The paper walls cracked and folded beneath the weight of his cuts, the manor groaning as smoke and fire licked across its wooden bones. Kuro dragged the ruined corpse through the breach, his chest heaving with the taste of iron heavy in his mouth. He dropped the mutilated husk into the dirt and let his voice rise, sharp and desperate, as though every shred of his body had been consumed by vengeance.
"I've killed him! The cursed son of the damned daimyō is dead!"
The hunters froze mid-motion. Their blades and bows lowered, eyes sharpening as they turned to see Kuro standing above the mangled body. Even with its features scorched and ruined, even with the body dressed in bloodied rags, the illusion held. Whispers raced between them. They looked at him—at his wounds, at his shaking limbs—and nodded with grim satisfaction.
"Good," one spat, before charging back into the burning manor.
Then the work of a siege began. Shouts carried over the flames. Paper screens and painted doors were torn apart, chests broken open with the butt of spears. Coins spilled across the tatami like rain. Jewelry was seized, lacquered boxes pried open, silks rolled tight. Servants were dragged by their hair, bound, and shoved out into the night where carts already groaned with loot. Horses stamped the earth, pulling wagons piled high with corpses and treasures, the smoke of the manor painting the sky black.
Kuro leaned against a splintering beam and watched them work, his blood-slick hands hidden in the sleeves of the hunter's stolen garb. Their laughter was sharp, cruel, ringing through the ruin as though they were jackals fighting over the marrow of a fallen stag.
None looked at him with suspicion. Not one.
When the manor finally collapsed in on itself, flames swallowing its bones, the band of hunters mounted their horses and rode away, wagons rattling behind them, laden with silver, flesh, and death. The night air tasted of ash, but the horizon glowed faintly, a promise of dawn.
Kuro rode with them, his stolen face cut and scarred, his blade heavy at his side. He said nothing. He only listened.
As the sun's edge broke, they came upon the village.
The hunters rode in as though triumphant soldiers returning from war, tossing coin into the dirt where peasants bent low, scrambling for each scattered piece of silver.
The villagers wept with gratitude, their voices cracking with relief, for they had suffered long beneath the daimyō's cruelty—ritual abductions, blood sacrifices, bodies that never returned. Now they saw his manor burning in the distance and believed the nightmare had ended.
The hunters were given food, sake, and a feast that lasted until the sun crowned the sky. Drums were beaten, dancers filled the square, and old men toasted until their speech slurred. All the while, they hailed the man who had killed the cursed son. They hailed him.
Kuro sat among them, drinking from a cup that never stayed full for long, the taste of rice wine mixing with the memory of copper on his tongue. They cheered his name—but he had none to give.
"What do they call you, hero?" a drunken elder pressed, leaning close, eyes wide and hopeful.
For a heartbeat Kuro froze. He could not speak his true name—not here, not his corpse should have been the one on the ground. His eyes narrowed, lips curving into the faintest smile.
"…Ranmaru," he said at last, the lie sliding smooth and sure from his throat.
The crowd roared with approval, chanting the name, lifting their cups high.
And Kuro—Ranmaru now—watched them with hooded eyes, the firelight flickering across his freshly bandaged, scarred face. This was his first night in the world of yokai, and already blood had carved him a path.
Hahaha.
"You truly are something else, young Kuro~" The onryō's voice slithered through his bones, shadows clinging to his flesh like damp silk. "I would never have imagined, even in a thousand years, a plan so vile…"
Her whisper grew sharper, more delighted. "…to butcher men, then fake your own death and walk away reborn under another name."
Ranmaru clicked his tongue, answering in silence: Don't talk to me right now, yokai.
From the pit of his core, a low, girlish chuckle echoed. "Don't worry—I'm not here to hound you. I only came to remind you…" The shadows pressed tighter against his skin." …that I'm still short on my fair share of human souls."
He paused, lifting the sake cup to his lips. How much am I short of?
"If I told you outright, wouldn't that be boring~?" she crooned, voice drenched in mockery. "But rest assured, I won't stop you from dipping into my power as much as you like…"
Her words faded into laughter that coiled within his ribs, and Ranmaru drank deep, his scarred face unreadable.
