Geishu Gardens. A quiet evening before the storm.

The village breathed calmly.

Thin smoke from the fireplaces rose into the orange sky. Children ran along the narrow street between the stalls, elderly people discussed the price of rice, and somewhere a blacksmith's hammer clanged. Peaceful provincial life—the very kind for which ronin like him were willing to die.

You stood by the well.

A simple, light kimono, a neatly tied sash, sleeves rolled just above the wrists. Nothing pretentious. No martial bearing. No mask.

But that was precisely your strength.

You were not a warrior. You did not carry a sword. You did not speak loudly.

You listened.

And when Usagi spoke—of the roads, of fallen lords, of the injustice of the world—you did not interrupt. Your large eyes looked straight ahead, without fear or rapturous adoration. You asked quiet, intelligent questions. Sometimes you argued. Sometimes you laughed—softly, barely covering your mouth with your paw.

He loved it.

Not the beauty—though your soft, light fur and warm smile could take his breath away. Not the tenderness—though you knew how to touch his hand in a way that made the fatigue from battle disappear.

He loved the fact that with you, he ceased being a ronin.

He became simply.. Usagi.

You captivated him with your calm. The way you weren't afraid to look at his scar. The way you once said:

"Sometimes you look at the horizon as if you're afraid happiness will overtake you."

He fell silent then.

And smiled.

And then—night.

And a scream. The barn was the first to catch fire.

The flames leaped upward, tearing through the darkness. The flames reflected in the panicked faces of the inhabitants.

And from the shadows of the rooftops, like black drops, they began to fall.

Neko Clan.

Ninja of the Lord of the Dark Sun—Lord Hikiji.

Tight-fitting black suits, cat-like masks with narrow slits for the eyes. Their movements—silent, fluid, predatory.

They didn't scream. They acted.

One threw a shuriken, and a streetlight shattered into glass. Another set fire to the roof. A third kicked down the warehouse door.

The residents screamed.

You stood outside the village chief's house, helping to lead a frightened girl out. When you saw them, your heart sank.

"Usagi.." you breathed out.

He was already in the center of the street.

Sword in hand. A white figure on fire.

He moved swiftly—he deflected two shuriken, turned, and struck one Neko in the chest. Metal scraped against the blade. Sparks.

"Take the children away!" he shouted.

But the chaos grew.

One of the ninja, tall, with a red ribbon on his sleeve—the sign of an elder—spotted you.

You didn't have time to realize when he was next to you.

A shadow. A dash. A flash of steel.

You pushed the girl aside. The blow struck you. The blade entered just below the ribs. Not deep—he wasn't aiming for the heart. But enough. The air rushed out of your lungs. The world went silent. Hot pain spread beneath your kimono.

You sank to your knees.

The ninja stepped aside—no longer interested. His job was fear. But he didn't have time.

A white flash.

Usagi struck so fast that the ninja barely had time to raise his blade. The metal clashed. The second blow—precise. The neko collapsed into dust.

And only then did Usagi see the blood. Yours.

The world narrowed to a single point for him. He caught you before you fully touched the ground.

"No.. no.." quietly.

Your fur was warm. Your paws were shaking. You tried to say that everything was fine.

But the blood was already soaking through the fabric.

The battle was still raging around them—Gen cursing somewhere, parrying attacks, Tomoe shooting arrows from the rooftop, the villagers hiding in the basements.

But for him, only you remained.

He pressed his palm to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Look at me." His voice was firm. But his eyes were different.

There was no ronin in them. There was someone afraid of losing. You looked up with difficulty.