October 20, 1274. Late afternoon. The air, thick with the smell of salt, smoke, and fear, hung heavy over Hakata Bay, on the northern coast of Kyushu. The sun, a bruised orange, struggled to pierce the war-torn sky, casting long, distorted shadows of burning ships and desperate men.
My name is Kenshin, a samurai sworn to the Kamakura Shogunate. My family, like many others, had for generations served our daimyo, protecting our lands and upholding the Bushido code – the Way of the Warrior, emphasizing honor, loyalty, and martial prowess. Today, however, honor felt like a fragile shield against the storm that had descended upon our shores, a storm unlike any in our history.
I stood on the ravaged beach, my hand gripping the hilt of my katana, its polished blade reflecting the grim light. Before me lay a scene of utter chaos—a canvas of fire and death painted by the very enemy we were told to face: the Mongols, or as we called them, the “Gens.” They were an allied force of the Mongol Yuan Dynasty from China and Goryeo (Korea), a terrifyingly large invasion fleet.
They were not like us. Our way of war, the way of the samurai, was built on single combat, where warriors would often declare their lineage before engaging an enemy. We fought with a clear code of honor and individual skill. But these invaders from a distant land fought with a terrifying efficiency we had never seen. Their formations were tight, their ranks moving as one, not as individual warriors. Their weapons were unlike ours, too. They wielded not just swords, but strange, powerful crossbows that fired a rain of lethal arrows. These were far more advanced than our bows, allowing for rapid, devastating volleys.
Worst of all were the thunder-bombs, or “Tetsuhau.” Just moments ago, I saw one explode with a deafening roar, sending a spray of fire and shrapnel into our ranks. The blast killed not with a clean cut, but with a brutal, disorienting shockwave. This was not war; this was a slaughter. This was collective warfare, not the honorable duels of samurai.
A shout pierced the din. “Kenshin! They’re coming ashore!”
I turned to see my comrades, their faces grim, their eyes wide with fear and determination. We were a small force compared to their numbers. My gaze drifted to their fleet—reports estimated around 900 ships carrying tens of thousands of soldiers, a dark armada stretching across the bay as far as the eye could see. They were a force of a scale we couldn’t comprehend, far outnumbering our Kyushu samurai who had hastily gathered for defense.
A Mongol warrior emerged from the smoke, his face a grim mask beneath a distinctive conical helmet. He moved with a speed that defied his heavy armor, unlike our slower, more elaborate lamellar armors. I raised my sword, my knees shaking not from cowardice, but from the raw, cold reality of the situation. This was not the battlefield I was taught to fight on. This was a new era of war, brought by an empire that had conquered much of the known world.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself. The waves crashed against the shore, but their sound was drowned out by the screams of the dying and the clang of steel. We were not ready for this type of war. We had to be. My only path was forward, to face the storm and defend my homeland until my last breath.
This was the Battle of Hakata Bay, on October 20, 1274. This was the Bun’ei no Eki – the first Mongol invasion of Japan, led by the Yuan Dynasty. And I, Kenshin, was a part of it, fighting for the very existence of our isolated island nation.
