The night in Aokigahara felt heavier than usual. The forest itself seemed alive, its silence broken only by the faint rustling of unseen creatures moving between twisted trees. Reiji advanced slowly, his steps deliberate, hand never far from the hilt of his blade. He knew he was being watched—the weight of unseen eyes pressed against his back like a hunter stalking prey.
The air grew colder as he followed a trail of dried blood that cut through the underbrush. It wasn't human—not exactly. The color was darker, thicker, a reminder of the abominations born from shadows. Reiji stopped when he reached a clearing bathed in fractured moonlight.
There, standing motionless, was a lone figure cloaked in black. Their face was hidden beneath a cracked porcelain mask, painted with crimson streaks that resembled tears. In their hand, a blade unlike any Reiji had ever seen shimmered faintly, as if whispering against the silence.
"The Whispering Blade," Reiji muttered, his voice cold but steady.
The masked figure tilted their head, the porcelain cracking faintly with the movement. "So… the shadow returns," they whispered, voice distorted as if two people were speaking at once.
Reiji tightened his grip. He could feel the pulse of malevolence radiating from the sword. It wasn't just a weapon—it was alive, feeding on fear, drinking from the spirit of its wielder.
Their clash came suddenly, without warning. Steel screamed against steel as Reiji met the figure's strike. The Whispering Blade carried a sound with every movement—a low, mournful whisper that drilled into Reiji's mind. Each clash left fragments of voices inside his head: regrets, confessions, cries of those who had fallen to its edge.
For a moment, his focus faltered. He heard his mother's voice, fragile and broken, calling his name. His vision blurred, the battlefield replaced by fragments of his past. But Reiji bit down on the inside of his mouth until blood filled it, forcing himself back into the present.
The figure pressed forward, their strikes growing faster, sharper. Yet Reiji noticed the tremor in their hand. The blade was controlling them, not the other way around. Every movement was desperate, like someone struggling against chains unseen.
"You're not wielding it… it's consuming you," Reiji said between breaths.
The masked figure hesitated, a single crack splitting across the porcelain mask. "Help… me…"
It was enough. Reiji surged forward, twisting his blade and knocking the Whispering Blade from their grip. The weapon hit the ground with a sound that wasn't metal striking earth—it was like a thousand voices crying out in unison, then fading into silence.
The figure collapsed, mask shattering, revealing the pale, worn face of a man no older than Reiji himself. His eyes were sunken, but in them was relief. "Thank… you…" he whispered, before darkness claimed him.
Reiji stood over the fallen man, chest heaving, his gaze turning to the cursed blade. It lay quiet now, but he could still feel its presence, whispering faintly in the corners of his mind.
He sheathed his sword, but his eyes lingered on the weapon. A new shadow had revealed itself, and Reiji knew it was only a matter of time before it returned to haunt him.
For in the world he walked, every blade carried a story. And some stories refused to end.