Rurouni Kenshin Fanfic

Rurouni Kenshin & Samurai X Original Japanese Version © N.Watsuki/Shueisha * Fuji-TV * SME Visual Works Inc. * Sony Pictures Entertainment

All Fanfics created by Chiruken (me) were written for the sole purpose of shared entertainment and not intended for publication or sale.

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The Hitokiri Returns

by Chiruken

Chapter 1

~2000~

Ignoring the annoyingly loud sounds of traffic drifting in from the street below through the partially open window overlooking the busy street running past the building his office rested in, he leaned forward over his cluttered desk and scowled irritably at the folders spread out haphazardly before him across the worn and scarred top of his large oversized desk, the coffee stains in the form of rings hidden by the multitude of papers, old take-out containers and scrunched up napkins. He ignored the mess and concentrated instead on the folders spread open on top of the clutter, the photographs glaring up at him in silent accusation as the cases remained unsolved for yet another night. He shook his head, acknowledging that it was frustrating that these kinds of cases kept piling up with increasing frequency and yet so few were actually being solved. Frustrating…and alarming. How many more will die before this is over? He closed his eyes, covering his face with one hand and shook his head slowly before pinching the bridge of his nose. Too many. He silently answered his unspoken question bitterly.

Making a concerted effort to shake off the dark, pessimistic mood he reached across his cluttered desk over to the overflowing ashtray and stubbed out his cigarette, grimacing at the acrid odor of burning filters and ignoring the miniature avalanche his movement caused amongst the various Styrofoam containers. With a loud sigh he acknowledged that he knew what his problem was…he cared too much. He had to start thinking of it as just another job. Experience told him that he wouldn’t take his own advice, no matter how good it was. He couldn’t ignore the brutality of these recent crimes any more than he could with the other cases he’d taken over the last few years. It went against the grain. He smiled humorlessly. He should’ve listened to his grandfather. He should’ve been a cop.

He leaned back in his comfortably worn leather chair, tilting it back as he spun partially away from his desk to stare up at the water stains marring the ceiling of his office. “Damned landlord. I told him…” He scowled at the muffled ring of a telephone, biting back the rest of his muttered tirade. It was his, but where was it? He shoved papers aside, wincing when another avalanche ensued, and looked around his office when he didn’t find it on his desk. He stared at the battered filing cabinet across the room for a moment before pushing his chair back from the desk decisively. He crossed to the metal cabinet and began opening and closing drawers, the hollow bangs of thin sheet metal meeting more of the same echoing loudly in his ears, making him feel just a little better since he now had an outlet for his growing frustrations, until he finally found the cordless phone. He smirked as he pulled it out, his mood definitely improved from the minor violence he’d just performed on the hapless filing cabinet. “Imagine that…filed under ‘j’…as in junk.” He answered it on the sixth ring. “Four City Investigations. John Saito here.” He slammed the last drawer shut with a well-placed kick and moved back to his desk, wincing at the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. He sighed inaudibly. There goes the flower vase Pops gave me last month… He craned his neck slightly to peer around the metal cabinet and shook his head when he saw the shattered remains of the vase his grandfather had given him to replace the last one he’d broken. “Great…just great…” He muttered under his breath.

“Um…” The voice on the other end paused. “I don’t know if you can help me…”

Saito rolled his eyes. They always start like this. He thought sardonically. “Try me.” He sat again in his favorite chair, yanking open the top drawer to his right, and reached inside for his cigarettes. The speaker sounded young…very young in fact. He scowled at the realization. Just what I need…another smart-ass kid getting his thrills with crank calls.

There was a slight hesitation as if the caller had detected Saito’s sarcasm in his voice. “Do you deal with lost or stolen items?”

He scowled and paused in the act of lighting his cigarette. This kid’s good. He sounds almost serious. Let’s see how far he’ll go. Lips curving up into a smirk, he leaned back in his chair. “That depends on what was lost or stolen. I don’t deal with cats, dogs, children or other livestock.” Or lollipops, he added silently.

“What about weapons?” He almost swallowed his unlit cigarette at the unexpected reply. “More specifically…swords.”

He sat up abruptly, smirk replaced by a scowl. “Who is this?” He searched around his desk frantically for a pen and notepaper. Some day he really had to try to get organized. It was a distant thought amidst the turmoil running through his mind. The kid sounded so grim that Saito was beginning to wonder if he’d misjudged him.

