The sky had turned the colour of iron.
Clouds gathered low over the road, and the late afternoon air smelled faintly of rain. Hanzo walked along the forest path that wound toward Fukuyama, the steady rhythm of his geta sandals softened by the damp earth. His bo-staff rested lightly across his shoulders, sleeves rolled to the forearms, a tune humming quietly from his lips.
He looked every bit the wandering youth — lean, sun-tanned, easy-going — yet beneath that unassuming air lurked the presence of a predator.
His senses had been stirring at the edge of his consciousness for the past hour. A whisper in the stillness. A tremor in the quiet. The birds had stopped singing. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
He sighed.
"Of course. First week on the road and I'm already the pest control."
Hanzo slowed, eyes flicking toward the cedar trees thickening ahead. The forest was old — older than most of the villages nearby — its trunks rising like pillars of a forgotten temple. Shadows pooled between the roots, hiding God knows what.
Then he sensed it.
A flicker of malevolence.
The cursed spirit's presence was unmistakable — a pulse of hatred, grief, and something deeper… despair. His Observation Haki outlined its shape before he even saw it, long limbs, hunched posture, dripping with ooze that flowed like ink spilled in water.
He stepped forward, boots sinking softly into the moss.
"Alright, big guy," he murmured. "Let's make this quick. I still have to find dinner after this."
The forest floor trembled.
A distorted hiss echoed from the shadows, and then it emerged — crawling on all fours like a twisted beast. Its body was semi-humanoid, bloated with waterlogged flesh, veins pulsing with dark fluid. From its shoulders sprouted what looked like pieces of shattered armour — remnants of something human, fused grotesquely with spirit matter.
Its face was the worst part — half skull, half grotesque face, eyes glowing a dull blue. The stench of saltwater and decay filled the clearing.
Hanzo tilted his head. "You smell like a fermented fish on a hot day."
The spirit howled, a sound like a dying wave crashing through bone.
Hanzo's expression sharpened. "Aight. No small talk, then."
He dropped his pack to the side, rolled his shoulders, and let his body relax into a stance. His aura — though devoid of cursed energy — radiated pressure nonetheless. Strength honed by his Heavenly Restriction, his brutal training, and sheer fucking will.
The cursed spirit lunged.
Hanzo moved.
In an instant, the forest came alive — wood cracking beneath his feet as he sidestepped, the spirit's claws tearing through the air where he'd been a moment before. His counter was fluid, precise — a flick of the wrist and a flash of motion. The bo-staff struck the creature's temple with a dull thock, sending it reeling sideways into a tree.
Hanzo's movements were almost serene, like a dancer tracing death through rhythm. Each strike flowed into the next — an elbow here, a low sweep there, the oak staff whistling through rain-thick air.
The cursed spirit shrieked, swinging one massive arm. Hanzo ducked, felt the wind rush past, and drove his fist into its gut. The sound that followed was something between thunder and the crack of wood snapping under pressure.
It staggered back, retching black fluid.
Hanzo narrowed his eyes. "A Grade 2. Not bad."
His fingers curled. The air around his hand shimmered faintly — not cursed energy, but something not from this world.
Armament Haki.
As his right arm was coated in obsidian black from his Haki, he stepped in and launched an attack.
"Dragon's Talon."
The blow landed — a three-fingered claw strike, hitting precisely and devastating. The cursed spirit convulsed as the impact caved through its chest, cracking bone and cursed matter alike. For a heartbeat, its watery body hung frozen mid-motion — then collapsed inward, dissolving into black vapor that hissed against the rain.
Hanzo exhaled slowly, shaking the damp from his hair.
"There's that," he murmured.
The forest around him was quiet again — eerily so. The mist curled around the cedars, soft and silver in the fading light. Somewhere in the distance, a stream babbled, oblivious to the battle that had just taken place.
He picked up his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and stretched. "One down. Probably a few thousand to go."
His stomach growled.
"Right," he sighed. "Priority shift: find food before enlightenment."
By the time he reached the outskirts of Fukuyama, night had fallen.
The town glowed with life — lanterns swaying from eaves, voices rising in cheerful chatter. The scent of grilled mackerel, soy sauce, and sake drifted through the streets like a siren's call.
