Hello, and welcome to the second installment of Amrita Memories, a collection of crossover vignettes between the Yakuza (Ryu ga Gotoku) series and the game Nioh, re-imagining your favorite professional criminals as 17th Century samurai, ninjas, and mages, with a dash of demonic invasion and protective spirits.
IN THIS EPISODE: Majima has long since turned over a new leaf, but old legends reemerging may convince him to walk dark paths once more.
WARNING: contains graphic, canon-typical depictions of violence.
Here is a link to the first chapter. It isn’t necessary to read to understand this portion.
Read here or on AO3!
- - -
Destruction is easy. Rebuilding is not.
“Boss, we’re out of tiles.”
Majima Goro sighs, cracking open his eye. From the bottom floor, nothing stops him from looking up into the blue. The townhouse is unfinished, and will continue to be as long as work isn’t flowing. Nishida, the dam in the stream, leans over the hole where a ceiling will be and calls down to him again. “Boss?”
Disgusting. As foreman of the project, Majima had the most important role. Crews of craftsmen didn’t govern themselves. Let he who is without stress rebuke him for napping. The tatami mats had to be tested for optimal comfort, in any case.
Goro sits up, scowling as vertebrae pop. “Then go get some from the masons,” he groans, “Initiative. A little goes a long way.”
Nishida disappears and Majima lies back down. The village won’t be complete for weeks yet. There is rice to plant and streets to lay, wells to dig and shrines to bless. When all is said and done, it will be a nice place to live. Future residents will be proud to call it home. Maji-machi, he’ll name it.
“Boss.”
It’s Minami. The apprentice is young and has yet to see every hammer out of left field the world will throw at him, but the awe in his voice surpasses simple surprise. Saws stop grinding. Tools freeze in midair. Majima rises again to find progress at a dead halt. Time has suffocated under a stunned silence.
A legend has walked into town.
William Adams is the culmination of all dusty roads less traveled, from the chips in his axe’s blade to the tattered sash around his waist. Each soft footstep carries years of adventure. The Irish samurai pays no heed to the shroud of quiet hanging over the unmade village. It’s only a path to his next destination.
Goro stands up. “Excuse me, good sir,” he says, sauntering into the road, “There is a toll to travel any farther. You’ll have to pay up.”
William looks him over and decides the war has treated him well. Losing an eye is an adequate trade for a slim yet muscular build and leadership of competent men. Not an ounce of fear on his face, though Adams stands taller and wears plate capable of stopping cannon rounds and the foreman is clad in only a mustard seed yellow yukata. He drops a pouch of silver pieces into his hand. “Let me pass.”
Majima weighs the bag and his options. “Though this is very generous of you, sir,” he says, “My crew have families to feed. Surely a warrior of your caliber has more to offer.”
Blue eyes make a quick circuit of the town. He’s surrounded, he realizes. Dozens of craftsmen are watching the encounter. Many of them carry what could easily become makeshift weapons. The average age marks them all as veterans; their hands and faces rough with combat, not toil.
More silver appears. A bigger bag this time. “I’m leaving,” William growls, “Whatever game you’re playing ends here.”
He feels for the town, he truly does. They line every road from Tohoku to Tokai. Residents nurture hope out of bloodstained soil and a bedrock of sorrow. Yet he can’t stay. War waits for no man. He must make it to Osaka.
Saoirse whispers in his ear. “Death comes for you.”
No sooner has she finished does something hard and metal whiz through the air his head had been.
William draws his axe, hunches low to brace himself, ready for a fight – and freezes with ice in his veins.
The spirit rising from Majima’s back bears a madwoman’s grin and a monster’s fangs, though the energy she radiates is positive and pure. It’s a mask, Adams realizes. Gripped in her hair are other masks, no two alike, from a tengu’s fierce frown to an old monk’s smile. Her fingernails are knives. The ends of the sash around her kimono are snake heads, and they live, flashing their pale throats and flicking their tongues. The spirit burns with a flame intense enough to rival the sun.
“Had to see if it was really you, Sir Anjin of Miura,” Majima chirps. The kusarigama weight twirls high over his head, its tooth-like sickle clutched in his other hand. “Now there’s a name gone unspoken. It’s been ten years, hasn’t it? Show me you’re more than a myth!”
William purses his lips and plants his feet. Goro grins and is upon him like a swarm of locusts.
Adams gives him credit. His axe has claimed hundreds of limbs, can cleave Majima in half with no effort, yet the foreman dances around its swings with reckless abandon. As he resigns himself to the weary, inevitable truth that Goro insists on death before surrender, William throws himself harder into the fray. Majima reaches into his yukata, flings a fan-shaped array of throwing stars. Adams darts out of their way, draws a short breath as the shuriken twinkle with sizzling fuses–
Their explosive payloads burst, spraying shards of shrapnel. William turns with the shock wave. Though his eyes are closed against the blasts, he knows if he rides the force, ignores the sting of the sickle blade nipping through his armor–
Majima squawks as he’s barreled over. The axe lifts high, swings down,–
–and crashes into the earth so close to his head he feels pebbles kiss his cheek. Adams cranes over him, blue eyes frigid.
