The moon hung low over the wooded valley, casting pale silver light upon the charred remains of an old campsite. Ten men lounged around the low-burning fire, laughter rumbling in their chests as they passed a cracked bottle between them. They boasted of coins snatched from helpless travelers and wagons overturned like toys.
"Did you see his face when we took the ox?" barked Renzo, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar over his brow.
"That farmer nearly cried," added Mizu, a wiry thief with mismatched eyes. "But coin is coin."
"We hit the last caravan clean," said Daiki, their self-proclaimed leader, flipping a dagger in one hand. "No pursuit. No bodies. Just fear."
But the laughter faltered when they heard a voice.
"You're celebrating ruin like it's a harvest."
They turned.
A figure in pale robes stood at the edge of the firelight. The flames danced off her silken attire, and her face was veiled in white. Though her form shimmered slightly, as if seen through rippling water, her presence chilled the clearing.
It was one of the priestesses of the moon cult.
"What in—"
Daiki stood, drawing his blade. "Who sent you, ghost?"
The woman did not flinch. She took one step forward.
"Renzo, son of Gorobei."
The big man froze.
"Mizu of the River Market. Daiki, once of the Iron Forge. Haro, Jin, Natsu... all of you. I know your names."
A ripple of unease passed through the group. Some stepped back.
"You know nothing," barked Natsu, and lunged with his spear. It passed clean through her body—no resistance, no blood.
The priestess turned to face him fully.
"I am not here to die. I am protected by the will of the moon realm."
Her voice held no anger. Only understanding.
"I came because you asked me to."
Jin scowled. "Asked? We've never met you."
She walked to the fire's edge, and one by one, turned to each of them.
"Haro," she said gently. "You think there is no life beyond the edge of your blade. But I see a woman in the village of Takawa. Her name is Renha. You've spoken three times. The fourth time, you'll both understand why."
Haro started, pale-faced.
She turned to Renzo.
"There is no future for blacksmith apprentices here. But the coastal town of Shiru—there, the old smith Eiro lost his to illness. He waits every day for someone with strong arms and calloused hands. He will take you in."
Renzo opened his mouth but found no words.
One by one, she offered truths—small fates they had never spoken aloud, futures they had dared not hope for.
"How do you know all this?" Mizu finally asked, voice cracking.
She paused.
"Because you've asked. Not with words. But with silence, regret, and dreams. When night comes the moon cult hears all of these."
Only two remained silent: Daiki and Natsu.
She looked at them last.
"You enjoy the blade. You see power in fear. You left your homes not because you had to... but because you wanted more. I do not judge you for that."
They stiffened but did not deny it.
"But your paths still split now. I offer you two choices, to serve under the banner of a samurai lord of your choice. Join the civil guard, bring order, and earn your battles, or I can guide you to others like you—men and women who have fire in their blood but nowhere to direct it. Together, perhaps, you may forge something better."
"And if we say no?" Daiki asked.
"Then I promise you this: the roads you once ruled no longer belong to you."
The shadows twisted.
A howl split the night.
From the forest edge emerged a wolf-like beast—massive at least five man tall, shadows given form, black as void, its form vague and flickering like smoke. Its eyes glowed crimson. Its maw opened not in hunger, but in warning.
The priestess's voice dropped, soft as snow.
"She is the secret watcher of the roads now. And the moon cult does not forget."
Darkness engulfed them.
When the world returned to color, the fire was cold. Their weapons were untouched, but none dared raise them. The beast, the horror given form, disappeared, as if it had never been there in the first place.. The priestess walked away, her form already fading into starlight.
Not a word was spoken.
But one by one, the bandits gathered their things… and began to walk separate paths.
<<<< o >>>>
Far from there, in the heart of the Land of Iron, in the inner village where Renga housed only those he trusted most, the shadows continued to move.
Harumi, gray-haired and steady-handed, had worked in Renga's kitchens for more than twenty years. Since her husband disappeared during a political purge, she had become distant, her children seeing her more as a ghost than a mother. With rising tension and shortages in the region, even minor mistakes could bring disaster.
One morning, she found an unexpected crate in her pantry: refined rice, southern valley tea, sea salt—ingredients that hadn't been seen in months.
Beside it, a note:
"Keep cooking as you always do. Just allow quiet access to the basement pantry on even-numbered nights."
No signature. Only a faint scent of strange incense and, on the back of the parchment, the mark of an inverted lotus.
<<<< o >>>>
The mountain pass between the villages of Kaizuru and Minoko still bore signs of battle—splintered rock, scorched earth, and blackened scars trailing along the cliffs.
Kozan crouched, brushing aside some dust to reveal a cluster of fine senbon, their tips laced with dried venom, embedded in the stone alongside splinters of foreign wood—light in color, clearly not native to this region.
