walked toward the shattered shoji screens, every footfall a promise: the Alliance's momentum would falter here. He was ready for the Main Event.