The Wandering Samurai and his Beloved General (BL)

By now, Haruki had long lost count of how many times in the past three years he had been running for his life, tirelessly fleeing from beasts, ghosts, and even mortals. And every time, it was the same... they were all after one thing—his life.

Even now, he was sprinting away from yet another threat—a crazed soldier clad in black and gold armor, brandishing a blood-streaked bardiche. The soldier's bloodshot eyes were a clear sign of having succumbed to adrenaline-fueled madness.

"Sir! In all seriousness, I'm just a passerby!" Haruki yelled, his voice laced with desperation.

He knew, of course, that his plea would never be heard.

"RAAAAGH!"

The soldier roared, barrelling after him. His body moved instinctively from years of training, dodging roots and branches as he closed the distance.

Haruki, on the other hand, lacked such muscle memory.

In the blink of an eye, his already battered slippers caught on a thin but unyielding branch. The straps tore, and Haruki stumbled forward, crashing to the ground. He tumbled helplessly, leaves and dirt filling his mouth as he rolled to a graceless stop.

A fierce glint flashed in the soldier's bloodshot eyes as he raised his bardiche, seizing the opportunity to strike a killing blow.

CLANG!

Haruki, acting purely on instinct, brought his sheathed sword up just in time to block the incoming blade. The impact jarred his entire body, his arms trembling violently under the sheer force of the strike. He barely registered the sensation of his muscles straining, the threat of tearing muscles drowned out by the rush of survival.

There was no time to celebrate his narrow escape. From the same direction as the first, another soldier appeared, sprinting toward them with deadly intent.

A wave of despair washed over Haruki, cold sweat dripping down his back as he braced himself for what felt like inevitable death.

Then, a warm, steady hand landed firmly on his left shoulder.

Strength surged through his body, washing away his fatigue. The tremors in his arms stilled, replaced by a surprising steadiness.

"Keep at it," came a voice—calm and composed, yet powerful. It carried the serenity of a still river, effortlessly cutting through Haruki's mounting fear.

Before he could fully process what was happening, a streak of silver and blue blurred past him. A figure with long, dark blue hair darted forward with inhuman speed, his movements leaving behind ghostly afterimages.

In a matter of seconds, the newcomer closed the distance to the second soldier. With precise, fluid strikes, he severed tendons in the ankles and wrists before finishing with a lethal slash to the neck.

The soldier toppled forward, his hands clutching futilely at his throat, his life slipping away before he could even register the pain.

Haruki's wide eyes met the stranger's calm, sky-blue gaze, and for a fleeting moment, his heart stirred with something unfamiliar.

"Kill him," the man ordered, his voice low but commanding.

"Ah?" Haruki blinked, momentarily confused.

But his body moved on its own. He shoved the bardiche aside with surprising force and reflexively unsheathed his sword. With a surge of desperation and adrenaline, he lunged forward, the blade finding its mark in the soldier's eye with unerring precision.

It wasn't until the soldier collapsed, his body falling limp and lifeless, that Haruki realized what he'd done. His grip faltered as the adrenaline drained from his body, leaving him struggling to free his sword from the corpse.

Thankfully, the fight was over. He staggered back, his chest heaving as the enormity of the moment settled in.

"What's a northerner like you doing here?"

The voice was calm, almost casual, as if its owner were inquiring about the weather rather than addressing a life-and-death battlefield. Gone was the commanding tone from earlier, leaving Haruki wondering if he had imagined it altogether.

"Northerner?" Haruki echoed, blinking in confusion. It took him a moment to realize the other man was referring to his attire. "Oh no, I dress like this, but I'm not from the north."

He gestured vaguely at his clothes—a blue-and-white male kimono that had clearly seen better days, its once-vibrant colors faded and its edges frayed. Combined with the black katana strapped to his side, it wasn't surprising he'd been mistaken for a northerner, the territory of the famed samurai clans.

But the truth was, Haruki didn't feel like he belonged anywhere.

If he had to trace his origins, the earliest memory he could summon was of a damp, dark cave littered with decaying corpses—a grim beginning with no context or answers.

"Either way, you should stay away. This isn't your fight."

The blue-haired man's voice interrupted Haruki's thoughts, his tone matter-of-fact. Without waiting for a reply, the man disappeared back into the fray, the clash of steel and distant screams pulling him forward like a tide.

Haruki stood frozen for a moment, staring at the spot where the man had vanished. He told himself to turn back, to leave while he still had the chance.

His mind agreed. His body, however, didn't.

One cautious step forward turned into another, and another, until Haruki found himself moving toward the battle despite the voice of reason screaming at him to stop.

A bitter, self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips.

"Just a little bit," he muttered under his breath. "I'll watch from afar."

It was a lie he told himself to ease the strange ache in his chest—the inexplicable pull toward the man who had saved him. The thought of not seeing that figure again filled him with an almost unbearable sense of loss, as though he'd miss something irreplaceable if he turned away now.

Sheathing his katana and haphazardly fixing his slippers, Haruki crouched low and moved stealthily through the underbrush, drawing on his hard-earned skills from years of evading predators. Each step was deliberate and measured, his senses honed on the chaos ahead.

When he finally reached a vantage point, his breath caught in his throat.

The battlefield was a storm of blood and steel, but amidst the chaos, Haruki's eyes found the figure of the blue-haired man. He moved with an elegance that seemed almost otherworldly, his blade cutting through the air like a painter's brush on a canvas. Soldiers fell before him in one to three strikes, their desperate attempts to encircle him futile. When they pressed him in groups, he broke through their formations with effortless precision, leaving them stunned and vulnerable to his comrades.

Haruki held his breath, as though exhaling might shatter the mesmerizing scene before him.

The man's every movement was fluid, deadly, and beautiful, capturing Haruki's soul in a way he couldn't explain. His heart ached with a strange longing—a reckless wish to stand at the man's side, to face the storm together with his own blade.

The thought took root, spreading through him like an uncontrollable fever.

This wasn't just admiration. It was something deeper, something that defied words.

And he couldn't look away.