The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of smoke. The once proud procession of Ronin was now a ragged band, their kimonos stained crimson, their faces etched with grief and exhaustion. The ambush had been brutal, claiming the lives of several comrades.

Basho, a mountain of a man, lay sprawled amidst the debris, his laughter – a sound that once boomed with life – now reduced to weak gasps. Kai knelt beside him, his calloused hands desperately pressing against a gaping wound in Basho's shoulder.

Basho's eyelids fluttered, a spark of amusement dancing within. "Remember that time you used to get rocks thrown at you? We were just little..." A coughing fit wracked his body, stealing the breath from his words.

Kai's own lips twitched, a bittersweet memory surfacing. "And every time," he pressed on, his voice thick with unshed tears, "I knew it was you. Your belly always gave you away."

A collective chuckle rippled through the remaining Ronin, a brief respite from the suffocating despair. Even the stoic Oishi managed a flicker of a smile, his gaze lingering on the two.