Hanzo's eyes lit up.
"Isekai perk number one: local cuisine."
He strolled through the market street, admiring the bustle. Vendors shouted, children laughed, and a shamisen played somewhere nearby. The town's castle loomed distantly against the night sky — a silhouette of ancient pride.
Hanzo found a stall selling yakitori and waved to the old man behind the counter.
"One portion, please. And maybe a cup of tea. My wallet's allergic to sake tonight."
The old man chuckled. "Traveling alone, son?"
"Yeah. On my way to Tokyo."
"Long road. Dangerous, too. Bandits and beasts out there."
Hanzo bit into the skewer, savouring the sweet-salty glaze. "Mhm. You don't say."
He finished the first skewer in three bites, ordered another, and then another. By the fifth, the old man just stared.
"Good heavens, boy! You eat like a sumo wrestler! Built almost like one too."
"High metabolism," Hanzo said with a grin. "Can't help it."
A few workers sitting nearby snorted into their drinks. One of them, a burly dockhand with arms like tree trunks, called out, "Hey, kid! We could use someone like you down at the docks. Are you looking for work?"
Hanzo paused mid-bite. "You paying?"
"Two meals a day and fifteen yen a day."
"Three meals a day and you've got yourself a deal."
The men laughed. "Alright then! Come tomorrow morning. You'll meet the foreman. Name's Jirou."
Hanzo raised his cup of tea. "To gainful employment and affordable food."
They clinked their cups in return.
Later that evening, Hanzo walked along the pier. The sea stretched before him, silver under the moonlight. Ships bobbed gently, their masts swaying like tall reeds. The scent of salt and oil hung in the air, mingling with faint laughter from the taverns nearby.
He leaned against a post, watching the reflection of lanterns ripple across the water.
For the first time since leaving home, he allowed himself to breathe deeply — to feel at peace.
No cursed spirits to slay, no honking cars, and no sensei to scream at him, though he missed it sometimes. But right now, it was just the sound of the sea. Waves are hitting the ships and one another.
A small smile touched his lips.
"The simplicity of the old world," he murmured. "Too bad no blues are playing at the tavern."
He turned back toward the inn he'd found earlier, a modest place tucked behind the harbour.
Morning came with gulls crying overhead and the rhythmic sound of waves slapping wood.
Hanzo arrived at the docks as the workers gathered — men unloading crates, hauling nets, shouting over one another. Jirou, the foreman, was exactly as expected: loud, sunburnt, and constantly chewing something that didn't seem edible.
"You the new lad?" Jirou barked.
"Hamamura Hanzo," he said, bowing slightly.
"Well, Hanzo, if you can lift those crates without breaking your spine, you'll fit right in."
Hanzo nodded, stepping forward. The crates were heavy — maybe fifty, sixty kilograms each — filled with barrels of fish and salted goods. He crouched, got a good grip, and hoisted one effortlessly.
A silence fell around him.
Then came the murmurs.
"What the hell…"
"That thing's filled with iron fittings…"
"Is he made of steel?"
Hanzo smiled sheepishly. "Uh… I eat a lot."
Jirou whistled. "You're either blessed or cursed, boy. Either way, I like it."
Hanzo chuckled. "Maybe both."
The work went smoothly after that. By noon, he'd lifted enough cargo to make the rest of the dockhands question their career choices. They eventually stopped staring and started calling him "the iron monk," because he was strong and carried a staff like a monk. Hanzo didn't correct them. He thought it sounded cool.
When evening came, Hanzo sat at the docks, legs dangling over the edge, the day's warmth lingering in his muscles. The waves reflected the sunset — a riot of orange and crimson.
He munched on a rice ball, the faint taste of pickled plum making him grimace.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Never liked the pickled plum rice fillings."
A few workers nearby laughed quietly.
Hanzo leaned back, eyes half-closed, and listened to the sound of the sea. Somewhere, beneath the surface, something stirred — a malicious presence. His Observation Haki brushed against it like a whisper.
He sighed. "Can't even finish dinner in peace."
But that would be tonight's problem. For now, he simply watched as the sun dipped behind the horizon, casting long shadows over the water.