The map was a testament to a slow, creeping death. In the heavy quiet of his study, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and guttering candle wax, Kurogane Issei traced a finger over the eastern territories. A scholar's lean frame was folded over the large desk, his simple robes practical, the cuff of one sleeve bearing a faint, dark smudge of ink. The chill of the Raining Season seeped through the thick stone walls, a dampness that clung to the heavy tapestries and settled deep in his bones. His touch on the map was feather-light, as if the parchment itself were a bruised and feverish skin. Each red ink blot, meticulously placed by his own hand, marked a village gone silent, a trade route severed, a report of crops choked by a black mold that left only dust in the fields. For months, he had collected these reports, whispered by panicked couriers with haunted eyes and confirmed by stony-faced scouts who spoke in clipped, grim sentences. They painted a picture not of a disorganized demonic assault, but of a calculated, spreading plague. The Blight.
It had begun in the east, the kingdom's forgotten frontier. The first reports were dismissed by the Imperial Council as isolated incidents—a bad harvest, a bold goblin raid. But Issei, taught by his mother to see the patterns others missed, saw the insidious logic in the chaos. The Blight spread like a stain of spilled ink, following rivers, consuming forests, and always, always expanding.
A soft rustle of silk pulled him from his thoughts. Empress Emi stood in the doorway of his study, her expression a familiar blend of maternal pride and gentle concern. Her posture was one of quiet, unshakable composure, and her sharp, discerning eyes took in her son's weary state and the obsessive map in a single glance.
"Another late night, my son?" she asked, her voice a soft melody against the distant, drumming rain. "The candle is almost a memory."
Issei looked up, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He offered a weary smile, gesturing to the map that was his obsession. "The Blight spreads faster than the wax melts, Mother. Another village, Umegawa, has been lost." He picked up a scroll, his knuckles white. "The courier described men whose skin had turned the color of old bark, their eyes burning with a fever that was not their own. He spoke of a creeping black ichor that wept from the trees."
Emi walked to his side, her gaze falling upon the crimson-stained map. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "And the council?"
"They see what they wish to see," Issei replied, a bitter edge sharpening his voice. He stood, unable to remain still. "General Takahashi sees a military problem to be solved with legions that arrive weeks too late to do anything but bury the dead. Yamaguchi Osamu sees only the coin it would cost to deploy them, clutching the treasury's keys as if they were his own heart. And Kurosawa Jiro..." Issei stopped, running a hand through his hair. "He sees only a disruption to the established order. An inconvenience. They refuse to understand we are not fighting an army. We are fighting a pestilence."
"Their pride is a fortress, Issei," Emi said softly, her eyes full of a sharp, knowing sadness. "They will not easily admit a threat has grown beyond the reach of their own arms." She looked from the map to her son's determined face. "You have a plan. I see it in your eyes."
"I have the only solution," Issei corrected gently, his voice firming with resolve. "The one they are too proud to consider." He rolled up the map with crisp, decisive movements, the sharp crackle of parchment cutting through the quiet. "I will present it to them today. They must be made to listen."
Emi's hand tightened on his shoulder, a silent warning. "Then tread carefully, my son. A scholar's logic is a fragile weapon against a politician's ego."
The air in the council chamber was heavy and cold, thick with the scent of polished dark wood and an arrogance so profound it felt like its own fragrance. At its head, Kurosawa Jiro sat with a posture as rigid and unyielding as the stone walls, his face a mask of severe lines. General Takahashi Goro, a bull of a man whose thick neck strained against the high collar of his uniform, scoffed, the medals on his chest glinting. Across from him, Chiba Fumiko examined her fingernails with an air of detached amusement, while the treasurer, Yamaguchi Osamu, a thin, hunched man with eyes as small and hard as pebbles, leaned forward.
"Prince Issei," Jiro began, his voice dry as dust, not bothering to look up. "We have indulged your request for an audience. We trust it is of significance."
"It is of the utmost significance," Issei replied, his voice ringing with a conviction that felt like a foreign language in the sterile room. He unrolled his map. The red stains felt like open wounds under the cold, diffuse light. "For six months, the eastern territories have been consumed by a plague of demonic origin. What began as scattered incidents has become a strategic blight that now threatens the heart of our kingdom."
General Takahashi Goro gave a short, derisive scoff, the polishing of his medal ceasing abruptly. "An exaggeration, Your Highness. My legions have pacified three goblin nests in the last month alone. The situation is under control."
"With respect, General, you are swatting at flies while the hornet's nest grows," Issei countered, his gaze sweeping across the council members before landing back on Jiro. "You fight where the demons are seen. I am telling you the source of the plague—the heart of the Blight—lies here," he pointed to the vast, unprotected forest on the map's eastern edge. "It is a single, powerful entity orchestrating this chaos. A Demon Lord."
