A Time Traveller's Guide To Feudal Japan

They were overwhelmed and all but defeated. From a distance, it was difficult to see the Miura soldiers, there was only a mass of Uesugi men attacking some invisible enemy.

Gengyo had not fought so hard in a long time. His lungs ached and each breath came painfully, but he kept moving. There were men all around, all of them looking for his head – he could take his pick of who died first. He stabbed through a man’s chest plate, puncturing his head. He then offered a side strike to another, slashing open his belly. A third got far too close, and Gengyo gave a knee to his jaw to stagger him. He slammed him in the throat with his handless arm and finished him messily with several stabs to his stomach.

There were more to come, always more, but his movements were growing more and more crisp. He killed and killed until there was nothing left in front of him. He could not afford to waste even a shred of energy, for he truly did not have much left to give.

They began to fear him, those Uesugi men. He could see it in their eyes. Where they had once ran forth with no regard for their own lives, they now began to back away. Gengyo was alone. He could see no men of his own around him, but of the Uesugi men there were plenty. They had him encircled.

They tried to stab him in the back as he fought a man to his front, but he was far too quick to allow that to happen. When they had first tried, he had cut off a man’s hands without even needing to turn around, kicking away the enemy to his front with a hard kick to the chest.

And now, they would not even dare come forward. A demon, that was what he looked like, all covered in blood, his breath managing to mist in the warm air. They could fight men, but they would not fight a demon.

Gengyo stepped towards them, one side or the other, it did not matter. His legs ached and standing still threatened cramp. His mind was blank. There was no space for thought. A state of pure flow. The only thing in his heart was murder, a truer baptism for his rapier there was hardly any.

The men he walked towards took a step back in fear. As a rabbit learns to fear the fox, they had learned to fear Miura Tadakata. Every life that he took, he could feel his skill returning. The pieces had already been there, he had merely needed to master the fight once more, this time without a hand. There was no better place to do that on a battlefield, where a single mistake could be perilous.

Techniques from an old temple came to him like instinct – adapted to his new body. He moved faster than ought to have been possible. He cut through a hole in that encirclement of men, carving up armoured humans like pigs. More came to fill the gap. He cut through them too. Their swords could no longer touch him. Their movements became slow and repetitive. His mind had seen that pattern a thousand times before. It grew older and older the more men he killed.

Slash, slash, slash. The bodies piled up around him. The men quivered. There were stories of legendary warriors that were undefeated in a hundred duels, but never before had they seen a man fight those hundred duels all in one sitting. By now, it was likely even past one hundred. Gengyo had long since crossed the point of no return. He could feel the warm waters of the underworld swimming beneath his feet. If he paused his fight for even a second, then he would drown.

"A monster... He’s a monster!" The men cried, backing away from him. Even the bravest could not bring themselves to face him. It was no longer a question of courage, but of impossibility. They could see no way to defeat him.

A man came running at Gengyo from behind – the first man in a while. His spittle flew into the air when he opened his mouth wide in a battle cry. His comrades were taking a step back for every step Gengyo took forward. The young Daimyo did not even turn to face his opponent. He stabbed out behind him with the speed of a snake, his eyes lifeless, his movements contemptuous. He made it look easier than rising out of bed in the morning.

The encirclement was finally lifted, and there were allies in sight, men that were fighting almost as hard as Gengyo. Morohira had picked up a second sword, as he often fell to doing, and he terrorized their foes. There were a hundred men left with him, and each of them must have just stepped through a portal from hell, for a more devilish group of men it would be hard to find.

The reinforcements stopped coming. The Miura men were no longer fighters, but miners, digging away at the wall around them. They acknowledged the arrival of their Lord with fresh blood. Finally, they were united in a single battle line. A row of Spartans they were, pushing back their colossal enemy with each step they took forward.

The singers would call it commendable the resistance they put up – a more honourable way to die there was not. But then the villagers would rejoice in shock when they discovered that not only were their attempts valiant, they were effective. Shockingly, those few Miura men were beginning to win.

Kenshin felt a very human shiver creep down his spine. There was something so unnatural about it all. He had a feeling that none of this should ever have come to pass. It felt like a taboo to the Gods themselves. "This... What is this?" The Uesugi general breathed. "Who unleashed this monster onto the world?"

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