Takeru gave the signal, a soft click of the tongue that was all but inaudible beneath the camp's revelry. Forty-nine shadows detached themselves from the darkness of the ridge and began to descend.
The descent was a masterclass in controlled movement. They moved not in a line, but in scattered groups, using every rock and tree for cover. The air grew thick with the smell of woodsmoke, roasted meat, and spilled sake. The sounds of the camp resolved from a dull roar into individual shouts, laughter, and the twang of a poorly played biwa.
At the edge of the encampment, they paused. Takeru gave a series of sharp, silent hand signals. The teams acknowledged and separated, melting into the labyrinth of tents and sleeping bodies.
Takeru controlled his breathing, trying to quiet the frantic pulse in his ears. The air was thick with the reek of cheap sake and snoring men. He led his team through the maze of bodies and dying fires, their cloth-wrapped feet making no sound on the packed earth. They pressed themselves into the darkness as a patrol staggered past, the guards' attention lost to their drink. They were not warriors now, but predators, moving with a purpose wholly alien to the sleeping camp.
They reached the designated rallying point, a large, barren oak tree that stood in the relative darkness between the supply depot and the command tent. Within minutes, two soft hoots like a night owl sounded from different directions. Team One and Team Two were in position.
The hunter's men were now interspersed among the horse lines, their knives ready. Kenji's team, including the elder himself, were crouched by the massive supply tents, flasks of oil already opened.
Takeru took a deep breath, the cool night air doing little to calm the fire in his veins. He gave the final signal—a low, mournful whistle that imitated the cry of a hawk.
It was the signal for hell to break loose.
Across the camp, Kenji and his men threw their lit torches onto the oil-soaked canvas of the supply depot. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, a small spark bloomed into a ravenous orange flower. The flames devoured the dry tents, roaring to life and painting the panicked faces of the nearest Izumo in shades of terror.
"Fire! Fire at the depot!" a man screamed.
Simultaneously, in the horse lines, the hunter's team went to work. They didn't kill the animals. They sliced at their rumps and cut their tethers, screaming like demons as they did. The panicked horses became the camp's executioner. They flattened tents and trampled everything in their path, their frenzied charge unstoppable. The Izumo soldiers, moments ago lost in drink, now found themselves in a waking nightmare. They stumbled out into a world of fire and thunder, their shouts of alarm swallowed by the greater noise of the stampede and the agony of those caught within it. Order vanished, replaced by a raw, instinctual scramble for survival.
And in that chaos, Takeru's team struck.
"Now," Takeru hissed.
The fifteen elite Akiyama warriors burst from the shadows of the oak tree and sprinted toward the lord's tent. The handful of guards stationed there were turning, their attention drawn by the fire and the stampede. They were easy prey.
Jiro was a whirlwind of destruction at the front, his spear a blur. He took down two guards before they could even fully draw their swords. The rest of Takeru's team followed, a disciplined wedge of death that cut through the confused resistance with brutal efficiency. Their movements were silent, economical, and utterly lethal.
"Jiro, the right!" Takeru commanded, his voice sharp and clear amidst the din. "Saito, left! No survivors outside the tent!"
They reached the ornate entrance flap of the command tent. Two heavily armored guards, Lord Izumo's personal samurai, stood their ground, roaring a challenge. They were formidable, but they were only two. Jiro and three others engaged them in a brief, furious melee that ended with Akiyama steel finding its home.
Without pausing, Takeru sliced open the heavy silk flap with his own short sword and burst inside.
The scene within was one of opulent disarray. Rich tapestries lined the walls, silk cushions were scattered about, and an overturned table lay in a pool of spilled sake. In the center of the tent, scrambling up from a sleeping mat, was a man in his forties. His face, normally proud and arrogant, was slack with shock and confusion. His luxurious night robes were disheveled, and his hand was scrambling for the ornate katana that lay just out of his reach on a nearby stand.
It was Lord Izumo.
He looked up, his eyes wide with terror as they fell upon the intruders. He saw Jiro, his face a mask of grim fury. He saw the other charcoal-faced warriors, their blades dripping blood.
And then he saw their leader. A boy, no older than his own son, standing calmly at the center of the storm. The firelight from the burning camp outside danced in his eyes, making them glow like malevolent embers. He held a spear, not with the frantic energy of a warrior, but with the steady, patient poise of a hunter who had finally cornered his prey.
Lord Izumo opened his mouth, a name or a curse dying on his lips as he finally recognized the face from the reports—the unremarkable heir of the clan he had thought to erase.
"You..."