Chapter 4 : The Curse of The Black Rose

The air in the heart of Argentina’s wilderness is heavy with the smell of damp earth and blood-soaked sweat. Inside a dimly lit cell, Manuel Rojas curls on the ground, his body broken and bruised after days of relentless torture. His breathing is ragged, each gasp slicing like glass through his lungs. The cell door groans open, flooding the darkness with the glow of lanterns. Rough hands seize him, dragging him into the lavish private chamber of Paul Menendez, the merciless overlord of Mano del Diablo.

Rojas is thrown onto a chair, chains clinking as his trembling frame slumps against the wood. Menendez sits in his velvet armchair, cigar smoke curling around his bald head covered in intricate tattoos. His lips curve into a cruel smile.

“Three days, Señor Rojas,” Menendez says, offering him a fine Cuban cigar. “And still, nothing. Are you not tired of this game?”

Rojas, bloodied but unbroken, lifts the cigar with trembling fingers. He takes a slow drag, exhales, and mutters through cracked lips, “Kill me if you want. You will get nothing from me.”

Menendez laughs, a deep, guttural sound that fills the chamber. “Kill you? No, no, mi amigo. Killing is easy. Even a child can kill. But breaking you—that is art.”

Rojas’s eyes burn with defiance. “After what you did to my family… I have nothing left to lose. Money, power… they mean nothing. They are just paper and lies. Burn them, and you scream like every other rat.”

Menendez leans forward, his cigar glowing red. “You are naïve. Money is the only god in this world. Even Black Rose knows this. The weapon of legends, sold piece by piece, will make us kings.”

Rojas spits blood onto the floor. “Then you are fools. Black Rose is not a crown—it’s a curse. You will choke on your greed.”

Menendez’s smile falters for a moment. Then he gestures lazily. Two guards grab Rojas and drag him out, promising another round of agony. Menendez reclines, puffing his cigar, the faint echo of his captive’s stubbornness gnawing at his pride.

Shadows Descend

Outside the fortress, the humid night air hums with insects and whispered death. Guards lounge near the gates, rifles slung, cigarettes glowing faintly in the dark. They joke crudely about slaves, about women, about the myth of Black Rose—none of them noticing that death already slithers between the trees.

The first to fall never screams. A kunai chain hisses through the air, wrapping his neck. In an instant he vanishes into the bushes, his body dragged into oblivion. Another hears rustling and turns, only to find a fine red spray hitting his cheek. He looks up—and freezes.

Above him, swaying from the branches, hang three of his comrades, their bodies split open, entrails dripping onto his face. Before his lungs can birth a scream, a blade cleaves through his spine, silencing him forever.

The others finally notice. Flashlights whip through the night, beams scattering wildly across the empty yard. One shouts into his radio, “¡Ayuda! We’re under—” but the words choke into a gurgle as a sword bursts from his chest, tearing upward and splitting his skull in two.

The radio falls into bloodied grass. From its speaker comes only the hiss of static—until a whisper cuts through, low, cold, final:

“Execution.”

The Ravens Strike

The shadows erupt. Sakumo leads the charge, his twin katanas dancing like silver lightning. In one sweeping arc, he splits four men from shoulder to hip, their bodies collapsing in crimson halves. Reiko leaps from the roof, shuriken spinning from her hands with surgical precision, each embedding deep into throats and eyes. Tokuro emerges from the flank, his blade carving open two guards before they can raise their rifles.

And then comes Habura, the storm. His chain-bladed kunai wraps around a man’s torso, dragging him screaming into the dark. With one brutal yank, Habura tears him apart, scattering entrails across the dirt. He moves with merciless efficiency, cutting down those who attempt to flee, each kill a precise message of inevitability.

Gunfire cracks through the night, bullets sparking against walls and steel. But the shinobi move faster than sight, their forms blurring in the half-light. One guard empties his rifle into the shadows, only to find a cold blade pressed against his throat. He gurgles once and collapses.

Within minutes, silence falls. The courtyard of Mano del Diablo becomes a slaughterhouse—bodies split, hanging, twitching in death throes. The once-proud guards of Menendez now lie butchered, their blood pooling across the stone floor.

The four shinobi stand amidst the carnage, black suits glistening with gore under the moonlight. Their breaths are steady, their eyes unshaken. To them, this is no massacre. This is duty.

