He cast one last glance at the shrine, then bowed deeply, slipping two silver bars onto the offering tray before turning away. No words to the priest. No farewells to the soldiers who had escorted him. As simply as he had arrived, he departed—mounting a horse and guiding it down the narrow mountain path.
With his face restored, remaining among them was a death sentence. One careless slip of his bandages, one curious glance too long, and they would brand him an evil spirit in human skin.
He uncorked his bamboo flask and let the burn of sake wash over his tongue, swallowing back the knot in his throat.
So he rode where the wind carried him, never looking back.
The sun had nearly set when he arrived at a small village. He rode through the rice fields and saw a farmer still hard at work. "Hello… Jii," he said, forcing himself to use a fitting address for this era. But perhaps it hardly mattered—after all, this was all in his mind.
The old man looked up, wiping his brow, his eyes warm and kind. "Ah, traveler, how may I assist you?" he asked respectfully, noticing the armor and steed.
"Well," he said, "the sun is about to set, and I was wondering if there is a place in this village for traveling hunters such as myself to rest."
The old man stroked his chin, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he studied Ranmaru. "There is one place you might rest," he said finally."Down that path, past the eastern rice paddies. You'll see a small house tucked beneath the hillside. A widow lives there—Madam Kaede—and she has her children. Always welcome to hunters, so long as you have a tale to tell. She enjoys a good story with her evening meal."
Ranmaru nodded, forcing a polite smile. "Thank you, Jii. I'll make my way there."
The old man waved him off, returning to his work as Ranmaru guided his horse along the narrow dirt trail that cut through golden fields. The sun dipped lower, painting the horizon in blood-orange hues, and the breeze carried the scent of wet earth and ripening grain.
Yet, despite the village's simplicity, a subtle unease pricked at him. It was faint at first—a tightening in his chest, a whisper at the back of his mind—but it wouldn't go away. The house at the foot of the hill came into view, small but sturdy, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. The laughter of children drifted through the open doorway.
Ranmaru's hand hovered over his sword, instinct tugging at him. He shook his head, dismissing the thought. A warm meal, a story by the fire—what danger could that bring?
Still, the closer he rode, the heavier the air became. Shadows seemed to cling unnaturally to the porch. The wind shifted, curling strangely around the eaves. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet enough to make him glance over his shoulder. Nothing stirred. No one followed.
And yet—he felt eyes. Watching. Waiting.
His gaze sharpened. The onryō mark burned faintly on his skin as he dismounted and drew his blade. "Konichiwa," he called, sliding the door open.
Inside, children froze mid-game. Wooden dice clattered across the floor.
The boys flinched, one of them opening his mouth to speak—only for Ranmaru's sword to hiss forward, halting just before his face. Silk strained against the blade, threads tightening with a grating screech.
Ranmaru's eyes narrowed. A smile tugged at his lips as he turned toward the doorway.
She stood there. A woman, half-hidden by shadow—but the illusion did not hold. A cluster of black, gleaming eyes dotted her forehead. Jagged spider legs pierced out from her back, shifting restlessly.
Rip. Crack. Pop.
Her lower body twisted, splitting grotesquely, the shape of a spider forcing itself out of human flesh.
"Children, run!" she shrieked—though her voice belonged to no woman.
The boys blinked, terror seizing them. One scrambled to flee, the other pulled a knife and rushed forward in blind panic.
Ranmaru's blade snapped free from the silk. He struck out—not at the Jorōgumo, but at the boy, kicking him into a wooden beam with brutal force.
His eyes darkened, all emotion sealed away. He wrapped the severed webbing around his forearm, stepping outside to face the creature as more sticky strands spewed from her maw.
His breathing steadied. Qi flowed, sharp and precise. He raised his sword, pouring intent into it.
"White Crane's Counter—Supernatural Impact."
Crackle.
Lightning exploded from the blade—his own volatile fusion of Qi rebelling violently. It's corrupt yokai energy clashed with his own, and the sword screamed.
Then it shattered, thunder tearing outward in a storm of backlash. The blast hurled Ranmaru like a ragdoll, flinging him through the walls of the house.
Argh, he groaned, his back battered against a tree. "wasn't that interesting," he thought getting up, "I feel like I'm close to something, " he murmured getting up as he realized the blow he to knocked him straight through Madam Kaede's home.
He stood up, brushing himself as he lifted his blade and activated his movement technique. He rushed towards the spider yokai, it mouth bared as it shot out bullets of silk.
