Ghost of Tsushima: the Samurai - Tales from the Rising Sun

Ghost of Tsushima: the Samurai - Tales from the Rising Sun
We have already told you the short stories of the ronin, the wanderer and the cutthroat.

In this episode of Tales from the Rising Sun (a column that tries to reconcile words and images to tell a short story inspired by Ghost of Tsushima) we will tell you the adventures of a samurai extremely loyal to his lord, charged with freeing the region from one of the major leaders of the Mongolian army who invades the island.

The samurai

In a outpost not far from the main road to Fort Imai, some Mongolian soldiers joked and sang in a moment of happy rest.

The two guards positioned at the main entrance were captured by a heated dialogue while drinking sake, when a suddenly one of the two saw a figure approaching. He was an imposing man, in pitch-black armor. Two magnificent deer antlers were positioned on the helmet. The face was covered by a dark mask, with an evil grin.

It was the first light of dawn, so the figure was harmonious in the structure, as if it were a forest demon, wrapped in fog, ready to capture the souls of those he meets on his way to hide them in the dark wild intrigue. The man stopped not far from the walls. The epilogue of this meeting is now known to us.

On the ground, the blood met the path of sake. The music inside the camp stopped. The man crossed the threshold slowly, as the liquid mixture followed in his footsteps, embedded in the mud until the next rain. The soldiers did not need to go and check: the disturbing silence and the blood that accompanied the intruder beyond the gate immediately made them understand that the souls of their companions had already been lost in the woods.

The price of hope

The Mongols poured out with all their fury on the warrior. The latter's technique was infallible. With the minimum of effort he was able to take down even the most skilled fighters.

The blows easily ripped through Mongolian metal and fabrics from the Silk Road. The gaudy armor lost its luster due to the rain of mud that flowed from the lightning movements of the samurai.

One by one, all the men of the camp fell. But one. Behind sacks of grain, a simple soldier, armed only with a knife, was hiding, waiting for a good moment to escape and go to warn his superiors. The samurai, meanwhile, was looking for useful information that would allow him to carry out the assignment given to him by his lord.

While crouching, busy rummaging through the remains of the soldiers, the survivor headed for quickly outside the camp. He was convinced that he had escaped death, but excruciating pain in his thigh brought him back to reality, embraced by the icy muddy slime of Tsushima.

Climbing the ranks

The harrowing screams of the Mongolian si they spread throughout the valley. His leg was bleeding profusely, but drawing the arrow would only hasten death.

The samurai knew that the soldier's wails would soon be heard by some reconnaissance patrol, extremely numerous in the vicinity of the fort. Then, he hastily approached the dying man.

"Where is your commander? He was supposed to be here this morning. Speak, before I punch a hole in your other leg too!"

The man began to speak in Mongolian. From the gestures it was evident that he was trying to make the Japanese warrior believe that he had no idea of ​​his current position. An even more excruciating scream tore through the air, as the samurai's blade did with the flesh of the soldier's good leg.

"In my tongue."

Tears ran down the face of the Mongolian , who prepared to answer.

"Okay, okay! I'll talk! The commander didn't come because the Kahn ordered him to attack a nearby town, where one of the last gentlemen who oppose the Mongolian forces. Please answer ... "

The katana sank into the soldier's chest, who gazed bewildered at the shimmering splendor of the blade as he felt it pierce his heart.

The samurai quickly cleaned the weapon of enemy blood and called his horse, which came out of the bush. He mounted and spurred the horse like never before.

The pillars of war

A forest of the colors of flames opened before the rider. In the distance, smoke rose high into the sky.

After a long ride, the samurai finally arrived at his destination. His lord's palace still burned. The flames had become the new, lush canopies of the trees surrounding his home. Quickly entered the building, he searched in vain for survivors. Everything had turned to ashes.

The samurai knelt down and pulled out his blade. He placed it on his knees. He bowed his head. Then I grab it and positioned it in the direction of her belly. He was ready to take the last step when he noticed a glow coming from a crack in the wall. As if hypnotized, the samurai stood up, dropped his sword and headed for the surface on which the dark flames were reflected. With a yank, I detach the wooden planks that covered the mysterious object.

Before his eyes was a suit of armor similar to the one he was wearing, but with a different coloration and sumptuous finish. It was the armor of the family he served, belonging to the most remote ancestor, a mythical figure, with innate fighting skills. It is said that he managed to save the army of an ancient Shogun by himself.

The lord had told the samurai about the armor, but the latter had never had the opportunity to see it. It was enough for him to look at her for a few moments to understand that her death would bring no benefit to the memory of his lord or to the health of his land. At that moment, everything was clear to him.

That same evening, a white-clad soldier approached the walls of Fort Imai, unseen. Or, at least, that was what he believed, until he heard a voice behind him. He unsheathed his katana and whirled around.

"Hey, put the blade down. We both know you would have no hope against me, brother."

A man with a blindfold smiled at him. Next to him stood another individual in a light red robe and a ruined straw hat.

"I see we're all here."

The three warriors turned in the direction from which they came the words. They were spoken by a man with a fur on his shoulders. A few steps behind him was a last man, unarmed, with only a bag and a crode instrument in tow.

The warrior lost a family that day, but found another, one from which he had deliberately moved away from. And that night, outside the walls of Fort Imai, there were a traveler, a ronin, a cutthroat, a bard and a samurai. Tsushima claimed his home.

This was the fourth chapter of Tales from the Rising Sun. We are about to come to the end of this journey originating from the world of Ghost of Tsushima. While waiting for the last piece, let us know what you think in the comments.

Powered by Blogger.