"This isn't Deidara's work," he muttered.
Suiren stood nearby, interrogating a local hunter. The man, trembling slightly, gestured down the forest trail.
"A woman. Priestess robes. White and silver. She passed through the ruins three days ago. Didn't speak to anyone. Just smiled. The crows followed her."
Suiren returned to Kozan. "He's the third to mention a 'priestess of the moon' in this area."
"Coincidence?"
"Not likely."
They pressed deeper into the valley, splitting their teams along a worn trade road. Local accounts led them to believe the woman was heading east—toward a series of shrines long abandoned since the wars.
One of the jōnin, Masari, returned with notes copied from a barkeep's ledger.
"Several travelers recorded seeing the same woman. One claimed she healed a child with a touch. Another said she made wolves bow. I suppose there is an exaggeration in their words, but the respect towards her is real."
Kozan grunted. "We're not just chasing ghosts. This moon cult may be tied to the disappearance. And possibly... to Deidara's fate."
Suiren narrowed her eyes. "Track her. Quietly. Even if this priestess doesn't have the answers we're looking for, it can certainly tell us things about the actions of this cult."
Above them, clouds veiled the full moon.
The wind smelled faintly of ash and incense.
<<<< o >>>>
The sun dipped low over the fields of Takawa, painting the village in amber light. Haro adjusted the cloth around his shoulders, worn from travel and nerves. He walked past children playing near the well, past vendors closing stalls, until he reached the modest weaving shop tucked at the end of the lane.
Renha stood outside, brushing loose threads from a woven mat. She looked up as he approached.
"You again," she said, not unkindly. "What is this, the fourth time now?"
Haro smiled awkwardly. "It is. I didn't plan it."
"No one ever does," she replied, leaning her broom against the wall.
They stood in silence for a moment, the air filled with the scent of fresh straw and something sweet baking nearby.
"The last time you left without saying anything," Renha said. "Why come back again?"
Haro hesitated. Then, quietly: "Because... I think I've been waiting to hear something from you. But now I know I came to say something instead."
She raised an eyebrow, curious.
"I want to stay. I've done things... ugly things. But I've also seen what else there could be. And I want that. Even if I don't deserve it."
Renha looked into his eyes for a long time, then simply said, "Then help me carry this inside."
And for the first time in years, Haro felt like a man walking forward, not running away.
<<<< o >>>>.
The village of Shiru clung to the coastline like a barnacle—stone homes built low to the ground to brace against sea winds, nets strung between rooftops, and the scent of salt and iron in every breath.
Renzo arrived under cloudy skies. He'd walked for four days, carrying only a satchel and a name.
The forge was easy to find. It was the only building that rang with hammering instead of gull cries.
An old man stood inside, sleeves rolled, working a piece of red-hot metal. His face was weathered but alert, eyes sharp.
"If you're selling fish, try the wharf," he barked.
"I'm not selling," Renzo replied. "I'm looking for Eiro."
The hammer paused mid-swing.
"Who's asking?"
"Renzo. I was told… you lost your apprentice. And that I should come here."
Eiro set down his hammer. His gaze narrowed.
"And who told you that?"
Renzo hesitated. "A priestess, one of those that represent the moon cult."
Eiro's eyes softened just a touch. "Others have already tried it. None lasted. Said it was too hot. Too hard."
Renzo stepped forward. "I've worked with heat before. And hard is fine. I just need a place where I can earn back who I am."
Eiro studied him for a long moment, then gestured to the bellows. "Start with the fire. Keep it breathing. We'll see if you're worth the iron."
Renzo smiled.
"Yes, sir."
<<<< o >>>>.
Daiki tightened the band of his new armor, standing among the training yard of a local samurai garrison. His movements were sharp, disciplined. Around him, others drilled sword forms in silence. No cheers. No blood. Just purpose.
He hadn't thought this life would suit him.
But as the days passed, he found something unfamiliar growing inside him: pride. Not in what he could take—but in what he could build.
One afternoon, a letter arrived. It was unsigned, but the paper was pressed with a faint scent of jasmine and moonlight.
"Your steps resonate clearly. I am pleased."
He smiled. It was enough.
Far away, on a ridge overlooking a caravan road, Natsu knelt beside a campfire. Around him were others—drifters, warriors, rogues. They spoke in low tones, sharing names and stories without judgment.
The woman beside him, a former mercenary, offered him tea.
"So what are we now?" she asked.
Natsu took a sip, letting the steam warm his face. "Not bandits. Not saints. Just people who haven't given up."
The fire crackled. In the distance, a wolf howled.
None of them felt afraid.