Habura wipes his blade clean and nods to Sakumo. “The outside is clear. Menendez won’t know what hit him.”

Sakumo sheaths his swords, his voice calm yet heavy. “Good. The Raven has landed. Now we hunt.”

Above them, the smoke of Menendez’s cigar curls lazily into the night—unaware that the executioners of Blood Raven have already breached his gates.

The room reeks of sweat, blood, and burnt flesh. Manuel Rojas hangs by his wrists from rusted chains, his toes barely touching the stone floor. His chest is a canvas of bruises and lash marks, his lips cracked, and one eye swollen shut. Three of Paul Menendez’s enforcers circle him like jackals, fists heavy, boots cruel. Every blow lands with the thud of meat on stone, but Rojas refuses to scream.

Paul Menendez sits at the edge of the room, cigar glowing in the dark. He leans forward, his voice smooth and venomous.

“Tell me, Rojas… where is Black Rose? Three days, and still you say nothing. Do you think silence will save you?”

Rojas spits blood onto the floor, his voice weak but defiant.

“You’ll get nothing from me.”

The guards answer with another barrage of punches. One cracks his ribs. Another slams into his gut until bile spills from his mouth. His body jerks against the chains, but still he refuses to break.

Menendez exhales smoke, filling the room with haze. “Stubborn fool. You could have been rich. You could have stood beside me. Instead, you choose this.”

And then it happens.

The lightbulbs overhead flicker once, twice. A strange hum reverberates through the walls. The guards pause, looking around nervously. Menendez frowns, grinding his cigar into an ashtray.

Rojas… smiles. His lips split open from the dried blood, but the smile is clear.

“Why are you smiling, cabrón?” one guard demands, shaking him by the throat.

Rojas rasps through broken teeth.

“Because… they’ve come.”

The guards exchange uneasy glances. “They? Who the hell is—”

The bulbs flicker violently and then shatter. Darkness swallows the chamber whole. Outside, muffled screams echo—high-pitched, guttural, the unmistakable sound of men dying horribly. Gunshots rattle, then silence.

The guards raise their weapons toward the door. Menendez stands now, cigar forgotten, sweat forming on his tattooed brow. “Aim at the door,” he orders, his voice trembling.

The screams grow louder, closer. The sound of steel slashing through flesh reverberates through the hall. Something drags across the floor, heavy and wet. The guards’ hands shake as they steady their rifles, hearts pounding against their ribs.

Rojas chuckles, blood dribbling down his chin.

“They are the nightmare shadows. The demons sent for people like you. They leave behind screams begging for mercy that never comes.”

One guard shouts, “Shut him up!” But his voice cracks with fear.

Rojas continues, eyes gleaming in the dark.

“If God sends devils to cleanse the filth of this world, it is them. Born from inhuman training. Forged in fire and pain. They are the reason hell itself was created for men like you.”

The door explodes inward with a deafening crash. The guards fire wildly, muzzle flashes strobing the chamber, but their bullets hit only air. Chains of steel whistle through the dark. Kunai lash around throats, pulling the guards off their feet. One is yanked screaming into the corridor. Another is dragged into the ceiling beams, his scream cut short by a sickening rip. Blood rains down.

The last guard trembles, firing blindly until his rifle clicks empty. He whirls, only to see glowing eyes in the black. A blade pierces through his chest, bursting out of his sternum. He drops to his knees, gasping as blood fills his lungs, then collapses lifeless.

The Devil’s Judgment

The silence is broken only by Menendez’s rapid breathing. He backs against the wall, heart hammering. From the shadows, figures emerge. Sakumo steps forward first, his swords dripping crimson. Behind him, Habura pulls his chained kunai free from a corpse. The two shinobi advance like reapers.

Menendez falls to his knees, hands raised. His arrogance is gone; he is nothing but a coward now.

“Please… mercy… I can pay you—anything you want! Just don’t kill me!”

Sakumo’s voice is cold, stripped of humanity.

“Your money cannot buy you from the sentence you’ve earned.”

Habura’s hand shoots forward, seizing Menendez by the throat. He slams him against the concrete wall. The tattooed man gasps, clawing at the grip crushing his windpipe.