“Kenshin Myoujin. Do you need that spelled?”

Feeling his eyes nearly bug out with his shock, he cleared his throat and injected a growl into his voice before replying. “Very funny.” Saito tossed the dead pen across the room and grabbed a fluorescent pink highlighter. “Myoujin as in the Myoujin School of Kendou?” He could practically see dollar signs dancing around his vision. The Myoujin family was one of the most prominent families around and their wealth was almost legendary.

“Close enough. That’s my father’s doujou, not mine.” Saito gritted his teeth. He really hated dealing with pint-sized brats like this…though he thought Harry Myoujin only had one son who should be close to thirty about now. Saito shrugged and quickly wrote the name down. Money was money and a man in his position didn’t allow personal feelings to get in the way of acquiring it. “So…can you help me?”

“Maybe. What kind of sword did you lose?” His eyes moved of their own volition back to the open file on his desk. Added to the prospect of earning some hard cash, he felt a thrill of anticipation and hope run up his spine. It was a long shot, but maybe this was the break he needed. He hoped so. He really needed something and fast. If he didn’t get a break in this case, he may as well close down his business and get a job flipping burgers. His entire reputation was riding on this case.

“That’s just it, Mr. Saito. It was lost, but now it’s back.”

Gritting his teeth Saito tossed his highlighter and notepad onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed. There go those nice little dollar signs right out the window. He thought bitterly. “Look, kid. I’m a busy guy. I don’t have time to have my chain yanked.”

“Yeah…that’s what the police said.”

“Go figure.” He rolled his eyes and patted his pockets for his matches. “Look, it’s been nice chattin’ with you, but I have things to do. Go bother someone else.”

“No-no-no…don’t hang u-…” Saito hung up with a shake of his head.

“I really hate crank calls.” He pulled his matchbook out of his pocket and was about to open it when the phone rang again. He sighed, debated for a moment on ignoring it, decided against it and answered it on the third ring. “Four City Investigations. Saito speaking.”

“Don’t hang up again…please. I’m serious, I swear.” He rolled his eyes, recognizing the soft tenor on the other end. It was the kid again. “This isn’t a…”

“Kid, I’m only gonna say this once more nicely. I don’t have time for practical jokes. Why don’t you go play on the freeway or somethin’? Just stop botherin’…”

“You call that nicely? Saito, I’m serious. I’d come down there myself, but I think it would be a little conspicuous if I carried a katana around town. At least listen to what I have to say. And I’m not a ‘kid’, thank you very much.”

“Did you say katana?” Saito leaned forward and grabbed one of the reports off his desk. Could it be? Almost afraid to hope, lest he have them dashed once again, he cleared his throat before asking. “As in a real Japanese sword? Not a plastic replica?”

“Actually, it’s a sakabatou, but you’re close enough.”

“A what?” He scowled at the report. Could it be? Could it be the same katana? He set his unlit cigarette down and drew in a slow breath, calming his nerves. I gotta lay off the caffeine… It was a distant thought as he waited for his would-be client to elaborate.

“A sakabatou. It’s a custom made katana, only with the blade reversed. It’s the only one in existence as far as I know.”

Well, that just dashes my hopes. He thought sourly as he tossed the report back onto his desk and reached for his cigarette again. “Reverse blade, huh? In other words, dull and useless.”

“Um…not exactly. It’s kind of hard to explain. You have to see it to understand.”

“Great. Why would I want to waste my time looking at a useless oversized butter knife?” He struck the match and touched it to the end of his cigarette, inhaling deeply.

“Because it came back with blood on it.”

Saito blinked and reached for his notepad and highlighter again. “Where did you say I could find you?”

***

Saito stepped onto the curb and scowled as he studied the plain front of the building rising up before him. It didn’t look like much from here. He smirked humorlessly. But everyone knew of the Myoujin School of Kendou. Their reputation as kendou masters was somewhat notorious around town, as well as their propensity towards being rather eccentric and somewhat snobbish. Obviously the family preferred understatements to luxury. From what he’d heard, the Myoujin family wasn’t just well off…they were filthy, stinking rich…which explained their collective egocentric attitudes. If one was to believe the rumor’s floating around, their assets totaled more than the entire town was worth.

