Back to Haru, trapped inside the old Japanese building. His expression was one of disbelief, as if questioning what just happened. He stared at the rotting wooden wall before him, where a purple light flickered and pulsed, casting eerie shadows in the dark.
Inside the crumbling old Japanese building, Haru stood frozen. His eyes fixed on the decaying wooden wall ahead, bathed in the eerie pulse of flickering purple light. The glow wavered—on, then off—casting restless shadows that danced like silent whispers in the darkness.
Every breath hung heavy in the stale air, the weight of the trap settling like a stone in his chest.
Haru pivoted, stepping cautiously into the dim interior. Each footfall creaked against the worn wooden floor, the flickering purple light casting fractured shadows around him. As he moved deeper, a sudden, faint sound pierced the silence—sharp, deliberate, and close. His senses snapped awake.
The faint strains of shamisen music floated through the air, sharp and haunting, echoing off the wooden beams of the ancient building.
Haru moved cautiously toward the source, each step deliberate, his senses sharpening with the knowledge that he'd been found—and these enemies were far deadlier than he had imagined.
He stopped before a paper sliding door adorned with a delicate butterfly pattern. Without hesitation, he slid it open, his expression unreadable, calm as ever.
A haunting melody sliced through the stillness—the sharp, twang of a shamisen echoing through the ancient wooden halls like a ghost's whisper.
Haru's footsteps were slow, deliberate, each one sinking softly into the floorboards as the weight of unseen eyes pressed down on him. He knew—he'd been discovered. And whatever waited ahead was far more dangerous than he had imagined.
He stopped before a paper sliding door, its surface painted with a delicate butterfly pattern, flickering faintly in the dim light. His hand moved smoothly, pushing the door open with a quiet sigh.
His face remained unreadable, detached—a calm eye in the storm—as he stepped into the unknown.
The moment the door slid open, the eerie strum of the shamisen came to a sudden halt.
Inside, seated calmly on a woven mat, was a boy no older than sixteen—his blonde hair neatly tied back, a white haori draped over his frame, and black stockings on his legs. Beside him, a sword rested carefully in its holder, untouched. The shamisen still sat in his hands, the final note hanging in the air like a frozen breath.
He resumed playing, eyes closed, each note rich and controlled, echoing through the paper-walled chamber. Haru stood silently at the entrance, watching, expression unreadable, eyes heavy with calculation.
After a short while, the boy stopped playing. He gently set the shamisen down, rose to his feet, and gave a deep, respectful bow.
"Haru-sama, it is a pleasure to meet you."
His tone was calm—genuine. In Japanese, -sama is reserved for deities, lords, or someone held in the highest regard.
Haru blinked slowly, his voice low. "Haru-sama? Am I your master?"
The boy smiled lightly and nodded once.
Then, lifting a small tray beside him, he asked with cheerful politeness, "May I interest you in wine?"
Haru didn't refuse—he couldn't. Everything now had to be calculated. Every step, every glance, every sip.
Was this truly an abduction? Or just a polite exchange between two captives in a cage neither fully understood?
He removed his sandals at the entrance and stepped into the room, silent and composed. The sliding door closed behind him on its own—no wind, no strings, just an eerie finality.
The boy, already kneeling on a zabuton—a traditional floor cushion—gestured to the space opposite him. Haru walked forward and knelt as well, maintaining eye contact, his presence as still as a shadow.
With precise etiquette, the boy adjusted the sleeve of his white haori, ensuring it didn't interfere as he poured from a slender, glass-demarcated bottle. First Haru's cup, then his own.
He raised his small porcelain cup to his lips, sipped, and smiled warmly.
"My name is Tanzegtsu Omori," he said, his tone as calm as the shamisen he once played. "It's an honour… to finally meet the one they call Iminaqo Haru."
Haru's thoughts stirred beneath his unreadable expression.
"The one they call Haru?" The words echoed in his mind, but his face remained still—detached. He knew better than to chase the meaning directly. Pushing for answers now could tilt the air, and tension wasn't his ally.
Across the small table, Tanzegtsu retrieved a lantern, striking it alight with practiced ease. Haru's eyes followed every motion, his senses sharp. This boy—no, this host—was no prisoner. Not with the poise, the wine, the warmth of the room. No captive treats their guest like royalty.
Before Haru could speak, Tanzegtsu had already placed the lantern down, its gentle glow overtaking the eerie pulse of the purple light.
With a small chuckle, the boy looked up. "We can't have a light like that in the room with an Iminaqo present..." he mused, adjusting the flame just slightly. "Ah—how was my shamisen? Both the instrument and the melody were my mother's. She once played at the palace…"
He continued to speak, voice gentle, but his words began to fade from Haru's ears—muffled by the noise of his thoughts.
Killing me isn't their goal... Haru reasoned. Abduction is the only option. I'm a 'master' to them? If that's true…
He closed his eyes for the briefest second.
...then survival is the only way forward.