The mid-afternoon sun shone without mercy.
Akuru reached the wide river crossing at the base of the hills. A bridge presented itself to him. It seemed to have been rebuilt recently, with new planks, new ropes, and the scent of fresh resin still lingering. He crossed it slowly, pausing halfway to look down at the flowing water. His reflection rippled beneath him, blurred, reshaped, returned.
His next mission would come soon enough. But until then, the world felt bigger and quieter than before.
He continued to walk, only after staring at the running water for an entire minute.
The valley around him opened like a great painted scroll unfurled beneath the sun. The river wound through the landscape like a wide, glittering ribbon. Clear enough to reveal smooth stones beneath its surface but swift enough to carry flecks of white foam that flickered like sparks. Willow trees lined its edge, their long green fingers trailing the water in slow, dreaming motions. Cicadas droned in patient waves, rising and falling like the breath of the land itself. Farther down, the riverbank softened into tall summer reeds that swayed with every whisper of wind, giving the impression of an unseen crowd shifting and murmuring.
Akuru stopped to take a drop of water from the running river. He had become rather parched after his walk. Thankfully the sun had become far more manageable for him. He would take the small wins when they came.
He put on his haori again as he got ready to continued his destination less walk.
Before him, the earth rose gently across the valley floor into rolling green slopes stitched with footpaths left by deer and wandering merchants long past. Dragonflies skimmed the water in abrupt, darting streaks of blue and emerald. To his left, a cluster of irises bloomed, their petals vibrant purple, as ink spilled on the grass. The scent of warm mud, wild mint, and sunlit water combined in a comforting, grounding blend.
To the north, distant hills sharpened into rugged stone ridges, their pale faces veined with silver glamour that gleamed faintly when clouds passed overhead. Occasionally, the faint sound of temple bells reached him, not from human hands but from the hollow pipes the wind played as it passed through.
Behind him, the forest he had left stretched like a dark sea of cedar and pine, its shadows still thick and cool even beneath daylight. Ahead, the valley widened into a soft cradle of grass and scattered wildflowers, all illuminated with the full blaze of the summer sun. Everything felt both enormous and still. An open world waiting to be walked, but with a silence that hinted at old stories sleeping beneath the soil.
Akuru paused simply to breathe it in. Out here, the world did not feel burdened by fear, demons, or duty. It smelled of life. Of warmth. Of a simplicity he rarely had time to acknowledge. The wind brushed past him with enough warmth to be comforting, yet enough bite to remind him that evening would eventually fall. In that moment, he understood why travelers wrote poems about the scenery they encountered on the road; sometimes words were the only vessel strong enough to hold the quiet beauty of these forgotten places.
Leaving the forest behind completely, reluctantly Akuru continued his little adventure. These days didn't come to him often anymore.
His mind wandered, unbidden, back to the strange woman he had met earlier. Her words clung to him like dew. Cryptic word, spoken as calmly as describing the weather, every word threaded with an unsettling confidence.
She had spoken of omens hidden in plain sight. He had tried brushing it off as superstition, but the glimmer in her gaze suggested knowledge far deeper.
Were her words metaphorical or literal? Could the moon truly turn red?
Akuru couldn't grasp the idea that she was speaking of something to come. There was no way in his mind that it could happen.
The moon turning red. A Blood Moon.
Akuru had heard old stories, some poetic, some fearful, but none carried the quiet certainty the woman had held. He had always taken them as folklore his mother had come across.
He replayed her tone, the way she looked past him as if she watched something he couldn't see. As though the sky itself had whispered secrets to her alone.
She must have been speaking metaphorically, right?
A Blood Moon, now that he thought about it, could such a thing affect demons?
Either way, it stuck with him now, a faint tug of curiosity in the back of his mind. He wondered who she really was.
A wanderer? A shrine attendant? Someone far, far greater?
He couldn't say. But he wanted to know. There was something unnerving about how easily she seemed to speak in riddles. Something familiar and unfamiliar at once. He shook the thought away, but the seed had rooted. Whatever was coming, he felt it wouldn't be ordinary.