He hated dealing with stuck-up snobs. He shook his head with a sigh and tossed his cigarette into the street, not bothering to pause and watch its glowing red tip bounce along the asphalt, sparks falling with each jarring impact in made with the hard surface before finally coming to rest nestled against the curb, a tiny tendril of smoke winding up towards the distant sky before eventually winking out as the fuel was burned to grey ash. They probably didn’t allow smoking in their doujou…not many did. He closed the distance and stopped at the wide double doors. There was something written on one, but it was in Japanese or Chinese. He shrugged. Both looked about the same to him. He chuckled under his breath, expression chagrined. His grandfather would have a fit if he ever said that to him. It was ironic that he didn’t know the difference between the two written languages since he, himself, was of Japanese descent.

He’d barely raised his hand to knock when the door opened. “Mr. Saito? Please…come in.” He scowled at the familiar disembodied voice, the soft tones somehow grating on his already taught nerves. He chose not to pursue the reasons behind his instant dislike for Kenshin Myoujin based solely on hearing his voice, but there was something about hearing the way he spoke so softly that irritated him unreasonably. Shrugging the odd thoughts aside he focused on the newest reason for being annoyed. He preferred seeing whoever was talking to him, but he stepped inside through the open door despite his niggling misgivings. This wasn’t a neighbourhood he wanted to stand around in contemplating life and it’s quirks merely because his instincts were screaming at him that he didn’t want to meet his new client face to face. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” He looked around the dim interior suspiciously, eyes narrowed and hands shoved into his pockets clenching into fists as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Why is it so dark in here?” He didn’t like surprises and this gloomy interior was one surprise after another just waiting to happen.

“I prefer it that way at night. It’s soothing.” He turned to face his client and blinked in surprise when he saw a slightly built, red-haired young man. “What? Is something wrong?”

Saito had the oddest feeling of déjà vu. He knew he should recognize this person. He shrugged the strange sensation away, though he couldn’t shake the eerie feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. It was too ridiculous to think about. He’d never met this man before. He looked him up and down, noting his features were almost delicate and feminine and winced inwardly, wondering how many had already mistaken his gender. He tilted his head to the side, taking in the short red hair curling over the collar of his green and black plaid flannel shirt and the unusual shade of blue in his eyes. “Are you adopted?” He winced inwardly. What a rude and stupid thing to say to a new client…especially one with his kind of money. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

Kenshin Myoujin sighed and shook his head, expression neutral. “My mother was Irish.” He stated it in such a way that Saito was given the impression that he was asked about his parentage often. He turned and walked silently towards a closed door off to the side of the foyer. “This way please, Mr. Saito.”

He breathed a silent sigh of relief, thankful that his blurted comments hadn’t insulted him. “Irish, huh? Guess that explains a lot.” He followed slowly, looking around curiously. He hadn’t been inside a doujou like this before. He watched as the young man pulled a key ring from his pocket. “Can I ask you somethin’?” He waited until the other man nodded. “How many students train here?”

“One.” He stared at the smaller man as he opened the door in surprise. “Me.” Kenshin turned and smiled tightly. “The actual Myoujin Doujou is on the other side of town.” He gestured for Saito to enter the room.

Saito frowned as he stepped through the door and scratched his head. He’d never heard of a doujou with only one student before. It seemed rather ridiculous to him. “So what, exactly, is this place?”

“I can tell you what it isn’t, Mr. Saito. It’s separate from my father’s doujou that teaches the Kamiya Kasshin Ryuu, the traditional kendou style that was passed down through the generations of Myoujin’s. Myoujin Yahiko was the first in our family to be taught the style in Japan. He learned it from the Kamiya family in the late 1800’s.”

“I…see.” Saito rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He’d just received a lot of information that didn’t answer his question. This Kenshin Myoujin was smooth. “I take it the Kamiya Kasshin Style isn’t taught here then.” It was intriguing that the names seemed familiar to him. He pushed the thought aside as he watched the other man closely. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. He’d ponder the oddities of recognizing names that shouldn’t be familiar to him later when he was alone and didn’t have to be alert for… He shook his head slightly and scowled, uncertain what it was about the smaller man that made him so uneasy, nor what he felt he should be watching for.

“No.” Saito waited, but Kenshin didn’t elaborate. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? I’m afraid I’m fairly limited to beverages unless you don’t mind juice.”

Saito ignored the question. “So what’s taught here?”

“Kenjutsu.” Kenshin turned to face him directly. “It isn’t widely known and only taught to one person each generation. I don’t like discussing it.”

