The sound of the Gion Shōja bells echoed across Kyoto, their mournful tone carrying through the mist of dawn — a sound that spoke of impermanence. The great city, once the radiant heart of the empire, now sat divided by whispers and bloodlines.
For decades, Japan had been ruled not by emperors or scholars, but by warriors. Among them, one clan towered above all — the Taira. Led by the proud and cunning Taira no Kiyomori, they held the court in an iron grip. His daughter married into the Imperial family, his grandson crowned as Emperor Antoku. The Taira banners flew over the capital, their crimson crests gleaming in every corner of power.
But beneath that glory, resentment simmered. The old nobility seethed as the Taira flaunted their arrogance. The temples, stripped of influence, whispered prayers for vengeance. And far to the east, the scattered remnants of the defeated Minamoto clan stirred — a name once thought extinguished after the Heiji Rebellion.
Then came the spark.
In the summer of 1180, Prince Mochihito, a royal scion denied his rightful claim to the throne by Taira meddling, raised a desperate cry:
"To arms! Restore the honor of the Imperial line — and destroy the Taira!"
It was a call carried on the wind, reaching the ears of outcast samurai and restless lords alike. One by one, banners unfurled. The Minamoto name rose again — Yoritomo in the east, Yoshinaka in the north, and loyal retainers scattered across the provinces.
The first battle came swiftly — the Battle of Uji, where monks and warriors stood shoulder to shoulder to defend the prince. The river ran red, and when the fighting ended, Kyoto trembled. The rebellion had failed… but it had begun something far greater.
By the closing days of 1180, Japan teetered on the edge of transformation. The old world — of silk-robed courtiers and fragile peace — was dying. In its place, a new era of swords, loyalty, and blood was being born.
And somewhere, in that storm of shifting powers, a single life was about to be drawn into the tide of history — one that would carve its name into the dawn of the Genpei War.
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When the 1180 Battle of Ishibashiyama was coming to an end, and defeat for the Minamoto seemed all but certain, a retreating team of skilled samurai was cornered by 1,000 Taira soldiers.
A young samurai named Haru of the Minamoto chose to cover their retreat. He was called a prodigy of the Minamoto clan.
For a day and a half, Haru stood alone against an army of a thousand. His armor, once pristine white and silver, was now a mosaic of blood and dust. His blade — chipped, dulled, yet still steady — hung loosely in his trembling hand. Around him lay the fallen, both friend and foe, their lifeless eyes reflecting the twilight sky.
Even the enemy — the proud warriors of the Taira clan — stood frozen, their blades lowered, hearts trembling not from fear, but reverence.
At their head, the Taira general raised a hand.
"Enough. Let him speak."
And so, the battlefield waited — thousands of warriors, breathing as one, watching the man who had fought death itself.
Haru lifted his gaze to the horizon. The sun, blood-red and fading, painted his shadow long across the ruined field. He exhaled softly, as if speaking to the wind. Then, he smiled.
"Do you hear it…?"
"The sound of a new Japan being born."
His voice carried far — clear, steady, and filled with conviction.
"We of the Minamoto do not fight for power… nor for vengeance. We fight so that our children will live in a land not ruled by fear, but by justice. So that the sword may protect, not enslave.
You think this is my end. But listen well—"
He slammed his blade into the ground, the steel singing one last time.
"—The Minamoto have already won. Not because of me… but because men like you can still recognize honor, even in your enemies."
The Taira soldiers stood motionless. The general's lips parted, as though to speak — but no words came.
Haru's legs trembled. His body, pierced by countless arrows, refused to yield. Blood ran down the steel plating of his armor, glinting crimson beneath the dying sun.
He took one final breath.
"Tell your children… that Haru of the Minamoto did not fall on his knees."
And with that, he died — standing, sword planted before him, eyes open, facing the west where the Minamoto banners still flew.
A long silence followed.
Then — the Taira general knelt, removed his helmet, and bowed deeply. Every soldier on the field followed, lowering their heads in solemn salute. The gesture — known as "Yui no Rei," a warrior's bow reserved only for the greatest of foes — rippled across the battlefield like a wave of sorrow and respect.
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In the years that followed, Haru's name spread beyond the war, beyond the clans, beyond time itself. Children in the provinces whispered stories of the "Samurai Who Died Standing." His tale became a poem, a song, a lesson in every warrior's heart.
When the Minamoto triumphed and the Kamakura shogunate was born, Haru's statue was the first to be raised — a man facing the west, sword in the ground, unbowed even in death.
Centuries later, an Edo-period painter captured that final moment — a sea of soldiers bowing to their fallen enemy, the dying sun casting gold over bloodstained armor. The painting, titled "The Crimson Resolve," would become one of Japan's most treasured works of art.
In 2020, that very painting — restored and authenticated — sold at auction for $450 million.
Historians would call him a legend, poets a martyr, and soldiers a mirror of honor itself. But to those who heard the story beneath the myth, Haru was something far simpler:
A man who stood for the future — and refused to kneel, even before death.
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[Notice]
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A/N: Tensura fans, are you ready? I'm going to try to be as consistent as possible with this one. Also, before the haters start saying "There can never be another Primordial Demon, bro, they are Primordials because they have existed before the start of time," just know that I know what I am doing.
Also — how was the cinematic prologue??????????