One of the raiders rode past Minato—then, with a clean, swift strike, the man's body split in two. Blood hit the dirt before the echo of the blade faded. Minato leapt onto the now-riderless horse and charged toward the fire and the thick scent of smoke. Another rider came into view. One precise blow to the head—clean, final—the man never even saw him coming.
The skills of the Red Sword surged back like a forgotten storm. In a heartbeat, Minato was his old self again: a ghost on horseback, cutting through men as if they were reeds. Years of rust and guilt burned away in the heat of battle. In this moment, not even a thousand men could have stood in his path.
He was almost like a knight, slicing through his enemies with deadly grace. The closest house to the inn was already mostly burnt down when Minato arrived, leaving only scorched stone pillars and the blackened remains of a straw cabin. That's where he saw him—a boy, maybe twenty at most, fending off six raiders on his own. With a farming pitchfork, the boy managed to bring down one of them, but his moment of triumph was short-lived. A dagger struck deep into his left arm. Before the next blow could fall, Minato was there, grabbing the boy by the collar and throwing him back.
Unsheathing his katana—now glowing red with the light of fire and the blood of his enemies—Minato charged the remaining five. Each movement came with precision and power, a dance of instinct and rage. His blade sang as it carved through the raiders, muscle memory taking over. For a moment, Minato forgot everything: the village, the fire, even the pain of memory. He moved like he had in his prime, a soldier on the edge of battle's trance.
Then—he heard it. A woman's scream. A child crying. The sound broke through his focus like ice through a fever. Snapping out of the fight, Minato ended it. One strike. Two. Heads fell. Limbs crumpled. These men were no soldiers. Compared to him, they were flailing children. Without wasting time, he dashed toward the sound.
He ran through the smoke, cutting through a burning support beam as if it were paper. The wreckage around him burned hot and high, but his blade didn't falter. Pushing forward, he found the mother and her child. Trapped behind a wall of flame, the woman clutched the child tight, shielding them both from the inferno. Minato raised his sword.
With a single, focused slash, he swung with all the strength he had. The force of the strike blew a gust of wind so strong that the flames themselves were silenced. The fire vanished around him in a burst of stillness. Smoke hung in the air like mist, and he stepped through it, sword still humming with heat. He cleaved through a final charred plank—the last barrier between him and the survivors.
The woman was crying—tears not of fear, but of gratitude. Of life. Minato helped her to her feet, his gauntlets still warm from battle. He guided them out from the wreckage, his body aching but his resolve sharp. Just as they reached the street, he spotted one last raider, attempting to flee the village in panic. Without a word, Minato threw his blade. It spun once in the air—then landed with finality. The last man fell. The legend of Minato Tempest had drawn breath once more.
The village was silent. A silence filled with sorrow, but also with gratitude and survival. The village chief—better known as the innkeeper—asked if Minato wanted anything as payment. With a short and tired reply, Minato simply said he wanted a place to sleep and some peace. The old chief nodded and led him upstairs.
Minato was given a clean room with a large bed and a small wooden table. He didn't feel tired—or at least he thought so. But the moment he took off his heavy armor and lay down, exhaustion took him like a wave. Within seconds, he was asleep.
It was that dream again… the same one. But something was different this time. As his brothers-in-arms were cut down, he saw them—the spirits of the fallen. Yet they weren't mourning or lost. They were smiling, standing proud in the battlefield, glad to die a warrior's death. Then it clicked. Something deep within Minato stirred. The goal had never truly been victory, but the honor of fighting with everything they had. His comrades had found peace in the chaos. Still… the blame wasn't gone. It remained—his own guilt, and the emperor's failure. And then he woke up.
By morning, the weight on his shoulders felt lighter than before. It was as if the men who once fought beside him looked down with approval—not when he mourned, but when he fought. When he was killed. They preferred the warrior to the ghost.