Warrior of the Moonlit Shadow

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ Transparent sound of the tide, night of the puppets

Genjuro Tokuda was in the midst of confusion.
True to his brave and bold appearance, his reputation for martial prowess was high, and this surprise attack had been unanimously agreed upon, with orders received from his lord.
It was a stratagem to slay the enemy general under the cover of night. However, as expected, the enemy general's camp was not easily identified. It was not just the brilliance of the torches; everything had been arranged in such a way that it seemed to be projected as a target.

On the opposite side, desperate diversionary troops were waiting for the signal to charge in order to assist Genjuro.

The scout's report from last night did not indicate such a situation.
He had anticipated a chance for victory, but since he had been outmaneuvered, he had no choice but to hesitate. He began to wonder intensely where the leak had occurred, whether a spy had infiltrated his own ranks, or if he had been completely set up by a subordinate he had long disliked and distrusted.

Before long, Genjuro conveyed his intentions to his subordinates in a low voice.

“I see the most brightly burning torch as the real target. It would be too fitting for him to be hidden in the quiet night air.”

Although it was a unilateral decision, the logic of the surprise attack had already dissipated, and it could be said that he had reached a point where he had no choice but to choose death in battle.
Without even needing to raise a war cry, Genjuro was drawn like a summer insect to the bright red torches, and he bathed every movement that entered his eyes with his sword—no, he struck them down.

It was a state of self-oblivion.
Combined with the momentum of the diversionary troops, the panic of the enemy side reminded him of the ears of pampas grass blown by a gust of wind, and one after another, those who had lost their will to fight were laid low under his blade.

In truth, Genjuro had forgotten the battle and the circumstances under which he had obtained the long-desired head.

When he came to his senses, he was clutching a blood-stained piece of cloth and was far from the battlefield alone.
The fact that he was in a place quite far from the mountains was because he recognized the scent of the tide clinging to the smell of blood; he felt deeply relieved that he had apparently crossed a mountain and had managed to preserve the honor of a samurai.
The soft sensation of treading on the vast white sand overlapped with the sound of the waves coming in and going out, and although he had found a moment of peace, the moment he discovered a shadow wandering alone on the beach at his feet, an ominous thought illuminated Genjuro coldly along with the moonlight.

“A shadow, you say.”

When the enemy general's person was mentioned, not only his clear intelligence but also his terrifyingly vigilant and sharpened nerves were discussed.
Blessed with a mole the size of a small bean on his left cheek, he took care to use countless body doubles, not only in his surroundings but also during falconry or inside the curtains of a banquet, never neglecting his caution.
With a similar appearance and a fake mole, the enemy general could avoid appearing in public, indulge in lust in his deep bedchamber, and play in dreams of peace under heaven while snoring loudly.

Genjuro looked for a hiding place for himself and the head, his footsteps fleeing from the moonlight.

Thanks to his efforts, he found a small cave at the water's edge, carefully checked his surroundings, and quietly hid his shadow.
He should have been able to breathe a sigh of relief that he had disappeared from human sight, but the dark cave took away his vision, making it difficult to verify the truth.
However, he unwrapped the cloth, stroked the head, and touched his fingertips to the cheek, immediately feeling the mole.
It seemed like a joke to try to communicate his will to a cold lump like a wax doll, let alone one with blood, but his senses, covered in darkness and lost, were hoping for some kind of resilience.

Genjuro's long and feverish night began here.

Even without seeking a light, the proof that he had obtained the enemy general's head should have made him want to dance for joy, but that feeling was unexpectedly quelled by an anxiety as if he were trapped in a forest choked with ivy, and eventually, it was completely shut away by dark clouds of suspicion.
Despite feeling not even a hint of warmth in the mole on the severed head that had already lost its body heat, Genjuro continued to touch the proof with obscene gestures.
All that circulated within him was a lukewarm rumination.

His bewilderment should have been resolved by determining the authenticity, but before he knew it, his thoughts had returned to reality, questioning why he had chosen the path of seclusion.

Well done, Genjuro.
As expected of Lord Tokuda, truly magnificent.

The moment he heard the admiration of his lord, the high-ranking officials, and his own kin, the cart began to roll, carrying him toward a future where he would remain a target of ridicule.
He understood the true feelings of those who had agreed to the night raid plan all too well, to the point of irritation.
If he were caught carrying a fake under his arm so foolishly, how much shame would he have to endure?

In an attempt to gloss over the joy of having escaped the jaws of death, Genjuro became obsessed with his own honor, and he found his own survival to be pathetic no matter how he looked at it.

He had to dispose of this head as soon as possible... and to wipe away the disgrace of his defeat... no, he had not taken the head by his own strength alone.

The fierce sword fight had been a one-sided victory, and what had extinguished the sparks and buried his memory was undoubtedly that moment of ambition, where he had no doubt that this was the enemy general, and the fear that had soared to its peak as courage.

The night leading to this state of mind was by no means short.

It seemed to be just before dawn when he stumbled out of the cave.
He tried to muster his fading strength to first wash the blood-stained cloth in the waves and then throw the severed head into the sea as well.
That was when it happened.

You will not be able to do it.

Incredibly, the head held between his hands spoke those words.

It was a scene that would have made anyone lose their footing, but Genjuro seemed paralyzed; as if controlled by his own motionless body, he placed the head on the sand, took off his helmet, and with a face possessed by a spirit, slowly drew his sword, slid his left hand from the tip to the spine, rested it on both shoulders, and in one breath, cut off his own head from his torso.

Perhaps waiting for Genjuro's distorted expression to vanish into the waves, the severed head on the sand cast a noble glance at the moonlight and gave life to the body that should have been lifeless.
Both arms stretched out and, incredibly, placed the head onto the raw, bleeding stump as if replacing the head of a doll.
Then, it slowly put on the helmet and cheek guard, and with a gaze clearly conscious of being watched, it looked left and right.

There was still time before dawn.
The armored warrior knew this well, but Genjuro did not.