“Oi,” Goro says when he can find his voice, “You missed.” One hand is pinned behind his back. Slowly, he inches toward his belt, and the little box hiding within.
“You’re a fool and a menace.” William extracts the axe and can’t help but feel a rush of victory as clumps of dirt fall from the blade onto the foreman’s face. He has seen legions of men perish, personally sent many to be judged in the afterlife. Not this man. Not today. Let him be a lesson to their audience, the crews who only want to move on. There is no future in violence.
Majima looks up into the blue and softly sighs. Something underneath him is glowing.
William spots it too late. The bomb threatens to tackle him clear off his feet. His soles leave furrows in the ground as he’s rocked backwards.
Majima stands unscathed, and his spirit looms behind him. She runs her arms along his own, becoming amorphous and sluicing onto his kusarigama. Weapon aflame with ethereal power, he howls with renewed vigor and leaps at William.
Underestimated, Adams thinks, and reaches his mind for Saoirse. She is never far away, and as she manifests – smiling calmly as Goro charges them both – she coats his axe in deep, cold water.
Blade and weight smash against one another time and time again. Crimson and purple sparks ignite with every impact. William is shocked to find he feels sick. No doubt Majima needs to die. He mourns the loss of the bond between man and spirit that pounds against his axe.
Majima is tiring. The flames evaporate to steam under the relentless assault. He gathers himself for one last attack, eye bright with rage, giving himself over to his spirit. William lifts his axe, oceanic droplets sailing into the light.
Split seconds away from final impact–
“That’s enough!”
Eggs. That’s what the things flying between them look like. Bluish gray eggs that hatch into clouds of blood red smoke as they break on the ground.
Coughing and wheezing, both men recoil away. Majima hasn’t felt more drained in his entire life. He searches his mind for his spirit and finds her as exhausted as he. Good, in a way. Pain equals life. His trachea closing as he inhaled the red smoke is the best news he’s received all day.
He licks his lips. Numb as well, and yet. Oddly familiar. He’s tasted it before. Hemlock and nightshade blended to incapacitate, not kill, in a powdered form…
The smoke clears. Behind it is a man dressed in black, his face obscured. There is no mistaking the spirit that follows him: a white, two-tailed cat.
The bottom of the world falls out from under Majima. “Masanari?”
Hanzo Hattori’s primary concern is William. The samurai wins wars and, more importantly, is his closest friend. Yet the sound of a name gone unspoken for decades drags his attention away from Adams. Pulling his face plate down, for surely he is hallucinating and needs more air – no way. Impossible. “Goro?”
William, aching and finished, groans, “You know each other?”
Nekomata chuckles, looking between Irishman and one-eyed warrior. “Anjin, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what I’ve told you about cycles. When war springs from peace, it drags all manner of things from underground.”
- - -
The building will eventually become an inn, but for now acts as the work crews’ barracks. Majima secured the largest room for himself, and that is where the three men retire after wounds are dressed and drinks procured.
Majima’s spirit unnerves William. She kneels beside her host, hands folded in her lap. Her mask depicts a noblewoman, with blackened teeth and rosy cheeks. She is calm, yet Adams notes her throat twists behind her neck. Her head is turned completely around, the horns of her demon mask peeking through her hair. A two-faced spirit, regardless of her painted smile.
“Hey.” Majima tap-tap-taps his eye patch. “You’re supposed to look at this.”
William grunts and hides his embarrassment in his cup.
“I must admit, I don’t know how to feel,” Hanzo says, “It’s been over thirty years since I saw you last. I thought you were dead.”
Majima huffs a laugh. Withdrawing a pipe from his yukata grants William a glimpse of the tools strapped to his body. Scrolls, kunai, boxes and balls of explosives. “No, still alive and kicking,” he says, “For better or worse.”
“I’m rather lost here,” William interjects, “How do you know each other?” He looks at Goro. “How do you know me?”
The foreman grins, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I’m in the business of keeping my ear to the ground. Been my best interest to do so. Ever since Nobunaga took my eye.”
Adams flinches, shooting Hanzo a worried glance. Majima cackles and slaps his knee. “You should see the look on your face! You’d think the Demon King lived again!”
“He did,” the samurai growls, “He returned from the dead through black magic.”
“You’re dumb as a sack of hammers. I know that. Ear. To. The. Ground. You sent him packin’. Kinda hate you for it too, that you got to kill him instead of me.”
“A long time ago,” Hanzo interrupts, “the Iga Province was its own republic. We were independent of any overlords, and the Iga ninjutsu school was born of the guerilla warfare employed to keep us that way. My father trained many in the style.”
William glares at Majima. “Let me guess.”
Goro deliberately shuts his eye in what can only be a wink. “Guilty as charged. Fourth generation Iga ninja, in the flesh.”
“And a right pain in the arse.”
“Ya flatter me, Anjin-chan!”
