The shrine sat sunken in the green, half-eaten by moss and time. Its wooden frame leaned into the forest like it was tired of standing, beams weathered soft-gray by rain and age. Whatever color it once wore had long since faded—now it was a skeleton of itself, quiet and forgotten beneath a canopy that filtered the afternoon light into slanted gold and heavy shadow.
The air was thick, damp with soil and leaves, faintly sweet with the memory of long-burnt incense. Dust hung in the sunbeams like tiny ghosts too slow to leave. At the center of the shrine rested a squat stone altar, worn smooth by centuries of weather and silence. Three objects flanked it: a rusted katana, its hilt nearly fused with age; a cracked clay bowl, stained dark with something that might’ve been blood; and between them, a sphere of obsidian no larger than a grapefruit, etched with golden sigils that pulsed like embers buried deep in glass.
It didn’t belong there. It didn’t belong anywhere.
A young man stood at the threshold, sneakers scuffing lightly against the warped floorboards. He didn’t move. Arms folded tightly, fingers dug into his sleeves. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, or ghosts, or cursed swords, or ruined forest temples. But this—this he was afraid of.
The air pressed back. Not with weight, but with something else. Expectation. Like the shrine was waiting for him to speak first.
“Takahashi Jin, you gonna stand there forever, or are you just building suspense?”
The voice echoed from deeper inside, amused and effortless. Tachibana Reika, owner of the voice, stood by the altar already, framed by shafts of light and shadow like she belonged to both. She moved like she owned the silence, boots silent against the boards, her black jacket catching the light like liquid ink. Her grin came easy, her eyes sharp as ever.
Jin didn’t answer right away. He was too busy watching how the shadows bent around her, how the sigils on the sphere flickered when she stepped too close. “Reika, this place is—” He hesitated, frowning. “Off.”
She shrugged, circling the altar like it was some forgotten relic in a museum. “It’s old. That’s what you’re feeling. History.” Crouching beside the sphere, she rested her elbows on her knees, head tilted like a cat inspecting something just out of reach. “Besides, don’t you think it’s kind of beautiful?”
Jin stepped inside reluctantly, the floor groaning underfoot. Every instinct told him to leave. “You’ve seen too many ghost movies,” he muttered, hugging his arms tighter.
“And you haven’t seen enough,” she said, still watching the sphere.
He came closer, eyeing the object. “What even is that thing?”
She didn’t answer. Her hand hovered inches from its surface.
The sigils pulsed—just once. A faint breath, like something deep inside it had stirred.
Reika exhaled, slow and quiet. “It’s warm.”
Jin’s blood ran cold. “What?”
“Like it’s breathing,” she said. “Or… remembering.”
There was something different in her voice—soft, thoughtful. Not reverent, but curious in the way she always was, like the world was a puzzle she couldn’t resist breaking open. He didn’t like that. “Things like that shouldn’t feel like anything,” he said flatly.
Finally, she looked back at him. Her expression was unreadable—mischief laced with something deeper. Her eyes, catching the light just right, gleamed like cut amethyst.
“What if it’s waiting for someone?”
He didn’t like that either. “Then let’s not be them. Seriously, Reika. Don’t.”
She smiled. Wider now. Too calm. “You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough.”
“You’re probably right.”
Then she touched it.
Just a fingertip.
The shrine convulsed. A soundless quake tore the silence apart as light erupted from the sigils, flooding the room in blinding gold. The air collapsed inward. Jin shouted, lunging for her—but the floor heaved beneath him. He caught one last glimpse of Reika’s wide eyes, her mouth open in shock—and then she was gone.
The world tore loose.
The shrine. The forest. The air.
Everything unraveled.
Only the light remained—swallowing him whole.
And then—darkness.
Jin woke to cold mud pressed against his cheek and the coppery taste of blood on his tongue. He lay sprawled on his stomach, half-sunk in muck that reeked of rot and iron. Something warm and sticky trickled down the side of his face—blood, and not necessarily his own. Every breath was a ragged gasp that burned his lungs. With a low groan, he forced his eyes open to a world that made no sense.
Above him stretched a bruised red sky that certainly wasn’t the one over Tokyo. Dark clouds hung low, veined with black as if trails of smoke had been frozen in mid-collapse. The familiar shrine where he’d stood moments ago was gone; in its place lay an open clearing blanketed in ash and an unnatural silence. The clearing was ringed by skeletal trees, their blackened limbs reaching toward the bloody sky like gnarled fingers. It was a scene from a nightmare—eerily still, and utterly wrong.
Jin’s head pounded, each heartbeat a hammer of pain behind his eyes. Stifling a rising panic, he pushed himself up to hands and knees. The mud clung to his arms and legs, sucking at him as if trying to pull him back down. He blinked hard to clear his vision, forcing himself to breathe slowly despite the stench of decay and burnt iron in the air. His hands came away slick with muck and something darker—blood. Heart lurching, Jin frantically patted himself down for injuries, but aside from stinging scrapes and bruises, none of the blood was his. If it wasn’t his… whose was it? A chill crawled up his spine at the thought.
A faint tremor ran through the ground—a distant boom that sent tiny ripples across the puddles of black water around him. The air itself tasted vile, a bitter tang of smoke and metal that coated his tongue. Jin forced himself to stand, though his legs quivered so badly he nearly sank back into the mud. Staggering a step, he caught himself against the trunk of a nearby tree for support. The bark was slick and oddly warm to the touch—he jerked his hand away as he felt it throb, almost like a slow heartbeat beneath his palm. Fear tightened around his chest, threatening to strangle the little remaining reason he had. No answers. No explanation. Just survive, he told himself fiercely, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. He had to move, to find someone or something that could explain where he was or how to get out.
The silence pressed in from all sides. No rustling leaves, no birds or insects—just a tomb-like stillness broken only by Jin’s own hitched breathing. He almost called out—whether for his friend Reika or simply for the comfort of hearing a human voice—but the cry died unborn in his throat. KRAAAAAA, a thunderous roar split the air without warning, low and guttural, like the earth itself was screaming. The trees shuddered with the force of it. Jin’s heart seized; the bellow reverberated through his chest, rattling his teeth and shaking the marrow of his bones. It was a sound that didn’t belong in any normal forest. It was the sound of something hungry and angry—something not human.
Jin whipped around toward the source of the roar, pulse hammering in his ears. At the edge of the clearing, the shifting fog churned as shapes moved behind it. Three towering figures emerged between the charred trees, each easily twice the height of a man. They were hunched and broad, with shoulders like boulders and skin that looked like cracked, gray-green stone. In the dim red light, Jin could make out their monstrous features—flat noses, jutting brows, and wide mouths bristling with jagged fangs. Horns curved up from their foreheads, and their eyes… their eyes burned a hellish ember-red beneath furrowed, horned brows, locking onto him. Spittle dripped from their tusked jaws as they snarled in unison. The word came to Jin in a flash of instinctive horror: Oni. These were the demons of Japanese myth made flesh, the ogres mothers warned children about—and they were real, standing not fifty feet from him. Each oni brandished a massive, crude weapon in its gnarled fists: spiked clubs of dark wood and rusted iron, caked with old blood and strips of… oh God… strips of flesh and hair. They fanned out as they advanced, heavy footfalls cracking dead branches underfoot and squelching in the mire.
For a heartbeat, Jin was too terrified to even breathe. His muscles turned to stone, his mind gone blank except for a single primal command blaring in panic: Run. Cold sweat trickled down his neck, but he couldn’t so much as blink. He had never known fear like this—total, body-numbing, mind-emptying fear—as the three monstrosities closed in. It felt as if time had slowed and his legs had become pillars of lead rooted in the tainted soil. One of the oni let out a guttural snort, baring teeth the size of knives. That broke the spell. Jin’s survival instinct kicked through his paralysis, and suddenly he could move again.
