The battlefield was quiet now, save for the crackle of dying embers and the occasional groan of the wounded. The stench of burned flesh hung thick, mixed with the sour tang of blood.
The men gathered slowly, shoulders slumped, their weapons lowered. No one dared speak the name of what they had seen. No one dared utter "Wanyūdō." To give it voice was to tempt its return.
The leader—a scarred veteran with a broken spear haft still clenched in his hand—straightened his back with visible effort. His voice rasped, hoarse but commanding.
"Count the fallen. Name them if you can. The dead must go home, not rot here like beasts."
The hunters moved with a grim sense of duty. They pried helmets free, checked the ruined faces, and were sometimes only able to identify men by the charms tied to their armor or the small tokens carried in their sashes. One man wept when he recognized his cousin, cradling a scorched hand that no longer bore its flesh. Another cursed aloud when he found nothing left but ash where a comrade had stood.
Bundles of belongings were gathered carefully—sword hilts, beads, coin pouches, even the smallest keepsakes. "So their families know they died as men," one muttered, though his eyes burned with grief.
Meanwhile, the captives—servants and attendants taken when the Daimyō's estate was besieged—huddled in fear, still bound but alive. Their pale eyes followed the hunters, and some whispered prayers, as though the very act would save them from further disasters on their journey.
The leader barked again.
"We march them to the nearest shrine. Let the monks decide what fate is theirs. The kami will judge them more fairly than men with blood still hot in their veins."
A few grumbled—resentment at having to care for captives when their own kin lay dead—but none argued. The weight of what they had faced was enough to silence quarrels.
They loaded the bodies of their comrades onto the remaining carriages or makeshift stretchers, weaving branches into frames and tying them with strips of armor cloth. The dead were borne with respect, no matter how ruined their forms. Each man who lifted a fallen friend walked with clenched jaw, eyes hollow but determined.
The yokai hunters continued their traveling, past fields and forests, and finally—
The shrine bell rang faintly in the distance, sunlight spilling across the mountain ahead. From its slopes rose the stairways of Hachiman's shrine—long stone paths lined with banners, guardians, and other hunters climbing with their burdens.
Ranmaru expected solemnity. But as they ascended, the mountain revealed something stranger: a living road. Stalls lined the steps, vendors selling charms, grilled fish, and dried fruits. Incense curled above statues of the kami, offerings stacked at their feet. Hunters passed with yokai corpses slung on poles, some dragging cages where captured beasts writhed, while others paused to drink, eat, or buy wards.
To his companions, this mingling of the sacred and mundane was natural. To Ranmaru, it looked less like the path to a shrine than a market street built on the bones of war. Even the air smelled divided—half frankincense, half roasted fish, pierced here and there by the stench of yokai blood.
At the base of the last flight, a temizu-ya stood beneath the shadow of towering pines. A stone dragon gaped open-mouthed, spouting water into the basin below. Pilgrims dismounted here, leaving horses and carriages off to the side, their laughter and chatter fading to low murmurs.
His group of men followed suit, stepping down stiffly, shaking off dust from the road. He watched as hunters who had come with cages pulled them aside, covering them with cloth so that the yokai within would not profane the water's purity.
While his own only sat down there on dead comrades' stretchers and offered them a prayer. As they would have to leave them for now, as they cleansed themselves and gathered the captured men and women they had brought along.
Ranmaru dismounted last. His body still ached from the clash with the bear, and though the shrine road's bustle masked it, the sight of the temizu-ya reminded him of what waited above. The wash of cold water across one's hands and lips was supposed to cleanse impurity before entering sacred ground. But what of the impurity inside him—his false name, his stolen identity, and the hellish eyes of Wanyūdō still burning in memory?
Or worse—the yokai sealed within him?
He let his Qi roll quietly through his bones and flesh, steadying himself, weaving a mask over his presence in case anyone looked too closely. Tying off his horse, he muttered, Let's just hope nothing comes of this.
At the pavilion, he took a ladle. Left hand first, then right. He layered Qi over his skin, thin as mist, and poured. The water slid unnaturally smooth, never clinging, but still his fingers tingled, spasming faintly. His lips tightened. Good thing I prepared.
He rinsed his mouth. For a heartbeat, his body wavered—then a whisper coiled through him.
"…Young Kuro, where have you taken us?"
The onryō's voice slithered awake, sharp with irritation. "I sleep once and wake to this? You dare try to exorcise me with well water—"
Quiet. His thought cut across hers. We're not here to banish you. Stay silent, unless you want us both exposed.
