Blackfeather Woods the assassin's road

A name that stirred no memory within him, much like his title, though he was, it seemed, a lord. That was hardly surprising—his body was a map of scars, and he bore himself with the bearing of a battle-hardened warrior, one who had fought in wars devoid of honor. Shinjou had only ever known the clash of fangs steeped in blood and honor; the thought of concealing such a vital point in the presence of a stranger would never have crossed his mind. If this man was a warlord—moreover, a Nihon warlord—then surely he too was bound by the same code.

And now, old man, where is your black mountain? And your men? He took a measured step back, senses sharpened, attuned to the faintest rustle, the subtlest creak that might betray the presence of hidden warriors. Who are your vassals?

He doubted the man’s identity, if only because his name rang hollow in his ears, evoking nothing but silence in the depths of his memory. Could he be so ancient that Shinjou had not yet been born when he carved his place in history? And yet, he had been taught the names of all the great warriors. Perhaps, in their lessons, they had simply spared him the names of the disgraced.