He lurched back a step, then spun on his heel and ran. He dashed into the treeline, heedless of direction—away from those things was the only thought that mattered. Branches and thorns clawed at his arms and cheeks as he fled blindly through the undergrowth. His shoes skidded on slick, decaying leaves and loose ash, nearly sending him sprawling more than once. Behind him, angry bellows erupted as the oni charged after their escaping prey. The ground quaked with each of their massive strides. Run. RUN! Jin’s mind screamed, drowning out everything else. He could hear them crashing through the brush, too fast—far too fast. A high whine of terror escaped his throat as he pushed himself harder. He didn’t get far. In the gloom, a thick root jutted out of the sludge directly in his path. Jin’s foot caught and he was suddenly airborne, hurtling forward with nothing to grab.
He hit the ground with punishing force. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a burst and sent a hot bolt of pain across his chest and shoulder. Stars exploded in his vision. Jin crumpled, coughing and gasping, trying desperately to refill his lungs. He had landed face-up, and through hazy vision he saw the dark silhouettes of the oni closing the distance. Scrambling, he kicked frantically against the mud, managing to push himself back a few feet, but it wasn’t enough. One of the demons was already upon him.
Jin blinked mud out of his eyes just in time to see a giant spiked club swing upward, outlined against the ruddy sky. The oni loomed directly above him, blocking out the sickly crimson light. Its lips pulled back in a horrible grin, tusks glistening with saliva. This was it. This was it. Jin’s mind went horribly calm as the club began to descend—he was about to die, here, in this impossible place, without ever understanding why. He wanted to scream, but terror had stolen his voice. He could only watch, frozen, as death rushed down.
SHIIING! A blur of movement sliced into the corner of Jin’s vision—a flash of silver, a shriek of air. In the same instant, the oni’s roar turned into an earsplitting screech. Jin flinched, throwing his arms over his face. A wet thunk splattered him with something hot. There was a heavy WHUMP right beside him, and suddenly the weight of the looming shadow was gone. Heart pounding, Jin dared to peek through his arms.
The oni’s massive forearm lay severed on the ground not a foot from him, still clutching the broken handle of its club. Black blood gushed from the stump attached to the fallen limb, coating the nearby roots in oily ichor—and spattering Jin’s legs and torso in the process. The demon itself staggered back, howling in agony and confusion. For a bewildered second, Jin couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. Then his eyes focused on a new figure standing between him and the wounded oni.
It was a man—human-sized—clad head-to-toe in black armor. He had appeared so quickly, Jin hadn’t even seen where he came from. A curved sword gleamed in his hand, dark blood dripping from its edge. The stranger moved with uncanny speed. Before the injured oni could recover, he lunged forward. Swish— the blade flashed once across the creature’s thick throat, too quick to follow. The demon’s shriek died in a wet gurgle. A line of black appeared across its neck, then burst open in a torrent of inky blood. The oni toppled forward like a felled tree, its huge corpse crashing into the mud so close that Jin felt the ground shudder.
Jin gaped in astonishment, chest heaving. The remaining two oni bellowed in rage at the death of their comrade. With earth-shaking strides they rushed the lone swordsman, swinging their brutal weapons with murderous force. The man in black armor was unfazed. He moved through them like a shadow, fluid and merciless. One oni brought its spiked club hammering down, but the man sidestepped with grace that made the attack look clumsy. The weapon smashed a crater into the ground, missing its target entirely. The stranger slipped around the demon’s flank and, with a two-handed strike, hewed through the back of its knee. Tendons and bone gave way with a grisly snap; the oni collapsed to one knee, snarling in pain.
The third demon was already upon him, swinging a cleaver-like blade nearly as large as Jin’s entire body. The man met the attack head-on. Steel clashed against steel in a spray of sparks. For a heartbeat, man and monster were locked, weapon-to-weapon. Then the armored warrior twisted aside, using the momentum to drive his katana deep into the oni’s chest. The demon shuddered violently as the blade sank between its ribs. With a guttural roar, the man ripped his sword free and immediately spun back to the kneeling oni behind him. A single decisive slash across the remaining oni’s throat finished the job. The creature gurgled and toppled face-first into the muck, its head hanging at an unnatural angle.
Just like that, the clearing fell quiet once more. Three monstrous bodies lay still on the ground, steaming black blood and severed limbs strewn about as if a bomb had gone off. Jin could only stare in disbelief, every muscle in his body quivering with adrenaline and shock. He realized he was still alive—miraculously, impossibly alive. A gasping sob of relief threatened to escape his throat, but he swallowed it down. The air reeked of iron and burnt flesh, making him gag. He struggled up to a sitting position and pushed himself back from the largest corpse, desperate for a cleaner breath of air.
A few paces away, the man in black armor stood calmly amid the carnage, as if this were all routine. In the red gloom, he looked like a warrior from another time—an avenging phantom from some Sengoku-era legend. His armor was plated and angular, splashed with black demon blood across the breastplate and arms. A horned helmet and half-mask obscured most of his face, revealing only a pair of sharp, dark eyes. He was of average height, but something about the way he held himself—balanced, poised, ready—made him seem larger. The katana in his hand dripped with ichor; with a practiced flick of his wrist, he slung the black blood from the blade. Then, in one smooth, almost disdainful motion, he sheathed the sword at his hip.
For a moment, the stranger simply surveyed the fallen oni, making sure none still drew breath. Satisfied, he turned and approached Jin. Up close, Jin could see demon blood sizzling and evaporating off the man’s armor in the cool air. Those dark eyes assessed him through the slit of the mask. Jin’s heart lurched—he wasn’t entirely sure this newcomer was friendly, even if he had saved his life. Still trembling, Jin scrambled awkwardly to his feet, wiping his slick hands on his filthy jeans.
The armored man spoke first, his voice low and collected, as if they were discussing nothing more exciting than the weather. “You’re fortunate I came along,” he said. “Another couple of seconds and they’d be scraping your guts off the dirt.” There was no boast in his tone, just a flat statement of fact.
Jin opened his mouth, but at first nothing came out except a shaky exhale. “I—” he stammered, finally finding his voice. “I thought… I was sure I was dead.” He swallowed, forcing down the hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest. “Th-thank you. Thank you. I don’t even know how—” His words were tumbling over themselves. He wasn’t sure what to say to the person who had single-handedly slaughtered monsters to save him.
Up close, the man was examining Jin with a mixture of impatience and mild disbelief. “You look like you’ve never fought a day in your life,” he said bluntly. The comment cut through Jin’s babbling. The armored stranger’s eyes flicked over Jin’s attire—sneakers, mud-streaked track pants, a torn hoodie—certainly not the clothes of a warrior.
Jin managed a weak, humorless laugh. “That obvious, huh?” he replied breathlessly. “I-I’ve never… No, I’ve never fought anyone. Or anything.” He rubbed his arms, noticing only now that he was cold. Shock, probably. “I don’t even know what’s going on. I just—” Jin broke off, realizing that he was dangerously close to losing composure. He inhaled deeply to steady himself, the way he might after a nightmare. “I just woke up here. I have no idea where here is.”
The man in armor tilted his head slightly. Though most of his face was hidden, Jin imagined an eyebrow raising behind that metal mask. “No idea?” he repeated. His tone had a new edge to it—wariness, perhaps.
Jin shook his head quickly. “None. I know it sounds crazy, but one moment I was somewhere else, and the next I was lying in that clearing.” He cast a haunted glance back toward where he’d awoken, now partially obscured by haze and the hulking bodies of dead oni. “I swear, I don’t know how I got here.”