A low murmur rippled through the council. Osamu leaned forward, his small eyes narrowing. "A Demon Lord? Preposterous. And what 'proof' do you offer for this... theory, Your Highness?"
"The pattern," Issei stated simply, his voice cutting through the skepticism. "The logical, undeniable progression of the Blight from a single point of origin. My proposal is not to send legions to chase shadows. It is to hire specialists to strike at the head of the beast. The Imperial Palace knows the location of the Demon Slayers. We must dispatch a squad to the source and end this."
The silence was broken by a delicate, cutting laugh from Chiba Fumiko, a woman of quiet elegance whose dark hair was pinned with a single, sharp silver stick. Her smile, however, never reached her cold eyes. "Slayers?" She finally looked up from her hands, a faint, condescending smile on her lips. "Your Highness, you wish to empty the treasury to hire those high-priced mercenaries? Those shadowy outcasts who answer to no authority but their own?"
"They are not outcasts; they are the only ones with the expertise to succeed," Issei insisted, his voice rising with a passion the council clearly found distasteful. "We can dispatch a messenger to–"
"Absolutely not!" Kurosawa Jiro interrupted harshly. He stood, placing his hands flat on the table and leaning forward slightly, his shadow falling over the map. "The safety of this kingdom is the responsibility of the Imperial Army. To hire them would be an admission of our own weakness. It would be a profound insult to General Takahashi and his men." He looked down at Issei, his eyes cold and hard. "The council will not entertain this fantasy further. We will increase patrols. The matter is closed."
Issei stared back, his heart sinking into a cold knot of dread. He saw it then, clear as day. They were not listening to his logic. They were not looking at his map. They were only protecting their pride. He had come to them with the key to save the kingdom, and they had refused to even look at it, too afraid that it wasn't forged in their own fire.
His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering along his cheek. He bowed stiffly, the movement sharp with a cold fury building behind the wall of his courtly etiquette. "As you command."
As he turned and walked from the chamber, the heavy doors closing behind him with a dull thud, the weight of a thousand future deaths settled upon his shoulders. He had tried to play by their rules. And their rules would drown the kingdom in blood.
The third cycle of High Twilight was upon the Imperial City, painting the sky in shades of pewter and bruised violet. It was the brightest part of Vorlag's endless twilight, yet it remained a gloomy, overcast day, with a cold, diffuse light filtering through the perpetual haze. The city, usually a hum of activity, felt unnervingly muted, as if holding its breath.
As Issei navigated the palace corridors, his mind a storm of frustration from the council's obstinacy, a frantic commotion erupted from a side antechamber. He paused, slipping behind a heavy tapestry that smelled of dust and damp wool. A messenger, his clothes torn and caked in mud, lay prostrate before a flustered junior aide, his ragged gasps echoing in the stone hallway. His eyes were wide with a terror that had hollowed them out, staring at the polished floor as if the horrors he'd fled were still crawling from it.
"They came from beneath, my lord! From beneath the very earth!" the messenger choked out, his voice raw with terror. "Furusato and the trading post at Kawa—all hit in the dead of the deepest twilight! Spiders, my lord! Not small ones, but creatures as large as a man, scuttling from holes torn in the ground!"
The aide, a young man whose face had gone as white as his silk robes, fumbled with a quill. His perfectly manicured hands seemed ill-suited for anything heavier than a quill, and they trembled as he tried to make sense of the man's frantic words. "Spiders? Are you certain? This is unheard of! Were there no alarms?"
"No time, my lord! It was a coordinated strike. They swarmed us before we could react. They devoured some, trapped others in thick, gleaming webs!" The messenger's body trembled violently. "And some… some were just… worn. The creatures ate them from within and moved their bodies like puppets… I saw it, my lord! I saw my neighbor walk towards me, smiling, with spider legs twitching from his mouth! Few of us made it out alive."
Issei's hand clenched the rough weave of the tapestry until his knuckles ached. This was worse than he had imagined. He listened as the aide offered nervous assurances, his voice a condescending balm. The dismissal came, as Issei knew it would, whispered too loudly as the messenger was helped away. "Likely hallucinations from fear. Send a formal report to General Takahashi's office. He will… investigate."
Fools, Issei seethed, a bitter taste filling his mouth. He turned sharply and strode away, the sound of the messenger's fading, desperate pleas a fire at his back. He needed his mother.
He hastened his pace, his scholarly robes rustling softly against the polished stone. As he turned a corner into a less formal wing of the palace, a booming, arrogant laugh cut through the quiet.
"Issei! Still wandering the halls like a ghost, with your nose buried in those dusty scrolls?"
