The path narrowed to a knife's edge, and that's when Taro saw the blood.
Fresh. Still wet. Droplets leading upward along the cliff face, too regular to be accidental. Someone—or something—had passed this way recently, and they'd been bleeding as they went.
"Wait." Taro raised his fist, halting the group. Behind him, Kenta still carried Sora's unconscious form, the shrine maiden's blood-streaked face pale as moonlight. Mika had gone quiet after the bamboo grove, her usual bravado replaced by watchful tension. Jiro leaned heavily on his staff, muttering prayers that seemed more for his own comfort than divine intervention.
"More bandits?" Kenta's voice was low, hand drifting toward his katana despite Sora's weight in his arms.
"Maybe." Taro crouched, studying the trail. "But bandits don't usually leave trails this obvious. Unless—"
A sound cut through the mountain silence. Not the horn they'd heard earlier. This was worse—a wet, tearing sound, like meat being pulled from bone. And it was coming from just ahead, around the next bend where the path disappeared into thick mist that hadn't been there moments ago.
"That's not natural fog," Jiro whispered, his earlier terror from the grove still raw in his voice. "Mountain mist doesn't move like that. Doesn't breathe."
He was right. The fog pulsed, expanding and contracting like lungs. And within it, Taro could see shapes moving—too tall, too angular, joints bending in ways that made his eyes hurt.
"We need another route." Mika was already scanning the cliff face. "Maybe we can climb around—"
"No time." Kenta nodded back down the trail where, through gaps in the trees, Taro could see torchlight. Multiple torches. The bandits—and whoever else had joined them—were closer than he'd thought. "They'll be on us in minutes. We go forward or we die here."
Sora stirred in his arms, her eyes fluttering open. When she saw the mist, she went rigid. "No. Not here. Not this place."
"You know what this is?" Taro moved to her side.
"The Breathing Mist." Her voice was hoarse, barely audible. "The amulet—it's pulling us toward concentrations of old power. Places where the barrier between worlds is thin. This is one of them." She tried to sit up, failed. "There's something inside. Something that's been waiting."
"Waiting for what?" Mika demanded.
"For vessels like me." Sora's hand clutched weakly at the jade amulet. "The kami inside these—they're fragments of something larger. Something that was shattered and scattered centuries ago. Every trial we face, every spiritual entity we encounter—they're drawn to what I carry. Testing us. Or trying to take it."
"And you're just mentioning this now?"
Kenta's voice was sharp with betrayal.
"I didn't remember! The amulet—it suppresses certain memories. Protects the vessel from knowing too much too soon." Blood trickled from her nose again. "But after the grove, after I commanded it... walls are breaking down. I'm starting to remember what I am. What this journey really means."
Taro grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Then tell us. Right now. What are we walking into?"
"A test." Sora's midnight eyes held depths of sorrow. "The temple doesn't grant wishes to just anyone. It tests your worth through trials. But I'm not being tested—I'm being assembled. Each encounter adds something to the amulet. The kitsune-bi's fire. The kappa's water nature. The onryō's death essence. The bamboo grove's ancient patience." She looked at the mist. "And whatever's in there is the next piece."
"You're saying this whole journey is a trap?" Jiro's voice cracked. "That we're not pilgrims, we're just... carriers? Bringing you to the temple like a package?"
"Not a trap. A transformation." Sora's fingers tightened on the amulet. "By the time we reach Hōrai-ji, if we survive, I'll have absorbed enough power to become a true divine vessel. The kami will be whole again. And then..." She trailed off.
"And then what?" Mika pressed.
"I don't know. The memories stop there."
Sora met Taro's gaze. "But I'm starting to think the wish isn't the reward. It's the payment. For helping complete whatever ritual started when I received this amulet three years ago."
The torchlight below was closer now. Shouts echoed up the mountain—the bandits organizing, spreading out to cut off escape routes.
And ahead, the mist pulsed hungrily, shapes within growing more defined. Taro could see faces now—or the suggestions of faces. Mouths open in silent screams. Hands reaching. All of it formed from fog and malice and something older than memory.
"Choice time." Taro looked at each of them. "We can try to fight through the bandits—probably die. We can try to climb—definitely die. Or we go through the mist and face whatever's waiting in there."
"Those are terrible options," Mika said flatly.
"Welcome to the Twilight Band." Taro drew his short sword. The blade seemed inadequate against fog and spirits, but it was something to hold onto. "Jiro, you have any more of those talismans?"
The monk checked his robes, pulling out a handful of paper charms. "A few. But after what happened in the grove, I'm not sure how effective they'll be. Whatever we're facing is getting stronger. Or we're getting deeper into territories where human magic doesn't work as well."
"Then we improvise." Taro turned to Kenta. "Stay in the middle. Protect Sora. If things go bad, you run—don't argue, just run. Get her to the temple if you can."
"And leave you?" Kenta's jaw set stubbornly.
"Someone has to complete this insane journey. Might as well be the one with the divine artifact." Taro managed a grim smile. "Besides, I owe a dead woman a promise. Can't keep it if Sora doesn't make it."
Before anyone could argue, he stepped forward into the mist.
The cold hit him first—not winter cold, but the cold of deep earth, of tombs sealed for centuries. The mist clung to his skin like wet silk, and immediately he lost sight of the others even though they were right behind him. Sound became muffled, distant. Even his own breathing seemed to come from somewhere else.
"Stay close!" he called out, but his voice died after a few feet, swallowed by the fog.
