"All you have to do is make another contract," the onryō whispered from deep within his chest, her voice curling like smoke through his veins. "All I ask is a fair amount of human souls each time you need my strength. That is the price to wield my power."
Another contract.
Fragments of memory not his own surged through Kuro's mind—centuries of blood-written oaths carved between humans and yokai. Contracts had always been the bridge: a way for both sides to work together, bound by unbreakable universal law. But the truth was far darker. For yokai, each oath was more curse than pact, their devil-born cunning weaving loopholes that twisted every promise. Humans gained fleeting power; yokai gained blood, suffering, and dominion.
It was these contracts that had ignited the wars—villages bled dry, families destroyed, entire provinces burned. And though some daimyo still gambled with them, any lord found sheltering a violent yokai was branded a traitor to mankind.
The onryō's voice pressed closer, coaxing, seductive. "Disaster is already here, young lord. Let me profit from it for you. You don't have time. Choose."
A faint glow shimmered between his hands, a thread of an unseen oath beginning to knit itself together, as if the promise was already halfway bound.
Oliver—no, Kuro—glanced wildly around the room. Is this just a nightmare, or part of the dream pattern? If it was just a dream, he could shake it off when he woke. But if this followed the same laws as the pattern… then a yokai contract forged here might bleed into his real life.
That would be a problem. A huge problem. The yokai hadn't even defined what "enough souls" meant. Even if he swallowed the idea of feeding her humans, would he be forced to keep killing, again and again, just to call on her power in the real world?
He clicked his tongue in irritation.
The paper wall burst open. A man in hunter's garb stepped through the flames, katana flashing.
"Fine!" Kuro barked, desperation hardening his voice as steel arced toward him. "I vow to sacrifice human souls whenever I need your aid!"
The contract sealed with a snap, like jaws clamping shut. His brow seared; a crimson mole bloomed—the mark of their bond. Darkness sank into his eyes as a sinister chill spread through the air.
The hunter noticed it instantly and hurled a knife at the bed.
Kuro's instincts surged. He whipped the blanket into a swirl, catching the blade mid-flight, then sent it whistling back. The knife buried itself in the hunter's throat.
He forced his frail body upright, staggering forward. His shoulder slammed into the man's chest as he tore the blade free and cleaved straight through his torso. Blood sprayed across his face.
Clarity struck him between ragged breaths. "Haa… haa…"
His body faltered, strength fading. The mark on his brow dimmed—then flared brighter as another hunter rounded the corner.
"Y–Yokai!" the man shouted, panic slicing through his voice as he glimpsed the corpse at Kuro's feet.
"...Hurry up!" he cried to the others, charging with blade raised.
Kuro moved first. The stolen knife flashed once more, cold and precise, but the hunter deflected it.
They closed in. Kuro's voice cracked into a desperate cry, ragged and false. "...Help! I'm being—being possessed! The real young lord already escaped!"
He fought as though resisting his own sword, the blade jerking in his grip. The hunter froze mid-swing, hesitation flickering in his eyes. Too late.
Kuro's strike slit his throat in a single stroke. Blood gurgled as Kuro leapt back, his body twitching as if still struggling against possession.
The man's eyes widened in disbelief as life drained away.
Kuro didn't care. He drove the sword into his chest, twisted, wrenched it free—then lunged at the next hunter before he could react. The blade sank deep, snuffing out another life in an instant.
Before the rest could move, Kuro ripped the sword loose and kicked the corpses aside. His gaze, cold and unblinking, swept across the eight hunters left standing.
He felt nothing. No pity. No hatred. Not even disgust.
This was the gift the onryō had given him—clarity carved in blood, and a shard of her strength.
"…S-stay away…" His trembling voice cracked, innocence slipping from him like a torn veil. In the next breath he crouched low, blade flashing. The hunter's strike came down, but Kuro twisted mid-motion, his katana sliding against steel before carving upward to sever an artery.
Blood sprayed hot against his cheek. Without pause, he drove the blade back down, thrusting straight into the man's heart.
The fifth hunter lunged, blade arcing for his throat. Steel rang out as Kuro met it, the force rattling up his arms. They clashed once, twice—sparks leaping between them in the narrow chamber. The man's movements were sharp, disciplined, every strike meant to kill. By the seventh clash, Kuro's wrists burned, but he twisted his weight at the last instant, his katana sliding past the guard. The edge bit into the man's ribs, tearing upward before plunging into his chest.
Another came before the body hit the floor.
Kuro staggered back, raising his sword just in time to catch the slash that would have split him in two. Pain flared hot across his side as the hunter's companion clipped him, steel grazing flesh.
He snarled, the onryō's clarity cutting through the panic—he pivoted low, slicing through a thigh, then drove his shoulder into the man's chest and buried his blade under his jaw.
