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Post by Urahara Daisuke on Mar 22, 2008 12:14:19 GMT -5
Returner ~ Yami no Shuen~ [<< Music]
"Not to borrow the strength of another, nor to rely on one's own strength; to cut off past and future thoughts, and not to live within the everyday mind... then the Great Way is right before your eyes." - Yamamoto Tsunetomo
It was winter.
There he crouched, in the cold muddy trench, surrounded by whatever was left of the pitiful army he was assigned to lead. Morale was dangerously low, especially since the last of his ANBU subordinates had abandoned the mission. However, the young commander of only a raw age of 18 did not deny them the chance to abandon. Had he been anyone else, he probably would have abandoned the mission too. But that was not in his nature. He would not flee. He could not flee. There was something in the dark corners of his mind preventing him from doing so. Perhaps it was the sight of these forlorn men, farmers and traders, protecting the last source of water in this forsaken land. Or maybe it was his own mentality, forcing him to fight on because of a promise he had granted these people. "We will recapture your water...or die trying." These words which he had uttered not too long ago was now haunting him like a taunting poltergeist, reminding him of the cause of his eventual death.
Never in his entire life, was he downtrodden as he was now. But it couldn't have been helped. The opposing faction had come up with some kind of technology which these pitiful villagers could have only dreamed of. They whistled by, every time one of the villagers carelessly poked his head out of the trench. In an instant, he would drop like a stone, his eyes glazing over in a final defeat. To think, this was a new and convenient way of slaughter, the only actions needed were the pull of a trigger, or the crank of an handle. Simple but deadly. New and terrifying. In a mere matter of days, every last damned soul sitting in the mud-filled trench would feel the utter wrath of these machines of execution. Nearly half of the village battalion had fallen prey to the monstrous power of the empire's power, none of them alive to tell the tale. Not even Konoha's ANBU were any match for these harbingers of death and despair. Knowing this, every last one of them had fled, valuing their lives over their captain's or their honor. The Gatling gun and the matchlock gun would soon become a valuable asset on every battlefield, rendering the Shinobi a dwindling race.
Day after day, the young commander witnessed waves of his own soldiers, armed with rusty katanas and pitchforks, cut down by the flying pieces of lead which were spat out of the horrible Gatling guns. The battlefield had yet to taste the blood of the empire, yet it would never get the chance. Their positioning was perfect. They were close enough to catch every last villager in their line of fire, yet far back enough to disregard any arrow, kunai or shuriken which came their way. Back in the trenches, the villagers were realizing their utter defeat. Away from the sullen, tired eyes of their young general, they would commit Hara Kiri, or any other means of honorable or painless suicide. Because surely, being cut down by flying pieces of metal while not even seeing your conquerors face could not have been honorable in the slightest.
They were more cautious now. The empires deathbringers had not caught one careless villager for weeks now. Every remaining soldier kept their heads extremely low to the ground. Though, without being able to stage even one charge, morale was still extremely low. They were starting to have enough of this. Voices whispered about ideas of treason or surrender. The young commander caught many voices with his ears, yet said nothing. He could not blame these men. They had fought valiantly, but courage, zeal and honor were not enough. Many a time, he could see a white flag poked from the edge of the trench, allowing that soldier a free walk across the blood-soaked battlefield to join the ranks of the gunmen. Whenever he saw this, frustration built up inside. But an enraged commander was a risky icon to follow. No matter how hard it was, he kept his composure, hiding his disappointment from the ranks of farmers.
Word from a scout had begun to change the very course of the battle. The supplies of the empire were dwindling dangerously low. Their guns were about to be replaced by samurai, horsemen and archers. At last, an opening which could save these remaining souls from utter damnation. All that night, the young commander stayed awake, forming strategies for charging, attack and retreat. Finally, there was a chance that he may still go home alive, and leave this forsaken ground. Maybe, just maybe there was a chance that he could come home to his beloved after so many months. Just the faint possibility of returning was motivation enough. He worked rigorously, formulating strategies and depicting scenarios as he wrote furiously on his scroll. Finally, after so much oppression, it would all be over.
