Part I: The Fallen and the Farewell
The forest was quiet.
The demon's body had dissolved into ash, its twisted shrine collapsing with it. But the silence wasn't peace—it was aftermath.
Kaito stood alone in the clearing, surrounded by broken wood, blood-stained moss, and the faint scent of iron. His blade was clean. His stance was steady. But his heart was heavy.
He turned toward the trail of blood he'd followed earlier.
The remains of the two missing slayers were scattered—one beneath a collapsed wooden frame, the other half-buried near the shrine's edge. Their uniforms were torn, their swords shattered. But their haori still bore the mark of the Corps.
Kaito knelt beside the first body.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't rush.
He worked slowly, reverently.
He gathered the fragments of their blades, folded their haori, and wrapped the bones in cloth. He placed each bundle in a lacquered box he'd carried for emergencies—standard issue for slayers assigned to solo missions.
When he finished, he stood and bowed.
Not to the bodies.
To the fight they'd never finish.
To the breath they'd never complete.
A crow landed on a nearby branch, watching silently.
Kaito approached.
"These are the remains of the fallen," he said. "Deliver them to their families. Or their masters. Let them be honoured."
The crow cawed once, then flew down and latched onto the box with its talons. It wasn't strong enough to carry it far—but it would guide the retrieval team.
Kaito watched it disappear into the mist.
He didn't know their names.
But he knew their rhythm.
They had fought.
They had died.
And now, they would be remembered.
He carved two small markers into the shrine's base—simple wooden stakes with the Corps insignia etched into them.
Not graves.
But acknowledgments.
Then he bowed once more.
The wind shifted.
And the forest exhaled.
Part II: The Letter and the Next Hunt
Kaito sat beneath a cedar tree, the shrine ruins behind him and the forest stretching ahead. He pulled out a scroll, dipped his brush in ink, and began to write.
To Master Raiden, Thunder Estate
Demon at Western Ridge eliminated. Blood Demon Art confirmed. Terrain manipulation via wood-based constructs. Two slayers found deceased. Remains secured and sent via crow. No injuries sustained. Mission complete.
Awaiting next assignment.
—Kaito
He rolled the scroll, sealed it with wax, and tied it to the crow's leg. The bird cawed once, then took flight toward the east.
Kaito watched it disappear into the clouds.
He didn't mention Gravemark.
Not the system.
Not the points.
Not the skills.
That power was his alone.
By nightfall, a second crow arrived.
"Assignment: Village of Kurotsume. Reports of disappearances. Suspected demon activity. Travel immediately. Arrival expected in two days."
Kaito nodded.
He packed his gear—restocked bandages, sharpened his blade, and wrapped his haori tighter. The terrain ahead was mountainous, colder, and known for its narrow passes.
He studied the map.
Kurotsume sat between two ridges, surrounded by pine forests and old mines. A perfect place for a demon to nest.
He left before dawn.
His steps were steady.
His breath was calm.
And Gravemark pulsed with quiet anticipation.
Part III: The Slayer in the Mist
On the second evening of travel, Kaito reached the edge of Kurotsume's forest. Mist clung to the trees, and the air smelled of iron and snow.
He moved silently, scanning for signs—broken branches, claw marks, blood.
Then he heard it.
A clash of steel.
He sprinted toward the sound and found a woman mid-combat—her blade glowing faint blue, her stance fluid and low. She moved like water, redirecting the demon's strikes with circular sweeps.
Mist Breathing.
Kaito recognized it instantly.
The demon retreated into the trees, snarling.
The woman turned, eyes sharp beneath her hood.
"You're Corps?" she asked.
Kaito nodded. "Thunder Breathing. Kaito."
She lowered her blade. "Mizuki, Mist Breathing."
They didn't shake hands.
They didn't need to.
The demon was still alive.
And the hunt wasn't over.
"Temporary team-up?" Mizuki asked.
Kaito activated Anchor Step.
"Agreed."
They vanished into the mist—two styles, one rhythm.
And the storm met the fog.