—Before dawn, the air was cold like half iron, half salt dissolved together.
With the Kyushu ranges at her back, Shibukanu crossed one more ridgeline and stopped, measuring the world with ear and skin.
—Layers of wind. The flight of birds. The breathing deep in the earth.
The "glowing blade" she'd found in the rocks yesterday was still pulsing faintly in the mountain's chest. It wouldn't come free, wouldn't burn—just was there, quietly tidying the sounds around it with a strange kind of presence.
(Later. First—this side.)
She leaned a step toward the sea.
Down the pass, threading tea fields, slipping through a little hot-spring town. Early-shift shops half-hung their curtains; at the fishing port, water dripping from nets sounded drowsy.
"Big sis, last night up in the mountain—something shining—"
"Don't talk. Get inside."
Short words; the locals nodded and shut their doors. Standing out is bad. Let fear swell, and it draws extra "scents."
At a cape where the tides changed, a thin thread sensation brushed her soles.
Invisible thread should be unseen—yet in the slant of morning light it flashed silver for a heartbeat.
One line. No—two. No— a lattice, tight, running lengthwise and crosswise.
The trembling of the threads slipped away with the sea breeze, carrying news to somewhere.
(A lure.)
Shibukanu walked on. Careful not to cut the threads—and with a gait that said the threads didn't matter anyway.
Angles shifted; the forest's color deepened a shade.
Where there was no road, a "pretend road" appeared.
A thin curtain hung across the valley—look close, and it wasn't mist or haze. Layers of spiderweb with illusion woven through them: a fake landscape.
Two gatekeepers like patches of shadow stood there on presence alone.
Shibukanu didn't stop. "Let me pass, or be knocked down. Choose."
One of the watchers clicked in his throat within the shadow.
"...Pass."
Low voice. They had reason. In that case, there was no need to fell them.
She pushed through the curtain—and inside, the world was "quietly bustling."
Training grounds lined the rock shelf.
People with footsteps thinned to the limit moved like dance, like entangling, like drawing and releasing.
Black gauze veils, thin-silk sleeves, fine gold rings on elbows and knees.
White-chalk circles drawn all over the ground, designed so footwork forms overlapped with trap points.
Banners along the wall bore a crest of red hairpins and fine spider silk.
—The Jorō clan. People of deception and thread.
When they "hide," they are relentlessly meticulous and relentlessly lazy. They have the patience to wait for the outside world to forget them, and they never tire of arts that make it forget.
Three figures spoke by a fire.
An older woman fanned the flames; a gaunt man unrolled a scroll; a young fighter stood without nodding.
Low voices, but they struck the rim of the ear cleanly.
"Invitations sent to every quarter. Responses favorable. Many are hungry for a 'trial.'"
"The 'host' hasn't shown yet. But the rules are set. Mix the blood, shave off the names, let the weak fall and leave only the strong."
"The referee?"
"They're coming 'from the far side.' Those who know the boundary."
The fire cracked.
"Have we chosen a name?"
"Outwardly, 'Demon's Trial.' Internally—Trials."
The English word skimmed the space like a ripple.
The young fighter finally opened his mouth. "Confusion topside continues. We can 'select' without drawing eyes right now."
"Exactly. Hell's seams are loosening, bit by bit. The wind is turning."
Only the older woman's eyes smiled. "Listen well. This is no show—it's a hunt. Those who survive touch the Key. Those who fall—return to thread."
That was enough for Shibukanu.
Crush them?
Right here, right now?
—No.
They were "set," but their fangs weren't yet out.
Break this spot, and a dozen identical webs will be strung elsewhere.
(Find the root. The web's master. The hub.)
She turned on her heel and walked back to the curtain.
In passing, her eyes met a sentry's. "If you've brought children, go down the mountain. Do that, and I'll pretend I didn't see you."
At the short line, the watcher's shoulders shook once.
Outside the veil, the sea wore a calm color.
She stepped to the beach, picked up a black stone from the wash, and snapped it with her thumb.
Skip—skip—skip—skip—skip.
Each skip put a new pin on the map inside her.
—The direction the thread-vibrations spread.
—A harbor with a thin trace of the same crest.
—A hollow where wind-borne voices go silent for a blink.
The Jorō clan weren't only here. Like small moons along the island's edge, several "shadows" clung to the coast.
By early afternoon, she had returned to the mountain.
The rock-slit where yesterday's "blade" lay felt cold, like it disliked human presence.
Shibukanu pushed her sunglasses up and fixed her unfiltered eyes on the metallic light. Fine hornlike patterns ran the hamon; at the base of the guard, a geometry like the Kibu crest.
"...Our line."
Black-gauntleted fingers touched the metal's rim. A streak of violet, like spirit-lightning, ran inside the blade.
She curled her right hand into a light fist and slit the skin at the fingertip. One drop of red fell to the blade.
The mountain held its breath.
In the next instant, the rock's resistance loosened; the blade floated as if it had lost its own weight.
She gripped the hilt and—didn't pull. She received it.
Shin-length, single-edged. Not gold, not silver—the chill of some "limpid metal" ran straight from palm to bone.
"Oni Blade. —We're going home."
From inside her gauntlet she drew a binding cord, wrapped blade and a cloth as a makeshift sheath, and fixed it to her back with practiced speed.
The moment the blade sat across her back, the tiering of the wind dropped a step, and the mountain's pulse synced to her own.
"Record it, report it. Bringing it back."
By the time sunset burned the mountain's shoulder, she was standing again at a cliff over the sea.
In the fishing village below, a child flew a kite, a dog barked, supper smells spilled into the lanes.
What she protects dissolves into the wind, mixes, becomes uncountable.
Memorizing them all is impossible.
So—she doesn't memorize.
She just protects.
She set a fist to the cliff face.
Light—truly, light.
A round dimple marked the rock. A "sign" no one could read.
Proof the Kibu clan passed through.
A promise: "We're watching here."
A lie: "This place is still all right."
On the way down, a stray presence trailed a tail.
A young man stood at the forest's edge, watching her.
His eyes weren't yet used to the dark. His feet didn't place well with the wild.
(An outsider who slipped in. Not Jorō.)
She didn't stop. Only as they passed did she say, "Don't go up the mountain. Especially not tonight."
He said nothing, nodded, and turned back at once.
Advice, sometimes, saves.
Interference, sometimes, makes enemies.
The boundary is thinner than wind.
Night came.
The sea went black; the stars came close.
Shibukanu glanced once, last, toward the blade she'd strapped to her back—toward the mountain's slit.
The scene that should have been unchanged looked, just slightly, like the waiting side of things.
(I'll return. Tell the others. Add to the map. Smoke out the web's center.)
She set a foot forward.
The island looked quiet, but down below a big hand was drawing a net.
Threads over laughter.
Metal's whisper beneath the waves.
The storm was finishing its preparations.
Her shadow was long—and light.
Kyushu's night wind carried it, peeling back unseen curtains one by one.
Soon, those curtains would be a stage.
And on a stage, lies and truths kill the same.
Shibukanu didn't look back.
An Oni Blade on her back, quiet heat in her palm.
Only the sound of her steps kept leaving marks along the road.
—-