At the end of the village, where the palace sat atop a small mountain, surrounded by winding stairways and an ancient temple, the fog flowed like a living predator, suffocating every corner of the place. At its heart, a mysterious samurai clad entirely in black stood motionless-from the tip of his head to the soles of his feet-wearing kimono, hakama, and a kataginu cloak that draped over his heavy shield like a shadow of death.
His face was hidden behind a jet-black menpo( 面頬) mask, adorned with two sharp, demonic spikes that seemed to pierce into another realm, shrouded in an aura of oppressive darkness.
Behind him, the tip of a long samurai sword glinted faintly, a cold whisper of steel across his back.
"I came with a message," he said, his voice low and hollow,
"but know this: we made you stay... of our own free will."
Odakimaru stood beside him.
His body appeared frail, yet his gaze was razor-sharp-unmoved by fog, silence, or threat. His voice came low and grave, hollow as a ruined bell, yet weighted with authority.
"I followed his orders. But the path is far from complete."
He studied the samurai for a moment, then gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Let things unfold as they must... for now. Remember-your being belongs to the Yin.
And Yin is made whole only through obedience to Shin.
To stray from his will is not rebellion by word, but betrayal in silence-when a shadow turns from the source of its shape. Act not on your own volition. Just as fog does not rise by itself, it only breathes in the presence of Shin's shadow.
Odakimaru... is merely the echo of that will. And he remains only so long as that will allows him."
The samurai turned and walked away, disappearing into the fog with steps like falling knives-leaving the mist behind him thicker, darker, almost choking the night.
Odakimaru lingered, his gaze following the vanishing silhouette. Slowly, he turned toward a rustle from the nearby shadows. A new figure emerged with a lazy, animal-like gait, eyes glinting with predatory mischief.
It was Tanuki.
He smirked, sharp and cruel.
"Wasn't that visit a little short?"
Odakimaru said nothing, his body tense, as if the samurai's presence still lingered like a blade against his spine. He ignored Tanuki's taunt.
After a moment, he murmured to himself:
"He is on his way... the perfume seller."
Tanuki's eyes flickered, the smirk fading into a hint of curiosity. "Do you sense danger?"
Odakimaru smiled—cold, indifferent, as though blood and death meant nothing to him.
"Danger does not concern those who cannot be touched."
He turned back toward the fog.
Silence stretched. Tanuki's expression grew distant.
"Go then... perhaps your human body is still useful for observation,
he muttered."
Then, lighter: "Shall I watch the perfume seller?"
Odakimaru's smile remained unchanged. "No need. I will send my shadow."
Tanuki melted into the fog, leaving Odakimaru alone. The air itself seemed to freeze; the fog thickened as if the mountain had inhaled the night and refused to exhale.
Slowly, Odakimaru raised his right hand, drawing back a hidden veil, whispering in a voice barely audible: "Among the shadows of shadow... I summon you."
The wind stirred, rising in a spiraling vortex around his feet before slipping toward the shallow pool at the base of the stone steps.
The water writhed like a living mirror, blackening as it pulsed with a dark rhythm. It began to boil, bubbles bursting like tiny explosions, as if something ancient clawed its way from the depths.
A shadow emerged.
It mirrored Odakimaru in height and posture, yet its features were fluid, ever-shifting, impossible to hold. No eyes-only two molten silver specters glowed where they should have been. It moved unnaturally, defying gravity itself.
Odakimaru regarded it calmly, voice sharp:
"He's approaching. Follow him.
Watch him.
And if he comes too close... end him."
The shadow bowed faintly, as if the earth itself absorbed the motion, then melted into the fog, leaving only a trace of moisture and ash.
Odakimaru gazed at the pale moon, barely visible behind the veil of mist.
"Everyone who came close... vanished in the end."
On the far side of the village, away from the festival's noise, the perfume seller stood before a simple wooden table he had just acquired.
He opened a small pouch of herbs and dried fruits; the scent escaped like a living memory-vivid, dreamlike, intoxicating.
