"Forgive me," Ichi whispered to the empty air, bowing to his fallen opponents. "I really am a very poor masseur."

The traveler laughed and moved on, unaware that the "blind man" was tracking the weight of his footsteps, the slight rattle of a concealed blade, and the scent of expensive gambling-den incense clinging to his kimono. Ichi knew the man was a scout for the local yakuza boss, Shigezo.

"A beautiful sunset," a traveler remarked, pausing to catch his breath.

The wind over the Kiso Road didn’t just howl; it whistled through the gaps in Ichi’s soul. He sat by the roadside, a humble masseur in dusty robes, his sightless eyes turned toward a horizon he would never see.

Six men. Two with spears, four with katanas. Their breathing was ragged—amateurs fueled by sake. Ichi sighed. He hated the mess.