The colossal thud of Ironfang Kaito's body crashing to the earth echoed through the newly silent streets of Minato Kaze. Dust surged upward in a mournful column, veiling the devastation like a funeral shroud. When it finally settled, the monstrous pirate lay sprawled amidst shattered stalls and splintered carts, a spear of black, Haki-hardened steel grotesquely embedded in his skull. He was death incarnate—still, unyielding, buried in the very ruin he had wrought.
Isshin Ashina stood over the corpse, one hand clenched around Shura's hilt, the other braced against his trembling thigh. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. The adrenaline that had fueled his desperate ascent up Kaito's rampaging form and driven the killing blow was ebbing away, leaving behind only raw pain—especially in ribs that still refused to knit. His kasa lay abandoned in the grime. Sweat, soot, and the giant's ink-dark blood streaked his young face. Victory hung on him like lead—a triumph paid for in agony.
For a long moment, the only sound was Isshin's strained breathing—and the lonely cry of a gull circling overhead. Then, somewhere down the lane, a wooden door creaked open. Another followed. Then more. Cautious faces appeared in windows and doorways, eyes wide with disbelief and fragile hope. Slowly, hesitantly, the people of Minato Kaze emerged from their homes.
They gazed at the scene before them—the wreckage, the fallen tyrant, and the lone ronin who still stood at the center, blade dripping red. At first, they said nothing.
It was the old herbalist who moved first. Her cane tapped out a slow rhythm on the cobblestones as she approached, each step measured with reverence. When she reached the heart of the destruction, she paused, tears carving lines through the dust on her cheeks. They were not tears of mourning—but of release. With a grace belying her years, she dropped to her knees, bowing until her forehead touched the dirt.
"Warrior-san…" she whispered, voice thick with emotion. "You've done it. You've avenged them. My son… my family… all those lost to Kaito… they can rest now." Her shoulders quaked in silent sobs.
Isshin inhaled deeply, anchoring himself against the sharp pull in his ribs. He straightened just enough to slide Shura back into its saya with a clean, deliberate click. Then he dropped to one knee before the old woman, placing his trembling palm flat against the earth in a gesture of profound respect.
"Grandmother," he said, his voice hoarse but steady, "you pulled me back from the brink. If this life you saved can offer peace to Minato Kaze—and to your heart—then every wound was worth it. The dead can rest. Thanks to you." He bowed low, a final farewell to duty fulfilled.
A wave of hushed reverence rippled through the villagers. Some wept openly. Others folded their hands in silent prayer. The smothering veil of fear that had strangled Minato Kaze for so long was lifting—like a fist unclenching from a throat.
While Isshin and the herbalist shared that quiet moment, a few braver souls began to move among the wreckage. They found survivors of Kaito's crew—some hiding, others too stunned to resist. One by one, they were dragged out and bound with thick rope and fishing nets. The once-fearsome pirates now huddled together, beaten and mute.
Isshin rose, stiff and aching, aided by the herbalist's gentle hand. Each movement sent flares of pain through his broken body, but he endured it, his eyes scanning the captives.
"These rats know things," he said, nodding toward the prisoners. Though rasping, his voice still carried the steel edge of command.
He strode forward, Shura hanging loose in his grasp. Even in his battered state, his presence cowed the prisoners. His shadow fell across them like a stormcloud. One man stood out—a wiry lieutenant in better clothes, eyes darting between fear and defiance.
"Ironfang is dead," Isshin said quietly. "Your reign ends here. But you're just the tail. Where is the head? Who do you truly serve? Where are your forces gathering?"
The man winced but sneered. "You think we'll tell you anything, boy? Kaito was stronger than all of you—and there are others… greater powers at play…"
He spat blood at Isshin's feet.
Isshin said nothing. The silence stretched like a blade. The pirate looked away, then back, wilting beneath the weight of the ronin's gaze.
"Alright! Alright!" he snapped, voice cracking. "No need to get stabby. We… we're just a detachment. Part of the Alliance."
"The Alliance?" Isshin echoed, committing the name to memory. "And their target?"
Another pirate—young, trembling, desperate—spoke from the back. "They're planning a strike. On the mainland. The Ashina Clan."
Isshin's breath caught. His own name—spoken like a threat.
The lieutenant glared at the youth, but the damage was done.
"Yes," he growled, beaten. "Orders came from the Leaders. A full assault—meant to shatter the Ashina for good. Their fleet's resupplying nearby. Moonglimmer Isle. They took Sakurayama Castle weeks ago. Now they wait."
Moonglimmer. Sakurayama. Familiar names turned to portents. The taste of victory turned to ash.
Before more could be said, a hunched figure stepped from the crowd. A fisherman—his skin toughened by salt and sun, his hands like weathered rope. He removed his straw hat and bowed low.
"Warrior-sama," he said, voice coarse but sincere. "Moonglimmer Isle is two hours' row from here. My skiff is small, but she knows the sea like I know my own name. If you're going—I'll take you."