Silence hung between them for a second. The armored man’s posture remained rigid and alert, but Jin caught a subtle hesitation in him, as if the stranger was reassessing the situation. Finally, the man gave a short, exasperated sigh. “Wonderful,” he muttered, dripping with sarcasm. “You just dropped into the middle of oni country with no clue where you are. That’s even worse than wandering out from a village.”
Jin’s cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. He bit back a retort—this man had saved him, after all. Instead he asked quietly, “Where am I, exactly? You said ‘oni country’…”
The stranger’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword as he replied, “This is the outer forest of Kagetora.” He nodded in the direction behind him, where the blood-red sky was partly obscured by treetops. “Human territory technically ends back at the warding stones near the wall. Out here, it’s mostly demons prowling. Oni, raiders, the occasional yokai looking for trouble.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “Not a place you should be strolling around. Especially not dressed like that,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Jin glanced down at himself—at his ruined, blood-smeared hoodie and jeans—and felt a surreal urge to laugh. Of all the criticisms, his wardrobe was hardly the biggest issue. But he didn’t argue. “Believe me,” he said shakily, “I wouldn’t be strolling around here on purpose.”
The man grunted, apparently conceding the point. Without another word, he turned away and surveyed the tree line, looking for any further threats. Jin realized with a start that the stranger was preparing to move on, likely back to wherever he came from. A spike of panic went through Jin at the thought of being left alone in this hellish forest. He lurched forward a step. “W-wait! Please don’t leave me here!” he blurted out, immediately cringing at the desperation in his voice.
The man looked back over his shoulder, then down at the oni corpses pointedly. “I wasn’t planning to,” he said dryly. “If I walk off now, I’ll just end up having to kill a few more oni when they sniff you out.” He beckoned curtly with one armored hand. “Come on, then. We need to get inside the walls before something worse shows up.” Already he was starting off through the trees, moving at a determined clip.
Jin hurried after him, tripping over a tangle of exposed roots in his haste. He caught himself and fell into step a few paces behind his savior. His legs felt like jelly beneath him, and every part of his body ached from the fall and the tension of the fight-or-flight adrenaline rush. But he’d gladly take sore muscles over being demon food.
They walked in tense silence for a minute, the only sounds the squelch of Jin’s shoes in the mud and the soft clink of the man’s armor plates with each step. Now that the immediate danger had passed, Jin’s mind raced with a thousand questions. Fear and curiosity warred inside him, but one practical matter rose to the top. “Um,” he ventured, keeping his voice low in the gloom, “what should I call you? I mean… who are you?”
The man didn’t break stride or turn. For a moment, Jin wondered if he’d overstepped. Then the stranger answered, brisk and to the point, “Taketsune Masanori. Captain of the Shogun’s Guard.” He said it as if reciting a duty roster.
Masanori… Shogun’s Guard… The titles were foreign and archaic to Jin, but at least he had a name to latch onto now. “Thank you, Masanori-san,” Jin said, remembering to add the honorific politely. “My name is Takahashi Jin.”
At that, Masanori cast a glance back over his shoulder. In the low light, Jin caught a hint of the man’s face behind the mask—a strong jaw and an appraising eye. Masanori gave a slight nod. “Jin,” he repeated, almost in acknowledgment. Then he faced forward again, seemingly content to march on in silence.
Jin limped a little faster to keep up with Masanori’s long strides. The name “Shogun” nagged at him; it sounded like something out of history class, not the modern Tokyo life he knew. None of this fit with reality. He was following a samurai-armored soldier through a demon-infested forest under a red sky. The absurdity might have made him laugh if it wasn’t all so deadly serious. Instead, he focused on placing one foot in front of the other and staying close.
“Try to stay alive, Takahashi Jin,” Masanori said suddenly, breaking the silence. “The Shogun will want to see you.” It sounded equal parts warning and encouragement.
Jin wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He nodded vaguely, chest tightening at the reminder that his fate now lay with an unknown warlord in an unknown world. After a few more paces, Masanori spoke again, tone almost bored. “Assuming you’re useful, that is. If not…” He shrugged one shoulder, the motion causing his armor to give a soft metallic jingle. “We have cliffs for those who don’t belong.”
Jin’s eyes widened. “Cliffs?” He couldn’t tell if that was a morbid joke or a literal threat. Masanori offered no clarification. A tiny, nervous laugh escaped Jin before he could stop it. “R-right. Useful. Got it,” he murmured. He wasn’t eager to find out how serious that comment was. If nothing else, he resolved to make himself appear useful, whatever that meant, at least until he figured out a way home.
They pressed on through the forest. The route Masanori took was indirect and winding, weaving around thick clusters of trees and across damp gullies choked with brambles. There was no obvious trail, but Masanori seemed to know exactly where he was going, as if following landmarks only he could see. The eerie silence of the demon woods weighed on Jin. Every so often, he caught the distant echo of unearthly sounds—faint roars, or the crash of something heavy in the far-off darkness. Each time, Masanori would halt and cock his head, listening intently, one hand on the hilt of that deadly sword. Jin found himself holding his breath during those pauses, blood pounding in his ears. But nothing challenged them; the noises remained far away, and they would resume their pace.
After a while, Jin realized the environment around them was gradually changing. The corrupt, skeletal forest was giving way to something slightly more alive. The gnarled, leafless trees with bleeding bark were fewer here; in their place stood taller pines and cedars, their needled branches creaking softly overhead. The stench of rot was not as overwhelming now, replaced by a crisp coolness that smelled of pine sap and damp earth. Jin inhaled deeply and detected a hint of woodsmoke on the air. It was faint, but undeniably there—a wisp of civilization.
Overhead, the hellish crimson sky began to meld into a more natural twilight. The dense red clouds thinned, tinged with cooler purple and grey at the horizon, as if whatever infernal influence tainted the sky was weaker here. Jin could actually see the outline of a pale moon rising beyond a distant mountain range, something he hadn’t noticed before.
A crow’s caw suddenly rang out from the branches of a cedar. The harsh caw-caw made Jin jump—then laugh under his breath, startled at himself. He never thought the cry of a crow could be comforting, but it was normal, and normal was precious. Masanori glanced back at him briefly, perhaps to check why he’d laughed, but Jin only shook his head and waved it off. They continued on.
Masanori maintained a steady pace, clearly in his element out here. Jin trailed a couple of steps behind now, limping slightly. As adrenaline ebbed, every bruise and scrape from his fall announced itself painfully. His legs were getting heavier with exhaustion, but he grit his teeth and kept moving. Keep up, or get left behind, he told himself. The alternative was unthinkable.
With the immediate terror at bay, Jin’s thoughts inevitably drifted to the horrifying mystery of his situation. Questions swarmed in his mind like agitated bees. Where’s Reika? What happened to the shrine? How do I get back home? He bit his lip hard, trying not to let his face betray his rising anxiety. His friend Reika had been with him at the shrine—hadn’t she touched the orb at the same time the light consumed his vision? If he was here, was she here too, somewhere in this godsforsaken place? The idea of Reika alone out there among those demons made his stomach turn. Or had she been spared, left back in the real world, wondering where he had vanished to? Jin didn’t know which scenario he preferred; both filled him with dread.
He clenched his fists. There was also the matter of the shrine itself—that strange orb, the flash of light… It had to be responsible. Perhaps it had sent him to this world, however impossible that seemed. If so, was that same object his only ticket back? And where even was it now? Jin’s head throbbed with uncertainty. He longed to pepper Masanori with these questions—ask if anyone had seen a girl like Reika, or if strange appearances were common, or if there was a way to return through the shrine—but he sensed that overwhelming this stern warrior with frantic questions would not be wise. Masanori struck him as someone who valued composure and usefulness, and right now Jin felt like he had little of either.
He took a slow, calming breath and tried to focus on the present: one step at a time, keep up, don’t annoy the heavily armed man protecting you. Everything else would have to wait.
