As the first puppet lunged.
Hanzo pivoted aside, his sandals gliding on the tatami, and the corpse's sword carved only air. A gust of pressure followed the swing, cutting the candlelight into flickering shadows. The puppet's empty eyes tracked him with mindless obedience, joints creaking with the dry pop of aged wood.
Hanzo twirled his staff effortlessly and then thrust forward like a lightning bolt.
The tip glowed obsidian black, coated in Armament Haki, and struck the puppet in the chest.
A deep, thunderous crack filled the room. The puppet flew backward and crashed through a line of others before slamming into Osakabehime's dais. Wood splintered from the dais. As the dust rose, hiding an amused face.
"First blood," Hanzo muttered.
The cursed spirit's painted lips curved upward.
Her eyes—sharp, slit-pupiled, ancient—gleamed with intrigue. "How fascinating," she murmured. "A human, yet no cursed energy. But with so much strength."
Her voice dripped with delight, the tone of a collector finding a rare specimen.
"You'll make… the perfect puppet."
Hanzo sighed, rolling his neck till it popped. "Lady, I've been called a lot of things, but 'perfect puppet' isn't one of them. I'm flattered, though."
She lifted her arm, and the corpses around her stirred.
Dozens of heads snapped toward Hanzo in eerie synchronization. Bones cracked, and their jaws clicked open. And in a grotesque ballet, they rose together with the sound of their movements like meat grinding against silk.
The air thickened with cursed energy.
Osakabehime's voice rang out softly, like a lullaby turned venomous. "Dance for me."
The army surged forward.
Hanzo moved instantly, like he was teleporting. His staff became a blur, cutting through the first line with crushing strength. Each swing hummed with Armament Haki, the impact turning puppets into collapsing heaps of bones and silk.
But for every puppet he shattered, two more replaced it.
"Persistent," he muttered, ducking under a blade swipe. The sword scraped his cheek, leaving a thin red line. He retaliated with a wide sweep—five corpses were bisected cleanly, their upper halves tumbling like broken dolls.
"You've got quite the fan club," he said between breaths. "But sorry, lady—I don't do harem endings. Especially not corpse editions."
From her dais, Osakabehime laughed—a sound like glass chimes and spiders crawling beneath the skin. "Do you mock me, human? You should be honoured to become one of my beloveds!"
"Beloveds?" Hanzo deflected a spear thrust with a sharp parry. "You must be lonely—keeping all your ex-boyfriends around like decorations."
Her laughter faltered. "You insolent worm!"
He ducked again as a puppet's fist grazed past his ear. "Also, that smell," Hanzo added, sniffing the air exaggeratedly, "you sure it's incense and not body odour from your guests?"
The temperature in the room dropped.
Osakabehime's face froze in rage, and from her outstretched fingers, something invisible lashed out.
Hanzo's instincts screamed. His Observation Haki flared, painting a mental image of the world around him in detail beyond vision, showing a thin line slicing toward his neck.
He tilted his head by an inch.
The air split.
A strand of something impossibly sharp sliced through the wooden pillar behind him, severing it cleanly.
He exhaled. "...Right. So that's your cursed technique."
Osakabehime's lips stretched into a cruel smile. "My silk. My web. My strings. Each strand is fine enough to sever souls."
Hanzo twirled his staff again, grounding his stance. "You know, I'm starting to think you really don't like being insulted."
"I hate insolence," she hissed.
Invisible threads exploded outward—dozens of them—tearing through the air like blades.
Hanzo darted between them, every movement guided by his sharp instinct and his Haki. Each strand shimmered faintly in his mind's eye, like silver serpents tracing patterns of death. He ducked, spun, rolled—one cut through his sleeve, another grazed his shoulder, and a third clipped the end of his hair.
He smirked through the chaos. "You're gonna give me a haircut at this rate."
"You should have let me!" she screamed, "I would have made you beautiful!"
"Lady, I already am!"
He slammed his staff into the ground and vaulted upward, flipping over a swarm of puppets lunging beneath him. As he landed, he spun the bo-staff in a wide arc, the motion cracking the air.
Impact.
A blast of shockwave burst outward, scattering puppets into pieces. Their limbs hit the walls and crumbled into dust, heads rolling across the floor like discarded porcelain.
Hanzo straightened, exhaling through his nose. "Haaah. What a thrill."
Osakabehime's patience frayed. The beautiful illusion of her face trembled, her eyes twitching with hate. "You mock me again! You dare—"
"I mean, come on," Hanzo interrupted, pointing his staff at the shattered remains. "You really think these puppets make you look cool? You've got the taste of a necromancer with hoarding issues."
Her scream shattered the air.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of strings shot out from her sleeves and hair, slicing through everything. The walls, the ceiling, and the tatami—all shredded to ribbons in seconds.
Hanzo crouched low, weaving through the slashes. A single misstep meant death. His body blurred—he pushed himself against his limit. His speed was monstrous now—beyond human.
He spun under one thread, then kicked off the floor to avoid another, and landed in a slide that left a faint burn mark on the tatami.
"You done yet?" he called out, smirking. "Because if I'm going to die, I'd at least like to do it after eating some good food."
Osakabehime shrieked again, but her threads missed. The more she moved, the more her elegant composure cracked, revealing something feral beneath.
Hanzo grinned faintly. "That's better. Let's skip the dramatics."
He charged.
The floorboards cracked under his heel. His body blurred forward, a streak of motion so fast that Osakabehime's eyes barely tracked him.
He appeared in front of her, staff raised high.
Her eyes widened.
"Impossible—!"
The bo-staff, wrapped in dense Armament Haki, came down like a hammer.
THUD.
The impact split the air, crushed the tatami, and drove Osakabehime's head straight, kissing the floor. The ground buckled under the force, dust exploding outward like smoke from a cannon.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Hanzo stood over her, the end of his staff still pressed to the back of her head. His breath came out steady, almost relaxed. "Guess you're not used to fighting yourself, huh?"
Her fingers twitched. The illusion of her beauty flickered—hair shifting, skin rippling like liquid silk. He could see the darkness underneath now, the faint shimmer of her true form struggling to hold itself together.
Her voice came out low, trembling with fury. "You… you dare strike me…"
Hanzo smiled. "You're welcome."
Her body began to shake—then laugh.
The sound was wrong.
It wasn't melodic anymore. It was wet, gurgling, like laughter bubbling through a throat full of blood.
Hanzo's smile faded.
The corpse puppets littering the room began twitching. One by one, their heads turned toward him. The walls cracked, bleeding black energy. The candles sputtered out, one by one, until only the moonlight remained.
Osakabehime's body convulsed once, twice— and then her flesh started to peel.