The dream came in soft colors, like the memory of spring.
Asaki stood in a field of swaying golden grass. The sky above her was endless, deep blue brushed with gentle clouds. And standing before her, dressed in a simple white kimono, was her mother.
Beautiful. Strong. Smiling.
"Asaki," her mother whispered, voice carried by the warm breeze. "My brave daughter..."
Tears welled up in Asaki's eyes. She fell to her knees, reaching out. "Mother... I'm sorry... I was too weak..."
Her mother's hand brushed her cheek. Gentle. Warm.
"No," she said. "Strength isn't just about blades and battles. It's about enduring when the world tries to break you. It's about standing, even if you must stand alone."
Asaki sobbed, clutching the fabric of her mother's kimono. "I don't want to be a slave."
"You are not a slave," her mother said, smiling. "You are a woman. And there is pride in that. No chain, no cruelty can strip you of the blood that sings in your veins."
The world blurred around her, golden grass turning into shadows.
Her mother's voice became distant.
"Endure, Asaki. Endure until the storm passes. And when it does... strike like thunder."
The dream shattered.
Asaki's eyes snapped open.
She was lying on a cold, cracked wooden floor. Her body ached—ribs throbbing, wrists raw from rough rope bindings. Beside her, Yumi whimpered softly, her young face swollen with bruises.
The room reeked of sweat, smoke, and the faint, cloying scent of cheap perfume.
Around them were girls — dozens of them — crammed into cages, tied to posts, or huddled in corners. Some had vacant eyes. Some wept silently. All bore the same mark of cruelty.
The Brothel House of Tsu.
A heavy door creaked open.
Two guards dragged Asaki and Yumi upright, yanking them to their feet. Their arms were wrenched behind their backs, and they stumbled forward.
From the dark corridor beyond, a woman emerged.
She wore a crimson silk robe, her hair pinned up with lacquered sticks. Her face was lined with age, and her smile was a thin, cruel slash.
Kyoko, Chief of the Brothel.
Behind her, Toshizu Arai appeared, his haori stained with blood and dust. His face was calm, almost bored.
He pointed lazily at Asaki and Yumi.
"These two are gifts," he said. "The Captain will want them... broken in properly."
Kyoko bowed low, hands clasped before her.
"It will be done, Vice-Captain."
Toshizu turned to Asaki.
"Ishikawa will come," he said, voice like cold steel. "And when he does, he'll find you here—used, broken, humiliated. Let's see if he still wants to save a corpse."
Asaki met his gaze, hatred burning in her chest.
Toshizu smirked.
Then he left, his footsteps vanishing down the corridor.
Kyoko clapped her hands twice.
"Take them inside," she barked. "Let the Captain choose."
The guards shoved Asaki and Yumi forward. They stumbled into a large hall, where low tables lined the walls and drunken men laughed and shouted.
And sitting at the head of it all — fat, greasy, a cruel smile splitting his pockmarked face — was the monster himself.
Takayasu Nakajima.
He was old, his hair reduced to greasy wisps clinging to a spotted scalp. His robe was open at the chest, revealing rolls of flesh and a scattering of blackened teeth when he grinned.
"Bring 'em here," Nakajima growled, voice like gravel dragged over stone.
Asaki tried to resist.
She drew a tiny blade from her sleeve — the Gatanā — a weapon no longer than her hand, hidden for moments like this.
With a cry, she slashed the rope around her wrists, twisted free, and lunged forward.
"YAAAH!"
The blade flashed, catching one guard across the thigh. He howled, stumbling back.
For a moment — just a moment — Asaki saw freedom.
But then—
THUD!
A heavy fist slammed into her abdomen. The breath whooshed from her lungs. She doubled over, gagging.
Before she could recover, Nakajima grabbed her by the hair, yanking her up so hard her neck almost snapped.
"Fiesty," he chuckled, his breath reeking of sake and rot. "I like 'em feisty."
He licked the blood from her cheek, a slow, revolting swipe of his tongue.
Asaki shuddered, pure hatred surging through her veins.
Nakajima laughed and threw her down like a sack of grain. She hit the floor hard, gasping for air.
He turned to Kyoko.
"Train her. Break her spirit. She's mine now."
Kyoko bowed.
"As you command, Captain Nakajima."
Nakajima waddled back to his table, plopping into his seat with a grunt.
"Don't kill her," he added lazily. "I want her screaming when Ishikawa finds her."
Asaki lay on the ground, every muscle screaming, tears burning the edges of her vision. She saw Yumi sobbing nearby, clutching her own bruised face.
The other girls stared at them with blank, hollow eyes.
Chains rattled.
Kyoko knelt beside Asaki, her perfumed nails digging into her shoulder.
"You belong to Nakajima now," she whispered, sickly sweet. "You'll serve. You'll smile. Or you'll bleed."
Asaki spat blood at her feet.
Kyoko only smiled wider.
"Good. The ones who resist are the most fun to break."
She snapped her fingers.
Several older girls dragged Asaki and Yumi toward the back rooms, where the real horrors began.
That night, Asaki lay chained to a filthy cot, the smell of mold and blood heavy in the air.
The Gatanā blade was gone — confiscated and likely melted down.
Her wrists were bruised, her lips split, but her spirit...
...her spirit smoldered.
"Ishikawa..." she whispered into the dark, voice cracking. "Please... hurry."
The mist outside rolled against the barred windows, carrying distant sounds — the laughter of guards, the crack of whips, the sorrowful cries of broken girls.
But beneath it all, there was another sound.
Distant.
Steady.
Footsteps.
And somewhere out there, Asaki knew—
Ishikawa was coming.
The storm was coming.
And when it came...
There would be blood.
To Be Continued.