A wasteland is strewn with corpses and broken steel, carrion picked over by corviknight who squabble fruitlessly over remains.

The birds stare in indignation as you approach, but when they meet your gaze with pitch black eyes they balk and take to the air several paces away. They are merely scavengers, and carry neither the honor nor the bravery of their supposed names.

What does a warrior leave behind?

Nothing but graves, and the spoils of war.
That which is stolen by right, whether it be wealth or lives.

And what is left for the rest?
Enough, for the scavengers who came after to survive.

The birds gorge themselves on rotten meat, collect shining scraps of weapons, but this is mere survival. It is nothing to commend or aspire to. They are alive, but they are no longer living, not like the warriors who came before.

Their souls who haunt these hallowed grounds remind you of the inheritance they left: nothing, save that dug from shallow earth, opportunists who haunt the graves killed by others. Mere gravediggers, who play at being knights.

Cowards, who cannot look the living in the eyes.

They are a disgrace, the rot and decay that runs deep and disgraced your birthright: an honorable warrior clan, reduced to this. They have forgotten how to wage war, and in this time of relative peace there are no battles left to scavenge anymore.

At the center of the waste lies a hill made of broken swords and bodies.

Light pours from the heavens above to illuminate that broken battlefield, and even the corviknight dare not intrude upon it.

You walk, and with every step, rotten meat squelches beneath your boots, jagged edges cut apart your feet. But no matter the pain, you continue onward.

The birds caw frantically as you intrude upon their sacred ground, the last unspoiled heap of treasure they covet. They are too cowardly to set foot there, but you are not. You are more than a scavenger. Not to pillage, or plunder, nor to reclaim. You face the light of heaven and do not flinch away from your calling, pushing onward, onward toward the apex of the hill.

Only at last do you arrive, baleful gazes of your scorned ancestors looking up at you through corvid masks, black, beady eyes of judgement.

Looking here down at them all, you realize that this grand hill of blood and rust is barely a hill at all. So worshiped, the last mass grave these scavengers hated to spoil because it was their last victory, the last of their name, they hardly realized just how little it was in the end.

So much more could be done. Must be done.

This will not be the last stand of the Kuroha clan.

Blackened blade is stuck into the earth beside you, and you grasp its hilt. It is the sword of the last warrior of Kuroha, before the times changed and the clan was left to decay. It feels right in your hand.

"Come, then, and take it if you dare."

Blue eyes relay the message to the corviknight who caw incessantly, spirits cursing you for spoiling the last black mark on their legacy. They have despoiled everything else, and this grave cannot last forever.

More must be made, lest this clan forget its purpose entirely.

Blade black as midnight.

It glimmers like obsidian, holds all the malice of a bloodline unfulfilled.

Once it was the sword of a great warrior, a mighty beast among men who tore through his foes with unrelenting ferocity, hacking and slashing til they had all but disappeared. This man, the last great man of the Kuroha clan, was esteemed as more than man. He had a wild air about him, like a beast. There were those that thought he was more like a pokemon than a man, so skilled was he with his swordsmanship that he could contest them with sword alone.

And yet, he was as mortal as any other human.

On this great mound of bodies, he was slain as well. It was as quick as any of his quarry, neither suffering nor lingering, taken to the underworld with a swift plunge of steel. In his wake came none who could stand up to his strength, and the clan declined.

Many attribute it to the changing of the times. Only this period of warfare could have made such a beast of a man to begin with, a man who craves battle above all else, a man who lives and dies by the sword.

But you know, soon as you take hold of it.

The darkness of this blade is more than meets the eye. It is demonic, evil to its core. Just as the man who once held it before you, you can feel the power rushing through you in that moment you pull it free of the mound and hold it aloft, towards heaven.

Corviknight scatter on the wind, black metal lost to the dark of the night.

They flee from the sight of the sword, a blade they coveted and lost their lives to. Now mere spirits, reincarnated in the bodies of knights, they lay no claim to this weapon. Lingering here for reasons they do not remember, they are here for one thing and one thing alone.

This sword, a prize to be won.

They remember ancient curses it would whisper night after night, longing for the blood they were too afraid to give. And yet, they were never able to claim it.

"Cowardice!"

Your voice is haggard uttering bitter condemnation. The pain is evident from the brusque tone alone.

The blade sucks greedily, stealing your life with every moment you hold it. It is agonizing, like the hilt itself is made of molten steel.

You dare not drop it.

