The twin suns of Orion hid behind clouds that day, the rain falling light but steady. Silverlake didn't need sunlight anyway—the flash of revolvers lit it well enough. The town was a scar in the desert, a crooked row of saloons, gambling dens, and graves waiting to be filled. The air smelled of gunpowder and rot, but that was the perfume of Silverlake—death wearing cologne.
Moro Ashin walked the muddy street, sword at his hip. His black kimono and hakama dragged damp behind him, his bamboo hat shadowing his face. A single white strand of hair escaped and clung to his cheek, catching the faint shimmer of rain. When he reached the tavern, he looked up at the wooden sign swinging in the wind: The Devil's Outpost.
He pushed the door open. The sound of laughter, shouting, and poorly tuned piano spilled into the street, along with the smell of whiskey and sweat. Inside, the room was dim and thick with smoke. A gang of drunks heckled a waitress in one corner. At another table, men played Russian roulette with a six-shooter, laughing like lunatics every time the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Others gambled over Orion Poker, slamming cards on sticky wood and cursing their luck. A few whispered to hired girls who pretended to listen. The rest were too drunk to tell whether they were alive or already ghosts.
Along the bar, a few men murmured about bounty contracts and blood money.
"Yeah, boss," a hulking brute said, voice like gravel. "You pick 'em out, I'll take 'em down. Anyone you want."
"That's why we're gonna run this whole damned region," replied the man in the fine suit beside him. He had slicked-back hair and the kind of grin that belonged to a man who'd buried a few partners. "Next stop—Riverstone City. Big contracts waiting there."
Before the brute could reply, a sharp voice cut through the noise.
"Hey, dumb fuck! Didn't I tell you—no touching the girls unless they say you can!" The bartender, a tall woman with ink crawling up her arms, glared at a drunk who'd grabbed a waitress. "What part of that don't you understand?"
The man blinked, slurring. "Bitch, who the hell you think you're talkin' to?"
"You," she snapped. "You filthy perv."
He was about to shout more when the bell above the door chimed.
Moro Ashin stepped inside.
He removed his bamboo hat, revealing long white hair, ocean-blue eyes, and silver hoops in both ears—the same his father once wore. The bar fell silent. Silverlake didn't get many outsiders, especially ones who looked like that. His presence was a disruption—too calm for this place, too clean, too quiet.
He walked to the counter and took a seat. His sandles left thin prints of mud on the floor.
"I'm not done with you yet," the bartender muttered to the drunk, then turned with a softer tone. "Welcome to the Devil's Outpost. What'll it be, stranger?"
"Dragon's Blood Lemonade," Moro said politely, his voice low and composed.
"Sure thing, pretty boy."
As she mixed the drink, the same drunk leaned toward Moro, trying to provoke him. "We don't get many white-haired folk 'round here. 'Less they're in the killin' business. That sword says you are, huh?"
"Nah," Moro answered without looking at him.
"Oh yeah? You just carry it for decoration?"
Moro said nothing. The drunk stared at him, his face red with drink and stupidity.
"Hey! I'm talkin' to you!" he barked.
Moro finally glanced over, eyes flat and cold. "You drunk fucks always this annoying? Or is the by product of becoming a cowboy is be a dumb drunk as well?"
The room froze. Half the bar wore spurs and used revolvers. No one breathed. The piano player's hands hovered above the keys but didn't dare press one.
The bartender slid the drink forward. "One Dragon's Blood Lemonade. Enjoy."
Moro reached for the glass
BANG.
The shot shattered it, crimson liquid spraying the counter and his sleeve. The drunk grinned, revolver raised. "Still tough now, huh?"
Moro rose slowly. His movements were measured, almost bored. Then, faster than sight, his katana flashed. Steel sang—a silver streak cutting through the gun smoke. The blade ascended through the man's chin and out the top of his skull. Moro ripped it free, splitting the face in half with a wet crack. The man's skull opened like a book.
Even more silence swallowed the room.
"Brother, no!" someone screamed. Another man rushed forward, kneeling by the corpse. "You son of a bitch! My broth- You killed my brother! Meet me outside—and bring some iron!
They stood twenty feet apart in the middle of the road, the air thick with tension. A few brave souls peeked through the saloon's windows. The town dogs had gone silent.
"That was my brother, you psycho!" the man barked, hand hovering over his holster. He noticed then—Moro had no gun.
The rain had stopped. The clouds split apart, twin suns blazing down on the wet Orion. Their light danced across Moro's sword, To the Death carved into its steel. He rested a hand on the hilt, eyes locked on his opponent like a viper sizing its prey.
For a long moment, neither moved. The only sound was the wind pushing dust down the road.
Then the man drew.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Moro deflected every shot in motion, his blade spinning arcs of light. He sprinted forward through the smoke. The gunman stumbled back, panic blooming in his eyes, and fired three more times. Moro slipped through them like mist. With a single clean swing, he took the man's legs from the knees down.
The scream tore through Silverlake. "AAAHHHHH!"
Moro stood over him, his expression unreadable. One thrust—quick, final, merciful. The tip of his blade slid into the man's skull. Piercing is brain. Silence returned.
Inside the tavern, no one spoke. The bartender wiped a glass, her face pale but steady. Moro walked back in, sword dripping rain and blood, and slid it back into its sheath.
"Miss," he said calmly. "Which way to Riverstone City?"
She swallowed. "Follow the east trail you can't miss it. And... uhhhh thanks. Brutal, yeah, but those bastards had it coming."
Those words give Moro a flashback of Casssian from his childhood "I know you don't wanna hear this boy, but ya pappy had it coming." His words and laugh still plagues Moro's mind
Moro refuses to show how much this moment truly effected him
The bartender reaches under the counter, pulls out a bottle. "Here. Dragon's Blood Lemonade. On the house."
Moro took it and nodded. "Thank you."
As he turned to leave, someone whispered, "A demon. In the flesh."
He stepped outside. The suns painted his hair in gold and white as he walked east down the empty road. Behind him, the town stayed quiet, too afraid to breathe. The bartender watched from the doorway, arms folded, eyes lost in thought. She'd seen killers before, hundreds of them—but never one who looked so at peace with it.
Behind him, the town of Silverlake faded into the distance.
Up on the ridge above the trail, something moved.
Five figures crouched among the rocks, wrapped in black cloth that blended with the dying light. Their masks were smooth and featureless, their movements too controlled to belong to drunks or bandits. The glint of hidden weapons flashed briefly before vanishing again. They spoke in whispers.
"That's him," one murmured. "Moro Ashin. The Merciless."
"He doesn't look like much. We could take him now," another said.
"Don't let your ignorance get you killed," a third snapped. "That kid's no joke. He'd cut you open before you even realized he moved."
The leader raised two fingers to signal silence. He peered through binoculars, tracking Moro's slow, effortless stride down the road.
"We wait until he needs rest," he said quietly. "No witnesses. No noise. No effort."
The Shinobi melted back into the rocks, vanishing like smoke, leaving only the shifting dust behind.
Down below, Moro stopped. He looked over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping the ridge. The wind tugged at his sleeve. Then he turned away and kept walking.
The suns dropped beneath the horizon, painting the east trail blood-red.