Noble Soul: Insurrection

Author's Note: 

bringing my colossal Gintama fanfiction here. it's twelve-ish arcs in total -- this is the first arc, the Insurrection Arc.

expect sporadic updates.

you can also read it on Fanfiction.net and Wattpad, but I'll add those links later.

Mature Content: contains blood and intense themes

Chapter One: Shedding Skin
The fire coughed up sparks that crawled to the stars like maimed fireflies, and above the crackling and popping, voices rang out. Annoying, loud, pompous voices, the kind of voices he was accustomed to hearing but hated no less.

“I bet he’d go down with one swing,” one voice said, its owner rubbing his hands together and leaning closer to the fire. “Those veterans aren’t much. The Shogun doesn’t have anything to be scared of.”

He snorted and added, “Though it’s all the better for us that he’s afraid – means he’ll pay us good money if we bring him that bastard’s head.”

The ronin across from him picked at his teeth, staring into the flames. “That terrorist’s nothing but a big name. I could take him easy.”

The shadow in the alleyway exhaled a small plume of smoke, watching it glide away towards the moon. Was that so?

“It’s easy money,” another ronin said. “I say we go after him right now.”

“Yeah, but…” The fourth ronin trailed off before saying, “You think we can catch him? They don’t call him Runaway Kotaro for nothing.”

The shadow tensed, his hand closing tightly around the pipe, and the ronin were overtaken by a plague of snickering.

“You’re right,” one of them said. “We don’t stand a chance. Cowards run fast.”

“So we’d have to break his legs first,” another said.

A chuckle. “Come on, that wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

“Nah, a samurai needs only his sword, you see?” the first ronin said, drawing his own and watching it gleam in the firelight. “It’d be plenty fair. He’d be dead with or without his legs anyway – the second we cross paths, my sword will–”

He was abruptly cut off.

His sword clattered to the ground.

Blood spurted into the fire.

His head rolled off his shoulders.

“Your sword will lie in the dirt with your filthy soul,” the shadow said, his blade dripping with crimson. “Samurai who reek of arrogance never last long.”

He was met with silence, and the rest of the ronin slumped forward, blood spilling from their throats. That was that. The street was quiet now, free of the irritating voices of fools. Except…

He couldn’t sheathe his sword just yet.

“Dogs don’t gather in such small packs,” he said without turning around. “I was expecting you.”

He didn’t wait to hear so much as a footstep before his sword sliced through the air in a flash of silver, cleaving through a wall of ronin. Just beginning to charge behind them were more ragged men – he didn’t bother to count, and they were dead before he could try. Screams and yells were cut short, so short that they barely sounded at all, and not a single ronin got to swing their sword once.

It was silent again.

He looked around at the corpses piled in the street, each cleanly sliced through the chest or neck. The fire nearby continued to choke out smoke and sparks, but it was dying down, fading into embers. But the moon provided plenty of light, and in that light, he could see their dead eyes… So many dead eyes…

Those eyes were nothing new.

A gnarled hand closed around his ankle, and he ripped it away, whirling around to look into the barely living eyes of the last ronin.

“Y…you,” the ronin whispered, his voice trembling. “They said you were a coward…”

The shadow raised his sword, looking harder into the ronin’s eyes. “My coward’s skin was ripped off of me a long time ago.”

He felt a smile tugging at his mouth, though there was nothing in it but cold amusement. “What do they call me? Runaway Kotaro?”

The wounded ronin edged away, fear spilling out of his eyes.

The shadow’s smile glinted in the moonlight. “There’s only one name I know.”

A scream split the night.

It was cut short.

Blood pooled at his feet.

The eyes were dead.

He flicked the blood from his sword and walked away from the street-turned-graveyard, relishing the silence. No one could see, so he threw his hat into the wind, and no one could hear, so he said the name that carried more sins than he’d ever bothered to count.

“It’s Zura.”