The road stretched along the Kamo River, where lanterns hung dimly from wooden posts, swaying in the night breeze.
Kyoto's narrow streets were alive with voices, but they carried an unease—markets closing early, shutters drawn, and guards moving in tighter formations.
The young monk walked timidly along the road, his prayer beads clicking softly with each step as he gazes at the person beside him, a spirit.
Kenshi followed a pace behind, hand never straying far from his blade.
"Kyoto has changed," the monk said, his voice low, hesitant, yet steady.
"The people hide before the moon has even climbed the sky. Fear grows quicker than rice in the fields. Children and young ones start to vanish into the dark."
Kenshi's gaze swept over the crooked rooftops, catching shadows darting where no light should allow them. "It reeks of unrest. What are they afraid of?"
The monk's eyes flicked toward a dark alley, where something stirred but quickly vanished. "There are whispers of corrupted souls. The common folk call them 'cursed ones.' the dead wander when rites are neglected… and when hatred festers."
Kenshi narrowed his eyes.
"Neglected rites doesn't corrupt souls, monk. Though there are many things I don't know in this world."
The monk give a slight nod, as he looks at Kenshi and mutters, seeing his young face and stature..
"yeah, I can definitely see that."
"That is what surprises me, only the dead or the dying should be able to see me."
They passed beneath a vermilion torii, paint peeling, prayers tied to its beams fluttering like frail wings.
A group of villagers bowed quickly to the monk, avoiding Kenshi's eyes, as though sensing the weight of his spirit pressure.
Kenshi exhaled, hand brushing his sword's hilt. "If Kyoto is already this drowned in fear, then your monastery will not stand untouched."
The monk's expression was serene, but his words carried gravity.
"Then perhaps it is fate you arrived, Kenshi. For the soul of this city may depend on the battles you fight."
"I hope so, after all I need someone to guide me. Cant have you die on me."
Says Kenshi, his gaze following the crowd as they avoid his gaze.
Suddenly turning his gaze towards the monk, who tremblingly turns towards Kenshi answering his inner doubts.
"Yes, they can see you. They are the ones who believed in our monastery, so I guard their spirits until they pass on."
At the far edge of Kyoto, a mansion stood like a rotten tooth in the gums of the city.
Its gates hung crooked, and its lanterns burned with an oily flame that flickered but never died. From its living room steady stream of crimson started to flow, creeping down the wooden steps in delicate rivers, staining the stones outside with veins of rot.
The crash came first.
A body was hurled from the inner chamber, ribs breaking as it landed in the hall with a brittle crack. The air seemed to recoil, and from within the chamber came footsteps that shook dust loose from the beams.
Caine stepped through the doorway, his silhouette sharpened by the crooked lamplight. His eyes glowed red, as though they reflected fire no one else could see.
Behind him, Mark emerged, his fingers slick with dark stains that gleamed as if they carried their own pulse.
"Filthy," Caine muttered, kneeling over the body. "The blood of these normies… it revolts my very being.."
The words echoed through the house like smoke, mingling with the iron tang of lives lost.
Caine's fangs elongated with a wet crack, his mouth splitting into something inhuman and unholy. He leaned in, sinking teeth into the corpse's throat.
The sound was obscene: tearing cloth, crunching cartilage, a suction that echoed like a straw dragged across the last drop in a glass.
Mark's hand hovered above the spreading blood, his nails dragging through it in deliberate motions. He wasn't doodling—each line curved into another, flowing into shapes that seemed to thrum against the eye. The liquid clung unnaturally to his fingers, rising in thin, trembling threads as though compelled by something more than gravity. The air around him prickled with spiritual pressure, heavy and metallic, pressing into the lungs.
"Patience, Caine," Mark whispered. His voice carried an eerie reverence. "It's almost complete. Their wails, their hollowed reiryoku—once it's aligned, once it's… set, Kyoto will consume itself to death."