His older brother, Kurogane Masaru, stood framed in an archway, his rich silks shimmering even in the dim light. He stood with aristocratic ease, arrogance woven into every line of his posture, one hand resting casually on the hilt of a decorative sword. With his other hand, Masaru laid a possessive grip on the shoulder of their younger sister, Kurogane Kazumi, who beamed warmly at Issei. She was a vision of pampered youth, a new jade comb glistening in her elaborately styled hair, her eyes bright with a naivety that pained Issei.
"Brother, you waste your days contemplating shadows when there's a whole life to be lived!" Masaru continued, a patronizing smirk playing on his lips. "Kazumi is desperate for new silks from the market, and I promised her a trinket. Join us."
Kazumi tugged at his sleeve, her voice lilting with earnestness. "Please, Issei! It's so much fun, and you never come!"
Issei forced a tight smile, the horror of the messenger's report still clawing at him. "Another time, perhaps. I have urgent business with Mother."
Masaru waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, leave him, Kazumi. Our scholarly brother would rather act the commoner, wouldn't you? Let him have his 'urgent business'." With a final, condescending glance, Masaru tugged Kazumi away, their laughter echoing down the corridor.
Issei watched them go, the bitter irony a physical weight in his chest. They chased frivolous pleasures while the kingdom began to crumble beneath their feet.
He found Empress Emi in her private garden, an oasis made vibrant even in the muted light of High Twilight. Here, the Rainbloom flowers were in their full glory, a rare spectacle that appeared only during the Raining Season. Their petals were a startling splash of vivid fuchsia, bleeding into deep, velvety indigo at their tips, and water droplets clung to them like tiny jewels. She looked up from tending a cluster of the blossoms, her expression shifting from gentle contemplation to immediate concern as she saw the grim set of Issei's jaw.
"The council, Mother," Issei began, his voice tight. "They dismissed everything." He recounted the messenger's horrifying report—the raw terror in the man's voice, the colossal spiders bursting from the earth, the puppets worn from within.
Emi's shears clattered onto the stone path. Her face, usually so composed, paled. "From beneath the ground..." she murmured, her hand flying to her mouth. "A coordinated strike on multiple villages. They are not merely preying on the weak; they are targeting the veins of the kingdom. This… this threatens the Palace itself." A long, silent moment passed. "You are right, my son. The council will do nothing."
"Then we must act," Issei pressed, his gaze unwavering. "We must contact the slayers. You know the routes, the contacts. Which villages are within reach?"
Emi nodded slowly, her mind already working. "Akaruma in the north, and Shiroyama in the northeast. It is a long, perilous journey for a messenger, but not impossible."
"Then we must recruit elites from both villages," Issei insisted. "A joint operation, striking at the heart of this new threat."
Emi gasped, her eyes widening. "Two elite squads? Issei, the cost... And the risk, should word get out—" She hesitated, the immense political and financial weight of his plan settling upon her. After a moment, she met his gaze, her fear eclipsed by resolve. "Very well, Issei. But no one, not a single soul, must know of this. I will send the messages myself, through my most trusted couriers."
"No," Issei interjected, his voice softer but no less resolute. "I must write the letters. If this fails, if the council discovers it, the blame must fall on me. Not on you."
A deep sigh escaped Emi's lips, a testament to her son's fierce sense of duty. She walked to a small, inlaid writing desk and returned with two fresh parchments. "As you wish, my son. Be precise. Be discreet."
Issei took the parchments, his mind already formulating the urgent words. He described the catastrophic events, the spider demons, and the desperate need for their unique skills, concluding with an invitation to a discreet meeting ground. Meanwhile, Emi quietly summoned her most loyal messenger, a man whose face was impassive as stone.
When the messenger arrived, Issei had sealed both letters with unmarked wax. "This is a vital task," Issei said, his voice low. "We cannot send guards with you; it would raise questions. You must travel alone, unseen."
The messenger bowed deeply, his understanding clear. He tucked the letters into a hidden pouch beneath his tunic. "As you command, Prince Issei. I shall wait until Deep Twilight. The shadows will be my shield."
Issei watched him depart. As he turned to leave his mother's chambers, the imposing figure of his father, the Emperor, stepped into his path, his shadow falling over Issei like a verdict. The Emperor's robes of state were heavy and ornate, seeming to wear him as much as he wore them, and his face, though kind in its lines, was distant in its expression, as if he were observing a minor courtly affair.
"Issei," Emperor Hitoshi said, his voice deep and authoritative, leaving no room for discussion. "I trust you understand your place. Stay out of politics. The council will handle these matters. Do not interfere."
Issei's jaw clenched. Every fiber of his being screamed to argue, to lay bare the truth. But he held his tongue, looking into his father's eyes and seeing not malice, but a placid, unshakeable faith in a broken system. He knew the fight ahead was not one to be waged with words. With a stiff bow that was both respectful and deeply defiant, he turned and walked away without a word, the weight of his secret plan a heavy burden, but also a burning ember of hope against the crushing certainty of the coming storm.