Dawn broke over Okabe like a hesitant promise, the sky bruised with clouds that swallowed the first light. The Crane's Rest stood quiet, its lanterns snuffed, the common room still scattered with the remnants of last night's chaos—overturned bowls, a smear of ash where the kitsune-bi had dissolved. Taro stood at the inn's threshold, his breath misting in the chill, his short sword sheathed but close. The memory of those red eyes in the dark lingered, sharp as a blade's edge, but it was Hana's paper crane, tucked against his wrist, that steadied him. He could almost hear her voice, soft and sure: Bring me a story, Papa.
Sora emerged from the inn, her indigo kimono pristine despite the night's fight, the amulet's glow hidden but its presence heavy. Kenta followed, his armor dulled by mud, his face set with a determination that seemed to wrestle with some inner shadow. Mika trailed, her dagger twirling in restless fingers, her eyes scanning the empty street like a hawk waiting for movement. Jiro brought up the rear, his sake gourd swinging, but his steps were steady, his grin replaced by a quiet focus that made Taro wonder what secrets the monk carried.
The post town stirred slowly, vendors opening stalls under dripping eaves, their calls muted by the fog. Taro led the group toward the Nakasendō's edge, where the road climbed into the hills, its path shrouded in mist. The Flame Bearers' threat hung over them, but the yōkai's attack had shifted something in Taro—not fear, but a stubborn resolve, like a fire kindled against the cold. He glanced at Sora, her calm unshaken, and felt a pang of frustration. Her riddles about the amulet were a knot he couldn't untie, but for Hana, he'd keep walking.
"We're too exposed here," Kenta said, breaking the silence as they reached the town gate. His hand rested on his katana, eyes darting to the rooftops. "Those fox spirits weren't a one-off. Someone's pulling strings."
Mika snorted, kicking a pebble into the mud. "Yeah, and they're not subtle. Red cords, creepy notes? Might as well paint a target on us."
Jiro tilted his head, squinting into the fog. "It's not just them. The road's awake—yōkai don't just show up for fun. That amulet's stirring things, old things." He tapped his gourd, thoughtful. "Ever hear of a nurikabe? Invisible wall, traps you till you're lost. Could be next."
Taro's jaw tightened. "No walls, no spirits. We move fast, stick to the path. Okabe's behind us, and I want distance before nightfall."
Sora's voice came soft, like a breeze through bamboo. "The path chooses its trials, Taro-san. We can't outrun what's called."
He shot her a look, half-exasperated, but her eyes held a depth that stopped him—a flicker of sorrow, maybe, or something heavier, like a vow carved in stone. He turned away, leading them into the hills, the fog swallowing the town's last lanterns.
The Nakasendō climbed steeply, flanked by cedars that loomed like silent sentinels. The air grew colder, the mist thicker, curling around their ankles like a living thing. Taro's boots crunched on gravel, each step a reminder of the miles between him and Hana. He pictured her folding cranes in the dark, her fingers trembling but stubborn, and the thought pushed him forward, even as the road seemed to narrow, the trees pressing closer.
An hour in, Mika stopped, her breath hitching. "You hear that?"
Taro paused, ears straining. A faint hum, low and rhythmic, like a chant carried on the wind. Not the amulet—this was different, older, as if the earth itself were murmuring. Jiro's face paled, his gourd stilled. "That's no bird," he said, voice low. "It's a tatarigami—a cursed spirit, born of old grudges. We're not alone."
Kenta drew his katana, the steel singing. "Where?"
Sora pointed to a clearing ahead, where the mist parted to reveal a small shrine, its torii gate weathered, moss clinging to its beams. A single lantern hung from it, unlit but swaying, as if touched by an unseen hand. The hum grew louder, vibrating in Taro's chest, and with it came a chill that wasn't just the cold.
"Stay back," Taro said, stepping forward, sword drawn. The shrine felt wrong, its silence too heavy, like a held breath. He thought of Hana, her cranes, her hope, and gripped his blade tighter.
Before he could move closer, the air shimmered, and a figure appeared—not human, but a shape of smoke and shadow, its eyes hollow, its mouth a gaping wound. The tatarigami's hum became a wail, sharp enough to claw at Taro's ears. Kenta lunged, his katana slicing through the spirit, but it reformed, its laughter like breaking ice.
Jiro shoved forward, pulling a paper talisman from his robes. "Back, you old grudge!" he shouted, his voice steady despite the sake on his breath. He slapped the talisman onto the shrine's gate, chanting words that made the air hum in response. The spirit recoiled, its form flickering, but it didn't vanish.
Sora stepped forward, her amulet glowing bright now, casting green light across the clearing. She raised a hand, her voice soft but commanding, like a mother calming a child. "Rest, lost one. Your pain is not ours to carry."
The tatarigami froze, its wail fading to a whisper, then nothing. The shrine stood silent again, the lantern still. Taro's heart pounded, his blade still raised, but the threat was gone—for now. He turned to Sora, anger and awe warring in his chest. "What are you?" he demanded, voice rough.
She met his gaze, her eyes soft but unyielding. "A traveler, like you. Bound to a purpose I can't escape."
Mika wiped sweat from her brow, her dagger still clutched tight. "That's great, but can we not do that again? I signed up for bandits, not ghosts."
Kenta sheathed his blade, his face pale but resolute. "She's right. This road's cursed. But I'm not turning back. Not yet."
Jiro tucked the talisman away, his grin returning, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Cursed or not, we're bound now. The kami's watching, and so's something else."
Taro sheathed his sword, his thoughts spinning. Hana's crane pressed against his wrist, a fragile reminder of why he couldn't stop. But as they moved deeper into the hills, the fog closing in, he felt the road shift under him—not just earth, but something alive, watching, waiting for the next test. And somewhere, in the mist, the Flame Bearers' red cords were drawing closer.