The wind stills, and leaves fall. Suddenly, forest birds take flight in alarm. She stands atop the highest bou…
The wind stills, and leaves fall. Suddenly, forest birds take flight in alarm.
She stands atop the highest bough, taking in the sight of the bandits whistling through the woods. Her sword flashes; before the wind settles, the men have met their end.
Women and children crawl out from the cargo crates, stealing glances at the black-clad woman, who seemed little different from the bandits. They hesitate, shrink back at the smell of blood, bow without a word, and slip away with heavy, timid steps.
She bends down to loot valuables from the corpses, when suddenly a tender shout slips through the veil of her bamboo hat along with the wind.
"Thank you, hero!"
Hero. She shakes the title off herself just as she flicks the blood off her sword.
The world is rotten. In times like these, any random passerby can kill someone and be called a bandit; save two lives, and people will slap the title "hero" on you as if it were nothing. The title spreads faster than wild grass, cheap and worthless.
That title will only mean anything when everyone has food to eat, children can live past ten, and the hills are free of bandits.
Such a time is called peace.
Someone had once told her so and promised her as much. Now, however, he has become a bandit himself, one who does not hide in the mountains.
Bandits in the mountains, she will kill. Bandits not in the mountains, she will kill just the same.
The birds settle in the woods, only to take flight again.
She leaps forth from the deep woods, flying toward the next place where blood must be shed.