“You sold lives like cattle,” Habura growls. “You broke families. You thought yourself untouchable.”

Menendez chokes out one last plea. “No—please—”

His words end in a wet crunch. Habura smashes his face into the wall with monstrous force. Bone shatters. His skull caves under the impact, splattering the concrete with brains and blood. Menendez slides down the wall, lifeless, his reign ended in grotesque silence.

The nightmare of Mano del Diablo lies dead.

The Rescue

Sakumo turns immediately to Rojas. With a swift slash, he severs the chains. Rojas crumples, gasping in relief. Habura catches him before he hits the ground.

“Stay awake,” Sakumo orders, kneeling to inspect his wounds. “You’ve survived hell. You will live to see the light again.”

Rojas nods faintly, blood dripping from his mouth. His eyes flicker with something rare in his broken face—hope.

The shinobi lift him between them, guiding him toward the door. Outside, the corridor is painted in gore, the bodies of Menendez’s men torn apart, dangling from hooks, sprawled in crimson pools. The air reeks of death.

As they step into the open night, Rojas glances back at the carnage. He whispers, almost reverently, “Demons…”

But Sakumo shakes his head. His voice is cold steel.

“No. Shinobi.”

The team vanishes into the shadows, carrying Rojas with them, leaving behind only silence and the memory of terror. The world will never know what happened that night in Argentina. But those who whisper about it will speak only of the massacre of Mano del Diablo—the night the Ravens came.

The safehouse is almost in sight when the night air splits with a metallic whistle. Shuriken streak across the darkness, their edges gleaming in the pale moonlight. Tokuro and Reiko react instantly, steel flashing as they deflect the projectiles midair. Sparks rain down, scattering across the dirt path.

From the treeline, shadows detach themselves, and within moments, figures emerge—warriors draped in armor etched with crimson veins of molten design. Their eyes glint with fury. The Red Stone have arrived.

Sakumo steps forward, katana drawn, his cloak whispering in the wind. Behind him, Habura braces Manuel Rojas, shielding the battered man with his own body. Reiko and Tokuro flank them, blades ready. The tension is palpable, the clash inevitable.

The leader of the Red Stone squad, Hozuki, emerges from the shadows. His presence is a storm contained within flesh, a massive figure gripping a katana whose blade glows faintly with volcanic heat. His voice is sharp and cold.

“This is not your fight, Ravens. Hand over Manuel Rojas… or drown in blood that is not yours.”

Sakumo lowers his blade slightly, his eyes unwavering. “Rojas is an asset. He breathes, he speaks. He stays alive. That is our order, and our oath.”

Hozuki’s jaw tightens. He steps forward, the earth seeming to quake beneath his boots. “Alive? He is the reason Black Rose slipped through our grasp. Because of him, Red Stone buried five shinobi in foreign soil. Five brothers… burned and forgotten. His death is not just justice—it is necessity.”

Rojas trembles in Habura’s arms. His eyes lower to the ground, shame cutting deeper than the bruises on his flesh. He knows the truth of Hozuki’s words, and it weighs heavily on him.

Tokuro raises a hand, his tone calm, diplomatic. “We are clans of the same blood. Allies once, not enemies. There is no need to spill it here. Let us settle this with reason, not blades.”

But Hozuki’s patience snaps like glass. His men fan out, their weapons drawn, their faces hard. “Reason died with my brothers. Step aside, or share their graves.”

The air thickens, the forest itself holding its breath.

And then—a sudden explosion tears the silence apart.

The ground shakes violently, flames lighting the horizon. The blast signal echoes through the trees, unmistakable.

Sakumo’s eyes narrow. “Mitsuki…”

It is their ally’s signal—time to move. Habura seizes the chance, dragging Rojas toward the path, urgency in every step. “Go!” Sakumo commands. “Get him out of here!”

Habura nods and disappears into the shadows with Rojas in tow, Reiko and Tokuro guarding their retreat.

But Hozuki is not so easily denied. His blade ignites in a molten glow, the heat distorting the air. He points it at Sakumo, his fury unchained. “Then you will die in his place, Raven.”

Clash with the Stone

Hozuki surges forward, his katana roaring with volcanic fire. Sakumo meets him head-on, steel colliding with a deafening crack. The force sends shockwaves through the ground. Sparks erupt as their blades grind against each other, molten heat against cold precision.