“Why not?” One person per generation? That seemed odd. Saito had never heard of such an unusual practice in swordsmanship training except for…He shook his head with a slight frown, remembering something his grandfather had told him years before when he’d still been in training. That was impossible though. That style no longer existed. It was discontinued over a century before…wasn’t it? He looked closer at his client, searching for a hint that his suspicions were false…or well founded. His gut instinct rarely steered him wrong, but he found himself hoping that this time would be one of those rare occasions.

“I just don’t.” It seemed as if Kenshin Myoujin was hiding something, just as he’d suspected. Saito smirked humorlessly. He’d find out what it was the other man didn’t want to discuss and lay the rest of his suspicions to rest while he was at it. “Are you familiar with kenjutsu Mr. Saito?”

He shrugged noncommittally, not willing to give too much away this early in the game of cat and mouse. “A little. Why?”

“Then you should be aware that there are some styles that guard their techniques jealously and have been doing so for centuries. Please don’t pursue this. I won’t ask which school you belong to if you give me the same courtesy.”

Saito smirked. “You are aware that such narrow-minded thinking went out of style at least a century ago, right?”

Kenshin’s eyes narrowed slightly, giving his youthful features an almost frightening intense expression that sent a shiver of recognition up Saito’s spine and caused the fine hairs on his arms to stand on end with sudden alert anticipation and he found himself wishing for a...sword? He blinked and focused on the other man again. “You aren’t a very likable person, are you?” A moment passed, and then he shrugged, his expression returning to innocuous innocence once again. “The name’s on the front door, you know.”

Saito scowled irritably. “So what’s this bull about it bein’ a secret then?” He chose to cover his momentary confusion with gruff annoyance.

“I was yanking your chain.” He laughed brightly and turned to a desk in the corner of the room.

“You know, I don’t think I like you very much, kid.” And that was an understatement and a half. Saito was just about ready to throttle the young man for his aggravating performance.

“Oh…that’s too bad. And here I thought we could be on the same bowling team.” He turned, holding a long object wrapped in a blanket, the shape sparking a momentary awareness in Saito’s mind. “And for the last time, I’m not a kid.”

“Sure. Whatever. What’s that?” He pointed at the item Kenshin was holding carefully, disturbed by the certainty that it was indeed a sword without having seen it yet.

“It’s the sakabatou I told you about on the phone.” He moved towards a table under a hanging lamp, steps catlike and silent. “Could you get the light? The switch is beside you.”

Saito reached over and flipped the indicated switch. He found himself staring at a wall covered with framed diplomas, the fluorescent light reflecting off the glass covered surfaces. He frowned and peered closer. Or were they degrees? He moved closer and let out a low whistle. “So…you some kind of genius or somethin’?” Everywhere he looked he saw the young man’s name.

“Not likely.” Saito glanced over his shoulder and watched as he set his burden on the table carefully. “It’s called spending a lot of years in the classroom, Mr. Saito.” He unwrapped the blanket and Saito stepped closer.

“It looks old.” He studied the smooth sheath and leather bound hilt. “Very old.” He amended. Again, he felt his hair try to stand on end. He knew this sword. He took an involuntary half step back from the table and shook his head, focusing on Myoujin again, studying his hands and seeing the unmistakable signs of a practicing swordsman. His eyes moved back to the sword and he suppressed a shudder. How many times have I seen this sword in my dreams? Right down to the intricate detail of the hilt…it was the same. He coughed into his hand and thrust the disturbing thoughts from his mind. It was a coincidence…that was all. An eerie coincidence…

“It was forged in 1867, Mr. Saito, by Arai Shaku in Japan at the end of the Bakumatsu. This is the Principle Forge. There was one other, but it was broken in 1878.”

“What’s a baku-whatever you called it?” He stepped closer and frowned at the unmistakable stains…blood, and recent. He pushed all other thoughts from his mind and focused instead on what his client was saying.

“Bakumatsu. It was the revolution that changed the course of Japan’s history.”

“So this is pretty valuable, huh?” He tilted his head to the side, studying the sheath and hilt before deciding that it was probably one of the least appealing objects he’d seen in some time. Ugly was a word that came to mind. The sheath was plain, unadorned, its surface cracked and obviously missing chunks here and there. The hilt of the sword itself was stained, the leather cracking from obvious neglect.

