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... atoshi’s voice echoed hollow against the ancient trees of the western forest. Blood seeped through his white hakama, staining the fabric where he clutched his side.
"The tale of Satoshi Ono, youngest hatamoto in all of Japan, comes to an end."
He laughed, a broken, bitter sound that dissolved into a wet cough. Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, painting silver streaks across the clearing where he knelt. This place. Of all the places in Japan, fate had led him here.
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