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

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.

He continued down the road, his cane tapping once more. He had a teacher to find, and perhaps, a cup of warm sake to quiet the ghosts of the road.

The blades of the yakuza met only air, but Ichi’s steel found the gaps in their armor and the rhythm of their strikes. In ten seconds, the circle was broken. The men lay in the dirt, groaning—wounded, but alive. Ichi did not believe in unnecessary death, even for fools.

Ichi didn't swing wildly; he moved like a leaf in a whirlpool. To the yakuza, he was a blur of gray fabric. To Ichi, the world was a map of sound: the shing of a blade being drawn to his left, the heavy stomp of a lunging boot behind him.

"The blind masseur," a voice spat. It was the traveler from the road, his voice no longer friendly. "Shigezo-sama doesn't like strangers drifting through. Especially ones with reputations for being... lucky with the dice."

Ichi stood, his cane tapping a rhythmic code against the packed earth. He wasn't looking for trouble—he never was—but he was looking for a master. He had heard whispers that his old teacher, the man who first taught him to use his ears as eyes, was living in the village ahead.

As he entered the outskirts, the air grew heavy with the smell of scorched wood and fear. He felt the vibration of many feet—men circling him.