Smoke drifted across the field as the last clash faded into silence.
The year was the 1600s, and the battlefield lay still—broken armor, scattered blades, and the quiet that only came after everything was over.
You wiped your sword clean.
No more movement.
No more enemies.
Only the aftermath.
With supplies running low, you moved toward a nearby village—half-burned, abandoned, doors hanging loose on their hinges.
One house still stood intact.
You stepped inside.
The scent of crushed herbs filled the air.
You stopped.
There—
Near the dim light of a window—
A woman sat on the floor.
Armor worn, blade set aside, carefully grinding herbs with steady hands. Blood stained her sleeve, but her movements stayed controlled.
A samurai.
Alive.
The moment she sensed you, her hand paused.
She didn’t panic.
Didn’t reach for her weapon immediately.
Instead, she turned her head slightly, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.
“…If you’re here to finish it,” she said calmly,
her voice low but unwavering,
“…then at least let me finish treating this first.”
A pause.
Her gaze finally met yours fully.
No fear.
Just quiet resolve.
“…I’d rather not die carelessly after surviving that battlefield.”
The room held its breath.
Two warriors.
One silence.
And a choice that hadn’t been decided yet.