Isshin turned, each step searing with pain. He looked toward the horizon, where the ocean churned under a rising wind. His Haki stirred again—slow, steady, vengeful.
"I accept," he said simply. "Your courage honors me."
The fisherman bowed once more, tears brimming in his eyes.
"May the sea gods guide your blade."
***
An hour later, the skiff sliced through gray-green waters beneath a brooding sky. Isshin sat at the prow, Shura laid across his lap, sea spray cooling the sweat on his worn face. One hand clutched the rail, knuckles white, as the fisherman rowed with relentless focus. The harbor was gone, swallowed by mist. Only the open sea remained—an uncertain path toward the crucible ahead.
Through the fog, Moonglimmer Isle rose like a dark omen: a wooded hump crowned by jagged cliffs. At its peak loomed Sakurayama Castle—cold, silent, carved from stone and shadow. Below, anchored in a sheltered cove, three brigs floated on still waters, black pennants hanging limp. Pale shapes moved across their decks—pirates, restless and armed, preparing for more than petty plunder.
"Take us in," Isshin said, his voice steady despite the ache in his ribs. "Keep to the lee side, behind the rocks."
The fisherman nodded, threading the skiff through a maze of reefs. At a hundred yards from the nearest brig—hidden from sight—Isshin stood and pressed a pouch of coins into the man's calloused hands.
"Kaito's spoils," he said. "Use them to rebuild Minato Kaze."
The fisherman's hands trembled. "Warrior-sama…"
"Your family needs it more than I do," Isshin said, his voice softening for a beat. "Go. Let the gods see you home."
With a bow, the fisherman turned the skiff to sea. Isshin slipped over the side, chest-deep in cold water, Shura raised high. Every step toward the brig was agony—burning breath, bones that hadn't healed—but he moved forward.
At the hull, he pressed himself flat, cloaked in Haki. Laughter and the clatter of mugs drifted from above. After a breath to steel himself, he seized the anchor chain and climbed.
He landed silently behind a stack of barrels. Two pirates sat nearby, rolling dice. They never saw him coming.
Shura whispered free.
SHLICK.
The first man froze, face still twisted in surprise as Isshin's blade split jaw and neck. His body collapsed over the dice. The second turned, eyes wide—
Too late.
A flash of steel took his arm at the shoulder, his scream swallowed as Shura's point slid under his chin and out the back of his skull. He toppled, twitching, to the deck.
"Blood in the water!" a voice shouted. Boots thundered across the planks.
Isshin met them head-on. A brute charged with a cutlass, swinging wide. Observation Haki flared—Isshin stepped inside the arc, parried with Shura's flat, then hacked through the man's knee. He dropped screaming. A thrust ended him before it became a cry.
Another pirate emerged, axe raised. Isshin crouched, let the blade crash down, and turned it aside. In a flash, he cut both legs at the knee. The pirate hit the deck hard—and never rose again.
"Intruder—quarterdeck!" someone cried from amidships.
Isshin surged forward. Two pirates burst up the companionway. One leveled a pistol—
Isshin crushed the man's wrist in a Haki-wrapped fist. The gun dropped. Shura's pommel caved in his skull.
The second came with a spear. Isshin sidestepped the jab, shattered the shaft with a twist, then followed through—a single, precise cut ending it.
From the third brig, the lookout raised an alarm.
Isshin didn't pause. He leapt the narrow gap, landing amid pirates scrambling to meet him. He became a storm:
A scimitar's swing met a low counter—arm severed, blood arcing.
A vertical slice bisected a fleeing man from shoulder to waist.
A musket raised—too slow. Isshin's thrust drove through ribcage, spine, and steel.
Within minutes, the deck ran crimson. Those who didn't die surrendered—or jumped and died trying. Isshin stood panting, blood-soaked, body afire with pain.
But he pressed on.
On the third brig, pirates scrambled to lower a longboat. Isshin launched across the final gap, landing in their midst. Surprise became panic.
Three men leapt for the boat.
One stroke—three throats opened. They spilled into the sea, choking.
Two more surged from below. A single sweep took their arms and shoulders. Two finishing thrusts ended them.
And then, silence.
Nineteen dead.
Isshin stood alone, robes torn, chest heaving. He turned to the last survivor—a trembling navigator with a compass tattoo, tied to the rail.
Isshin pressed Shura's bloody point under the man's chin. "Where do your leaders hide?"
"Th-the main keep," the man stammered, shaking. "Lord's Chambers. The Leaders commands from there. They're planning something—maps, war charts—"
He fumbled out a crumpled parchment. "Here. Take it. Just—please…"
Isshin snatched the map. Red ink marked the inner courtyards, battlements, and the Lord's Chambers. The heart of the fortress lay within reach.
He met the man's eyes, expression unreadable.
Then—shhk—Shura ended it.
Isshin wiped the blade on the railing. His Haki had ebbed, leaving pain and silence. But something else remained.
Resolve.
He sheathed Shura, stepped to the rail, and looked up at Sakurayama Castle.
[A/N: I will be mass dropping chapters. Enjoy guys. Maybe every few minutes!]