Akuru stopped beneath a towering cedar whose branches cast a long, cooling shadow. He took a deep breath. The day had been more eventful than his normal walks, but in a good way. He had rebuilt instead of destroyed. Helped instead of killed. Listened instead of fought.
He looked down two roads stretching ahead.
He smiled faintly.
"Guess it's just me for a while," he murmured.
He adjusted the grip on his sword and started walking down the western road. Ahead, the unknown stretched wide and waiting. He walked into it fearlessly.
The sun lowered, its golden warmth shifting slowly into the deeper oranges of late afternoon. Akuru's path wound through gently rising hills, the grass lands far unknown from any farms. Grown without oversight into what nature wished to paint.
The world softened as he entered the grasslands. A breeze brushed over the tall wildgrass, bending it in long, synchronized waves that shimmered silver-green under the late afternoon sun. Tiny white seed tufts drifted lazily through the air, catching in Akuru's hair and sleeves like wandering snowflakes. Crickets chirped in scattered pockets, their rhythm filling the quiet with small, steady life.
Occasionally, he saw movement.
Foxes darting into burrows, wild goats perched on rocks, a crane rising into the sky with slow, elegant wingbeats.
The air smelled of distant rain, though no clouds threatened above. To his right, the hills unfurled into shallow valleys dotted with old stone walls, remnants of forgotten farmland now reclaimed by nature.
With each step taken, the landscape subtly changed.
Shorter grass, firmer ground, and small clusters of stepping stones on the road seemed to lead invisible pilgrims. Wind chimes rusty, crooked from a single wooden post, clinked faintly in the breeze. It felt like the threshold to a place older than the road itself.
Then, cresting a gentle rise, he saw it.
A jinja tucked quietly into the slope of the next hill. The roof tiles glimmered faintly, worn but dignified. Weathered stone lanterns marked the approach, their moss-covered surfaces hinting that few travelers came this way often. From a distance, the shrine seemed half-asleep, resting in the arms of the hill. Yet there was a strange tranquility to it, like a place holding its own breath.
So this was where the bell sounds must have originated from that Akuru had heard. Strong bell if it could resonate that far.
Drawn in equal measure by curiosity and a sense of reverence, Akuru began to walk toward it.
He walked steadily, but not urgently. The air felt different now, touched by something he couldn't name.
Birds circled above the horizon as though preparing for roost.
Up close, the shrine revealed its age in every wooden beam. The entrance torii gate leaned a little, one of its feet sunken more into the ground than the other, and thin vines wrapped themselves around its legs, like so many wispy fingers claiming the wood for themselves. The red color that once coated it had bleached out into a soft rose; in some places, it chipped to reveal the raw, pale wood underneath. And yet, despite the wear, the gate still held a quiet pride as if determined it would stand another hundred years.
Stone steps, uneven and wrapped in patches of moss, led up to the main courtyard. Akuru ascended slowly, boots brushing aside fallen cedar needles, until he reached the open space before the honden. The shrine itself was small, but lovingly maintained. Wooden charms hung under the eaves, some new, some so old their ink had washed into ghostly smudges. Paper talismans fluttered from the ropes lining the entrance, their corners yellowed but intact. Someone, at least, still cared for this place.
The air was cooler here, tinged by the shade of the pines that hemmed it in. A sweet, earthy, comforting smell of incense still lingered, though faintly, in the air. And beneath it, the unmistakable quiet of a place rarely disturbed.
Akuru listened.
Not silence exactly, but something softer, something the world only made when left alone long enough.
He approached the offering box, casting his gaze out into the courtyard. No footprints in the dust, and no fresh offerings save one single rice ball, left tidily atop a dish. It looked recently placed.
A sliding door creaked behind him.
"Ah… a traveler?" a voice asked, warm but surprised.
Akuru turned.
An elderly priest emerged, his robe simple and slightly frayed at the hems, and he carried a broom whose bristles were about worn flat. His face held the gentle weariness of someone who loved his duties despite their loneliness. When he saw Akuru's sword, his eyebrows lifted not in fear, but in respectful acknowledgment.