"Yes... Feast all your like, Onimaru, but know this! More souls await you still if you should only wait, for I intend to cut a swathe through these lands with you as my weapon! Be patient, trust in my victory, and you shall have more blood than you could ever ask!"

The sword shimmers in the moonlight, humming with delight at the prospect.

None have been able to wield it for an age as it lie here, embedded in the armor of its former master. All who have grasped its hilt, cowards, looters, have sought it as a prize to be won. They have touched the blade and been added to this mass grave, or fled from the pain alone. None worthy to take hold of it.

But this thirst for conquest intrigues the blade, and it stops short of killing the girl.

"Only when the rightful heir of the Kuroha clan arrives to take Onimaru in hand, that demonic blade, should a new age of prosperity dawn over the clan. And by the very hand that shall slaughter their enemies, they too shall fall, by the sword that brought them victory."

Those were the words passed down from your father, though he spoke them in jest.

But now there is one heir remaining to take up that cause. The last ronin of an age long past, rising to the occasion.

Pink skies in the distance begin to fade to orange and yellows, as the dawn comes...

Forest is filled with screams and the scent of blood, black fog obscures the vision of everyone wading through the brush, ducking branches, stepping around trees. Wild pokemon lash out from the darkness, forgetting themselves, lost in their sorrows.

The first trial is a battleground. A hunting ground, fitting for a wolf.

But not her.

A wolf is nothing without her fangs, and her Honedge has gone missing.

The first pokemon that sees her is an Infernape, blue flames lighting up the trees.

She ducks into the brush. Without Onimaru, she can only do so much.

She can hear the monkey pokemon above her, scampering through the trees. Following her, waiting to get a hold of her when the brush clears. She weaves back and forth, under the branches that are too thick for the monkey pokemon to get to, but the Infernape's craftiness is one of its hallmark traits.

In this labrynthine forest, every turn seems to have a shadow lurking behind it, human or pokemon. Kuro turns a corner, narrowly ducking to avoid the scythe of a Kabutops. She can feel its pointed end nick her cheek. It embeds itself in a tree, giving her time to get some distance. It wrenches itself free. She hears its primal scream, nears its footsteps following behind her.

The ancient pokemon is faster. She can hear it gaining on her.

A left turn, and she comes to a dead end.

The Kabutops rounds the corner, instincts uncontrollable, brimming with primal rage. Kuro frantically scans the forest floor for something, but she comes up empty. Just as she shuts her eyes awaiting her death, a shadow shrouded in flames screeches above, and burns through the canopy overhead. The monkey's fighting spirit meets the ancient pokemon's primal rage head-on.

Kuro evades, crashing through a wall of brush.

She runs til she can't feel anything anymore. She can see nothing in the dark, til the screams of an Infernape and Kabutops killing each other are left far behind her.

Only when its quieter, when she finds some distance from the entrance to the forest where shadow pokemon prey on the unfortunate, does she stop to rest. She sits on the ground, panting.

It's a flash in the dark, the glint of a blade. She sees it from the corner of her eyes, hopeless to do anything about it. The tail of a Seviper comes crashing down towards her. She shuts her eyes, awaiting death, uttering a prayer.

But the clang of a blade answers her.

She opens her eyes, to see her trusted sword. Black blade glitters with an obsidian sheen, and she reaches out to grasp it.

"Yes... you've found me, have you?"

The sword came, as always, attracted by the scent of his master's blood. Fitting, it cannot evade its nature, even with its mind clouded by hate.

Kuro shunts herself forward, batting the Seviper away. It glares at her, eyeing her with hate. She returns that look in kind, unfettered by the eyes of a mere serpent. A wolf is not afraid.

"Onimaru... lend me your power!"

Her black blade is coated in a black flame. A moment's pause, and she flashes across the clearing. The Seviper is cut away by blistering speed.

forked tongue
nickname: tsurugi
doubles the effectiveness of slicing moves, but the extra damage is inflicted on the user as recoil damage

Lacerations open up on Kazumi's body, soaking into the binding of Onimaru's hilt to her arm. He drink freely, greedily, of the blood shed by his master. The darkness of his heart has only congealed, a more wicked blade than ever.

Kazumi takes him in hand, and slides him into his sheathe. Gorged on her blood, he does not complain in the slightest.

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KEEP YOUR POKEMON'S STRENGTH
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Warning! Doing so will keep you from reaching their true potential in lieu of brute force.
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Continue?

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[YES]

There is nothing else in this world but force. This is not a curse, but rather a blessing.

If it means following the path of bloodshed to achieve that, she will cut the world in two.