The rain fell in crimson streaks, as if the heavens wept blood, soaking Kaito's tattered straw hat and dripping onto his scarred hands. His katana, Kuroyaiba, hung heavy at his side, its black blade humming faintly, like a beast stirring in sleep. The air in Yamagiri Province reeked of iron and decay, the forest around the Blood Shrine alive with unnatural sounds—claws scraping bark, low moans carried on the wind, the rustle of things unseen. His chest burned, the demonic mark beneath his kimono pulsing with each labored step. Five years ago, he'd betrayed his lord to save his wife and daughter, a choice that spared them from a tyrant's blade only for bandits to claim them months later. The kami hadn't forgiven him for his treason. Neither had he.
The daimyo of Yamagiri, Lord Hideyoshi, had offered coin for a grim task: find the missing villagers, stop the forbidden rituals at the Blood Shrine, and leave no trace. Kaito knew better than to trust a daimyo's promises—lords like Hideyoshi saw men like him as tools, not saviors—but coin was coin, and redemption was a faint hope, flickering like a dying lantern. The shrine loomed ahead, its torii gate cracked and peeling, red lacquer flaking like flayed skin. Stone lanterns flickered weakly, their flames casting shadows that writhed like yokai across the muddy courtyard. The mark on his chest flared hotter, a claw-like scar that seemed to writhe beneath his skin, as if the shrine itself called to his curse.
A scream shattered the silence, sharp and human, cutting through the rain's dull roar. Kaito sprinted up the shrine's stone steps, mud sucking at his boots, his heart pounding in time with the mark's pulse. He reached the courtyard and froze, breath catching in his throat. Bodies littered the ground—villagers, men and women he'd seen in Yamagiri's markets, their throats torn open, eyes wide with terror, hands clutching at the air as if they'd tried to fend off an invisible foe. Blood pooled beneath them, mixing with the crimson rain, and the stench of death was overwhelming.
At the center of the carnage stood a priest, his tattered robes stained dark with blood, his hands raised over a stone altar carved with ancient kanji. He chanted in a guttural tongue, words that twisted Kaito's gut, like a blade scraping bone. The priest's eyes glowed red, unnatural, and the air shimmered with a malevolent presence, thick and oppressive. The lanterns flickered wildly now, their light bending as if afraid to touch him.
"Who's there?" Kaito called, drawing Kuroyaiba. The blade's hum grew louder, hungry, vibrating in his grip as if it sensed the evil before him.
The priest's head snapped toward him, neck twisting at an impossible angle, bones popping audibly. "You… bear the mark," he hissed, his voice layered with echoes, like a chorus of the damned rising from Yomi. "The Oni King… awaits you."
Kaito's blood ran cold. Goromaru. The name was a legend, whispered to scare children—an oni so powerful the kami themselves had sealed him away centuries ago, his name etched in shrine warnings across Japan. Kaito had dismissed it as myth, but the mark on his chest pulsed in rhythm with the altar's glow, as if answering the priest's words. Before he could respond, the priest's body convulsed, a sickening crack echoing as his limbs stretched and twisted. His skin split, revealing hairy, segmented legs—eight in all, each tipped with an obsidian claw that gleamed in the lanternlight. A tsuchigumo—spider yokai—burst from the human shell, its maw gaping with jagged teeth, eyes like burning coals.
Kaito rolled aside as a claw slashed down, shattering the stone where he'd stood. "Damn you," he growled, slashing Kuroyaiba in a wide arc. The blade bit into a leg, drawing black ichor that hissed as it hit the ground, but the tsuchigumo laughed, its voice a cacophony of screams that echoed in Kaito's skull. The mark flared, flooding him with strength—unnatural, intoxicating, like fire in his veins. His vision tinged red, the curse urging him to kill, to revel in the bloodshed. He fought it, gripping his humanity like a fraying rope, and lunged, severing two legs in a single strike. The yokai screeched, its remaining claws pinning him to the ground, venom dripping inches from his face, its acidic stench burning his nostrils.
"You cannot stop him," it rasped, its maw splitting wider. "Goromaru rises!"
The altar's crimson glow pulsed like a heartbeat, and the ground trembled beneath Kaito's back. A deep, guttural laugh echoed from within the shrine, shaking the trees and sending a flock of crows scattering into the blood-red sky. Kaito roared, channeling the curse's power despite his fear. Kuroyaiba glowed faintly, its black blade shimmering with an eerie light, and he drove it upward, piercing the tsuchigumo's head. The yokai's scream cut off, its body collapsing in a heap of ichor and twitching limbs.
Kaito staggered to his feet, clutching his chest. The mark spread, claw-like tendrils snaking across his skin, burning as if branding him anew. He stumbled toward the altar, where a cracked stone tablet bore ancient kanji: Oniō no Chikage. The Blood Shadow of the Oni King. His hand brushed the tablet, and pain seared through him, white-hot and blinding. Visions flooded his mind—cities burning, yokai devouring armies, a colossal figure wreathed in crimson flames, its eyes boring into his soul. Goromaru. The name pulsed in his blood, and the mark answered, threatening to drown his will.
A woman's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. "Step back, samurai!" A young shrine maiden stood at the courtyard's edge, clad in white and red, her hakama stained with mud. She held a staff adorned with sacred bells, its tip glowing with divine light that pushed back the shrine's oppressive aura. Her eyes were fierce, but fear flickered beneath them, and her hands trembled slightly as she gripped her staff. "You've unleashed him," she said, voice steady despite the chaos. "The seal is broken."
Kaito tightened his grip on Kuroyaiba, the curse urging him to strike her, to silence the accusation. He forced it down, his jaw clenched. "Who are you?"
"Aiko," she said, stepping forward, bells jingling like a warning. "A miko of Yamagiri, trained to serve the kami. And you, samurai, have just doomed this land."
The ground split beneath the altar, a jagged crack spewing crimson mist that carried the screams of a thousand souls. Kaito's mark pulsed in time with the mist, each throb a reminder of his curse's tie to this evil. Aiko's staff flared brighter, its light carving a faint barrier against the mist, but it wavered, her strength faltering. From the forest beyond, a faint wail echoed—a woman's voice, cold and vengeful, like a blade drawn across stone. Kaito's eyes darted to the shadows, where a figure flickered, too brief to see—a woman in a tattered kimono, her hair a black cascade. A yurei, bound to this cursed place.
Aiko's gaze followed his, her expression darkening. "The Oni King's power is spreading. Yokai are waking, drawn to his call. We need the sacred relics—the mirror, jewel, and sword—to reseal him. Will you help, or will your curse consume you first?"
Kaito's mark burned, and Goromaru's laugh echoed in his skull, a deep rumble that promised destruction. He tightened his grip on Kuroyaiba, its hum now a low growl. "I'll fight," he said, voice low, rough with resolve. "But don't trust me. I don't trust myself."
The mist thickened, curling around the shrine like a living thing, and a distant roar shook the forest, deep and primal. From the valley below, samurai horns blared, sharp and urgent—Lord Hideyoshi's forces, closing in on the shrine. Kaito glanced at Aiko, her face pale but resolute, then back at the altar's pulsing glow. The yurei's wail sounded again, closer now, and the air grew colder. Whatever he'd unleashed, it was only the beginning.