After trudging up a gentle incline littered with pine needles, Masanori finally spoke again. “Almost there,” he said quietly. The trees ahead were beginning to thin, revealing an expanse of dusky sky. Jin could just make out something looming beyond the trees—a dark shape against the horizon that wasn’t a mountain.
He carefully stepped over a mossy log and caught up to Masanori. Gathering his nerve, Jin asked in a hushed voice, “Did you… see anyone else out here? Dressed like me, maybe?” It was as direct as he dared to be about Reika.
Masanori kept his eyes forward. “Anyone else?” he echoed. “No. Just you.” A slight, wry snort escaped him. “Bumbling around demon country like a lost kid who dropped his map.”
Jin flushed at the choice of words. Demon country. So this place was literally considered the land of demons. He couldn’t even protest Masanori’s jab—he was utterly lost. At least now he knew Reika hadn’t been picked up by some patrol like him. He nodded meekly. “Right. Got it.” His voice was hoarse from fatigue and lingering fear, so he said nothing more.
They crested the rise and the world opened up. Jin stepped out from the shadow of the trees and saw what lay ahead—his first sight of Kagetora.
It was a fortress, and a formidable one at that. High stone walls jutted from the rolling hills, reinforced with timber and huge iron plates. Sharp wooden stakes angled outward along the perimeter, a deadly hedge against any approaching foe. The main gates were directly ahead of them: two towering wooden doors bound in iron, currently shut tight. Even in the dim light, Jin could see the scars of battle on those gates—deep gouges, burn marks, and splintered wood as if some giant beast had tried to force its way through in the past.
Beyond the wall, he glimpsed the tips of several rooftops and watchtowers. Torches and lanterns glowed along the ramparts, bobbing gently as the sentries carrying them moved. The lights cast warm halos of gold against the night that was beginning to creep over the land. Compared to the haunted dark of the forest, that glow looked almost inviting.
Jin released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The fortress was battered and bleak, but it represented safety and the presence of other human beings. A city… I’ve never been so happy to see a city wall. His eyes stung—he wasn’t sure if it was from the sudden wind on the exposed hillside or the swell of emotion. Quickly, he dashed a filthy sleeve across his face, wiping away sweat, grime, and a bit of moisture from the corner of his eye.
Masanori led him down a well-trod dirt road toward the gate. It was the first real road Jin had seen since arriving, and even though it was just packed earth and gravel, the sight of wheel ruts and footprints was oddly comforting. As they approached the closed gates, Jin noticed two figures standing guard before them.
On the left side of the gate stood a broad-shouldered man clad in lacquered armor similar in style to Masanori’s, though lacking the full helmet. He was older—maybe in his fifties—with strands of grey at his temples and deep lines etched into his stern face. A large nodachi sword rested at his side, and his gauntleted hands were folded calmly over the pommel. He watched their approach with an unreadable, cold-eyed gaze. Everything about him, from his rigid posture to the faint scowl on his lips, radiated disciplined lethality. Jin had seen enough action movies to recognize a seasoned warrior when he saw one, and this man looked like he could cleave an oni in half without breaking a sweat.
To the right of the gate, a woman stood almost motionless. She wore flowing robes of pure white accented with patterns of red that reminded Jin of stylized bloodstains. Her long raven-black hair was tied back in a high tail, and a delicate-looking fox mask hung at her hip. In one hand she lightly held a wooden staff adorned with paper talismans and tiny bells. Though she appeared younger than the armored men, there was something ageless in the way she held herself. The very air around her seemed to shimmer, like heat haze emanating from her form. As Jin drew nearer, an inexplicable tingling sensation brushed over his skin, raising the hairs on his arms—it was as if an invisible aura were radiating from the woman.
Both of the gatekeepers were focused on Jin and Masanori now. Jin’s nerves prickled under their stares. He realized how he must look to them: a bedraggled youth splattered in mud and dried blood, dressed in strange clothes, tailing one of their own soldiers. Subconsciously, he tried to straighten his posture and wipe the most egregious dirt from his jacket and face. His fingers came away blackened and he gave up; there was no fixing his appearance at this point.
When Masanori was a few steps away, the grizzled man in armor greeted him with a terse nod. “Masanori. You made it back,” he rumbled. His deep voice carried a noticeable note of relief, despite his severe demeanor.
“Just barely,” Masanori replied. He stopped before the pair and inclined his head with respect. With a thumb, he gestured back at Jin, who hovered a half-step behind him. “Came across this one beyond the warding stones. He was wandering in the forest, about to be oni chow.”
Jin mustered a weak smile that probably came off more as a grimace when the older man’s steely gaze shifted to him. Under that penetrating stare, Jin felt like a specimen on a slide. He dipped his head in a polite bow, unsure of the proper etiquette but wanting to show deference.
The robed woman’s eyes were already on Jin—he had felt her gaze the moment they’d drawn close. Now she stepped forward, just one measured pace. The bells on her staff gave a soft jingle. Up close, Jin noticed subtle markings on her face: a delicate pattern of red lines painted around her eyes and across her pale cheeks, almost like fox whiskers. She studied him intently, her expression otherwise unreadable. The tingling in the air intensified; Jin felt a pressure all around him, like the atmosphere itself had grown heavier.
“He’s… different,” the woman said quietly. Her voice was soft, but there was a steel to it, and an odd timbre that resonated in the air. She narrowed her eyes slightly, and Jin had the uncomfortable sensation that she was seeing through him, peeling back layers of his being and examining each one.
The armoured guard’s brow creased. He glanced from the woman to Jin, then back to Masanori. “What is he?” he asked bluntly. Not who, Jin noticed, but what. Like he might be some kind of unknown creature.
Masanori shrugged. “Calls himself Jin. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine. I found him unarmed and getting chased by a trio of oni. Claims he doesn’t know how he got here.”
The older man’s frown deepened. Jin could almost see the suspicion and confusion warring in the guard’s eyes. Before he could speak again, a heavy thud came from the gate behind them. Someone on the other side was sliding the barring beam free. The two great wooden doors began to swing inward with a low groan of timber and iron.
Jin’s heart lurched. The prospect of going inside those walls—into an unknown fortress full of unknown people—suddenly made him as anxious as he’d been out in the woods. He had no idea what awaited him in Kagetora. But he also knew there was no going back. The forest full of demons was not an option; whatever lay beyond these gates, it had to be better than out here.
The gate opened just enough to reveal a sliver of the space beyond—warm torchlight spilled through the gap, along with the murmur of voices. Jin caught a glimpse of a stone courtyard and armed soldiers waiting, their armor glinting. A wave of warmth hit his face, carrying with it the scents of smoke, cooked food, and humanity.
Masanori placed a firm hand between Jin’s shoulder blades, urging him forward. “Come on,” he said under his breath. It wasn’t exactly gentle, but the gesture gave Jin a strange flicker of reassurance. This stern warrior was, at least for now, on his side.
Jin stepped over the threshold of the gate, passing from the cold, corrupted night of the forest into the lantern-lit confines of Kagetora. He paused for just an instant beneath the archway, one foot in and one foot out. On the back of his neck he could still feel the distant chill of the demon woods; on his face he felt the warmth of civilization and firelight. In that brief moment, Jin understood with gut-deep certainty that he was crossing more than just a physical boundary. He was at the threshold of two worlds—leaving everything he knew behind and entering the unknown.
Swallowing hard, Jin forced himself onward. The gates of Kagetora closed behind him with a resounding boom, sealing off the red sky and horrors outside. Whatever awaited him within these walls—answers or danger or both—he would face it, because he had no other choice. And as he walked forward into the flickering light, Jin couldn’t help but feel that this, truly, was only the beginning of the nightmare.
