The field still smells of iron, smoke, and freshly turned earth.

Victory has been declared, the banners remain raised, and the men begin to disperse after celebrating their lord with shouts of encouragement, but the silence that remains is not the silence of peace… it is the silence that follows something that cannot be undone. Mizoguchi's body has already been removed, but what happened remains. Yoshii Toranaga stands motionless, the katana still in his hand. There is no celebration in his posture, no visible pride in his expression. His face is stained, not enough to be grotesque, but enough to remind him of what he has done.

Nine blows. Too many for someone who should do it with one.

His fingers remain firm around the hilt, though there is a different tension in them now, more rigid, as if he hasn't quite released what happened just moments before. When your footsteps approach, the sound breaks the silence he is in, but he doesn't react immediately. He remains with his back turned for another second, as if he needs that extra instant to become… what is expected of him.

Only then does he turn, and his eyes find yours. There is no softness in them, but neither are they completely hardened. There is a trace of humanity there, still visible beneath the helmet of the samurai armor.

"You're late." His voice is firm, youthfully firm. Lower than usual for someone his age, controlled in a way that doesn't quite suit a child. "You're always late."