The bloody full moon was high in the blue-purple sky. The man opened his eyes slightly, weakly holding the bright red Shura Sword of Weeping Blood, stretching his slender body, raising his head, and accepting the baptism of the moonlight as if repenting.
The tip of the sword touched the ground covered with blood. The owner of the sword was praying devoutly to the murderous full moon. This was a required course for him every time he killed someone!
His long hair, as black as a secluded altar, fluttered in the air with the cool breeze and intertwined with the bleeding moon, creating a desolate beauty. This was a tribute to the deceased, but it was just crocodile tears, cold and ruthless, a pure narcissistic catharsis.
This man's name is Kurosawa.
Dark black, swampy lake. He is a person who leaves no hope and will bring misfortune.
It only took a moment, with a flash of red light, to cut off the head of the man who fell on the ground, as easy as cutting a piece of tofu.
His handsome face lowered, and his plum-colored hair slid to the bloody ground. Kurosawa held up the stump and watched with regret as the gurgling blood drained from the stump. Then he drank the blood into his belly gracefully. After drinking, his lips were as moist as ripe plums, as calm as a lady who never left home.