"Shiratori!"
Shiratori Uemon was running down the street when he heard a familiar shout. He turned around and saw a suit of armor flying toward him.
It was heavy. He was so frail that he couldn't catch it and fell onto his backside. Then he looked toward the direction it had come from.
It was an old friend of Shiratori's from among the Rats.
"Put it on. We'll go kill the Daimyo together."
Shiratori looked at the armor weighing him down, then at his only remaining arm, whose stump was thinner than a knife handle. He pointed at his own nose.
"Me?"
He really wanted to ask:
"Buddy, are you serious?"
Shiratori, shit and piss included, probably weighed less than this suit of armor. And he wanted him to put it on and fight the Daimyo's samurai?
Was he crazy?
But he didn't ask.
Because Shiratori could tell something was wrong with his old friend.
The armor had a helmet, so Shiratori couldn't see his face. Through the gaps, he could only make out a pair of bloodshot eyes and billowing heat pouring out—
This was the Land of Wind. Even at night, when the temperature dropped, a person's breath shouldn't turn into white mist.
"Are you all right?" Shiratori asked.
"Me?"
His old friend slapped his chest and laughed wildly. "I'm fine! I'm great! I've never felt better. I've got more energy than I know what to do with... No, I can't take it anymore. I can't wait for you."
He drew the sword at his waist and charged off, shouting, "Kill the Daimyo!"
Shiratori chased after him.
His friend rushed out of the alley and charged at a samurai, sword in hand.
Shiratori immediately noticed the samurai's belt and unusual armor. He was clearly a captain.
A flash