The grand hall of Kagetora Castle loomed around Jin, vast and silent. Shadow pooled beneath its towering cedar beams, where old incense lingered like a ghost of rituals past. Lanterns cast weak light across faded tapestries of warriors and storm gods, the reds long since dulled to rust. Each of Jin’s footsteps echoed sharply, too loud in the hush—as if even the floor questioned his presence.
At the far end, seated on a raised dais like a monument to judgment, was Shogun Hoshikawa. He didn’t rise. He didn’t need to. Dressed in black silks that caught the light in oily gleams, the man exuded stillness, gravity. His sword rested beside him, worn but ready. His eyes locked on Jin—sharp, unreadable, and cold.
Masanori stepped forward and bowed. “My lord. I found this one near the ward line. Claims to be lost. From far away.”
A pause stretched, heavy as iron.
Hoshikawa’s voice, when it came, was low but commanding. “Stranger. Speak.”
Jin swallowed. “My name is Jin. I… don’t know how I got here.”
“You speak our tongue,” Hoshikawa said. “But your clothing is strange. Where are you from?”
Jin hesitated. “A distant place. I was traveling.”
“No weapon. No escort. Yet you survive oni?”
“Masanori saved me.”
One of the guards scoffed. “He’s no warrior. Just look at him.”
Jin clenched his fists, but stayed quiet. Hoshikawa tapped a finger once on his armrest—sharp and deliberate. The room fell back into silence.
“A ronin, perhaps,” he murmured. “A masterless man, wandering into storms that were not meant for him.”
The word lingered in Jin’s mind. He seized it like a raft. “Yes. That’s me.”
Hoshikawa leaned back slightly. “Kagetora is not a place for the rootless. We are at war. Strangers bring questions. Questions bring blood.”
“I’m not a threat,” Jin said. “I just want to survive.”
“No one ends up here by accident.”
Another long silence. Then, at last, Hoshikawa turned toward Masanori. “House him. Watch him. If he has purpose, we’ll find it. If not… well.”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Masanori bowed again. “Understood.”
As they turned to leave, Jin glanced back once. Hoshikawa hadn’t moved. The sword beside his throne remained upright, silent as a warning. Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Jin followed Masanori into the dark halls of Kagetora, uncertain if he’d just been spared—or marked.
Jin stepped out of the audience chamber after Masanori, his heart hammering against his ribs. The heavy doors groaned shut behind him, muffling the last echoes of Shogun Hoshikawa’s cold decree. A damp wind threaded through the courtyard, rustling the trees in a hushed warning. Jin drew a slow breath and fell in behind Masanori without a word. His thoughts swirled in a dozen anxious directions—none with a safe answer. He was stranded in a world at war, deemed a stranger and possible threat. For now, survival was the only plan: stay alive, learn what he could, endure. Everything else, even the mystery of how he’d fallen into this place, would have to wait.
Masanori led him down a torch-lit corridor branching off the main hall. Their footsteps echoed on stone, Jin’s soft shoes out of place next to Masanori’s armored stride. The castle’s corridors twisted and sloped, carved from cold rock that gleamed with moisture. Shadows pooled in the arches overhead, swaying with each torch they passed. As they descended, the air grew cooler, each step taking them further from the fading light of day. Jin brushed his fingertips along the wall to steady himself. The stone felt damp and pitted with age. Then his fingers snagged on something—a long groove gouged into the rock. He slowed, eyes narrowing. Another groove ran parallel to the first, and another, like the swipe of claws. The marks were faint but deep, an ugly scar in the castle’s bones. Jin swallowed and pulled his hand back. He didn’t ask Masanori about them; the hardened soldier gave no indication he’d even noticed Jin fall behind. Perhaps here, claw marks in the halls needed no comment.
They continued on, winding deeper into Kagetora’s keep until the passage opened into a broad chamber. Torchlight danced over racks of weapons and stacks of supplies. The armory. It yawned before Jin like the ribcage of a slumbering beast—all stone and steel and the lingering scent of oil and metal. The walls were lined with countless blades held in wooden racks, each sword and dagger meticulously arranged. Their polished edges winked in the low light with each flicker of the flames. Long, slender katana with silk-wrapped hilts rested beside broader, heavier blades meant for cleaving more than finesse. Bundles of spears leaned in the corner, their razor tips catching amber light. On the far wall hung bows of dark wood, curves elegant and taut, quivers of arrows swaying gently under them as if recalling the momentum of battles past. The very air here was different—thick with old sweat and oiled leather, smoke and iron. It wasn’t unpleasant; it was real, lived-in. Jin inhaled and for the first time since arriving, felt something solid ground him. This room smelled of purpose. Of survival.
Masanori walked ahead into the armory’s depths with the ease of familiarity. The battered plates of his armor clinked softly with each stride—a comforting, well-worn sound. One gauntleted hand drifted out and brushed along a row of swords as he passed, almost affectionate, like a stablemaster running fingers through a horse’s mane. Jin hovered near the entrance, hands tucked awkwardly into the sleeves of his borrowed kimono top. The garment was a bit too large, its frayed hem tickling his wrists. He realized he must look utterly lost—eyes wide, darting from weapon to weapon as if one might leap off the rack at him.
Masanori noticed. He stopped and turned, leaning back against a spear stand with arms crossed over his chest. With a slight tilt of his head, he regarded Jin with an expression caught between amusement and pity.
“Well?” Masanori drawled, raising a brow. “You planning to choose something, or just gawk until a demon chooses for you?”
Jin blushed hot. He hadn’t even thought to grab a weapon—he, who had never so much as held a real sword in his life. He cleared his throat, stepping forward into the room. “I… I’m not sure what to take,” he admitted. His voice sounded thin in the stone chamber. “To be honest, I’ve never used a weapon before. Not a real one.”
“You don’t say,” Masanori replied dryly. The corner of his mouth twitched, as close to a grin as Jin had seen from him. Shaking his head, the soldier crouched and pulled a shorter sword from a lower rack. “Catch.”
Without further warning, Masanori flicked the sheathed blade toward Jin. Jin yelped in surprise. He fumbled both hands out of his sleeves just in time, nearly dropping the weapon as he caught it by the scabbard. The impact stung his palms. It was heavier than it looked.
Jin steadied himself and gripped the sheath properly. The weapon was about half the length of the samurai swords on the wall, the lacquered wooden scabbard plain and worn. A word bubbled up from some corner of Jin’s memory—maybe from a museum visit or an anime he’d watched years ago. “A wakizashi,” he murmured under his breath. A samurai’s companion sword. He slid the blade a few inches out of its sheath to glimpse the steel. The metal gleamed with a faint curve, deadly sharp along one edge. Jin’s mouth felt dry. This wasn’t a prop or a collectible; it was a killing tool.
“Careful,” Masanori said. He pushed off the spear rack and approached at a saunter. “That one’s not for show. Blade’ll cut you coming or going.” There was a hint of genuine caution under his teasing tone.
Jin nodded quickly and eased the short sword back into its scabbard. “Right. Got it.” Unsure what else to do, he slid the wakizashi through the sash at his waist like he’d seen in movies. It hung at his side, solid and alien. In an attempt to hide his nervousness, Jin gave it a tentative swing in the air. The arc was clumsy and over-wide. The blade hissed past one of the torch scones on the wall and Jin nearly spun himself off-balance. He winced, fumbling to regain his stance.
Masanori pinched the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache, then let out a bark of laughter. “By the gods… you swing that thing like a drunk farmer swatting at bees.” He chuckled, not unkindly.
Jin managed a weak smile, face burning with embarrassment. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” Masanori smirked. “But you’ll learn. Or you won’t—and then it won’t be your problem anymore.” He shrugged, the nonchalant words hanging in the air between them.
Despite the grim implication, Jin caught a glint of something softer in Masanori’s eyes—some buried note of sympathy. The veteran warrior had probably seen countless green recruits freeze up on their first day. Jin realized Masanori wasn’t truly cruel; this was simply the reality of Kagetora. Live, learn, or die.
