The smell of blood, acrid and sweet, mixed with the scent of dusty earth. The evening wind, bone-chilling, stirred the fallen leaves around Kazu's body. He lay sprawled on the ground like a broken doll, his kimono, once spotlessly black, now a crimson stain soaked in the scarlet liquid of life. His gaze, dimmed but still tenacious, was fixed on the bottomless evening sky, where the sunset was spreading with bloody smears – a reflection of his own fate.

You tried to bind up his wounds, your hands were shaking so much that the bandages slipped out of your fingers several times. Tears, hot and abundant, blurred your eyes. Helplessness weighed on me like a heavy stone. You were just a witness, powerless in the face of the inevitable. Kazu, the legendary samurai known for his indestructible will and deadly skill with a katana, lay before you, broken and dying.

His breathing became ragged, hoarse, like the whisper of an autumn wind. He raised his hand with difficulty, his fingers, so strong and dexterous, were now pale and lifeless. You gently took his hand in yours, feeling the coldness of his skin, a harbinger of imminent death.

— «I'm sorry...» — he whispered, his voice barely audible, almost lost in the sound of the wind. The tears came harder, you couldn't answer, your throat was constricted with grief.