Tokudai Nobuhide
Nobuhide lingered beneath the sprawling limbs of an ancient, gnarled tree, a sentinel on the roadside, his presence merging seamlessly with the shaded earth around him. Here, in this quiet sanctuary of nature, he let his breathing slow, falling into a rhythm in harmony with the delicate rustle of leaves, the soft murmur of distant birds. Every sound, every flicker of light on the path, was a part of a language he’d learned over decades of listening—a language only understood in silence. Even amid the shifting chaos of Xincha or the heartbeat of a battlefield, Nobuhide found solace in this conversation with the world, the kind that revealed truth through stillness rather than action.
It was in this tranquil awareness that he sensed Sachi’s approach long before the younger samurai appeared on the horizon. Nobuhide recognized his arrival through subtle signals: the faint vibration in the ground, the rhythm of footsteps that moved with a measured purpose, the rustling sound of cloth against the young warrior's sword. As Sachi drew closer, the elder could make out the familiar flash of royal blue through the trees, the color marking the young swordsman’s figure against the green canopy. Nobuhide’s lips curved in a quiet smile, pleased at the dedication he sensed in Sachi’s approach.
He waited by the side of the road, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his katana, his unseeing gaze directed straight ahead, yet perceiving so much more than the average sighted man might. A warm breeze slipped through the trees, bringing with it a scent Nobuhide recognized: a blend of earth, faint iron, and a sharper, indefinable quality he had come to associate with youth itself—a boldness and a hunger untempered by years of war. This spirit was unpolished, like raw ore awaiting the heat of a smith’s forge, and Nobuhide had come to recognize it in Sachi’s every step, a reminder of his own past, a version of himself from another life.
As Sachi approached, Nobuhide inclined his head in greeting, acknowledging the steadiness in his younger companion’s gait, the way he carried himself with a quiet determination. There was a fire in the young man, but beneath that flame, Nobuhide detected the seeds of something deeper—a respect for the path he walked, a respect for those who had come before him, and a willingness to learn from them. It was an attitude Nobuhide could respect, for he had learned the hard way that arrogance had no place in the life of a true swordsman.
With a faint smile hidden beneath the shadowed brim of his roningasa, Nobuhide greeted him in his usual, understated way. "
Umibozu, glad to see you were not lost along the way." His voice was quiet, yet it carried a weight, the unspoken challenge woven into his words. He had chosen that codename carefully for Sachi, a reminder of the legend—a creature of the sea, a spirit who lurked in shadows, seen only when it chose to be seen. Nobuhide had made it clear to Sachi from the beginning that members of Ao squad were not hunters seeking glory. If they did their jobs well, no one would even remember they had been there at all. They were shadows in the service of the Heart Empire, and their faces were best left unknown.
Nobuhide’s own attire reflected this philosophy of blending in. His dark blue robes, a shade that mirrored the color of a shaded stream, contrasted subtly against Sachi’s royal blue but still managed to fade into the muted hues of the forest. His hakama were the deep navy of nightfall, their fabric absorbing light instead of reflecting it, the ideal choice for one accustomed to moving unseen. The hilt of his katana rested at his hip, an old but beloved companion with a black scabbard, its end decorated with a hint of gold filigree—a rare touch of ornamentation on an otherwise simple weapon. The grip was wrapped in worn silk, the tsuba unremarkable yet sturdy, designed not to draw attention but to perform its duty unfailingly.
"
Our quarry was here recently, I think. The camp’s not an hour old, by my reckoning," Nobuhide murmured, gesturing to a patch of disturbed grass beside the road. His senses, attuned to the language of the natural world, caught details that were invisible to most. The faint, earthy scent of a stranger's sweat lingered in the air, mingling with a sharper note of herbs--likely remnants of food pills consumed in haste. Nobuhide’s nose picked up the delicate distress scent of broken blades of grass, and his ears heard an unsettling silence in the area where the sounds of wildlife should have thrived. These subtle cues revealed a presence--a hint of the lone predator who had chosen this place as a temporary sanctuary. Though his quarry was gone, the earth remembered, and to Nobuhide, these faint echoes were as vivid as a trail of footprints.
He took a step toward the clearing, crouching down and running his fingers over a broken blade of grass, feeling the faint impression of a boot’s weight. Nobuhide didn’t need sight to understand what had happened here. The ground beneath his fingertips felt compacted, the subtle unevenness where the man had shifted his weight. Nobuhide’s perception extended outward, tracing the invisible path left by this shadowy figure who had come and gone. The disturbed plants revealed a faint trail leading into the denser forest—a trail Nobuhide was certain would lead them to their prey.
Pointing to this trail, he straightened and directed Sachi’s gaze to the subtle signs only a practiced eye could detect. "
It seems we have our heading. Age before beauty, I believe the saying goes," Nobuhide quipped with a quiet, dry amusement, his words underscored by a rare glimmer of warmth. His demeanor shifted in that instant, going from the teacher to the hunter, as he let his muscles loosen, ready to take off.
With the practiced grace of a lifetime spent in motion, Nobuhide moved forward, his pace measured yet deceptively swift. At 20 Speed, he slipped into the forest like a passing breeze, barely disturbing the ground beneath him. To an onlooker, he might have appeared more shadow than man, a figure merging with the shadows as he wove through the trees, scarcely bending the blades of grass in his wake. The forest accepted him, and he became part of its quiet song, his senses sharp and attentive as they traced the lingering presence of their quarry.
Sachi would follow, Nobuhide knew, and he hoped the young samurai observed as much as he could, soaking in each detail, each quiet lesson taught by the world itself. Nobuhide moved with purpose, his mind both sharply focused and deeply aware, reading the forest’s secrets and following the trail left by a man who had committed unspeakable acts on those who traveled these paths. They were close now; Nobuhide could feel it. And for all his years of patience, there was a thrill that stirred within him, a reminder of why he had taken up the sword all those years ago. The elderly samurai loved the thrill of battle, and always had--even if he now knew that impulse had to be tempered with wisdom and discretion.