Masanori sighed and leaned back again, one hand idly spinning a spear beside him. “So… you really just wandered in from nowhere, huh? You’re a lucky fool to have survived out there.” He eyed Jin’s slight build and modern clothes (now muddied and torn from the forest). “Oni usually tear through folks like you in seconds.”
Jin’s stomach lurched at the memory of the oni in the woods—the thunderous roar, the flash of claws before Masanori cut it down. He forced himself to ask the question gnawing at him. “These demon attacks… they happen often?” He tried to keep his voice even, but he couldn’t hide the thread of dread. He gripped the hilt of the wakizashi with both hands now, as if the feel of steel might steady him.
Masanori’s teasing expression faded. At Jin’s question, a hardness settled over his face. He turned his gaze to the rafters high above, where dusty banners from past campaigns hung limp in the shadows. “Used to be we’d see a wave of demons maybe once a month,” Masanori said quietly. “They came like clockwork. It was ugly, but predictable. We’d patch the walls, bury the dead, and wait for the next cycle.”
Jin noticed Masanori’s jaw tighten in the torchlight. The older man tapped the butt of the spear against the ground absently. “Now? Now they come whenever the hells please. Three nights in a row, then nothing for a week, then two nights apart… no rhyme or reason. Like rain in a cursed season.” He shook his head. “The only thing predictable is that they will come. So the wall…” He gestured vaguely upward, where beyond the ceiling Jin could imagine the ramparts encircling the city, “…the wall never truly sleeps anymore.”
A heavy silence followed. Jin felt his pulse beating in his throat. Every few nights. It might even be tonight. He licked his lips. “And it’s just… the usual kind of demons? Like the one that… that attacked me? Oni?” The word usual sounded absurd to him—nothing about any of this was usual—but he didn’t know how else to ask.
Masanori didn’t answer at first. He was staring at nothing, the spear now still in his hand. The pause went on a beat too long. When he finally spoke, his voice was different. Lower. “No. Not always just oni. Those are foot soldiers.” His eyes flickered to Jin, then away. “There are other things out there. Bigger. Smarter. Things that don’t howl and charge like beasts.” He exhaled slowly, and Jin noticed his hand tightening on the spear shaft until his leather glove creaked. “Things that stand in the dark and look back at you.”
Jin’s skin crawled at Masanori’s tone. The soldier’s face was grim, eyes distant as if recalling something he truly wished to forget. Jin opened his mouth, wanting to ask more—what things?—but Masanori saw the question before it formed and cut him off with a hard look.
“You’re not ready to hear about those,” Masanori said bluntly. “Pray you never meet one.” Then, just as quickly, he pushed off from the rack and rolled his shoulders, forcing a lighter tone. “Enough chatter. We’ve got work.”
Jin nodded mutely and followed as Masanori headed to the door. The short sword thumped against Jin’s hip with each step. He couldn’t banish the image conjured by Masanori’s words: some hulking silhouette with burning eyes, watching from the trees. Looking at him. He swallowed and tried to dismiss the thought. Don’t think about it. Maybe there won’t be an attack tonight. Maybe I’ll get through one night in this place alive.
“Come on,” Masanori called over his shoulder. “You’re on wall duty tonight. Whether you can swing that pig-sticker or not.” He shot Jin a lopsided grin. Clearly, he found some humor in throwing the untested newcomer straight into guard duty.
Jin mustered a faint, nervous laugh and trailed him out of the armory. The truth was, his heart was pounding so hard he felt light-headed. He adjusted his grip on the wakizashi’s hilt, trying to reassure himself by feeling its weight. It’s okay, he lied to himself, I probably won’t even have to use it… Probably.
They wound their way through more passages and stairwells, moving steadily upward now. The castle was a maze of stone arteries, and Jin had no sense of its layout. At each turn, he caught glimpses of the sky outside through arrow slits and murder holes—the daylight had bled into a deep purple dusk. By the time Masanori led him along a narrow walkway toward the outer wall, full night had settled. The torches here burned brighter against the encroaching dark, spitting sparks and illuminating slick patches of moss on the stones.
The corridor opened out onto a wide gatehouse platform built into the city’s main wall. Jin stepped through an archway and immediately felt the chill of the night air bite into his cheeks. He shivered. Before them loomed the main gate of Kagetora: two enormous doors of oak reinforced with iron bands, shut tight. The gate’s surface was scarred with the memory of battles—black burn marks from fire, deep pitted gouges where something strong and furious had tried to force its way in. High above, the wall’s parapets stretched out to either side, dotted with a few sentries holding spears and bows. Two stone watchtowers flanked the gate, their narrow silhouettes stabbing up at the sky. In those towers, Jin could just make out archers stationed behind arrow loops, as still and vigilant as statues. Their outlines were motionless, faces turned toward the sea of trees beyond the walls.
Masanori paused, allowing Jin to absorb the sight. “This,” he said with a sweeping gesture at the gate and dark horizon, “is it. Your glamorous new assignment.” His tone was wry, but Jin did not miss the strain underneath. This position—guarding the main gate at night—was a serious duty, perhaps a dangerous one for a rookie. A part of Jin wondered if Masanori was truly expecting him to be of any use, or if this was just a way to keep him in one place under watch.
They walked closer to the gate, boots crunching on the gravel of the courtyard just inside the threshold. A single lantern hung on a hook by a low guard post, its flame turned down to a weak glow that only barely pushed back the darkness. Masanori pointed to a cramped wooden platform built into the wall near that lantern. “You’ll station yourself there, next to the gate. The rule’s simple,” he said, turning to fix Jin with a firm stare. “If anything comes out of those woods—anything with claws, fangs, or an ugly face—and it doesn’t speak to you nicely and clearly, you yell. Loud as you can. Someone will hear.” He paused, then added with a faint smirk, “Hopefully.”
Jin tried to return the smile, but his lips were stiff. He rested a hand on the wakizashi at his belt as he looked up at the immense gate looming over them. It felt like standing at the edge of the world; beyond those doors was endless night and the monstrosities it hid. The weight of it pressed on him, and his little sword suddenly felt laughable in comparison. Like bringing a pocketknife to a house fire, he thought grimly. But what else was there to do? He gave Masanori a resolute nod. “Yeah. Understood.”
“That’s the spirit,” Masanori said. With a gruff chuckle, he reached out and clapped Jin on the shoulder. The blow, even meant in camaraderie, nearly knocked Jin off his feet. He staggered, regaining balance with an embarrassed huff. Masanori either didn’t notice or pretended not to. The armored man gave a lazy two-fingered wave as he turned to depart, heading back into the archway. “Try not to scream louder than the demons,” he called back over his shoulder, “and you might live to see morning.”
Before Jin could think of a reply, Masanori’s broad figure disappeared into the gloom of the corridor, the sound of his footsteps and clinking armor fading away. And then Jin was alone.
He stood for a moment in the silence, feeling the chill settle through his borrowed clothes. A few yards away two guards were stationed by the wall, spears in hand. They paid him no attention beyond a brief glance. To them, he was likely just an extra body—another pair of eyes to stare into the dark. They continued their routine, checking their weapons, pacing a few steps along the gate, then returning to their posts with mechanical regularity. There was no idle chatter between them, no nervous jokes. Only a heavy readiness that hung over the gatehouse like a fog. On the parapets above, Jin saw an archer moving along the battlement, silhouetted against a sliver of moonlight. The archer paused to speak in low tones to a comrade; their words did not carry, lost in the whisper of the wind.