He began crafting a perfume designed to nullify Odakimaru's fog, severing its mental grip on the weak-willed.
The ingredients were rare and sinister: Flory plant blood, which blooms only when the dead pass nearby, releasing a mystical, pulsating life force.
Ashes of a yokai, blended with sandalwood and cold, smoky incense.
With steady fingers, he sprayed the blend onto his wrists, then onto his neck. A faint aura enveloped him—a scent
masking his spirit, pushing back the dark mist.
Then, without hesitation, he walked toward Odakimaru.
The path was dry, layered with soft dust, winding through abandoned fields far from any living soul.
The wind whispered around him, guiding him like a phantom.
Silence reigned. No village, no city, no living being—only a desolate road leading to the heart of death.
He knew he was being watched.
Not a suspicion—a certainty.
As he neared a narrow wooden bridge spanning a dried stream, footsteps echoed ahead.
Five warriors emerged from the ruins. Their steps were heavy, deliberate, as if the earth itself remembered each footfall.
They wore light armor, metal plates across their chests, long swords strapped to their backs.
Faces bare, eyes sharp and trained. Predators raised for this moment.
At their center, a broad-
shouldered young man stepped forward, hair tied neatly, a long scar running down his right cheek.
"Your journey ends here, perfume seller. We cannot let you pass," he said, voice firm, cold.
The perfume seller halted. He surveyed them silently.
Another young man said,
"We've tracked you. We didn't think you'd take the direct path to Odakimaru."
The leader didn't look at him.
"We're the elite unit sent to hunt you down. Surrender."
The perfume seller chuckled, mockery in his voice:
"What an honor… to be pursued by the Tsukinoy clan.
But today... is not the day I die."
He calmed his expression. "No perfume to cloud the air, no fog to deceive. Only swords divide life and death. Let's see who remains standing."
The soldiers drew their swords.
The perfume seller gripped the hilt of Benzaiten, unsheathing the hidden blade within. It glimmered under the moonlight
—ancient, deadly.
"This won't take long," he said, voice cold, precise.
The first swordsman charged— a direct, ruthless strike.
The perfume seller deflected the first two blows. But the third tore his robe, slicing a thin red line across his shoulder. Blood gleamed in the moonlight.
He stepped back. The swordsman lunged again, aiming for a crushing blow.
The perfume seller dropped low, rolled in the dirt, rose, and struck a blinding side-slash.
The swordsman barely ducked, chest heaving. Dust and sparks filled the air as iron collided.
Then-
Empty air.
The perfume seller had vanished. In a flash, he reappeared behind the swordsman, slashing at the exposed side.
The swordsman froze,
staggered back, sword slipping from his hand.
Time itself seemed to stop.
The perfume seller advanced,
eyes cold, a mocking smile playing on his lips.
The swordsman lifted his eyes-perhaps to speak—but his head was already gone.
The severed head hit the ground, rolling once before stopping. Blood sprayed across the dust like a crimson tide.
And so the massacre began.
The second and third attacked together. Fast, brutal, precise.
One was cut from above, the other from the side. Bones cracked, screams filled the night.
The perfume seller moved with surgical precision, stabbing nerves, slicing thighs, shattering joints.
Bodies fell like ragdolls. Blood spattered his robe. Purple-tinged smoke rose from the poisoned blade.
The fourth soldier faltered. A single, precise strike-his head fell into the pond, sending ripples across stagnant water.
Only the leader remained.
Sword raised, eyes scanning the fog.
A fleeting opening-the fog parted. He charged.
The final clash was swift, violent. Sparks flew, dust swirled.
A flash of motion, lightning-fast.
The blade tore through his chest, piercing deep, exiting from his back.
His body convulsed violently, blood erupting like a crimson river, eyes wide in shock and pain.
He collapsed, gasping, coughing blood.
The perfume seller sheathed
Benzaiten calmly, wiping crimson from his face.
No haste. No remorse. Only the steady stride of one untouched by death.