The drums and laughter of the feast carried on, sake spilling freely into earthen cups as the poor of the village celebrated like lords for the first time in their lives. The smell of roasted boar and river fish mingled with the acrid bite of smoke from torches. Ranmaru sat apart, back against the rough wood of a post, cup in hand, the firelight glinting on his scarred cheek.
Through the shifting crowd, a slight figure approached him.
Bare feet pressed into the dust, her steps uncertain.
She was a young village girl, pretty though thin to the bone, her cheeks hollowed by hunger, eyes red and wet from too many nights of grief. Her robe was stitched from hand-sewn cloth, patched so many times the pattern of repairs nearly overwhelmed the original weave. In her arms, clutched tightly, was a chipped clay sake pot.
She stopped before him, head bowed, shoulders trembling.
"Ranmaru-sama…" Her voice cracked. Tears slid down her dirt-smudged face. "I–I wanted to thank you. For freeing us. For bringing… for bringing my father's murderer to justice." Her arms shook as she lifted the pot up to him, the chipped vessel trembling in her grasp. "This… was my father's. His sake pot. He treasured it. I know he would have wanted… the man who avenged our people… to drink from it."
Her hands held it out, knuckles white. A sob shook her small body.
Ranmaru studied her in silence, the cup cooling in his palm. He saw the cracks in her skin, the threads barely holding her clothes together. The ghostly laughter of the onryō stirred faintly within him, but he ignored it. Slowly, he set aside his own cup and reached for the pot. His scarred fingers closed around it with surprising care.
He let out a low breath, then looked up at her.
"Then we drink it together," he said, voice steady. "If it is your father's legacy, it should not be wasted on one man alone."
Her eyes widened, shimmering in the sunlight. "Together…?"
He uncorked the pot, poured into his empty cup, then filled a second for her from a wooden ladle nearby. He pressed the cup into her trembling hands, steadying her fingers around it.
"To your father," he said.
The girl's lips quivered, but she lifted the cup, clinking it softly against his. "To my father."
They drank beneath the cheers and laughter, the taste of rough village sake burning warm down his throat. And though her tears still flowed, she smiled through them—thin, fragile, but real.
Ranmaru set the cup down and studied her face. Beneath the dirt, the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes of hunger, she might've been beautiful. A girl too young to have carried so much grief. His gaze lingered on the trembling of her small hands as she held the sake pot close to her chest like a sacred relic.
"What was his name?" he asked at last, voice low, almost lost beneath the din of merriment.
She blinked at him, startled. "M-Masatoki… he was… a farmer, before the daimyo's men took him. They made him work their stores until he collapsed." Her breath hitched. "And when he spoke against them… they—" She broke off, covering her mouth, the tears flowing faster.
Ranmaru did not reach to comfort her. He simply let the silence stretch, the firelight catching the scars on his face. "Masatoki," he repeated. "Then it's his sake we drink, not mine. Let him join us, wherever he lingers."
Her lips parted, and she bowed her head deeply, whispering a broken thank you.
But before the fragile quiet could last, the rough voices of the hunters rang out from the edge of the fire.
The loot had begun to be divided.
Grunts jeered and argued over copper coins, scraps of lacquerware, and the youngest of the surviving servant girls. They pawed at them with filthy hands, laughter sharp as knives, declaring they would "have their fun" before the temples washed the sins away.
Others, those who had done more than just swing a spear, were called forward for greater rewards. The hunters who had dragged the daimyo's treasury from its hidden cellars shouted in triumph as they split silken purses and golden ornaments. The archers who had pierced his son received new blades and bolts, their voices raised in drunken pride.
And then the greater spoils—the daimyo's wealth and weapons—were brought before the fire. A lacquered chest heavy with coin. A stand of polished steel—katanas, spears, armor fitted for nobility. These were split only among those deemed worthy: the one who claimed the daimyo's life, the men who had captured his household, and Ranmaru himself, for the head of the son.
The girl flinched as another cheer went up, the cries of joy mixing with the whimpering of servant girls dragged into the shadows. She clutched her father's sake pot tighter, shrinking close to him as though he were a shield.
Ranmaru's gaze swept the firelit circle. He saw greed, lust, triumph—men who would forget this day by the next morning save for the weight of gold at their belts. His eyes lowered back to the girl beside him.
"Stay close," he said quietly, almost like an order. "This is no place for a farmer's daughter."
She lifted her wet eyes to him, searching his scarred face, and whispered, "Then where is my place, now?"