“So you were there,” Hanzo asks, “when Nobunaga attacked?”
Majima’s grin sours. Wind dashed from his sails, he takes a deep puff of his pipe while collecting his thoughts. “Yeah, I was. Tried to defend our home. Lost my family, my belongings, and my eye in return.”
Hanzo frowns, leaning forward. “We were little more than children.”
“No one was spared the fire. Men, women, infants – all were subject to Nobunaga’s wrath. I barely escaped with my life. What happened next was…complicated, to say the least.” He peers at his spirit. She returns his gaze. He blows a gray plume and continues, “That’s one thing the peace is good for. I’ve put all that behind me. Haven’t killed anyone in ten years, though if a blue-eyed dunderhead wanders into town–”
“I’m really not someone you want as an enemy,” William sneers.
The spirit puts a hand to her lips and laughs. It’s the sound of diamonds in a bonfire. Shivers travel down the samurai’s spine.
“Have a sense of humor, Anjin-chan,” Majima quips, “That was the best fight I’ve had in a long time. Ya ever wanna go again, just say the word.”
“I could’ve killed you.”
After a moment, the ninja blinks. “And?”
Adams gets to his feet. “I’m done here. The pleasure’s all yours.”
Goro waves him off. “I mean it about a rematch. Don’t make me ambush you, because you will not see it comin’.”
The sliding door slams shut. Majima quirks an eyebrow. “Ya sure do know how to pick ‘em.”
“He’s seen no end of conflict,” Hanzo says, “It weighs heavy on his mind, and you aren’t helping.”
“I’m testing if he’s still sharp. No point in carryin’ around an axe if he can’t use it.”
“We’ll see about that in Osaka. Toyotomi Hideyori has gathered an army in rebellion against Lord Tokugawa. I want you to come with us.”
The pipe freezes halfway to Goro’s incredulous lips. “Eh?”
“Osaka Castle has been fortified with a grand stronghold called Sanada Maru. It is said to be impregnable, with scores of archers and cannons defending the outer walls. A man of your skills will be an invaluable aid.”
Majima falls silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is low and solemn. “I can’t. I’m done working for anyone.” He flicks the ashes out of his pipe. “Besides, I have this town to rebuild. People are waiting on me, Masanari. I can’t bring back Iga, but I can give them a new future.”
Hanzo bows his head. “I respect your decision. Your endeavor is noble, and I have no right to conscript you away from it.” Getting up, he pauses at the door. “I never had the chance to say I admired you, Goro. Father’s training was merciless. Your companionship kept me sane.”
“Yeah, well. Look who’s cozy with the shogun and who’s digging latrines.”
Hanzo cracks a sad smile. “May the gods keep you well, old friend.”
Eight million gods and I haven’t seen a single one, Majima thinks. He nods once. “Gods keep ya well.”
Hattori departs. The remaining ninja refills his pipe, holds it out for his spirit to light. Their eyes meet as she cups the bowl. Returning her hands to her lap, she arches her spine backwards, mask tilted upward. Her flames blaze larger and hotter, licking the ceiling until someone on the roof beyond yelps in pain.
Minami swings in through the window. Clad in the black apparel of a shinobi, he immediately prostrates himself, forehead on the floor. “Boss! How’d you know I was there?”
Majima sighs, eye narrowed. “You can be a shadow at midnight, but if ya have footsteps, you’re not foolin’ anyone.”
The apprentice swallows hard. Only dire consequences can come from this. “And – Hattori?”
“Knew you were there before I did. He’s not the leader of what’s left of Iga for nothing.”
Minami presses his head down harder. “I confess, boss! I heard everything! That you survived the Demon King’s invasion, that you want to fight Sir Anjin again, that you’re not going to Osa–”
“You make me sick.”
The words are expected, though they sting no less. “Forgive me, boss.”
“I look at you and see myself.”
Minami’s face snaps up. “What?”
His apprentice is painfully predictable. Majima rolls his eye. “None of my good qualities, of course. I see a stupid kid who’d sooner kill himself with what he’s learned than use it in any real capacity.” He breathes deep of his pipe, letting Minami squirm. “Life has yet to come at you hard and fast. Now’s your chance to practice your skills or die tryin’.”
Despite the spirit’s presence, Minami is frozen. “You don’t mean–”
Majima turns his gaze to the sky, where the beginnings of sunset pink the horizon. “I’m going to Osaka.”
“But…you said–”
“Anjin-chan is smarter than you. I said I don’t work for anyone. I’m goin’ on my own terms, and one of them is you. Wanna get your hands dirty?”
Minami bangs his head on the floor. “Yes, sir! I won’t disappoint you, sir!”
Goro smirks. Years and years ago, he was a fearsome assassin, known in dark circles as the Flame in the Night. As he imagines holding Toyotomi’s severed head high above Osaka Castle, he feels the spark rekindled.
I’ve been painting halloween designs for the last week because I’m excited for spoopy time! Here’s some Spoopy ghosts that I repainted ;) @guardgenie remember these from 2015??
