The night embraced Himeji Castle like a shroud.
The moon hung above it—pale, enormous, and beautiful—casting silver light upon white stone and whispering pine. The air was still. Too still. Even the cicadas seemed to have fled from the presence that slumbered within those walls.
Hanzo stood at the forest's edge, one hand resting on the smooth bark of a cedar tree, his eyes tracing the elegant lines of the fortress. From this distance, Himeji looked less like a castle and more like a mausoleum draped in moonlight. Beautiful, yes. But beauty had always been the most dangerous disguise of decay.
He exhaled quietly, tightening the knot of his furoshiki pack.
"Alright then," he murmured to himself, "let's go ruin someone's beauty sleep."
His body moved like a ninja. He sprinted forward, leapt, and his figure cut through the air with effortless grace. His feet landed softly on the outer wall, perched on top like a bird.
He climbed like a certain feline climbing trees. His fingers found grips between stone slabs, and his body propelled upward like a panther scaling prey.
Within seconds, he was on the roof of the first tier.
The wind greeted him, cool and sharp. The city below shimmered with scattered lanterns. Somewhere, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
Hanzo crouched low, letting his Observation Haki unfurl.
It expanded outward in a soft pulse—an invisible tide washing through the corridors and chambers of the castle. He focused his Haki, searching in every nook and cranny, letting no stone unturned.
Aura signatures flickered like candles—dim and fragile.
But there were others… hundreds of them. Cold and hollow. Lifeless, yet standing.
"Is it puppets?" he whispered. "Lovely."
And there, above all the faint presences, pulsed something far stronger. A massive, condensed heart of cursed energy, with its thick and ancient presence. Its presence is like when you are squeezed by two tatami mats that haven't been cleaned for years.
He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the tallest tower.
"That's the one."
Hanzo slipped through a half-open window on the lower level. The air inside was stale—dust and incense long since turned sour. He adjusted his breathing and adjusted his steps like a whisper upon the old tatami mats.
The castle's interior was dead silent. So eerily, that a normal haunted house would pale in comparison. Rusting armour stood in alcoves, watching with hollow eye sockets. Hanging scrolls fluttered faintly despite the lack of wind. Each step forward felt like trespassing into a haunted castle, literally.
As he passed through a narrow hall, his senses flickered. Something moved.
He froze.
To his right stood a line of old armour—samurai armour arranged in a neat row. At first, they seemed still. But one… its helmet was slightly turned toward him.
Hanzo stared back, unflinching. Then he reached out and touched the hilt of his staff. Prepared to blast the armour into nothingness.
"Try me," he whispered.
The armour didn't move.
But Hanzo didn't miss the faint pulse of cursed energy leaking from within it—like a breath that never belonged to an armour.
He exhaled softly. "Creepy interior design. Ten out of ten."
He moved on.
Each stair creaked faintly beneath his weight, though he stepped on it silently. Trying to minimize his movements so as not to alert whatever disgusting thing on top of the tower.
By the time he reached the upper floor, the cursed energy was so thick he could almost taste it. Bitter and metallic. Like blood soaked into wood for centuries.
The corridor ahead stretched long and narrow, lined with faded portraits. The painted eyes of forgotten lords and ladies followed him as he walked. At the end stood a single lacquered door with its paint flaking and its handle dusted with age.
The source was behind it.
Hanzo paused, flexing his fingers once before pushing the door open.
The room beyond glowed faintly with candlelight—hundreds of them, placed upon tall holders, their flames trembling like frightened souls.
At the center sat a woman.
Or what once might have been one.
Her beauty was undeniable, even in decay. Her hair, black as midnight, fell in smooth rivers down her back. Her face was pale, almost translucent, and her lips—painted vermilion—curved in an eternal smile. She wore a junihitoe, a twelve-layered silk, with each layer a different shade of crimson and gold. The fabric shimmered like the sunset bleeding through fog.
But it wasn't the woman herself that made Hanzo's stomach tighten.