“No. It’s worthless, actually. Unless you look at it from a historian’s point of view.” Kenshin lifted the sheathed sword and slowly drew the blade from the scabbard. Saito’s eyes widened fractionally as he stared at the smooth surface of the blade. Except for the dried blood, the surface was in remarkably good condition. “I didn’t clean it yet. I thought maybe the blood could be analyzed.”

“Good thinking…but you shouldn’t have touched it, you know.” When he received a blank look, Saito elaborated. “Fingerprints. You know, individual signatures left by whoever used this sword.”

“Oh.” He sighed and shook his head. “Is this where I say ‘oops’?”

“Great excuse. I’m sure the forensics experts will appreciate your wit, Myoujin.” Saito shook his head with a grimace. “So…you mentioned on the phone that someone took it and then brought it back. When did this happen?”

“Um…which time?” Saito’s jaw dropped at the unexpected reply. “It’s been disappearing and reappearing off and on over the past couple of months. I thought my father was taking it until it came back two days ago like this.”

Saito almost asked if he ever actually spoke to his father, but decided to bite his tongue on that subject. He didn’t exactly have a lot of room to be lecturing the younger man on the subject of family loyalties. He sighed inwardly, silently acknowledging that he really ought to call his grandfather sometime soon. “By any chance, did you happen to report this unusual phenomenon to the police?”

“I tried to, but they just hung up…like you did, Mr. Saito.” He shrugged and pushed the blade back into its sheath. “For some reason they weren’t very concerned with what they called ‘magic knives’. I didn’t bother trying the police a second time.” Carefully, he wrapped the sakabatou in the blanket again. “I called you instead.”

“Lucky me.” Saito leaned back against the doorjamb and folded his arms over his chest, gaze narrowed on the way the other man handled the sword so expertly. There was no question in his mind that Kenshin Myoujin was indeed the inheritor of the Myoujin School of Kendou. He’d probably been in training since before he could walk. “So…why me?”

The other man shrugged with a slight, mocking smile. “I like irony, Mr. Saito.”

“Come again?” Saito scowled at his client, not liking the underlying hint of sarcasm in his tone.

“Tell me…why did you choose the name ‘Four City Investigations’?”

“I liked the sound of it. Why?” Saito wasn’t about to tell the annoying little jerk that the name just popped into his head one day while listening to his grandfather babble half in English and half in Japanese.

Kenshin laughed and propped his hip against the table, folding his arms over his chest. “Interesting. Have you ever heard of the Keishichou?” Saito shook his head sharply. “The irony is that if you break down the word it essentially translates as the city agency of criminal punishment. It’s the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, formed in 1874 to cover the entire capital district of Tokyo…but I won’t bore you with details, Mr. Saito.” Saito scowled, but refrained from commenting. “If you take each syllable and insert the homonyms, you get ‘Four City Investigations’. Ironic, yes?” He laughed again, blue eyes dancing with merriment. “Even more ironic is that your own family is connected to the Keishichou. Did you know that? No…of course you don’t. Saito Hajime…only he went by the name Fujita Gorou at that time. He was also a captain in the Shinsengumi…the third squad I believe…which was a patrol group formed by the Tokugawa Shogunate from several rounin…masterless samurai…as a type of specialized policing unit for the Kyoto area during the height of the Bakumatsu. Mostly for crowd control, you could say.”

Saito blinked and stared, stunned momentarily speechless. Finally he cleared his throat. “What, exactly, do you do Mr. Myoujin?”

“I teach history, Mr. Saito…specifically Japanese history. Oh…” He pushed away from the table. “And to be technical it’s Dr. Myoujin.” He pointed to the frames on the wall. “That’s where all of those came from.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be a teacher? Never mind being a doctor.”

Kenshin rolled his eyes. “I’m twenty-eight years old, Mr. Saito. Hardly a child, wouldn’t you say? And I’m not a medical doctor. It’s a Ph.D. in history…nothing to do with medicine.”

Saito nodded slowly. “Got it.” He looked the smaller man up and down. “Twenty-eight, huh? You must get ID’d a lot.”

“Very funny. A real riot.” He gestured to the rewrapped sword on the table. “So…can you help me?”

“Maybe…but I doubt you’ll thank me.” He smiled humorlessly. “It all depends on what you want, Dr. Myoujin.” He put exaggerated emphasis on the title. “If all you want is for your sword…”

“Sakabatou.”

He ignored the interruption. “To be checked by forensics, I can get that done. But I seriously doubt you’d like the results.”