At the silent break of dawn, every last soldier was given a copy of the scroll to read and discard. At their commander's signal, they would break from the trench, and charge with all they had. Charge against oppression. Charge for their lives. Charge for the lives and future of their loved ones. No matter what the outcome, this would be their last stand. Either they won, or died trying. Morale had risen immensely, grim smiles and looks of restlessness could be seen on every mud covered face sitting in the trench. Hands were busy sharpening any weapon at hand. Chatter was relentless. Some where talking about how they each wanted to kill the enemy commander, while others were thinking of family back in the village. All was set. The charge would soon begin.
It was time. Every soldier seemed prepare to kill and be killed. Every pair of eyes, refueled with a glint of determination kept their eyes on their commander. Sigh a final sigh, the young general got off the side of the trench, ready to leap. Raising his katana, he waited. However, no bullets came in reply. Satisfied, the commander jumped out of the trench and pointed his katana at the enemy forces. Suudenly, waves of villagers charged out of the trench, screaming their desperate warcries, their young, brave commander up front. Awakening from their sudden shock, the army of the empire made a desperate countercharge. However, the enemy had a determination and desperation which the army of the empire could never understand. And thus, the final stand began.
No longer was he a commander sitting in a trench, formulating tactics and strategies. He was merely a soldier, fighting for the cause, as well as his life. He hacked, slashed, and thrust. Many a soldier fell at his blade. No longer was he the young 18 year old commander who sat with a melancholic disposition. All consciousness was swept aside as the only focus was dedicated to his blade, and his blade alone. He would think about the future later. Right now, he could only think of the battlefield. If otherwise, he would have been laying amongst the lost souls...
The field was cleared. Only a few men on either side remained. The young shinobi could make out the figure of the enemy leader, trying to escape the masses of his army for a safe haven. Charging like a madman, the young commander made his way to the enemy general. This was the man who caused the country so much grief. This was the man who believed that toying with a simple nation was amusing. Every strike from the young one's blade would tell otherwise. Wave after wave was sent to subdue the berserk young general, but his bloodlust-filled eyes had only one man in sight. The others were merely cut down on sight as the young warrior made for his target. Sensing this, many men broke formation to avoid the warrior's wrath, only to be killed by the villagers who craved for vengeance.
The empire general turned his head to risk a glance. This hesitation had cost the man, as the berserk warrior thrust his katana into his chest. With a cough of blood, the enemy commander fell. With a sigh of relief, the young commander looked to his men as the enemy fled. A pitiful forty-five men remained of the four-hundred men who fought. Panting and aching all over, the young general set his katana into the ground. Their battle was over, they could now return to their villages in peace. Or so they thought...
Right behind a small hillock, the battalion of gunmen had returned, their sights all focused at the forty-six who remained. Without thinking, these brave men charged once again. They knew that if they died resting, they would never be able to face the men who had died before them, cut down fighting. The honor and bravery of the villagers were all that remained as each one of them were torn to shreds as the bullets ripped them to pieces. The only one who remained was the general, still charging. The outcome was the same. He too was no match for the hundreds of bullets flying in his direction. At first he felt nothing, staggering several steps more. But his body gave up before his mind, and soon enough, a searing pain burned in his chest, his arms, his legs. Sticking his katana in the ground, the young warrior held himself up for support.
He began to see things that he never thought he would see. Images of his past. He could see the tender faces of two beautiful women. One his lost beloved, sleeping the slumber of eternity. The other, his betrothed, the current love of his life. Both looked solemn, but were smiling. Falling to his knees, the young warrior looked up to the sky. Tender white snowflakes fell across the crimson field. Tears streamed down his face as he looked into the face of his beloved, Inuzuka Delliah. Clinging tightly to his katana hilt, he remained kneeling in defeat as he slowly faded away. This was the last act of honor for Captain Urahara Daisuke.
...He was so close...yet so far...
"One finds life through conquering the fear of death within one's mind. Empty the mind of all forms of attachment, make a go-for-broke charge and conquer the opponent with one decisive slash." - Togo Shigekata |
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