The corpse twitched under Caine's grip, its eyes rolling back as the blood drained faster, pulled not just into Caine's teeth but toward Mark's pattern on the floor. The crimson lines seemed to drink the man dry, pulling skin tight across his bones as the body collapsed into something brittle and husked. The patterns on the wood glowed faintly, red on black, shifting in subtle ways that defied the eye.
Caine lifted his head, lips drenched, his face painted in grotesque strokes. "Then let it come soon. I tire of this filth. I want the pure ones… the bright souls." His grin widened until his cheek split, Reiatsu flaring like a stifled flame.
The walls groaned. Portraits of smiling families melted, their painted eyes dripping like black tar. The house seemed to breathe, as though inhaling the blood that stained its boards. From beneath the floor came a deep, rattling sound—clicking, counting, waiting.
Mark pressed his palm onto the trembling lines, the blood beneath him bubbling like it had begun to boil. His voice thinned into a whisper, almost devout: "Everything is aligning. The pure will be lured. The corrupted will answer. And when they meet… our hands will guide the outcome."
Caine stood, casting the husk aside. His glowing eyes mirrored Mark's as both men watched the lines of blood pulse faintly, beating like a second heart. The city outside lay silent, unaware that its existence was being rewritten in a mansion where two predators shaped slaughter into design.
"Can you feel it, Rorona?"
Asks Kenshi as he starts to rise from his meditation.
Asking the young monk, now Rorona, as he gazes towards the Forest outside the monastery.
The air around the monastery went still, but not peaceful.
The pine trees swayed, their shadows stretching unnaturally across the stone path.
From the meditation hall, Kenshi rose to his feet, eyes narrowing toward the forest.
The young monk fumbled beside him, his hands trembling as he tried to follow Kenshi's gaze. Nothing.
"Kenshi-sama…" the monk's voice cracked.
"Do you feel it? It's like—like something's that shouldn't be here."
Kenshi's hand slid to his sword, the blade vibrating faintly in its sheath. "Rorona," he said, his voice low. "Something foul. Close. Wait here."
Without waiting, he stepped into the trees.
The forest deepened into silence. Even the cicadas had gone quiet. The further they went, the heavier the air became, thick with a metallic smell that clung to the throat.
Then, through the trees, he found it.
An opening in the earth, half-swallowed by roots and moss. The entrance was jagged, unnatural, as though torn apart from the inside. Faint, dried trails of black-red stained the stones around it, leading downward like veins.
Kenshi froze at the threshold, when he suddenly turns around, only to find Rorona.
"We shouldn't go in…" whispers Rorona. His voice shook, breaking on every word.
Kenshi ignored him and descended.
The cavern within was wrong. The walls were slick with moisture, yet streaked with long-dried blood that formed curling, deliberate shapes. The ground was blackened, a wide circle of lines etched into the stone, now lifeless but still resonating with a pressure that made the chest tighten.
It was a place of silence, but not emptiness. The air still hummed faintly, like a blade freshly drawn.
The monk stumbled inside, his sandal slipping in a crusted smear. His eyes went wide at the markings. "What… what happened here?"
Kenshi crouched, his fingers brushing the hardened streaks. The touch sent a dull vibration up his arm, like an echo of something violent and alive. He stared at the shapes, his jaw tight.
"They were here," he said at last, voice grim. "Whatever was done… it left a scar."
The boy swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But… they're gone now, aren't they?"
Kenshi didn't reply. His gaze lingered on the center of the circle, where a faint ember of red light flickered for a heartbeat, then sank back into the stone—like a coal refusing to die.
The cavern seemed to breathe once, exhaling a chill that cut through bone. Then silence.
"They didnt! They are waiting, for something."
Says Kenshi, his gaze locking onto Rorona, as the young monk starts to go pale and tremble from fear.
'This world, just how many secrets does it hide??'
Thinks kenshi, as he continues to examine the cave, unable to contain his curiosity and his rising bloodlust.