"A samurai, no less," the priest said with a small bow, "forgive me for not noticing sooner. Visitors are rare. Very rare indeed."
Akuru returned a polite bow.
"I'm only passing through."
"Even so," the priest replied his voice held the weight of wisdom, "the shrine welcomes all who walk this road. Please, rest as long as you need."
He stepped aside and allowed Akuru to enter the small veranda. A kettle simmered nearby over a small charcoal stove. The priest poured him tea; the steam curled in soft ribbons through the air. Akuru murmured a faint thank you. The priest poured him self another cup; clearly, he had only made enough for one person and had sacrificed his own portion.
Of course he did, Akuru wondered why in the world he thought the priest would have predicted he would come.
"You maintain all this alone?" Akuru asked after a moment.
The priest nodded. "The villagers used to come often. Festivals, offerings, prayers… this hill was alive with people once." A wistful smile touched his lips, "Now well. Times change. Roads grow longer. And people stay away when they're frightened."
Akuru raised his cup gingerly.
"Afraid? Of what?"
"Oh, nothing certain," the priest said hastily, shaking his head with a dismissive chuckle, "just rumors. Travelers claim the night winds here carry strange sounds. Others say animals behave oddly. Superstitions, you know. People see patterns where there are none."
He glanced sideways, his eyes darkening for a moment before lightening back to the soft warmth again.
"And some speak of ill omens of the weather lately," he continued. "Strange clouds. A different taste in the air after rainfall. Odd glows. But I'm an old man. Perhaps the sky simply looks different at my age."
He laughed at his own joke, though something in the tone hinted he'd noticed more than he wished to admit.
Akuru listened silently. His mind raced a mile a minute, but he kept himself quiet.
The priest picked up his cup, "Forgive an old man's rambling. I suspect tired farmers simply frighten themselves. Still… you could say the world feels unsettled this month. As though holding its breath."
Akuru again felt the faint pull of unease, the echoes of rumors, similar to the cryptic words from a mysterious woman.
The priest placed his cup down, already finished.
"But enough gloom. You look like someone carrying long miles on his shoulders. Stay a while before continuing your path. The road is kinder after a cup of tea."
Akuru nodded.
"Thank you."
He sat quietly under the eave, hands warming a cup of tea, and listened to the soft whispers of wind through the old prayer strips. The shrine felt peaceful, a lantern kept lit in an empty house out of stubborn hope.
Small conversations passed the time before either noticed. Akuru still needed to find a place to sleep the night before the sun set. He was ready to leave.
As he finally rose to leave, the priest bowed again, smiling despite the lonesome air that enveloped him.
"It seems your journey begins again. May the road protect you, samurai. Think nothing of my previous ramblings. The heavens play tricks on those who travel alone."
Akuru provided a soft, respectful nod.
"Thank you for the tea, I hope people gather the courage to visit you again. They're missing out on the beautiful sight that you have preserved"
The old man smiled his age shining through now.
"I hope so to."
Akuru stepped back onto the stone path. He needed to find a village and soon, he would have to ask Huginn if he found a place nearby.
Just as he started to wonder about him a shadow flew over his head.
A familiar flutter of feathers alighted on his shoulder.
Speak of the devil.
Huginn clicked his beak softly, then whispered, "Surveillance request! Northern ridge! They want you to patrol tonight!"
Akuru breathed slowly as he pet Huginn.
A patrol?
Here?
Now?
He looked back at the jinja, then up at the reddening sky.
Evening had arrived.
So the rumors were lining up after all. Two different people held the same rumor just in another font. Was he the only person outside of the know?
How bothersome, Akuru grumbled under his breath.
He tightened his grip on his sword just slightly. Demons were the most likely reason the old man didn't get too many visitors around here. He'd have to change that.
"…Seems this region really is stirring," he murmured.
And with that, he continued down the path, the world suddenly feeling far less quiet than before.