The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time Taro led the group away from the stables, the air heavy with the scent of damp straw and cedar. Okabe's lanterns swayed in the breeze, their glow smudging the night into a patchwork of light and shadow. Taro's boots sank into the mud, each step a reminder of the road's pull, dragging him further from Hana yet closer to her hope. Jiro's sake-slurred humming trailed behind, a strange counterpoint to the town's quiet buzz—vendors closing up, a distant shamisen fading. Sora walked with her usual calm, her kimono barely wet, as if the rain parted for her. Kenta's armor clinked faintly, his eyes scanning the alleys, while Mika moved like a cat, her steps silent but restless.
The monk's arrival had shifted something in Taro, a flicker of unease mixed with the grudging comfort of another sword—or in Jiro's case, a sake gourd—at his side. The man's talk of yōkai and angry paths stirred memories of old hashiriya tales: roads that twisted under moonlight, leading travelers to nowhere. Taro shook it off, focusing on the inn ahead, its paper screens promising warmth. Now, every glance at Sora's hidden amulet felt like a gamble with that promise.
They slipped into the inn, a low-roofed haven called the Crane's Rest. The common room was alive with travelers—merchants nursing sake, a pair of pilgrims muttering prayers, a samurai in the corner sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Taro chose a table near the back, away from prying eyes. The innkeeper, a stout man with a limp, brought bowls of steaming rice and miso, his smile too wide to trust.
"Rough night for travel," the innkeeper said, setting down a tray. "Heard there's trouble on the Nakasendō. Bandits, maybe worse."
Taro kept his face neutral, spooning rice. "Road's always got trouble. We'll manage."
Mika leaned forward, her voice low, teasing. "Worse than bandits? Like what, ghosts? Or just tall tales to scare kids?"
The innkeeper's smile faltered, his eyes flicking to Sora. "Tales, maybe. But folks say the hills are restless. Lights in the trees, voices in the wind. You headed east, you'll see."
Jiro chuckled, already halfway through a fresh sake cup. "Restless, eh? That's the kami talking. They don't like uninvited guests." He winked at Sora, who met his gaze with a stillness that made Taro's skin prickle.
"Enough chatter," Taro said, cutting through the tension. "We eat, we sleep, we move at first light."
But as the group settled, a figure slipped into the inn—a man in a dark cloak, rain dripping from his hat. Taro's gut tightened. The man's wrist bore a red cord, knotted tight, just like the shadow outside the teahouse. He took a seat across the room, ordering nothing, his eyes scanning the crowd before settling on their table.
Kenta noticed too, his hand drifting to his katana. "Trouble," he muttered under his breath.
Mika's lips curled, a mix of defiance and nerves. "Told you. Flame Bearers don't quit easy."
Sora sipped her tea, unbothered, but her fingers grazed her collar where the amulet lay. "He watches, but he waits," she said softly. "The road will decide his moment."
Taro's patience frayed. He leaned close to Sora, his voice a rough whisper. "No more riddles. That amulet—what is it? Why's it pulling every shadow in Edo after us?"
Her eyes met his, deep and unreadable, like a lake hiding its depths. "It's a key, Taro-san. To Horai-ji, to the kami's heart. But it chooses who carries it. And who it calls."
He wanted to press her, to demand clarity, but the weight of her words stopped him—half warning, half promise. Instead, he turned to Jiro, who was watching the cloaked man with a sly grin. "You know more than you're saying, monk. Spill it. What's waiting on this road?"
Jiro swirled his sake, his voice dropping low. "Old stories, friend. Horai-ji's not just a temple—it's a gate. The kami there guards something ancient, something folks like our red-corded friend want to twist. Yokai sense it, too. Ever hear of a nurikabe? A wall that moves, traps you till dawn? That's the least of what's stirring."
Mika rolled her eyes, but her fingers twitched, as if itching for her dagger. "Great. Magic walls. Next you'll say the rain's cursed."
"Maybe it is," Jiro said, his grin fading. "Road's been funny since that amulet started glowing."
Taro's chest tightened, a mix of anger and something softer—fear, maybe, for the first time in years. Not for himself, but for the fragile hope he carried for Hana. He pictured her folding cranes in the dark, each one a prayer he might fail to answer. He stood, tossing a few ryo on the table. "We're done here. Rooms, now. Kenta, you take first watch."
The group moved to the upper floor, a narrow hallway of sliding doors and creaking wood. Taro's room was small, just a futon and a flickering lantern. He lay down but didn't sleep, his mind racing—Hana's laugh, Sora's secrets, that red cord like a noose tightening. Outside, the rain drummed on, and somewhere in the night, a low hum rose, faint but unmistakable, like the amulet itself was singing to the storm.
Downstairs, the cloaked man lingered, his red cord glinting as he slipped a note to a passing servant. The Flame Bearers were closing in, and the road to Horai-ji was growing darker by the hour.