Jin let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He stepped up to the small platform beside the gate that Masanori had indicated and set his back against the cold stone wall. The lantern’s weak glow painted trembling shadows on the ground at his feet. He wrapped one arm around himself for warmth, resting his other hand on the hilt of his sword in what he hoped looked like a prepared stance. In truth, he clutched it to keep his fingers from shaking.
This was real. All of it was real. No fever-dream or virtual reality glitch. He was truly standing watch on a castle wall in a world that shouldn’t exist, tasked with warning of monsters out of myth. A bitter laugh nearly escaped him at the absurdity, but he pressed his lips tight. Laughing here, now, alone in the dark, would feel too much like sobbing.
Jin’s gaze drifted past the gate, toward the vast darkness outside. Through the narrow gap between the great wooden doors and the stone arch, he could see the distant tree line. Beyond the reach of torchlight the forest was a wall of black, as if the night itself had substance. Jin stared hard into that void. Was something out there staring back, even now? The thought sent a prickle over his skin. He remembered Masanori’s warning about things that look at you from the dark. Jin tried to push it from his mind.
Somewhere in those woods, Reika was out there too—or so he desperately hoped. His friend had vanished the same instant he’d been pulled into the light at the shrine. She could have appeared anywhere in this strange land. Perhaps she wasn’t here at all, whisked away to some other corner of time or space. Or… Jin’s throat tightened. Or perhaps Masanori was right, and she hadn’t survived the journey. No. He rejected that mercilessly, clenching his jaw. He refused to believe Reika was dead. If he was alive, she had to be. Somehow, some way, he would find her. Or she would find him—she was clever and tenacious like that. The thought gave him a shred of comfort.
Time passed with agonizing slowness. Jin fell into a pattern of pacing a small circle to keep his blood moving. Step, step, turn, breathe. The night air grew colder by the minute, the chill seeping through his thin tunic and the lining of his borrowed clothes. Eventually he drew his arms inside his sleeves for warmth and walked that way, appearing perhaps like a robed monk making rounds. Every so often he stopped to practice a swing or two with the wakizashi, reluctant to be completely idle. Each time he unsheathed the blade—even partially—he found his movements a little less clumsy than before. He adjusted his footing and tried to recall any scenes from samurai films or anime that might help him look less pathetic. The effort was earnest, if awkward. One of the guards glanced at him after an especially wobbly swing and shook his head with a bemused snort. Jin flushed, sheathing the sword again. The weapon still felt alien in his grip, like it belonged to someone else. Like he belonged somewhere else.
As the hours dragged on, Jin noticed the subtle changes that heralded deep night. The slice of moon had climbed higher, peeking through a haze of clouds. The wind had quieted to almost nothing. An oppressive stillness settled over the forest beyond. Not a bird call, not a rustle. It was as though every creature out there was holding its breath. The only sounds were the soft scuff of boots on stone as the guards shifted and the distant crackle of a torch. Jin rubbed his arms and tried not to imagine why the woods had gone silent. Perhaps the presence of the city kept animals at bay—or perhaps something else did.
He was so focused on squinting into the treeline that he nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice spoke nearby.
“You’re the new one,” a cool, clear voice said. “Masanori’s latest stray, I presume?”
Jin whirled to his left. He had been sure no one was there a second ago. But now a figure stood just beyond the lantern’s feeble glow. He made out a flash of white clothing and a spill of dark hair, and then as she stepped forward, the light unveiled Rin. Jin recognized the onmyōji woman he’d briefly seen at the gate when he first arrived—a pale figure in white-and-crimson robes, the occultist who kept the city’s wards. Now up close, she was striking in a disconcerting way. Her onmyōji robes were pristine and patterned with subtle sigils along the hems. A long scarlet tassel hung from the staff in her hand—ah, that was how she’d approached so quietly; she carried a lacquered wooden staff tipped with paper charms, rather than wearing clanking armor. Rin’s eyes, a piercing storm-gray, fixed on Jin unblinkingly. In the lantern-light her skin looked almost luminescent, an ethereal presence against the stark stone backdrop.
Jin straightened up, uncertain whether to bow or salute or do something else entirely. He settled for an awkward nod. “Uh… yes. That’s me, I guess,” he replied softly. “Takahashi Jin.” He added his name on reflex, unsure if she cared to know it.
Rin’s lips curved in the slightest hint of a wry smile at his awkwardness. She stopped a few paces away—just outside of arm’s reach. Jin could feel a subtle pressure in the air, as if her mere proximity had weight. The guards nearby cast quick glances at Rin and then returned to their vigil, seemingly relieved to ignore the exchange. It struck Jin that they might even be avoiding looking at her. Rin’s status, or perhaps her unsettling aura, put even battle-hardened soldiers on edge.
Her steely eyes traveled over Jin from head to toe, not in a flirtatious way, but analytical, as though she were inspecting a curious specimen. Jin resisted the urge to fidget under that gaze. He felt as if she saw straight through the borrowed clothes and the nervous facade, down to the confusion and fear churning in his gut.
Finally, Rin spoke, each word precise. “Your aura… it’s out of place.” She said it calmly, but the accusation—or was it wonder?—behind the words was unmistakable.
Jin blinked at her. “My aura?” He wasn’t even sure he had one, let alone a wrong one. “What do you mean ‘out of place’?”
Rin tilted her head just a fraction, her dark hair sliding over one shoulder. The paper wards tied to her staff fluttered though there was no breeze. “Fractured,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes at him as if reading a book written in invisible ink across his skin. “Disjointed. Like a painting marred by a slash through the canvas.” She paused, and when she continued her voice was quieter, edged with open curiosity. “Almost as if you were stitched into this reality with the wrong thread.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the night air crawled up Jin’s spine. He tried to find his voice under that unblinking scrutiny. “I… I’m not sure what that means,” he managed, though in truth he had a very good idea of what she was implying. The question he had dodged all evening—where are you really from?—now stood before him in flesh and blood, and it had Rin’s unyielding stare.
Jin wet his lips, feeling suddenly exposed. There was no point in pretending with this woman; somehow she knew something was off about him, perhaps sensed it in a way others couldn’t. “You’re right,” he said cautiously, keeping his voice low so only she would hear. “I’m… not from here. Not from anywhere near here, in fact.”
Rin’s eyes sharpened at that. She took another half-step forward, and Jin had the impression of a cat stalking a mystery. “Then where are you from?” she asked. There was a keen edge to the question. Not hostile exactly—at least not yet—but demanding truth. In the dim light, her face was unreadable, carved in contrasts of moonlight and shadow.
Jin’s mouth suddenly went dry. How to even begin? He glanced around to ensure no other ears were prying; the nearby guards remained at their posts, paying them no mind. Rin waited, eerily still. Jin drew a breath and decided on honesty, or at least as much as made sense. “It’s… difficult to explain. I’m from a place far from Kagetora. A different…” he searched for the word, “…time. A different world, maybe.” Rin’s expression did not change, so he continued haltingly. “Earlier today I was in a forest—my own world’s forest. There’s a shrine there, an old one. I found this strange orb, a sphere covered in glowing symbols.” His voice shook as he remembered the altar and that moment. “My friend—she touched it before I could stop her. There was this blinding light and—then I woke up here, in your forest, with monsters hunting me.” He exhaled shakily. “I don’t know how or why. But one moment I was home and the next I was…” he gestured vaguely at the towering walls and the dark sky, “…wherever here is.”
Rin listened without interruption, but Jin could feel the intensity of her focus. At the mention of a shrine and a glowing orb, one of her thin eyebrows arched in interest. When Jin finished, she regarded him for a long moment, silent and calculating. He had the uncomfortable sense she was parsing his every syllable for falsehood.
At last, she spoke, voice cutting through the quiet. “You interacted with an unknown artifact—a foreign one at that—without any wards or purification rituals?” There was a clear note of disapproval, even incredulity, under her cool tone. “You touched a thing of power you didn’t understand?”