There was a pause, then a soft chuckle. His brow prickled, the faint mark glowing. "True enough… But to think the Daimyō's frail son could stand against a Wanyūdō… No, more curiously—how did you learn to mask yourself so well?"
Ranmaru ignored her, setting the ladle aside. He rejoined the others as they secured the captives and followed the leader toward the shrine gate.
The scarred veteran bowed low, speaking to a priest who awaited them. He reported the vanishings, the villagers' testimony, the Daimyō's dealings with yokai, and the siege that led to their captives' capture. The priest listened gravely, nodding before granting passage.
One by one, the hunters bowed at the torii and entered the sacred precinct.
The shrine ahead radiated a power that pressed against their lungs—subtle to the others, but to Ranmaru it blazed. With each step closer, the divine current spilled through him, threading into his meridians. He stiffened. His Qi roared to life, tearing upward, breaking the first stage of refinement—then the second—then the third. His pulse surged, his very bones thrumming, ready to break through into Foundation.
And then—silence. The ceaseless drone of cicadas hushed as though swallowed. The pilgrims' chanting faltered, every voice caught in unseen breath. Even the wind through the cryptomeria stilled.
Then the radiance snapped.
A shadow fell across the shrine. No, not a shadow—a presence. A will.
The god whose divinity he had been drinking from appeared before him, luminous and unyielding, and in a single instant tore back all the power he had stolen.
The brilliance coalesced into a figure before the shrine gates, neither wholly man nor wholly light, but something vast, towering, and rooted in eternity. Its eyes burned like twin suns, and the air trembled beneath the weight of its gaze.
Ranmaru staggered, clutching his chest as the divine radiance clawed free from his veins, ripped out as easily as a child stealing breath from a flame. He fell to one knee, blood searing in his throat, his meridians screaming as though being scoured clean.
A voice thundered through the mountain—not loud, but absolute, resonating in marrow and spirit.
"Do not steal from the shrine. Ask, and I will give."
The light bent, not with wrath but with command, and warmth poured into Ranmaru's broken frame. His scorched chest cooled. His fractured meridians knitted. Even the scars etched across his face softened beneath the divine glow, pain bleeding away until only silence remained.
The presence lingered for a heartbeat more, vast and unapproachable, then receded like a tide pulling back to the sea—leaving Ranmaru gasping on the stone steps, healed but trembling, the echo of the god's words carved into his soul.
One of the shrine maidens turned to him with a puzzled look.
"Hunter-dono… has unease touched your spirit?"
He blinked. He was standing as if nothing had happened. His knees had not touched the ground, and his body bore no tremor. Yet when his fingers brushed his face, the bandages were loose against skin that was no longer torn. His chest felt unburdened, lighter, and whole.
Hands coming together, he bowed deeply.
"This lowly one… Thank you for your gifts."
The motion was instinctive, not from reverence but from the sheer certainty that he had brushed against a deity's will. To stumble here would not mean death—it would mean obliteration, perhaps being crushed like an insect with no chance to savor this dream world.
His voice lowered, careful and deliberate.
"Thank you for your kindness… Hachiman-sama."
The maiden stiffened at the name. Her lips parted as if to speak, but she caught herself, bowing her head instead. The other attendants exchanged wary glances, whispering behind their sleeves.
"Hachiman-sama…" one murmured, almost too soft to be heard.
Ranmaru straightened slowly, his bandaged hand lowering from his face. Their stares told him enough—whatever he had felt, whatever had touched him, it was not something they expected to be invoked so freely. The weight of the moment pressed harder than the scars that had once marred him.
"You saw nothing, yet you tremble," one of the younger shrine maidens said, her voice uncertain. "Pray tell, Hunter-dono… what echo reached your ears?"
His mouth was dry. He could almost still feel the tide of presence receding into the unseen depths, as though the god's gaze might turn back at the slightest provocation. He forced himself to bow once more, lower this time, speaking only enough to appease both maidens and deity alike.
"I heard enough to know my place."
Silence lingered, broken only by the faint creak of wood in the shrine and the distant cry of a crow.
The eldest maiden stepped forward, her expression unreadable."Hunter-dono… the words of the Great God are not borne lightly upon mortal lips. Should His radiance have touched you, regard it not as gift alone, but as burden also—weight to be carried with reverence."
Her warning was soft, but it carried a finality that coiled around Ranmaru's chest like a noose. He swallowed and nodded.
In that moment, he realized his survival here was not secured by skill or blade. It rested on a precarious balance, one wrong word or gesture away from divine punishment.
And worse—if the god had healed his scars, it meant he had been marked.