“What do you mean?” The other man looked puzzled…and a little apprehensive.

“If your ‘prints are the only ones on there, you’re going to be the prime suspect if it turns out this was the weapon in any of the recent murders.”

“Me?” He looked shocked. “But…it would have my fingerprints anyway, Mr. Saito. I use this sakabatou when practicing kenjutsu.”

“Then you’re screwed, Myoujin. Unless they find other ‘prints, that is.” He was enjoying seeing the other man squirm.

“Uh…what are my other options?” Kenshin didn’t look very well. Saito smirked.

“Well…first you better make certain you have ironclad alibis for the nights of the murders…next, get a good lawyer…and third, start praying.”

“That isn’t very helpful, Saito.”

He shrugged and pointed at the smaller man. “So…how much of an expert are you when it comes to kenjutsu?”

“I’m the Assistant Master of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryuu…and…um…Master of the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu. But that isn’t widely known.”

Saito started and stared at him in disbelief. “Did you say…Hiten Mitsurugi Style?” Kenshin nodded slowly. Saito narrowed his eyes and stepped to the side. “I find that interesting.” His instincts had been right from the start. Under different circumstances he might even be gloating.

“Why is that?” Kenshin watched Saito warily. “What are you doing, Mr. Saito?”

“Putting some distance between us, of course.” Saito judged the distance to the front doors and grimaced inwardly. It was too far. He’d have to brazen this out and hope for the best. “It was believed that the Hiten Mitsurugi Style, known as the Assassin’s Blade, died with Hitokiri Battousai in Japan.”

“His name was Himura Kenshin and he died in 1880, Mr. Saito. However, his master, Hiko Seijuurou the thirteenth, was still living at that time.” He gestured towards the blanket wrapped sword on the table beside him. “This was Himura’s sakabatou, which was passed on to Myoujin Yahiko, from whom I’m descended. He was taught the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu and the style has been passed down through the generations and I, myself, am now in effect Hiko Seijuurou the nineteenth…though I don’t go by that name, of course.” His eyes narrowed, changing impossibly from blue to amber. “However, you are mistaken about one thing, Saito.” Even his voice seemed to change. The soft, almost melodious tones were replaced by a much harsher, dangerous sounding quality. It was eerie, Saito thought with a carefully concealed shudder. “The Hiten Mitsurugi is not the Assassin’s Blade. I believe that honor is reserved for you Gatoutsu…but who’s pointing fingers, right?”

“How did you…” He bit back the rest of his startled question, eyes narrowed dangerously on the other man’s cold expression. Every instinct within him screamed that this man was dangerous and that he should watch his back around him if he wanted to ensure that he didn’t find himself joining the ranks of the dead.

“How did I know that you use the Gatoutsu? One, you’re left handed. Two, it was a technique created by Saito Hajime. And three…” He grinned suddenly. “It was a good guess.”

Saito nodded slowly, expression revealing his growing distaste. “I take back my earlier statement.”

“Which statement was that?”

“The one where I said I don’t think I like you.” Kenshin tilted his head to the side curiously, a slight mocking smile curving his lips. Saito gritted his teeth, feeling his irritation grow. “I know I don’t like you.”

Kenshin shrugged, unconcerned. “I’ll try to contain my disappointment.” Saito could almost appreciate the younger man’s humor…almost. “So…why do you think you need a kenjutsu expert?”

“I have some pictures. Care to take a look?”

“What kind of pictures, Mr. Saito?” Saito noted that Kenshin looked interested despite his cautious attitude.

“Murder victims. The reports say something to the effect of cuts with a sharp object, like a knife. Personally, I think they look like wounds created by a sword…specifically a katana.”

“Well…I’m not certain if I’ll be of any help…but I’ll take a look if you want.” Saito nodded and reached inside his jacket, pulling the envelope containing the photographs from his inside pocket. Kenshin took it slowly and pulled them out, shuffling through them quickly before looking up at Saito again. “They’re all women, Mr. Saito.” He nodded, watching the younger man closely as he looked at the pictures again, carefully examining each of them before moving on to the next one. “Well…it looks as if you’re right about it being done by a katana…”

“Yes?” Saito frowned, his suspicions aroused. Kenshin Myoujin wasn’t reacting the way most people would. He didn’t appear to be affected at all by the brutality depicted in the photographs of the recently murdered women.

