The Burning Fields of Zentsuji

The air smelled of smoke and sandalwood

The air smelled of smoke and sandalwood. Ichiro Yamada gritted his teeth as his hand tightened around the haft of his yari spear, the polished wood slick with sweat. Beneath the battered conical jingasa helmet and stained hakama trousers, he lurked in the shadows, waiting, his breath shallow and controlled. His armor was an assortment of lacquered iron plates upon a chainmail vest, tied together haphazardly with crimson cords—bright splashes of color against the earth tones of his battlewear.

All around him, the ruins of the hamlet burned. The soft glow of the setting sun was swallowed by rolling black smoke that curled skyward like the fingers of demons clawing at the heavens. Takeda banners fluttered amidst the clamor of battle, the rising dragon insignia stark against the carnage. Ichiro’s left hand absently traced the folds of his crimson obi, wrapped tight around his waist, where a family crest had once been stitched. That memory was ash now.

A shriek broke his reverie. A Takeda soldier stumbled out into the clearing before him, blood streaming from a shattered shoulder. His katana wavered in his good hand, as if trying to conjure purpose from the chaos. Ichiro lunged without thought—his yari stabbing forward with the grim precision of a butcher. The spearhead pierced flesh, and the soldier collapsed into the mud. Ichiro stood over the body, panting. His reflection shimmered back at him from the blood pooling around his feet.

“Mercy is for fools, Yamada.” The mocking voice cut through the panic in his thoughts. Ichiro whirled to face its source: Takeshi, his grizzled companion-in-arms. Beneath his horned kabuto helmet, Takeshi grinned wolfishly, his massive tetsubo spiked club hanging easy over his shoulder—the weapon stained with unmistakable crimson. His battered armor bore the same Takeda emblem, but Ichiro and Takeshi were no longer samurai beholden to banners.

“Stop freezing when they beg,” Takeshi growled. “We kill, collect, and move. That’s the contract.”

Ichiro said nothing but nodded. They hadn’t fought for lords in years, their swords betrayed by the shifting sands of war. The men they killed now were no different from those they once served alongside. But war’s violence had swallowed them whole, reducing them to hired swords scrounging for coin—and though Ichiro hated what he’d become, he hated the empty void of survival-without-honor even more.

Through the Ashes

Hours later, the village was a graveyard. Bodies of farmers, samurai, and mercenaries alike littered its streets. Ichiro knelt by the still smoldering ruin of a temple gate, tracing the characters carved into the charred wood: Shinmei-raijin, the storm gods. He felt their wrath in the rumble of distant thunder overhead.

“I’ve never seen you pray before,” Takeshi’s baritone echoed from behind. “You find religion in corpse piles now?”

“I don’t pray,” Ichiro muttered, brushing soot from the engraving. “Not anymore.”

Takeshi snorted. “Then stop touching that. Come help me check the wagons; the bandits we’re mopping up were hoarding supplies before we broke them.”

As Ichiro rose, a glint of metal caught his eye amidst the rubble. He reached down, pulling an ornamental dagger from the debris. It was finely crafted, the hilt inlaid with jade, the scabbard carved with intricate motifs of cranes and pines. A family heirloom. He slid it into his belt without a word.

In a world of ash and bone, beauty now belonged only to the living—however fleeting that beauty might be.

The Stranger in the Storm

The clouds finally broke as they loaded their spoils. A deluge washed the blood and grime from the streets, but the acrid stench of death lingered. Ichiro adjusted the straps of his waterlogged armor when he saw her: a lone figure, limping toward them through the rain. She wore no armor, only a tattered kimono of pale lavender, the hem torn and muddied. Long, raven-black hair clung to her face, but her eyes burned bright as lanterns even amidst the storm.

“Help.” Her voice was steady despite her frailty. “I’m not one of them. Please.”

Takeshi approached the woman, the rain drumming against his horned helmet and massive frame. He studied her like a hawk, rubbing the coils of his salt-and-pepper beard. “Looks like a stray dog that escaped a kennel. What’s your story, woman?”

“They took my daughter,” she replied. “Bandits. I followed them here, but they’re gone now. You—you two killed them.” She stepped closer, hands clasped in desperate entreaty, magical somehow against the rough backdrop of carnage. “If there’s any humanity left in you, help me. She’s somewhere in the north, still alive—or was last I heard. Here.”

She reached into her tattered obi and pulled out a tiny jade crane, cupping it in her trembling hands. It was clearly a trinket imbued with some irreplaceable meaning. Takeshi glanced at Ichiro, his eyebrows raised like he’d just heard rain try to talk.

“Woman,” Takeshi barked, “We don’t take hostages. And rescuers earn no coin. Look elsewhere.” He spat into the wet earth.

Ichiro felt her gaze then, piercing through him like one of his own yari strikes. It wasn’t just desperation—it was a powerful invocation, an ancient demand that clawed at the part of his soul he thought had died. Quietly, as if his words would make the rains themselves weep, he spoke. “I’ll help.”

Takeshi turned sharply. “You’ll what? Who are you to play savior in this life, Yamada?”

“I took an oath once, long ago,” he answered. “To protect, not pillage.”

The statement hung between them in icy discord. Finally, Takeshi snorted, hefting his tetsubo. “Do what you will, then. But don’t mistake this woman’s begging for righteousness. The world cares nothing for righteousness.”

Ichiro met the woman’s weary smile and hefted his spear. He knew Takeshi was right—the world wouldn’t care. But maybe, just maybe, he still could.

The Rising Storm

The rain continued as Ichiro led her northward, the silhouette of their destination breaking against the storm clouds. A ruined pagoda stood on the hill, cutting the night like an accusation—a relic of a world both older and purer than the mire of greed and power Ichiro waded through.

He didn’t yet know who would meet them there: the remnants of the bandits, a hungry warlord, or death itself. But as the woman’s lavender kimono fluttered behind him, Ichiro understood only that the ember deep within him had not been extinguished. And if it still glowed, perhaps it would light a path through the darkness—for her, for her daughter, and for himself.

Above, the storm cried out, lightning etching its rage across the heavens. The gods, Ichiro thought, no longer concerned themselves with mortal affairs. But standing beneath the thunder’s song, he started to believe again that they might still be watching.

As warriors. As witnesses. As ghosts.

Ichiro tightened his grip on his yari. He would meet them soon enough.

Genre: Historical Fiction (Feudal Japan)

The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: A Dairy Farmer Fears for His Economic Future

Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.

Related posts:

Burning Sand and Desert Stars Argentine Beauty and Jamaican Man Stroll Through Lavender Fields at Sunset Dutch Man and Indian Woman Stroll Through Vibrant Tulip Fields Together Vietnamese Woman and Nigerian Man Stroll Hand-in-Hand Through Rice Fields Clicky: The Ultimate Web Analytics Tool You Didn’t Know You Needed