A shape emerged ahead. Human-sized, but wrong. It moved in stuttering jerks, like a puppet controlled by an amateur. As it came closer, Taro saw it was made entirely of mist compressed into a vaguely human form—but the face was clear. Too clear.
It was him.
Not a reflection. Not quite. This version of Taro was younger, maybe by fifteen years. Wearing the courier's gear he'd abandoned, carrying the message tubes he'd once treasured. The mist-Taro's eyes were hollow voids, but when it spoke, the voice was his own.
"You ran so fast," it said. "Never looked back. Never asked what the messages contained. Never cared who lived or died because of what you delivered."
"I know." Taro kept his sword raised. "I've made peace with that."
"Have you?" The mist-Taro gestured, and more shapes formed—dozens of them. Faces he'd passed on roads. Merchants. Peasants. Samurai. All the anonymous people whose lives had intersected with his for heartbeats before he'd run on, chasing silver and speed and reputation. "Do you even remember us? We were real. We had names, families, dreams. But to you, we were just obstacles to run around."
"I remember some of you." It was a lie, and the mist knew it.
"Liar." The mist-Taro's form rippled with anger. "You remember nothing. You're a ghost yourself—hollow, empty, running from a past you refuse to face." It stepped closer. "And now you think you can save your daughter? You, who've saved no one? Who've let everyone become scenery on your precious roads?"
The words hit harder than any blade. Because they were true. Partially true. The kind of truth that festered.
Behind him, Taro heard Kenta shout—fighting his own mist-phantom, probably. Heard Mika scream. Jiro's chanting had turned desperate. And through it all, Sora's voice, weak but urgent: "Don't listen! It feeds on guilt! On regret!"
But how could he not listen? The mist-Taro was him. The him he'd been, the him he was terrified he still was underneath all the recent growth and sacrifice.
The phantom lunged, mist-hands reaching for his throat, and Taro's sword passed through it uselessly. The cold fingers closed around his neck, and he felt his life being pulled out—not his breath, something deeper. His warmth. His will. His reasons for continuing.
"I ran," he gasped. "I ran and didn't look back. I was a coward who cared only about reputation and coin."
The grip tightened.
"But I'm not that person anymore!" The words tore from him like confession. "I've changed! The road changed me! These people—" He thought of Mika's sharp wit and hidden wounds. Kenta's fierce honor. Jiro's sake-soaked wisdom. Sora's terrible burden. "—they changed me! I'm not running anymore! I'm walking toward something, not away!"
The mist-Taro's face twisted. "Pretty words. But words mean nothing without proof."
"Then here's your proof." Taro stopped fighting, let his sword drop. "I gave away my wish. My daughter's only chance. I gave it to a dead woman I wronged because it was the right thing to do. The old me would never have done that. The old me would have let you all burn if it meant saving Hana."
The grip loosened slightly.
"But I can't be that person anymore and live with myself. So if this is how I die—strangled by my own past in a magic mist—then fine. At least I die as someone better than I was."
The mist-Taro stared at him with those hollow eyes. Then, slowly, it began to dissolve.
"You're still a coward," it whispered as it faded. "But maybe... maybe you're a coward trying to be brave. That counts for something."
It was gone. The mist around Taro thinned, and he could see the others again—Kenta on his knees, weeping. Mika curled in a ball, fists clenched. Jiro sitting in meditation, prayer beads wrapped so tight around his hands they'd drawn blood. And Sora, standing now, the amulet blazing bright enough to hold the mist at bay.
"It's done," she said quietly. "You all faced your shadows. And survived." She touched the amulet, and Taro saw new veins of silver running through the jade. "Another piece assembled."
"What did it take from us?" Mika's voice was raw.
"Nothing it didn't already have." Sora looked at each of them with something like pity. "The mist only shows what's already inside. The question is whether you can live with what you see."
The fog lifted completely, revealing the path ahead—clearer now, wider, as if the mountain itself approved of their passage. But behind them, the torches had vanished. No more pursuit.
"They couldn't enter the mist," Jiro realized. "Only we could. Because we're carrying the amulet. This whole section of the mountain—it's a barrier. A test that only vessels and their companions can pass."
"Then we're safe?" Kenta asked hopefully.
"For now." Sora started walking, steadier than before despite her earlier weakness. "But there will be more trials. Each one harder than the last. Each one forcing us to confront what we fear most." She looked back at them. "Are you sure you want to continue? This is your last chance to turn back. After this point, the mountain won't let you leave until we reach the temple. Or die trying."
Taro picked up his sword. Mika stood, wiping her eyes. Kenta rose, hand on his katana. Jiro uncorked his sake gourd and took a long pull.
"We're the Twilight Band," Taro said. "We don't quit. We don't run. We walk forward, whatever's ahead."
"Even knowing what you know now?" Sora's expression was unreadable. "That I'm not a pilgrim but a ritual? That you're not companions but components in something you don't understand?"
"Especially knowing that." Mika's smile was sharp and broken and real. "Someone's got to make sure this ritual doesn't get you killed. Might as well be us idiots."
Sora almost smiled. "Then let's keep walking. The next trial won't wait forever."
They walked on, leaving the Breathing Mist behind, and Taro felt the weight of what he'd confessed settling into his bones. He wasn't running anymore. Wasn't even walking away from his past.
He was walking toward something unknown, carrying guilt like stones and hope like embers, surrounded by people who'd become more real to him than anyone in his old life.
The mountain stretched ahead, dark and patient and full of trials that would demand even more than the mist had taken.
But for the first time in fifteen years, Taro wasn't afraid of what lay ahead.
He was afraid of failing the people beside him.
And maybe that was the point all along.