It was her audience.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of figures sat around her in perfect stillness. Men, women, and even children. Their faces were pale and lifeless, with their eyes open. Their postures were poised as if in worship.
Lifelike. Too lifelike.
Hanzo's hand tightened around his bo-staff. "Oh," he said softly, "that's… festive."
The woman turned her head with slow and deliberate grace. Her eyes—deep crimson and cold—met his hazel eyes.
"A visitor," she said, her voice smooth, echoing slightly—as if it resonated from both her mouth and the walls themselves. "How long has it been since a man entered this place uninvited?"
Hanzo raised a brow. "Probably the last guy who ended up part of your... doll collection."
Her smile widened. "Ah… you can see us then. So few can."
"Well, not like I want it either," Hanzo said, stepping lightly into the room, "you've got quite the setup here. Creepy lighting, cursed atmosphere, and lifeless audience—it's like a discount Kabuki theatre."
The woman chuckled—a low, melodic sound that sent a chill crawling down his spine. "Bold tongue. You are not afraid?"
"Of a lady in silk? Not yet." He tilted his head, studying her. "Though your cursed energy could probably give my nightmares nightmares."
That made her smile with amusement rather than anger. "How quaint. You amuse me, mortal."
She gestured languidly with a pale hand. The corpses around her seemed to shift ever so slightly, the sound of fabric whispering against tatami.
"I am Osakabehime," she said, voice smooth as lacquer. "Mistress of this castle."
Hanzo tilted his head, eyebrows raised. "Osakabehime, huh? Yeah, that tracks. Every haunted place needs a diva."
A faint curve touched her lips — pride, or the memory of it. "Once, this castle was mine in truth. But humans forgot their place. They forgot me. So I adapted."
He folded his arms. "Let me guess. Adapted by turning people into dinner?"
Her smile deepened, just enough to show teeth. "They offered themselves to me — trembling, desperate, believing devotion would save them. It was… intoxicating. Feeding on their fear."
Hanzo's expression softened just a fraction. "Sounds lonely."
Her gaze turned to ice. "Do not insult me with pity, human."
"Wasn't pity," he said, a wry smirk tugging at his mouth. "Just observation. You're still better dressed than most cursed spirits I've met."
Osakabehime's laugh rippled through the chamber — cold, brittle, crawling under the skin. The candles bent toward her laughter, shadows twitching across the walls. Every corpse turned its head toward Hanzo at once, glassy eyes catching the light.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Ah, great. The group stares. My favourite."
Osakabehime rose from her dais in a fluid motion, the silks of her kimono sliding like spilled ink. "You barge into my sanctum and mock my divinity. Tell me, mortal—what is it you seek?"
He twirled his staff once, the sound of air slicing through wood breaking the tension. "Honestly? Just came to exorcise a curse. Didn't expect to find a fashion show."
Her eyes narrowed, the corners of her mouth curling. "You use humour to mask your fear."
"Mask it?" Hanzo rolled his shoulders. "Nah, I embrace the fear."
For a heartbeat, the hall went still. Then her voice dropped to a murmur, rich and venomous.
"Then let us see how long you can stand unbroken."
The corpses jerked into motion — limbs creaking, necks snapping upright like marionettes pulled by invisible strings. The air grew heavy with the scent of incense and rot.
Hanzo's Observation Haki flared, his perception painting faint lines of cursed energy between each puppet and her. "Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Definitely creepy."
Osakabehime tilted her head, crimson eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Rejoice, human. For your corpse to join my beautiful and eternal collection."
Hanzo grinned, spinning his staff into guard. "Lady, you've got way too much confidence."
Her smirk sharpened like a blade. "And you are nothing more than a bug."
The nearest corpse of a young samurai in tattered armour snapped its eyes open. The sound was wet and unnatural. Its jaw creaked and its bones grinding.
Then it moved.
Hanzo's stance shifted instantly as he lowered himself, coiled his muscles, and his eyes were alive with predatory calm. The puppet lunged with its sword raised high.
The bo-staff spun in his hands like lightning.
Wood meeting steel and sparks flying in candlelight, and the first strike before violence came.