He narrowed his eyes, steel glinting in the dim glow of the lanterns as his feet carried him back inside the wreckage of Madam Kaede's home. Dust and wood fragments drifted through the air like snow as the spider yokai screeched, her eight legs tearing gouges into the wooden floor.
"Persistent," he muttered, blade flashing as he parried another ball of silk, the threads snapping apart under the edge. The air was filled with the sticky tang of spider-thread, each shot tightening the trap she was weaving around him.
He ducked low, skidding along the tatami, his shoulder grazing the broken beam. With a twist, he swung upward, slicing another barrage before leaping onto a cracked support pillar. His movements blurred, the technique carrying him across the room as though he were slipping between shadows.
But she was faster than her size suggested. Her claws raked across the floor where he'd just stood, splintering wood into shards. "Leave," her voice rasped, both human and chittering insect. "Leave and I will let you live…"
Ranmaru only smirked. "Now you sound worried."
Then, in the chaos, his gaze caught a small figure darting near the overturned hearth. One of the children—wide-eyed, terrified—yet when his blade swung toward it, the child's body warped grotesquely. Its skin split into patterns of glossy black and yellow, its mouth opening too wide, fangs glistening. Another Jorōgumo. Smaller. Younger.
In a breath, he had the creature in his grip, his blade angled against its throat. The older yokai froze mid-strike, her many eyes flaring with panic.
"No!" Her voice cracked, shrill with something almost human. "Do not harm my child—"
The room stilled. Her legs trembled. The threads she had been weaving twitched uselessly, her great body recoiling as though held back by unseen chains.
Ranmaru's expression didn't change. His grip tightened. "You really thought I'd hesitate?"
The smaller one whimpered, claws scratching weakly at his arm. He didn't give it time to struggle further. The blade sank deep, piercing its neck, a wet gurgle cutting off the sound. Blood—thicker and darker than a human's—splattered across the broken walls.
The older Jorōgumo shrieked, a scream that rattled the timbers and shook lanterns from their hooks. Her grief curdled into fury—but before she could lunge, the moment of slaughter rippled through the room like a shockwave. Something unseen cracked in the air, a supernatural backlash tied to his blade. A flare of invisible lightning streaked outward, threads of power weaving through the darkness.
Ranmaru tore his blade free from the child's throat and drove it toward the mother. The force struck her first, hurling her massive body back. She convulsed violently, limbs spasming as ichor sprayed across the wooden walls. The house groaned under her collapse.
He stood firm, blade dripping, eyes glinting coldly in the lantern glow. His own body screamed from the effort, chest heaving.
"Thunder Strikes…" he muttered between ragged breaths. A sharp grin cut across his face. "That's what I'll call this."
He slid the sword toward its sheath, gaze sweeping the blood-slick floor. "Only one spawn down. Now—where's the other one hiding?" His voice was low, deliberate. "It ran outside…"
Smoke curled from the air, thick and choking. The onryō's form coalesced, her presence wrapping around him like damp silk.
"Boy," she whispered, circling him as her shape took form, "tell me…" Her voice trembled with both hunger and amusement. "Are you the descendant of some lesser-known deity?"
Her laugh slithered around him. "You hide your presence from Hell. You turn a piece of Wanyūdō into a weapon. You conceal me from a god. You wield powers that twist and clash with yokai strength."
Her breath grazed his neck, warm and mocking. "Tell me—was this strength your mother's gift? Certainly not your father's. He begged me to spare you. Such pitiful weakness… so very human~"
She drifted to the shriveled corpse of the slain hybrid, lifted its limp arms like a puppet, then pressed her mouth to its wounds. She drank deeply, skin tightening as the body withered in her grip.
Ranmaru said nothing, though the weight of her words pressed into his mind. The Jorōgumo's other child had fled—into the mountains. And it might be a half-yokai, as she'd said.
"Hybrid yokai?" he asked quietly, suspicion flickering. "I've never heard of them before."
Her lips left the corpse's shriveled neck, wet with blood. "Ahh… I haven't tasted sweetness like this in decades." Her tongue traced crimson across her mouth. "Hybrids are nothing special, boy. At least—not to me. They're simply one possibility when human and yokai blood mingle."
Her eyes gleamed. "Some even say entire clans of yokai changed their forms over eras, reshaped through unions with humans." She dropped the husk with a hollow thud and glided toward him.
"If you can catch me that other child—and slaughter this village for me—"she leaned close, whisper soft, blood glistening on her lips, "I'll let you try creating a hybrid with me." Her smile widened, sharp and hungry.