Ronin's Revenge

A poison set off in Ryoma’s body. He wasn’t sure at first if Orochi was indeed poisonous, but soon enough, the throne room began to shake and swirl around him. Orochi unlatched from his neck and began laughing. “Well, Ryoma,” it said, “I do hope you enjoy your final moments. I’m told they’re quite tantalizing. You’ll see such wonderful things that I’m somewhat jealous. Alas, I’ll settle for the satisfaction of having killed you.”

Ryoma wasn’t listening to the serpent as he staggered forward. More accurately, he couldn’t listen to it; his head was swimming and his senses were at once dulled as well as enhanced. It proved to be quite the matrimony of befuddlement and it surged through Ryoma’s mind at breakneck speeds. His sight was the last stronghold of understanding, though (aside from the spinning), as he saw Orochi’s neck recede back into the meat puppet formerly known as the emperor. Then, it gestured with one hand behind the samurai.

Turning round, Ryoma became reacquainted with the demon-possessed guards. They were giggling again (though Ryoma could only see the quick convulsions of their stolen bodies rather than hear the small laughter) as they raised their spears. The samurai raised his blade but the weight of it felt magnified tenfold. With an exertion far beyond what was regularly needed, he swung the katana toward one of the humor-stricken demons. They easily dodged and parried his repeated attacks, engrossed in a jovial dance that only one party found mirthful.

Before long, Ryoma found himself on the defensive. The guards gingerly poked at him, relishing in their predetermined victory. It was all Ryoma could do to defend against what he perceived to be an onslaught. His muscles ached as the poison seeped into every fiber of his being. Instead of continuing to be fodder for their prodding, he concentrated on his legs and urged them to move. Shuffling backward, he dodged their swipes and pokes as best he could. However, he needed to move further away, leave the room, the palace even, if he wanted to survive.

The door to the throne room, with its ever-inviting, intricate kiku design, wouldn’t be an option; the demon guards could effortlessly halt his progress toward it. Regressing further back wouldn’t suffice either as the throne room had no rear exit. And besides, the samurai wasn’t exactly thrilled at the thought of moving any closer to the hellish serpent. Looking around the room, which continued ceaselessly spinning, he noticed a window across the room from him.

Without further delay, Ryoma began his laborious trek toward perceived freedom. A burning sensation scraped deep into his muscles once more, yet he persisted. The samurai felt as though he were wading through the swamplands, carving his path through untold volumes of thick muck, yet still, he persisted. Determination surged through his veins as mightily as the poison and drove his desire to survive.

After what seemed to be an eon’s worth of strife, Ryoma made it to the window. Looking below himself, he noticed a river flowing alongside the palace. Its hypnotic rhythms nearly put the samurai into a trance of serene placidity that tonally betrayed the dangerous situation at hand. Of course, it was entirely possible that his calm demeanor simply resulted from him creeping ever closer to the next world as the poison set in deeper and deeper, surely tarnishing his soul by this point.

Ryoma’s eyes had definitely succumbed to the toxins, at least, as the color in his vision began morphing into profoundly varied hues. The river had now run red, which frightened the samurai so. To shield himself from the horrific scenery, he turned his attention to the sky; once again, only a spattering of stars lit the nighttime darkness. He lamented so that he could not gaze upon the true beauty of the moon one final time as he loved to do in the past. Alas, the near empty indigo (or was it orange, now?), hanging ocean offered him no comfort.

“Well, now,” one of the demonic guards said, “it looks like the warrior has found a way out.” Orochi laughed and asked, “Tell me, Ryoma, do you intend to sprout wings and fly away from our hellish haven? I’m afraid that just won’t work, my dear, old friend.” The other guard wrapped its arm around the samurai and said, “Oh, I see. He means to drown in the river instead. Do you know how to swim, fool?” Orochi then said, “Let’s allow him to try. If you’ll do the honors.” Without further ado, the guard spun Ryoma around, said, “Farewell, samurai,” placed a foot into his gut, and thrust him out the window.

Ryoma fell for a time he could not discern. There was the possibility that the descent lasted for mere moments, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to differentiate seconds from hours, days, maybe years. An epoch of freefalling befitted his decaying state of mind. For all he knew, he could’ve fallen from the heavens like a disgraced god and it would’ve taken a similar span of time.

Eventually, after forever or no time whatsoever, Ryoma hit the water. The sting of the initial landing went unnoticed by his dulled nerves, yet the crispness of the torrent somehow eased his aches. The samurai sank to the bottom as though he were a jizo statue carved from stone. Though the darkness was amplified beneath the surface, vivid colors trailed around his head in blistering bubbles forming a most vile rainbow.

Then, another vision appeared before Ryoma. At first, he imagined that his delirium was responsible for the visitor. However, the warrior soon remembered his battle in the nocturnal realm. Faced with overwhelming odds and certain doom, he was visited by a figure resembling a gallant man draped in a scarlet sheen. His thoughts went once more to the emperor, his idol Hiro.

Ryoma’s determination kicked in yet again. The thoughts of Hiro suffering at the hands of Orochi enraged him, and knowing that he didn’t save his ruler pushed him over the edge. It was his duty to return to the palace and save the emperor. He wouldn’t dare die now when he was still honor-bound to his code.

The figure extended his hand as he had done in Ryoma’s dream. It grazed the surface of the water, creating a ripple in the rush. Ryoma commanded his senses to return to him, and lo and behold, he successfully began swimming upward. He felt so thankful that he hadn’t taken the time to don his samurai armor, elsewise he might not have been able to resurface. With one final push, he reached out and accepted the presented hand. Feeling a surge of pain due to his exertion, Ryoma finally fainted.