The conflict was concluded, before it could even begin.

What was initially a cut-and-dry highway robbery—a consequence of the dangers that came from traveling at nightfall—would quickly become a tale that bolstered the whispers of a local legend.

That of a scarlet ronin, as elusive as fallen leaves in the wind.

He’d appeared out of nowhere, drawing his katana for no more than a transient moment; in the next, it was slotted back into the worn saya at his hip with a satisfying ‘shiing’. A feat easily missed, if one had chosen that instance to blink.

The would-be robbers fell to the ground in agony, letting out a chorus of groans: incapacitated, yes, but ultimately unharmed.

“Are you alright?” He asked, turning to the traveler who, up until a second ago, was about to become another hapless victim of a bandit crew’s coordinated attack.

A straw gasa perched low upon the young man’s brow, concealing most of his face from view; the firm line of his mouth, however, could be distinguished as clear as day.