Sakumo strikes first, a flurry of cuts aimed at Hozuki’s exposed flanks. But every blow clangs uselessly against the hardened lava steel of his katana. The weapon drinks the impact, leaving Sakumo momentarily stunned.

Hozuki sneers. “Your Raven steel is nothing here.” He retaliates with an overhead strike, the molten blade slicing a tree clean in half. The trunk collapses, burning, as Sakumo barely rolls aside.

Reiko and Tokuro charge to support, but the Red Stone shinobi intercept. Blades flash, fists crack, bodies collide. The forest becomes chaos incarnate—leaf and bark shredded by shuriken, the ground soaked with fresh blood.

Sakumo knows they are at a disadvantage. Red Stone’s style is overwhelming, rooted in raw strength and relentless pressure. Every strike threatens to crush them under its weight.

He adjusts his stance, his breathing slowing, calculating. “If strength is the Stone’s way,” he mutters, “then speed must be the Raven’s answer.”

With renewed resolve, Sakumo unleashes a rapid succession of slashes, each one faster than the last. His movements blur, his afterimages weaving in and out of Hozuki’s defense. For a moment, he manages to force the giant shinobi back.

But even that is not enough. Hozuki slams his blade into the earth, sending molten cracks spiderwebbing outward. Fire erupts between them, forcing Sakumo to leap away.

“You cannot protect him forever,” Hozuki growls. “Nor yourself.”

The Escape

As the clash rages, Sakumo knows what must be done. He gives a subtle hand signal to Tokuro and Reiko. They hesitate, unwilling to leave him, but his order is clear.

“Take Habura’s trail. Guard Rojas. I will hold them.”

“Brother—” Tokuro starts, but Sakumo cuts him off with a sharp glance.

“There is no time!”

With gritted teeth, they obey, breaking off from the fight and sprinting into the trees. Red Stone shinobi try to pursue, but Sakumo intercepts, blades flashing in a desperate dance.

Step by step, he leads them toward the cliff’s edge. The abyss yawns beneath, the wind howling like the spirits of the dead.

Hozuki snarls, advancing with his men. “You don’t know what Black Rose truly is, Raven. You think you fight for honor, but you’re just pawns in a war you can’t comprehend.”

Sakumo breathes deep, his blade steady. His eyes harden with resolve. “Perhaps. But I’ve heard enough.”

With a flick of his wrist, he throws a smoke bomb. The world explodes into choking darkness. Blades slash blindly, but the Raven is gone.

When the smoke clears, the cliff stands empty. The Red Stone warriors search, but Sakumo is nowhere to be seen. Only the echo of his voice lingers in the night.

The Blood Raven have slipped the Stone’s grasp—for now. But the rivalry between clans is no longer dormant. It is alive, and it has tasted blood.

The safehouse is silent, nestled deep in the wilds of Argentina, its walls scarred by time and its roof patched with iron sheets that groan beneath the wind. Inside, Reiko and Mitsuki bend over Manuel Rojas, tending to his broken body. His face is swollen from days of beatings, his ribs bound tightly with strips of blood-stained cloth. Every movement makes him wince, but his eyes—sharp and weary—still burn with the fire of defiance.

On the roof, Habura crouches with his katana laid across his knees, eyes scanning the treeline. Tokuro sits beside him, his back against the chimney, his hand resting loosely on his blade. The night air is tense, heavy with the promise of enemies. Habura breaks the silence, his voice low and grim.

“Sakumo has not returned. It has been too long. If Red Stone caught him… they might have ended him.”

Tokuro narrows his eyes. “And if they did, what then? We cannot strike back. Not this time. Red Stone bleed as we do. Black Rose has cursed us all.”

The two sit in silence, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on them.

Then—like a ghost—Sakumo appears behind them. His footsteps are so silent that even the watchful Habura flinches when he hears his voice.

“You’ve grown careless, brothers.”

Both whirl around, startled. Relief floods their faces as they see him standing there, his cloak torn, his body streaked with dirt and blood, but alive. Habura rises to his feet, fists clenched.

“Damn you, Sakumo! Do you know how close we were to lighting the signal fire?!”