Jin bristled, embarrassment and guilt twisting together in his gut. It sounded so much worse when she said it like that. “It wasn’t exactly on purpose,” he protested, keeping his voice hushed but urgent. “I didn’t waltz in planning to grab it. I know it was stupid—well, I know that now. But my friend touched it first, and I—” He broke off, realizing he was about to babble. He took a breath. “It all happened so fast.”
Rin’s frown eased by a degree as she studied him. Jin’s frustration subsided into a familiar worry. He had almost said I tried to pull her away. He bit back the words, because the truth was he didn’t know what happened to Reika after that flash. Guilt and fear gnawed at him. Where was Reika now? He felt a hollowness open in his chest at the thought that he might have left her behind, or worse, dragged her into danger.
The silence between Jin and Rin stretched taut. The onmyōji’s hard gaze softened slightly—not in kindness, but into something more thoughtful. She looked him up and down again, as if reassessing. Jin realized in that moment she no longer seemed quite so suspicious; instead, she looked… intrigued.
“Dimensional resonance,” Rin said at last, almost whispering the words like a scholar unearthing a reference in an ancient text. Her storm-gray eyes flickered with a spark of recognition. “There are legends—scattered notes in old scrolls—about barriers between worlds growing thin. Accidental crossings between realms.” She tapped a finger lightly against her staff, the paper talismans attached to it fluttering. “It’s rare. Rare enough that most would dismiss it as myth.”
Jin couldn’t tell if she was speaking to him anymore or thinking aloud. He ventured a quiet question, desperate for any validation that what he’d experienced wasn’t just a personal delusion. “So… it’s possible? To go from one world into another by accident?”
Rin’s eyes snapped back to him, recalling her purpose. She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she narrowed them and took one more step into Jin’s space, close enough that he could see the slight crease of concentration on her brow. “Perhaps,” she allowed softly. Then her tone shifted, once again icy and suspecting. “But demons are known liars and shapeshifters. Some can masquerade as lost humans, weaving sob stories to infiltrate our walls. How do I know you’re not one of those, wearing a stolen shape and false sorrow?”
Jin’s breath caught in his throat. In an eyeblink, Rin’s demeanor had swung back to suspicious and severe. He opened his mouth, but at first nothing came out. The idea struck him with sudden horror: of course they would consider that. This world was under siege by monsters; any newcomer might be just another threat in disguise. Jin felt a cold sweat on his back. “I… I’m not a demon,” he said quickly, voice hitching. “I’m human. I swear it.”
Rin’s face remained unreadable. “You feel like something not quite human,” she said bluntly. “Something other.” Before Jin could protest again, she added, “But perhaps not a demon, either… Hmm.” Her doubt was infuriating and terrifying in equal measure.
Jin raised both hands in surrender, forgetting for a second that one still gripped his sword. The wakizashi’s blade, half unsheathed from his earlier practice, gleamed between them. He looked at it, then back at her. “Look at me,” he insisted, a tremor in his voice. “I barely know how to hold this sword. I’m shaking like a leaf. Do you really think a demon lord or trickster would put on an act this pathetic just to sneak inside? If I were a demon, I’d have to be the worst one ever.”
A flicker of what might have been the beginning of a smile touched Rin’s lips, gone almost before Jin was sure it was there. She considered him for another heartbeat. Jin felt the weight of that stare, and he met her eyes with as much honesty as he could muster, letting her see the sheer bewildered fear and hope inside him. Finally, Rin lowered her staff slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Perhaps not,” she said quietly. “If you are deceiving us, you’re doing a remarkably poor job of it.”
Jin exhaled, shoulders slumping with relief. He hadn’t realized until then how rigidly he’d been standing. “Thank you,” he mumbled, not entirely sure what he was thanking her for—believing him, maybe, or at least giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Rin nodded almost imperceptibly. “We will speak more of this later,” she said. “I have many questions… Jin.” She pronounced his name carefully, as if tasting a foreign word. There was an undeniable curiosity in her tone now, though it was tempered by caution. “If what you say is true, it has serious implications. For you, and perhaps for us all.”
Jin’s stomach fluttered at that ominous suggestion. He wanted to ask what she meant, but at that instant a new sound cut through the quiet night—sharp and dreadful.
A horn’s blast split the air from high above, the note high and urgent. The alarm horn. Jin recognized it instantly from every fantasy story he’d read: a call that meant only one thing. Danger. Its cry echoed along the wall, turning blood to ice.
All around, the stillness shattered. “Demons!” came a yell from one of the watchtower lookouts. “They’re at the outer perimeter!” The cry was quickly relayed down the line. Jin’s heart seized. So soon? He wasn’t ready, not now, not already—
The reaction on the wall was immediate and practiced. Sentries snapped to action, shouts turning into coordinated commands. The two guards by the gate had spears in hand and were rushing toward the ladders to the top of the wall, bellowing orders to unseen comrades. Above, archers were already leaning out from the towers, bows drawn as they scanned for targets beyond the gate. The low murmur of moments before transformed into the clamor of an outpost at war—boots hammering on wood and stone, steel hissed from scabbards, torches flared to life.
Rin spun toward the direction of the horn, her white and red robes flaring with the sudden motion. She had an arrow’s stillness one moment and now moved with a sudden purpose that took Jin’s breath away. Yet even amid the chaos, she cast a final glance back at Jin. Her eyes, reflecting the torchlight, were hard. “We are not finished, outsider,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the din. The cool dispassion from earlier had returned, layered now with challenge. “Prove now that you are worth more than the strange shape you wear.”
Jin opened his mouth to reply, but before any sound left his lips Rin had vanished, a blur of white silk and raven hair darting toward the ladders. Jin caught a glimpse of her ascending with swift grace, heading up to where her skills were needed. Then she was gone into the frantic swirl of activity above.
He stood transfixed for a single heartbeat. The world roared around him—distant snarls and inhuman screeches now wafted over the walls, confirming the threat was very real and very close. Adrenaline slammed through Jin’s veins. The night was suddenly alive with the nightmare he’d been dreading.
A guard sprinted past him, shouting for reinforcements. Jin’s legs finally obeyed his mind and he stumbled forward off the platform. The great gate was stirring—several soldiers were unlatching heavy bars and pulling it open just enough to allow the first sortie of defenders to rush out. Through that widening gap and between the crenelations above, Jin glimpsed chaos outside: dark, fast shapes skittering at the edge of torchlight, too many limbs and too-long claws scraping over earth. Eyes glowed like red coals in the night, accompanied by a chorus of guttural growls. The sight made Jin’s blood run cold. These weren’t just the lumbering oni he knew from folklore; they moved with a terrifying speed and animal grace. One of the creatures—a hulking silhouette on all fours—bounded into the firelight and let loose a snarl so deep Jin felt it in his chest.
He had imagined this moment so many times in the last hours, trying to prepare himself. Now that it was here, reality eclipsed imagination. Every instinct screamed at him to turn and run. But there was nowhere to run to—behind him were walls and terrified people, and beyond, monsters. And somewhere out there, possibly within those very woods, was Reika, counting on him to survive.
Jin tightened his grip on his wakizashi and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. His heart thundered so loudly he could hardly hear the commands being shouted around him. He forced himself forward, step by step, until he found himself joining a loose line of militia at the gate’s threshold. A young man with shaking hands like his own, armed with a spear, flashed him a tight, terrified smile. Jin tried to return it, unsure if it came out as a grimace.
This was it. The nightmare had come. I’m not ready for this, Jin thought, panic swirling. He wasn’t a soldier, he wasn’t brave or skilled. He might very well die within the next few minutes. That stark realization should have petrified him—but strangely, in that snap of clarity, he found a thread of resolve. Ready or not, he was here. It’s real. I’m here. There’s no going back.