Blood misted the paper walls. His breaths grew ragged.
A third opponent pressed him, relentless. They traded blows in a furious storm, the hunter driving him toward the corner. The man's skill was precise, brutal. Kuro's arm shook under the weight of each clash, and only when his blade slipped past the guard did he find an opening, carving across the man's belly in a spray of heat and gore.
Four dead. Three still remained.
They came together, blades flashing like fangs. Kuro backpedaled, cuts opening along his shoulder and thigh as steel sliced too close. His stance faltered, blood slicking his grip. He realized—he couldn't kill them all.
Snarling, he slashed through the paper wall, tearing open the night. Arrows thudded past him as he staggered into the darkness, the hunters' shouts chasing him into the cold air.
Even though he slipped into shadow, it felt as though he had stepped into an open stage—arrows rained down across the courtyard, hissing through the air. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he cursed, caught between two deaths: test his luck in the arrow storm, or plunge back into the burning manor and see how long before fire swallowed him whole.
Tch. This is suicide, he hissed as two arrows pierced his shoulders, driving him back into the smoke-filled ruin. "I need to think fast. How the hell do I get out of this? Fuck it—if they want a corpse, I'll give them one."
Through the haze, his eyes locked on four men with their backs turned. Perfect. His grip tightened on his katana, and he slid forward under the smoke's veil.
" Quickly, gather what you can from the pantry," barked a bearded man, both arms straining around sacks of rice. "Before the fire takes—"
Riiip!
The sound of tearing burlap shattered the moment as a steel blade burst from his chest. His eyes bulged, blood spilling down the sacks as Kuro ripped his weapon free and spun toward the next man crouched at the cabinet.
The blade swung in a brutal arc, biting deep into his neck. Bone resisted—halfway through was all he managed, blood spraying as the man collapsed with a gargled scream.
The third turned with a saber, charging in fury. Kuro ducked under the strike as the blade lodged into the counter, his own sword flashing upward in a vicious thrust that tore through the man's windpipe.
The last man spun, eyes wide as the world fell apart around him. His saber was already slick with someone else's blood, but he wasn't ready for Kuro. The youth lunged, their blades clashing, sparks biting the smoke. Kuro drove in with sheer desperation, his foot sliding across spilled rice.
The hunter grunted, forcing his strength down, but Kuro twisted, shoulder-checking him off balance. His katana knocked the saber aside, and before the man could recover, Kuro's hand shot out and seized his throat.
The man clawed at him, punching Kuro's ribs with panicked force, kicking against the ground as his windpipe collapsed under Kuro's tightening grip. His nails raked Kuro's cheek, tearing skin, drawing lines of blood. He bucked and thrashed like a hooked fish, but Kuro held on, eyes wide, breath hissing through his teeth.
The choking dragged on, seconds turning to years. The man's struggles grew frantic, weaker, then pathetic—feet scraping weakly against the floorboards. His face purpled, eyes bulging, spit bubbling out. Kuro's hand never loosened until the man sagged completely limp, head lolling.
Kuro's lips peeled back into a trembling smile. "Perfect," he whispered, dragging the corpse into the corner.
He tore at the man's clothes, stripping him bare with quick, messy movements, then shoved his own blood-soaked garments onto the lifeless body. He forced the dead man's limp arms through sleeves, tied his sash, even shoved his sandals on. Then, without hesitation, Kuro slid into the hunter's armor, adjusting it to his thin frame. He tugged the helmet low, hiding his blood-smeared hair.
The disguise wasn't enough. Not yet.
He lifted the dead man's saber and set his katana's edge against his own face. The first slice burned hot as fire, cutting a red line across his cheek. The next deeper, ripping skin until he hissed in pain. Again and again, until his reflection would've been unrecognizable to even those who knew him well. His jawline shredded, blood running into his mouth, dripping down his chin.
Still not enough.
He grabbed a half-burning timber from the collapsing ceiling, flames licking greedily at its edge. A shattered oil jar lay near the pantry. Without hesitation, Kuro smashed it across the corpse's face, soaking it, then pressed the fire down. The man's face burst into flame, skin blackening, bubbling, cracking apart in grotesque ruin. The stench of burning flesh filled the chamber, heavy and suffocating.
Kuro rammed his katana into the corpse's chest, pinning it to the floorboards with finality.
Then he heaved, dragging the ruined body out into the courtyard. His legs wobbled, arrows still stuck in his shoulders, blood running down his side, but he forced himself forward.
And then, with the night burning around him, he raised his head and roared with all the fury in his lungs:
"I killed the cursed son of the Daimyō!"
His voice cracked over the screams of fire and steel, carrying into the night, loud enough for every hunter still searching the manor to hear.