Summary: They see a blur before he kills him. A blur of movement, a blur of color. But it's the blur they don't see that is important.

They see a blur of movement before he kills them. And that's all it is – a blur – because Battousai is inhumanely fast. He's not sadistic, and so he does not play with his victims. He slides from one blow to the next without pauses or hesitation. A blur of movement, brief pain, and black.

They die swiftly.

They see a blur of color before he kills them. The blue of his gi, picked out by the lanterns, the grey of his hakama. The flash of blood-red hair as he turns to run an opponent through. Amber, terrifyingamber, as he hurtles forward. The silver of his blade as he brings it down. A blur of color, brief pain, and black.

They die swiftly.

As for Battousai, he sees nothing at all. He does not see the faces of the dying. He does not see the blood that fountains past his face. He does not see the lives and futures he's destroying. If he were to see, he would go mad.

There's a blur they don't see before he kills them: the blurring of the lines he used to believe in, the blurring of vision the tears would cause if he ever cried. He doesn't. He follows his blade through other men's flesh, wanting only to kill swiftly and be done. He tries to lose himself, and distract him from the death he sometimes longs for: his own. But his life is not his own.

The Shogunate supporters, the men he's sworn to kill, they see a blur and then die swiftly.

Battousai lingers in agony.