The emperor’s army flooded through the broken gate while the Lord of the Walled City, a ten-year old boy, watched his dead father burn atop a pyre. In his hands he gripped Hellrazor, the cursed katana. “If… If I surrender…”
His samurai general bowed before him. “The emperor does not care for your surrender. He wants your family and your people to die.”
“Better that, perhaps, than Hellrazor’s curse,” said the boy. The katana looked enormous in his small hands.
“Do it,” said the general. He unstrapped his armor, bared his chest and knelt. “Fulfill my destiny. Save your people.”
Within the choking smoke, the alarm bells, and the screams of his people, the boy lifted the katana and plunged it through his general’s heart.
The undead general met the army alone, his flesh ashen, his hands grown into claws, his eyes glowing, Hellrazor embedded in his chest. He tore through his enemies, leaving them slashed and mangled in the streets without mercy. At the gate he spied the emperor, defeated, terrified, running for his life. The general’s otherworldly laugh echoed as Hellrazor flew, end over end, burying itself in the cowardly emperor’s spine, and the emperor’s reign was ended.
The brave samurai savior of the Walled City was never seen again, but legend says that death has never found him.
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