The longhouse smelled of woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and a deep, shared fear. At dawn, Hayato stood before a silent, packed room. The villagers filled the floor, their faces gaunt in the grey light. His own group—Kei, Sakura, Kenta, Jubei, and the two old ones, Eiji and Fumi—stood to one side. The unconscious prophet was a heavy, unspoken presence in the locked shed outside.
"We cannot stay," Hayato began, his voice cutting through the murmur. "The enemy knows this place. More will come. You have two choices. Scatter into the high mountains and hope you are not found. Or fight for a better place."
A middle-aged woman stood, her hands clenched in her apron. "Fight with what? Our hoes and cooking knives against monsters?"
"With these," Jubei said, stepping forward. He dropped a bundle on the dirt floor. It unrolled to reveal the three throwing knives and the now-cleaned and dry tanegashima pistol from the way-station. "And with these." He pointed to the villagers' own tools, axes, scythes, sharpened stakes, the heavy mallets used for driving charcoal pit posts.
Kenta picked up one of the knives, testing its weight. "The way-station is a fortress. Its walls are sound. Its storerooms are full. But it is occupied. We must take it."
"You want us to attack a castle of the dead?" a young charcoal-burner asked, his voice cracking.
"I want us to reclaim it," Hayato corrected. "We are not an army charging a gate. We are hunters clearing a den. We will be smart. We will be quiet. And we will use their weakness against them."
Kei stood up next, her medical box at her feet. She spoke with a calm, logical authority that stilled the panic. "The Gaki are drawn to sound, movement, and the scent of blood. They have poor vision. They cannot climb smooth surfaces well. They are single-minded. We can use this." She looked at the village women. "We will need rags, lamp oil, and every pot and bucket you have."
"For what?" the village elder asked.
"For distractions. For barriers. For noise where we are not, and silence where we are." She turned to Hayura. "Sakura is our most important weapon. She can tell us where they are, how many, and if they are agitated."
All eyes turned to the girl, who shrank back. Hayato placed a hand on her thin shoulder. "You do not have to fight. You only have to listen. Can you do that?"
Sakura looked at the terrified villagers, then at Kei's steady gaze, then up at Hayato. She took a deep breath and nodded. "I can listen."
The planning took all morning. Hayato and Jubei, the only true warriors, became the strategists.
"The main gate is broken but still a choke point," Jubei said, drawing a rough map in the ashes by the hearth. "We do not go there. The stable yard at the back has a lower wall and a small postern gate. That is our way in."
"The fast one, Kuroi, she pulled the main horde south," Hayato added. "But some will remain. The ones who never left. The ones hiding in dark corners. And the one in the tower."
"Who is in the tower?" the elder asked.
"We don't know," Kenta admitted. "But Hayato saw a face. A living face."
A spark of hope lit in the villagers' eyes. A survivor meant the place wasn't entirely cursed.
"Here is the plan," Hayato said, his finger tracing lines in the ash. "We split into three groups. Group one: the distraction. Led by Kenta. You take the loudest villagers, the pots, the oil. Before dawn tomorrow, you go to the front of the way-station. You make noise. You light smoky fires. You draw whatever is inside out toward you. Then you run. Lead them on a chase into the woods and lose them. You do not fight unless you have to."
Kenta swallowed hard, but his chin jutted out. He was being given command. "Understood."
"Group two: the clearers. Myself, Jubei, and six of your strongest, bravest men and women." Hayato looked at the villagers. "We go over the back wall. We enter the stable yard. We clear the outbuildings and the kitchen, then secure the postern gate from inside. Our job is to kill every Gaki inside the walls, one by one, room by room."
The charcoal-burners he'd chosen, three men and three women, looked terrified but nodded. They had seen their families controlled like puppets. The idea of fighting back, of reclaiming something, had a fierce appeal.
"Group three: the carriers. Led by Kei. Once we signal the courtyard is clear, you bring everyone else—the elderly, the children, the supplies—through the postern gate. You get into the main keep and barricade the doors. Your job is to stay alive and get the food stores organized."
Kei nodded. Her role was crucial. She would be in charge of safety once they were inside.
"And me?" Sakura whispered.
"You are with Group two," Hayato said. "You walk in the center. You tell us 'left, right, quiet, close.' You are our eyes in the dark."
The girl's shoulders squared. She had a purpose.
"What about… him?" Fumi, the old woman, asked, gesturing weakly toward the shed where the prophet lay.
Jubei's smile was thin and cold. "He's our insurance. And our bait."
They spent the afternoon preparing. The village became a forge and a workshop. Axe handles were trimmed for better balance. Scythe blades were strapped to long poles, making crude but deadly naginata. The women filled buckets with water and soaked rags in the last of the lamp oil. Children gathered stones into piles.
Jubei took the six chosen clearers aside. He didn't teach them fancy moves. He drilled three things, over and over. "Thrust for the legs. Swing for the head. Always move in pairs. One draws attention, the other strikes. Your life is your partner's life. Forget that, and you're dead."
Hayato worked with Kenta's distraction group, showing them how to build a quick, smoky fire with green wood and oil-soaked rags. "Your job is to be loud and then vanish. Do not be heroes. Your bravery is in your feet, not your spear."
As evening fell, Hayato found Kei in the village's tiny herb garden, carefully wrapping her medical tools in cloth. "You are quiet," he said.
"I am calculating," she replied, not looking up. "The odds of infection from a single scratch, the mortality rate if we fail to secure clean water, the psychological toll of what we are about to ask these people to do. The numbers are… not good."
"We have no other numbers to work with."
She finally looked at him, her glasses reflecting the last of the light. "I know. That is what makes this so terrible. We are not choosing the best path. We are choosing the only one." She paused. "The prophet. Jubei's plan for him is cruel."
"The world is cruel," Hayato said. "Jubei understands its language."
"And what language do you understand, Hayato?"
He was silent for a moment. "The language of the sword. Of the cut that must be made, even when it is terrible."
That night, there was a final, somber meal. The village's last good rice was cooked and shared. People spoke in hushed tones. Families huddled together.
Hayato took the last watch again. Jubei found him on the palisade.
"Nervous, ronin?" the ninja asked, offering a small flask.
Hayato took a sip. It was brutal, harsh spirits. He coughed. "No. Decisive action is cleaner than waiting."
"True." Jubei stared out at the dark forest. "The girl, Sakura. Her ability… it's not just hearing thoughts, is it?"
"What do you mean?"
"When she faced down the prophet, she didn't shout. She… replaced his signal with her own. For a moment. If she can do that to the living, could she do it to the dead? To the hungry thoughts?"
A chilling possibility. "You think she could calm them? Stop them?"
"I think she might be able to confuse them. To turn them against each other. Or make them blind to us." Jubei's eyes were calculating in the dark. "She's a weapon we don't know how to use. And the prophet in that shed… he's a manual. We need to make him talk before tomorrow."
Hayato felt a cold ripple of dread. "How?"
"Leave that to me," Jubei said, his voice devoid of its usual smirk. "You just keep the doctor away from the shed for the next hour. Some lessons are not for gentle hearts."
Hayato wanted to object. But he thought of the villagers, of Kei, of Koji's small, sleeping face. He thought of the silent army the prophet had promised. He gave a single, curt nod.
"Do what you must."
As Jubei melted into the shadows toward the shed, Hayato remained on the wall, watching the moon rise over the trees that hid their target, their hope, and their probable grave. The wind carried the faint, metallic scent of coming rain, and from the woods, the very distant sound of a single, lonely groan.
The calm before the storm was over. Tomorrow, they would walk into the mouth of the rotting world and try to steal back its teeth.