For a moment, Jin didn't answer.
He stood there in the wreck of the village square, the long sword still dripping black in his hand, and looked up at the winged thing pointing at him. At its pale, perfect face. At its eyes, black from edge to edge. At the great dark wings folded behind it, every feather shining like oil.
All around the square, he could feel the villagers watching from their doorways. Holding their breath. Waiting to hear what he would say.
He thought about who he was supposed to be here. Not Jin. Not the man from a ruined city with a crown piece in his chest. Muramasa. A young swordsman these people had called down out of the sky with their prayers.
He thought about what the old man would have said.
Then he lifted the sword, flicked the black blood off the edge in one sharp motion, and leveled it at the creature's chest.
"I'm the Heavenly Envoy," he said.
His voice, Muramasa's voice, deep and rough, rolled out across the square.
