The river flowed gently, carrying with it leaves of crimson and gold. On its bank, an old man sat with calm eyes and a weathered face. Yoriichi Tsugikuni, now sixty years old, watched the waters as though they carried the memories of a thousand lifetimes.
His sword lay beside him, untouched, its sheath reflecting the golden light of sunset.
He had lived a quiet life—one not of praise, but of peace.
And then, the silence broke.
From behind the trees, a chilling presence emerged. Tall. Clad in robes dark as the void. A crescent mark glowing on his forehead.
Kokushibo.
"I have come to end it. This dance of ghosts… must be over."
Yoriichi stood, slowly, his bones aching but his eyes unshaken. He picked up his blade—not as a warrior, but as a brother.
"Then… let it be the final song, brother."
The clash was thunder across the hills. Steel struck steel as the old man moved with fading grace. He no longer had the speed of youth, nor the strength of vengeance.
But his spirit—his resolve—remained as fierce as the sun itself.
Kokushibo's moon breathing clashed with Yoriichi's sun. It was a battle of past and present. Light and shadow.
And then—Yoriichi slowed.
Kokushibo's blade pierced his chest.
Time stood still.
Yoriichi fell to his knees, blood staining the riverside. But his face… it was still smiling.
"Even… now, I'm proud of you… brother."
His voice faded with the wind.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni—hero, outcast, sun—was gone.
Kokushibo stood frozen.
He looked at the body of the man he once loved, once envied. His enemy, his savior.
His brother.
Without a word, he knelt.
And from his robe, he pulled out a small, wooden flute.
The same one Yoriichi had made as a child and gifted to him.
Kokushibo held it in trembling hands. And though his heart no longer beat like a man's… it ached.
For the first time in centuries, he felt something real.
Regret.
And the river flowed on.