Gyakkyou: Chapter Five

Chapter Five: Little Samurai

Blood-stained in the rain,

Heads bow to the crimson earth,

A warrior's birth.

***

He stood in the field, corpses heaped before him, mud soft underfoot, rain slow and cold, pattering against the earth. The murmur of soldiers shifted in the mist. The world was grey, the sky sagging low over the earth, and in his hand, the severed head of the rebel leader rested heavy as stone. He didn’t know why he held it, didn’t know why it was there. The eyes stared blankly, unsettling him more than the slaughter. The mask was still on, the helmet too, and beneath it the face was nothing more than a shape. A thing. But it didn’t matter. The man was dead, and Gyakkyou had killed him.

He stared down at the head, turning it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it. Blood had soaked into his clothes, thickening stiff in the chill, the stench of death thick around him. He didn’t feel like a boy anymore. Didn’t feel like anything. The men called him names that held no meaning. Perhaps they did. Alas, the words rang hollow in his ears, as empty as the eyes of the dead man in his lap.

"What are you waiting for?" the samurai asked, his voice low, steady like the rain. Dōri, the others called him, though Gyakkyou knew him only by his actions. It was Dōri who pressed the head into his hands, told him to present it to the general, to claim his reward. Said he’d done well. It didn’t feel like he had. Felt like nothing.

"I don’t know," Gyakkyou muttered. "I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. To feel."

The samurai crouched, his eyes dark with thought. He leveled his gaze with Gyakkyou’s. "You’re not supposed to feel anything," Dōri said. "You did what needed doing. That’s all there is.”

Gyakkyou said nothing, staring at the head, the rain dripping from his hair, cold settling into his bones. He wanted to understand why it still hurt, why the fire in his chest wouldn’t die. But there were no answers in the dead man’s eyes. No answers anywhere.

Dōri rose, his armour creaking, rain tapping softly on the metal. He looked down at Gyakkyou with the calm indifference of a man watching a storm pass, knowing it would end.

"Come," he said. "The ceremony begins."

Gyakkyou followed him, legs stiff, hands gripping the head. At the site of the ceremony, rows of heads were laid out with methodical care, each placed upon a square of white cloth, their features contorted in the stiffness of death. 

"Place it with the rest facing west," Dōri said, "where the setting sun would burn through the clouds." Gyakkyou did as told. The ceremony was silent, warriors paying homage to their fallen enemies. Kubi Jikken, Dōri called it. It made little sense to Gyakkyou, honouring these beasts.

Samurai stood in formation, helmets removed, rain darkening their hair, streaking their faces with rivulets of water. Gyakkyou’s eyes drifted to the general, Kurosawa Mitsuharu, who sat upon his horse, his armour gleaming in the dull light. Gyakkyou felt the man’s gaze linger upon him, sharp, calculating, as though weighing something invisible in the air between them.

The Taishō’s voice cut through the rain. “Step forward, boy.”

Gyakkyou hesitated, then stepped forward. The mud sucked at his sandals. He reached the general, unsure of what to do.

Kurosawa Mitsuharu leaned forward in his saddle, silent. For a long moment, the general said nothing, his gaze drifting. Finally, he nodded slightly, as if reaching some unspoken conclusion.

"You’ve done well," the general said, voice measured. "You’ve earned your titles. Ichiban Yari—the first spear. Kimetsu no Yaiba—the slayer of demons. But a warrior’s path does not end with a single victory.”

Gyakkyou stood motionless, the words washing over him like the rain. He barely understood them, barely understood the ceremony unfolding around him. It all felt like a distant dream, as though he were watching it from some far-off place, separated from his own body.

The Taishō’s eyes flickered to Dōri, who stood quietly to the side, watching, ever still. There was a brief exchange of glances between the two men, something unspoken passing between them. Mitsuharu turned back to Gyakkyou.

“I see potential in you,” the Taishō said, his tone softening slightly. “But potential without guidance is dangerous. You fought with fury, with hate. Admirable. Yet, such things can consume a man if left unchecked.”

He paused, as if considering his words one last time.

“Dōri,” Mitsuharu said, his voice firm now, addressing the samurai. “You will take the boy under your care. Train him in the ways of the warrior. Teach him discipline. He is no longer a commoner. From this moment forward, he will walk the path of the samurai.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the ranks, but Dōri merely nodded, his face impassive as ever. Gyakkyou looked up at the Taishō, confusion and something like fear flickering in his eyes. The path of the samurai. this was not something he sought, not something he wanted. And yet, there it was, thrust upon him. Did he dare refuse it?

Gyakkyou felt a firm grip settle on his shoulder. Dōri. The gesture was simple, but, somehow, it steadied him, grounded him in the moment. The stoic samurai said nothing, only guiding Gyakkyou back to his place in the line.

The ceremony continued in silence. The rain fell steady, the severed heads staring blankly toward the horizon. The men bowed their heads in quiet reverence, honouring the dead, honouring the cycle of life and death that bound them all.

Gyakkyou stood at Dōri’s side, the weight of his new title settling over him like the rain.

Samurai.