Wolf had just made it through Mibu Village. He had braved Ashina Castle and defeated the samurai and nightjar ninjas in his way before clashing with Genichiro to rescue his lord. He had survived the ordeals of the heretical monks of Senpou Temple and with the blessing and curse of his immortality, claimed the Mortal Blade as his own. He beheaded the Guardian Ape only for the creature to reanimate itself and come at him with the great sword he used to cleave it’s head from his neck only for him to that was as much of an undying as it was, proving victorious as he severed it’s impermanence with Gracious Tears and bringing it death. But even someone as weary as him could not have anticipated the sorry state of this town.

The villagers could not be properly called human anymore. They did not speak save grunts and roars, and their visages were twisted with rot and decay. Their minds were deformed as the rest of them and they came at him with common farming tools, with their teeth and their nails. More than a few times he was overpowered, and he was made to understand time and time again how they could be just as terrible as the warriors of the battlefields he had braved. But when he slew them, it would not be long before they rose up again. Yet he could not bring himself to understand how they would only rise again. And then they would emerge from the earth in droves as if the land itself was vomiting up their unnatural taint.

Drawing the crimson blade of the Gracious Tears, he sent them to the other side. The islands of Japan were as different from the European mainland as Isshin’s sword strikes always a vicious thing to behold whether friend or foe but always honorable were from Owl’s underhanded machinations lying in the branches and looking about at his prey, yet in this one thing the regions were united. Here and there, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Resting at the Sculptor’s Idol, Wolf meditated. A cool soothing sensation filled each one of his breaths and the pain in his body miraculously vanished. He was not unused to such feelings after all the trials and tribulations he had suffered, his harrowing journey had made a way of stealing away such joys and made them unimportant as they became routine with each death he suffered. Yet making it past the abominations that were lying in wait had a way of making it new and fresh.

In the distance he heard the faint sound of a shamisen. It was a collection of simple sounds played repeatedly, and even someone like him raised in the shadows and made his living creeping in war had been invited to the houses of nobility and heard better performances as an honor to his martial prowess. But in this dark region, that jarring noise was reassuring to his ears.

Wolf ventured forth to see who was playing. He followed the narrow path between the cliffs as the sound became louder. He could not begin to imagine what sort of person would be so casually playing music in such a troubled territory. As the path turned and opened into a clearing, he saw exactly who this musician was.

A lone figure in a kimono. They had a reed basket over their head. Not an uncommon sight, it was a traditional pasttime of several Buddhist monks to wear such a thing to signify their non attachment to the world and the one sane villager Shosuke from whence he came also wore one. In their hands was a shamisen and they played it absent mindedly. As if the lone figure was oblivious to where they were.

His instincts told him that this musician might not be far removed from the cursed villagers drunk on the Rejuvenating Waters. What Wolf had thought was a strange and off putting melody now occurred to him as a sad one. While he walked he noticed the figure did not seem to be looking at him at all. Yet though their vision was obscured, he could feel their gaze upon him the entire time. Not comfortable with this performance, he willingly approached the figure.

Just as the tune was sad, so too did he hear a faint sobbing from the musician. He realized it was a woman. It was not long until he was standing inches away from her.

“Why are you crying?” Wolf said.

“Because ... I’m sad...” she said.

“What are you sad about?”

“I don’t know where Lord Sakuza is. Or what he’s doing. It breaks my heart. If I can’t see him, I’d at least like to know...”

Wolf was silent. For all his talents as a shinobi in stealth and assassination where his efforts led him to slay many important nobles and generals as they lie in their sleep which had turned the tide of many battles and wars even before they started, a power greater than the martial genius of so many warlords, he was still not much of a conversationalist. And even less so with women.

She continued. “But ... No matter how many letters I send, he never writes me back. And no one will tell me where he is. Actually, sir...”

He froze up. Her head tilted to look at him just so more slightly. He did not know what she would say next.

“Can you tell me? Where is Lord Sakuza?”

Wolf couldn’t understand it, but that question seemed weighted with the importance of a mission.

“I am Lord Sakuza,” he suddenly said without thinking.

Something of mercy touched him. After all the fighting to rescue Lord Kuro, his heart had lightened from the iron willed shinobi who ruthlessly cut down whatever and whoever stood in his way. The village he had left behind was a sorry sight of ruin. He need not only dedicate himself to destruction.