The river cut through the valley like a vein of quicksilver, its waters rushing over smooth stones with a murmur that drowned the distant bird calls. Taro approached the bank first, the ground softening under his boots, the air heavy with the smell of wet earth and wild herbs. The fire's truths from the night before still lingered in his mind, a web of half-shared stories that made the group feel less like strangers, more like threads woven into the same cloth. His short sword swayed at his hip, a constant reminder of the road's teeth, but the confessions had sharpened his resolve, turning doubt into a quiet fire he carried for them all.
Sora followed close, her steps silent on the moss, her indigo kimono catching the dappled light through the leaves. Kenta's armor gleamed dully in the sun, his gaze sweeping the water's edge, ever watchful. Mika hopped over roots, her dagger tucked but her eyes sharp, scanning for traps or treasures hidden in the reeds. Jiro brought up the rear, his gourd slung over his shoulder, humming a fragment of an old chant that blended with the river's flow.
The crossing looked simple—a shallow ford where the current slowed, stones peeking above the surface like stepping stones. But Taro's instincts prickled, the same way they had on old courier runs when a path seemed too inviting. The water's murmur shifted, almost a whisper, pulling at the edges of his hearing. He held up a hand, stopping the group. "Something's off. Listen."
Kenta nodded, his hand dropping to his katana. "The flow's wrong—too even, like it's waiting."
Mika crouched by the bank, dipping a finger into the current, her face twisting. "Cold as a thief's heart. And that whisper? Sounds like laughter, low and wet."
Jiro's hum cut short, his eyes widening as he peered into the depths. "Kappa. Water imp, hungry for souls or just mischief. They lure with voices, drag you under if you're not sharp."
Sora knelt beside the water, her reflection rippling back at her, calm but distorted. "The river hides what it claims. This one's stirred, called by those who twist the land."
Before Taro could respond, the murmur swelled, the water bubbling as a shape rose from the shallows—not human, but squat and green-skinned, with webbed hands and a beak-like mouth twisted in a grin. The kappa's eyes gleamed yellow, its head crowned with a dish of water that sloshed as it moved. It beckoned with a clawed finger, its voice a gurgle: "Cross, travelers. The water's kind today."
Kenta drew his katana, the steel ringing clear. "Stay back, imp. We're not your playthings."
The kappa laughed, a sound like stones grinding under current, and the river surged, waves lapping higher, pulling at their boots with invisible hands. Mika yelped as her foot slipped, the water tugging her toward the deep. Taro grabbed her arm, yanking her back, his heart slamming as the imp's eyes fixed on Sora.
Jiro fumbled for a talisman, his fingers quick despite the sake's haze. "Bow to it—spill the water on its head! That's the trick, weakens 'em."
Mika twisted free, her dagger flashing as she lunged, aiming for the kappa's dish. But the imp dodged, swift as a fish, its claws raking the air near Kenta. He swung his katana, the blade slicing water but missing flesh, his frustration boiling into a roar.
Sora stepped forward, her presence cutting the chaos like a calm wind. She raised a hand, her voice steady, weaving words that hung heavy: "Return to your depths, guardian. Your lure is not for us."
The kappa hissed, its eyes narrowing, but Sora's collar glowed faintly, the jade beneath pulsing like a heartbeat. The imp recoiled, the water on its head steaming, spilling in rivulets. It thrashed, claws scraping stone, then sank with a final gurgle, the river settling as if nothing had stirred it.
Taro exhaled, his grip on Mika loosening, the tension draining but leaving a sharp aftertaste. "How'd you do that? The glow—your trick again."
Sora lowered her hand, her face serene but a flicker of weariness crossing her eyes. "The jade speaks to what hides in water and shadow. But it calls as much as it repels."
Kenta cleaned his blade on his sleeve, his breath steadying. "Repels? Felt like it drew the thing out. These yōkai aren't random—they're aimed at us."
Jiro tucked his unused talisman away, his nod slow. "Aimed, yes. Flame Bearers, twisting spirits like puppets. That red cord we saw? They're weaving a net."
Mika rubbed her arm, her usual bite softened by the close call. "Net or no, we're across. But next time, let's skip the water games."
Taro scanned the far bank, the path continuing into denser woods, the river's murmur now just a harmless babble. The kappa's lure had tested more than their steel—it had pulled at their frayed edges, forcing them to lean on each other. He felt the shift, that thread of trust thickening, not just from words around a fire, but from claws in the dark.
They crossed the ford single file, the water cold but tame. On the other side, the woods closed in, shadows lengthening as the sun dipped lower. Taro took the lead again, his mind on the map's lies and the cult's reach, but with the group at his back, the road felt a little less like a snare.