Sakumo smirks faintly, exhaustion flickering across his sharp features. “I told you I’d return. Red Stone are persistent, but not invincible.”

Without another word, he descends into the safehouse. His boots echo on the stone floor as he strides toward Rojas. Reiko moves aside, her eyes lingering on the cuts across Sakumo’s face. He ignores her concern, kneeling in front of their battered prize.

Rojas lifts his head, his lips trembling. For the first time since his capture, his voice softens. “You saved me… I owe you my life.”

Sakumo studies him for a long moment, eyes sharp as blades. “Then repay us with the truth. Tell us about Black Rose.”

The Secret of Black Rose

The room falls into silence. Even Habura and Tokuro come down from the roof, their attention fixed on the man who holds the weight of a secret older than any of them. Rojas exhales heavily, his breath ragged. He stares into the flickering lantern light as though searching for courage.

“Black Rose…” His voice trembles, then steadies. “It was never a myth. It was real. A weapon born not from fantasy, but from desperation. In the 1970s, during the height of the Cold War, the Soviets and the Americans… they built something together. Not a nuclear bomb. No… this was worse. A weapon of gas, of chemical rot, a storm that devours lungs and flesh without fire or ash.”

The shinobi exchange uneasy glances. Rojas continues.

“They tested it in 1979. Somewhere in the deserts—far from the eyes of the world. It worked. Too well. A cloud of death that lingered for weeks. The project was hidden under lock and iron, buried in steel vaults. But then came the Red Ghost.”

At the mention of the lost clan, even Sakumo’s expression darkens.

“They stormed the facility. They wanted the weapon for themselves. But before they could seize it, one man escaped—Dr. Karmikov. A genius, a traitor, perhaps a savior. He vanished into the wind, taking Black Rose with him. For decades he hid it. And the world believed it gone.”

Rojas coughs, blood flecking his lips, but his voice grows more urgent.

“Two years ago… he found me. Old, frail, hands shaking with the weight of secrets. He told me the truth: Black Rose cannot be destroyed. If you try, it will detonate. To destroy it is to release it. He begged me to guard it… because he could no longer bear the burden.”

Habura steps forward, his fists trembling. “And you accepted? You carried that curse?”

Rojas nods weakly. “I thought I could keep it safe. I thought I could vanish into the shadows, bury it where no one would find it. But four days ago, the cartels—Menendez’s dogs—caught me. They beat me, tore at me, demanded its location. I told them nothing. But I knew my time was short.”

His eyes, bloodshot and hollow, rise to meet Sakumo’s. “And then you came. Shadows in the night. Ravens in the storm.”

The Weight of Truth

The shinobi stand in silence. The name Black Rose is more than legend now—it is a curse confirmed, a nightmare made flesh.

Tokuro breaks the silence first. “So it exists. And worse—it is still out there.”

Reiko’s hand tightens on her blade. “If what you say is true, then every clan will want it. Blood Raven, Red Stone, White Fang… all of them. Even the ghosts that remain.”

Habura scowls, his gaze hard. “Wars have been fought for less. With Black Rose… the world itself becomes a battlefield.”

Sakumo straightens, his exhaustion hidden behind cold resolve. His eyes bore into Rojas, sharp as any blade.

“Then you will tell us where it is now. Every detail. Every name. Every path you walked with Karmikov. Because if we fail… the world will drown in the smoke of that rose.”

Rojas hesitates, shame flickering in his eyes. “I swore I would guard it. Even now, my oath binds me.”

Sakumo’s hand slams against the table, the lantern flame quivering. His voice drops, deadly and certain.

“Your oath means nothing if millions die. You gave your word to one man. We give our lives for the world. Choose wisely, Rojas.”

The safehouse falls silent. Outside, the jungle hums with the restless chorus of unseen beasts. Inside, every eye is fixed on Rojas. His breath comes shallow, his lips trembling with the weight of decision.

Finally, with a voice broken but resolute, he whispers:

“I will tell you everything.”

The safehouse lies cloaked in silence after the chaos of Argentina. Lanterns flicker weakly in the darkened corners, casting long shadows across the battered walls. Rojas sits on a makeshift bed, his body bound in bandages, his eyes hollow yet resolute. His voice is gravelly when he finally reveals what the shinobi demand.