“But…” Kenshin’s brows drew together in a contemplative frown as he moved closer to the light. “I’m not positive…but I think these wounds were created by my sakabatou, Mr. Saito.” He looked up, catching the suspicious scowl on the older man’s face. “The blade, being reversed, would leave distinctive cuts, you see. The curve is opposite to a regular katana.”

Saito nodded once, sharply. “Yes, I figured that out. So…any idea which technique?”

Kenshin studied the other man’s tense features with a frown. “You think I did it, don’t you?”

Saito started in surprise and hastily cleared his throat. “I didn’t say…”

The younger man waved his hand impatiently. “I don’t care what you think. I didn’t do it. First, the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu is much more distinct than this…specifically, you couldn’t mistake anything else for it if you saw it even once. It kills instantly, leaving no room for maybes.” Saito wondered what that was supposed to mean. “Second, the Kamiya Kasshin Ryuu is practiced with shinai’s and bokken’s…not katana’s. Last I checked, wooden swords don’t cut. And third…if I did it, why would I turn myself in?”

“Why indeed?” Saito studied the smaller man for a moment and finally chose to refrain from pointing out that many murderers chose to divert suspicion from them by being overtly helpful during investigation, even providing crucial evidence that could point towards themselves, in the hopes of throwing the investigation elsewhere. “Could you prove that this isn’t your sword style?” He gestured at the photographs, not taking his eyes from his client’s thoughtful expression for even an instant, wanting instead to catch every nuance in his manner to better judge if he should be taking the case or merely calling the cops instead the moment he was out of sight of the younger man.

He nodded emphatically. “Unquestionably, yes. The Kamiya Kasshin Ryuu focuses on defense and only defense. There is one offensive technique in the entire style and I can assure you that it doesn’t produce anything like this, even if a katana were to be used.”

“And the Hiten Mitsurugi Style?”

Kenshin sighed and motioned for Saito to follow him. “I won’t use the sakabatou, Mr. Saito. I have a katana in the practice hall…locked in a steel case if you’re wondering.” He looked over his shoulder with a tight smile. “And before you ask why the sakabatou wasn’t locked away, too, I’ll tell you I honestly didn’t think someone would steal it. As I said…it’s worthless on the market.”

Saito looked around the hall curiously. “It’s…big.” He finally said.

“It has to be. The Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu demands a lot of space.” He pointed to the side of the hall. “Please stand over there, Mr. Saito. It’s difficult to stop quickly when using these techniques.” Saito nodded slowly. From what he’d heard, the Hiten Mitsurugi Style was speed redefined. He had a feeling this was about to become interesting. He watched as Kenshin opened what looked suspiciously like a gun cabinet and withdrew a katana. The smaller man then pointed to a straw target set up in the middle of the hall. “I’ll demonstrate one of the forms…Ryu Tsui Sen, to be exact.” He grinned at the older man. “It’s my favorite.” He sobered again. “Remember, every technique used in the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu will have similar results, Mr. Saito.”

Saito pointed at the weapon the other man held loosely with keen interest. “That’s a nice looking katana, Myoujin.” This weapon was in much better shape than the sakabatou, the sheath well cared for, the hilt obviously recently oiled and worked.

“Thank you. It belonged to Hiko Seijuurou the thirteenth. I don’t know anything about its history before that.” He held it up by the sheath with a smile. “This is worth quite a bit of money, Mr. Saito.”

Saito watched as the smaller man backed away from the target. “Aren’t you a little far from the target, Myoujin?” Not surprisingly, his comment was ignored.

The next instant Kenshin all but disappeared as he moved forward, drawing the katana, his hand a mere blur. He’s fast! Saito’s eyes narrowed as he tried to follow Kenshin’s movements knowing that for an untrained eye this would be next to impossible. The younger man was just too fast. For a moment he seemed to pause and then he jumped high above the straw target. “Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu…Ryu Tsui Sen.” He came down, blade first, and landed in a crouch, swiftly sheathing the katana. Saito watched in awe, despite himself, as the target fell in two pieces, sliced neatly in half. “There you have it, Mr. Saito.” He stood slowly, partially turned away from Saito, head bowed and hair falling into his eyes hiding his expression from the other man’s close scrutiny, tone tense. “If it was the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu used in those murders, the poor women wouldn’t just be cut…” He slowly lifted his head to stare at Saito with cold, amber eyes, expression implacable. “They’d be in pieces.”

**To Be Continued…**