The rain followed him. Cold, relentless, cutting like glass against his skin. Each step through the mud-slicked path left a dark imprint that the storm would soon erase, but Rin Tatsuya did not care. Water ran down the length of his hair, down the scarred line of his neck, soaking through the tattered haori he no longer considered armor, only habit. The wind carried whispers of the distant mountains, the faint echo of drums, and the smell of iron and ash still clinging to the soil.
Torii gates appeared along the path, some half-buried in mud, their red paint blistered and blackened, rising like broken teeth from the mist. The forest beyond was dense, shadows folding into themselves. Mist crawled low, swirling around roots and fallen leaves, hiding what might be waiting in the gloom. The air was heavy, saturated with rain and the metallic tang of blood from the villages he had passed.
He walked in silence. Each breath was measured. Each step deliberate. The storm around him seemed to demand attention, pressing against his senses, sharpening them. Somewhere beneath the trees, something moved subtle, deliberate, a presence as cautious as his own.
Then the figure appeared. A man, tall, armored in red-trimmed black, blade drawn, standing amid the mist like a shadow given shape. The glint of steel caught the pale light, the edge a sliver of death waiting to strike. Rin's gaze fell upon him, calm, cold, dissecting every movement, every micro-expression.
"You," the man said, voice low, threaded with steel. "Ghost of Arinaga. You should have stayed dead."
Rin did not answer. His sword hung loose in his grip, a tool of necessity, not theatrics. Rain plastered his hair, ran into his eyes, and streaked the blood already caked on his face and hands. The forest seemed to close in around them, the torii gates looming like silent witnesses.
The Red Serpent captain lunged first, a blur of wet steel. Rin sidestepped with minimal motion, letting the blade hiss past, splashing mud in his wake. Rain spattered across his face, cold and unrelenting, but he did not flinch. Each strike from the captain was precise, measured, meant to draw him out, to find weakness. Rin offered none.
Their blades met in a sharp, ringing clash. The sound echoed, punctuating the storm, a note of inevitable violence. Rin stepped lightly, pivoting on soaked ground, mud sucking at his feet. The captain's second strike cut a line through the mist, missing by mere centimeters. Rin's blade, calm and deliberate, found the opening: a cut across the man's forearm. Blood mingled with rain, sliding down in thin rivulets.
"You move… like a corpse," the captain spat, fury cracking his discipline. He pressed again, reckless now, teeth bared against the pain. Rin's response was a soft inhale, a movement almost invisible, and the strike ended not in his chest, but in the earth, mud spattered by steel.
Rin advanced, slow, purposeful. Each step measured. One small twist, one precise thrust, and the captain staggered, eyes wide in shock, mouth parting in disbelief. Then he collapsed, rain washing the dark lines of his life from the soil, silence reclaiming the forest.
Rin stood, shoulders still, breathing shallowly. Rain fell harder, soaking into the ground and dripping from the torn torii gates, carrying the sound of distant drums toward him. He moved forward, following the faint, labored groan from beneath a collapsed shrine gate.
Bound wrists peeked from under wet debris. A man knelt, mud and blood streaked across his armor. His chest heaved, eyes defiant despite exhaustion.
"You…?" Rin said softly, crouching, observing the captive.
The man's gaze burned. "Kaito. Former House Takemura. And you? Ghost of Arinaga?" His voice rasped, broken by the cold and wounds, but fire lingered in it.
Rin's hand remained steady as he untied the ropes, watching the smaller motions, the stubborn set of Kaito's shoulders, the way pride clung to him like armor. "You survived. That is… inconvenient."
Kaito gave a bitter laugh. "Inconvenience, or luck? Perhaps death found another target?"
"Neither," Rin said, voice low, almost a whisper among the rain. "I am necessary."
The captive studied him, fury and respect mingling in the gaze. "Necessary… or obsessed?"
Rin did not answer. He sheathed his sword into the empty habit, the steel vanishing like a shadow swallowed by fog. His eyes traced the path north, toward smoke rising beyond the mist. Somewhere there, the Red Serpent Banner marched, relentless.
Kaito pushed to his feet, knees trembling, yet posture defiant. "You chase them… alone?"
"No," Rin said. "But you will move at my pace, or you will fall behind."
A long pause. Rain drummed on leaves, on torii gates, on the soil, each drop a reminder of their mortality. Kaito's lips curled, bitter, but he followed. "I won't die before the first night," he said. "That's… fair, ghost."
The forest swallowed them. Mist curled around trees like smoke, hiding the path, hiding them, yet revealing nothing of the Red Serpent lurking beyond. Torii gates passed, broken, half-buried, red faded to rust. Their boots sank into mud, leaving dark streaks. The storm pressed closer, yet Rin's presence cut through it, a measured, lethal rhythm.
By nightfall, the forest thinned. The rain had become a steady torrent, rivers of mud carving paths along the trail. On the horizon, the faint glow of another village flickered, untouched, for now. The drums of war still rolled, faint but certain, reminding them that the plague of the Red Serpent Banner followed like a shadow.
Kaito glanced at Rin, soaked, shivering, but eyes still fierce. "You… really are relentless."
Rin's voice came soft, measured, a whisper beneath the storm: "Ash will fall. And when it does… so will they."
They walked on. Side by side, one haunted by vengeance, the other by pride. Mist, rain, and silence enveloped them. Ghosts moving toward a storm, and somewhere beyond the mountains, the drums never stopped.