“The Black Rose… it rests in Juárez. A village swallowed by cartel smoke and blood. That is where it hides.”

The room grows heavier at his words. Sakumo crosses his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on the broken man before him. His voice is calm, but iron hard.

“Then we leave tomorrow. Mexico waits for no one.”

Habura exchanges a glance with Tokuro, unease etched into his face. “Juárez is a nest of vipers. If the Red Stone or the cartels move faster, the blood will run thicker than rain.”

Sakumo doesn’t flinch. “That is why we move first. Rest now. Every one of you. I will guard this night.”

Habura steps forward, shaking his head. “Not alone, brother. If you fall, the mission falls. I will stand with you.”

For a moment, silence stretches between them. Then Sakumo allows the faintest smile, a soldier’s bond unspoken. “Very well. We keep watch together.”

The others drift to their beds, exhaustion claiming them. Outside, the jungle sings its nocturnal hymn, but within the safehouse the air is taut with the storm to come.

Osaka — Blood Raven Stronghold

Far away, under the moonlit skies of Osaka, the world is different. The Blood Raven compound hums with the rhythm of training, young blades clashing against wood and stone.

On the training ground, two figures face each other: Takeshi Hatabe, now eleven, his eyes sharp and focused, and Haruna, her breath steady as she grips a wooden katana.

She lunges first, her strikes quick, cutting at every angle she can muster. Takeshi doesn’t even raise his blade at first—he slips, pivots, and bends as though her attacks are nothing more than gusts of wind. His movements are fluid, seamless, almost playful.

“Faster, Haruna,” he says with a faint grin, his voice calm yet firm. “Don’t think. Feel. Your reflex, not your mind.”

Haruna bites her lip, determination sparking in her eyes. She launches again, this time with genuine intent. She leaps high, her blade whistling down from above. Takeshi blocks with a sharp motion, then shifts behind her in a blur, sweeping her legs with a precise tackle.

Haruna falls to the earth with a surprised gasp, and before she can rise, the wooden edge of Takeshi’s katana rests lightly against her throat. He chuckles softly.

“Too quick to strike. Patience, Haruna. Strike only when the moment is ripe.”

She groans, embarrassed but smiling, as he offers her a hand. She takes it, rising to her feet. “If only I had your skill… perhaps then I would never fall.”

Takeshi shakes his head. His eyes, once dulled by hunger and grief, now gleam with clarity. “No. Every shinobi walks a different path. My skill is not yours, and yours will never be mine. Do not envy me. Perfect your own blade, Haruna.”

Her lips part in surprise at his maturity. Takeshi kneels beside her, showing her how to adjust her stance, how to control her breathing, and how to feel the rhythm of her opponent rather than chasing thoughts. She mirrors him, her focus sharp, her cheeks flushed from effort.

From the shadows of the courtyard, Sensei Masahiro Takeda watches silently, his arms folded. His stern face softens for a moment, a rare smile tugging at his lips. He remembers the boy he once found in the gutters of Kamagasaki—filthy, desperate, eyes starved of hope. And now, before him stands a budding shinobi, teaching with patience, carrying himself with dignity.

Masahiro murmurs to himself, unheard by the children. “From the streets to the sword… perhaps fate truly meant for him to walk this path.”

Diverging Paths

The night deepens in both worlds. In Argentina, Sakumo and Habura keep vigil, blades resting but never far from reach, their eyes reflecting the fire of lanterns as they prepare for the journey to Mexico. Danger looms over every shadow, but resolve binds them.

In Osaka, Takeshi sits beneath a cherry blossom tree within the compound, the petals drifting around him in the quiet night. Haruna dozes beside him, her head resting lightly on her knees. Takeshi gazes up at the stars, whispering to himself, a vow only the wind can hear.

“I will grow stronger. Strong enough that no one I love will ever be taken from me again.”

Unseen, Takeda lingers in the distance, listening to the boy’s promise. He closes his eyes, the weight of old prophecies stirring in his chest. For centuries, their clan has waited for one who would shift the tides of the shinobi world. Perhaps… that time is coming.

The chapter ends with the split of fates—the seniors marching toward Juárez, Mexico, to chase the cursed flower of death, and Takeshi sharpening his soul in Osaka, his fire still young but burning brighter than any other.

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