Chapter 404: New Dawn, New Gate

Everything worth fighting for was hard. It did not matter where it was. On Earth, the ocean of ideas, or Matsue, Japan in the sixteenth century.

The sky over Matsue was thick with storm clouds, an unnatural, seething black mass that swallowed the stars. A heavy stillness weighed upon everything, suffocating the natural sounds of Matsue—the creak of wooden boats bobbing in the harbor, the chatter of fishermen, and the distant laughter of children. All were gone. All were quiet.

Only Lake Shinji stirred, its waves surging like a creature awakening from a deep, malevolent slumber.

The legends had spoken of this day, whispered from one generation to the next, of a monstrous being that returned every hundred years to wreak vengeance on the land and those who took part in the slaughter of its kin. A behemoth, not of flesh and bone but of spirit and vengeance. It was said to come for those who hunted whales, for those who feasted on their flesh, for those who turned a blind eye to the suffering inflicted by humanity.

And tonight, it had chosen Matsue. The shores were walled with fishermen and samurai.

If the shores were taken, then so would everything else.

First came the birds.

They arrived in great, screaming flocks—twisted abominations with wings torn by wind, feathers drenched in salt and decay. The monster birds dove from the sky like arrows and ripped at everything they could touch. Clawed talons tore through boats and flesh alike.

“Fight back—!”

The fishermen’s tongue was ripped by a metallic pair of talons.

Next came the fish.

From the depths of the sea, they came in waves. Fanged jaws, twisted fins, scales covered in tumors and boils. They leapt from the water and surged to the samurai and fishermen in a living tide, their mouths snapping, their eyes rolling madly. Some were as large as boats, others no larger than a man’s hand, but they were all vicious. They were driven to spill blood and bite flesh.

The fishermen tried to resist. The samurai hacked and slashed and killed the few that they could.

“If the shore is taken, so will everyone else!”

Knives, spears, katanas, and nets caught the onslaught. There were so many of these monster fish and monster birds but they could fight! They could kill!

The blood of the fish and birds spilled onto the sea. Blue and green and red, their confidence grew.

But…

It just didn’t stop.

“It got me, it GOT me—!”

The first victim led to a crack and inevitably the second victim. Then the fourth and fifth and eventually, half the samurai and fishermen.

There were too many.

They overwhelmed the fishing boats, pulling men overboard, dragging them into the depths, leaving the sea stained red.

“Rise! Fight!”

But it was not yet over. Four samurai slashed faster than the eye could see. Suddenly, the birds and the fish plattered into the ocean.

“I-it’s them,” a fisherman exclaimed. “The students of Miyamoto Musashi!”

Four students. Four men.

It was enough to turn the tides.

Mikinosuke was the first to be seen, his twin katana flashing in the dim light. His speed was blinding, his blades cutting through the air with a hiss. Trained in the Niten Ichi-ryū style, he wielded both swords and possessed an effortless ambidextrous grace. He deflected claws and teeth with one blade while delivering killing blows with the other.

Birds? Fish?

One blade was enough to handle hoards of each.

Mikinosuke landed on a boat. Three of the fishermen were injured.

“Patience, friends! We are here! Tend to the wounded! We will handle the monsters!”

“Lord Mikinosuke…!”

A group of fish surged toward the boat, but the samurai known as Mikinosuke leapt and sliced the monster fish apart before they could reach. Donned in a blue kamishimo, the wing-like shoulders casting the silhouette of one who had become the emperor of the blade.

Indeed, Mikinosuke killed and killed and began the rise of resistance.

To the far west, Kurōtarō, the second disciple, was taller and broader than Mikinosuke and in full Heian-era red samurai armour. A tempest of raw animalistic power.

Gsssskkkh! Tsshkkkk!

That was the sound of flesh slamming apart; of him smiling faintly and doing what he did.

On top of the weight of the armour, the second disciple wielded a single, massive nodachi, a sword longer than most men were tall. With each swing, Kurōtarō cleaved through the swarming creatures. With each swing, he became an army splitting warrior. Where Mikinosuke selected and struck, Kurōtarō crushed, his sword a force of nature that none could withstand. The monster fish flung themselves at him, but they broke upon his armour like waves crashing against a cliff.

Kurōtarō screamed with every kill. Straining his muscles to the bitter end.

“DO NOT DIE ON US! DON’T!”

He refused to let his fellow samurai die. Not like this.

Shiiiing! Shiiing!

Iori, the third, fought in methodical, calculated level. His katana moved not with the wild fury of his companions, but with a cold efficiency. Red and riddled with black cracks. Every strike was measured, every movement carefully planned. He cut down the beasts with clinical precision, moving through the battlefield with a supernatural calm. Even as the waves of enemies surged around him, Iori’s composure remained unbroken.

The difference between him and Mikinosuke? Speed and purpose. If the samurai died, it was a tragedy he did not adjust himself to.

Iori was a straight killer.

His white kimono turned red from the blood of the monsters. A new pattern was emerging.

A new thirst.

Slash! Slash! Slash!

He was the one that was seen the least. The fastest, most efficient, and most uncaring.

He killed thousands in a matter of minutes.

He killed so many that his fellow samurai were inspired and went forward.

“Haha!”

The youngest of the four, Yoemon, fought with a fiery passion. His style was unrefined compared to the others, but what he lacked in technique, he made up for with raw energy. His strikes were wild, his katana flashing blue as he spun through the air and cut down monsters. He had inherited Miyamoto Musashi’s talent but had not yet tempered it with wisdom. But even so, he fought valiantly, his blade a blur as he carved a path through the endless tide of enemies.

Together, the four samurai formed a bastion against the swarm of horrors, turning the tide, however briefly, against the tens of thousands of creatures assaulting the shores.

Cutting down a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, was not enough.

But then, the sea darkened.

The monsters darkened. Their strength grew.

“Tch!”

Kurōtarō’s massive blade was blocked by a swarm of fish. Acid gushed into his helmet. He roared and smashed down upon them harder.

More were coming. A great shadow cast across the army of samurai and fishermen.

“What’s happening?”

“Oh god…”

The very shore was swallowed in darkness.

A low, mournful sound, like the groan of a great whale, reverberated through the ears of every man. The sea itself seemed to tremble. The waves began to part, and from the depths of the ocean, the Bake-kujira rose.

It towered over the shoreline, a colossal skeleton, a whale the size of a mountain, its bones bleached white as if from centuries beneath the sea. The ribs of the creature arched high into the sky like the spires of some demonic cathedral. Its eye sockets, empty and vast, glowed with a pale, otherworldly light. The creature’s maw opened, revealing rows of jagged, broken bones that served as teeth. It moved with the slow, deliberate grace of something unstoppable, something ancient and filled with hatred.

The ground shook as the Bake-kujira drew closer to the shore. And then, from deep within its cavernous chest, it exhaled.

“Everyone, get away!”

The first disciple Mikinosuke was too late. The shorelines were engulfed by the sun.

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