Silence.
Not peace. Not stillness.
A breathless, stifling kind of silence that pressed against the skin and curled into the ears like a warning. It wasn't natural. It wasn't night. It was the absence of sound so complete, it felt like the world itself had stopped breathing.
Rei Kuzunoha stirred.
Something cold touched his cheek ,a droplet of water.
Plink.
It fell onto the tatami mat beside him. Another followed. Then another. Drip by deliberate drip.
His eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above was not the familiar stone of the Shisōkai dormitory. Instead, cracked wooden beams loomed overhead. Stained. Mold-eaten. Suspended over him like ribs in the belly of a dying beast.
He sat up, slowly.
The floor was familiar. Tatami. But it wasn't his tatami from the Shisōkai compound. It was from somewhere much older. The patterns, the frayed edges, the faint scratch by the right corner…
His house.
In Aokigahara.
But that house was gone. Burned. Buried. Lost to time.
He turned his head ,and the air moved strangely. Like a shadow darting just out of his peripheral vision. When he looked, nothing was there. But the moisture thickened, clung to his skin like breath on glass.
A low hum vibrated beneath his feet, subtle and rhythmic, like a heartbeat slowed to an unnatural pace.
Cautiously, he stepped to the shoji screen and slid it open.
What lay beyond stole the breath from his lungs.
Where his backyard should've been, there was now a boundless shoreline of black sand. Beyond it, a vast ocean spread out into eternity, inky and reflective, not shimmering like moonlit water should, but rippling like something alive beneath it was breathing.
There was no sound.
No wind.
Just the echo of drip… drip… drip from behind him.
And then...
A figure. Standing at the shore. Dressed in white.
Tall. Barefoot. Still.
The air vibrated.
"Haruki?"
The word escaped him before he could stop it. The figure stood unmoving.
He took a step forward.
The moment he did, he felt it.
A hand.
On his shoulder.
Cold. Deliberate.
He froze.
"Don't turn around," said a voice. A whisper, yet it echoed across the void like it came from everywhere and nowhere.
He tried to move but his body disobeyed. His spine locked. Every hair on his body stood on end. The fingers tightened.
A distorted breath brushed his ear.
"...Vessel."
The word clawed into his brain. A whisper and a scream in one. He turned despite himself...
and saw a face. Inches from his own.
Wet. Hollow. Eyes like flooded wells. A mouth stretched unnaturally wide, dripping with seawater that smelled like blood.
"VESSEL."
His scream never escaped his throat.
Because he woke up, gasping.
He sat up violently in bed, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a war drum. The Mark of Shūen on his neck throbbed. Not just with pain, but with heat. It pulsed in sync with something that was not his own heartbeat.
The room was dim. His quarters in the Shisōkai base. Seals glowed faintly along the walls, comfortingly familiar. But his sense of reality still wavered.
That dream… it wasn't a dream.
It was a message.
Or a memory.
He didn't know which was worse.
Morning came cloaked in overcast gloom. The underground training hall smelled faintly of sweat, dust, and spiritual residue.
"Again," Mikasa barked.
Rei leapt forward, Yureikiri in hand, blade angled low. Mikasa met him mid-step, their swords clashing with a clang that reverberated through the space. Sparks flew. Rei twisted to dodge, ducked beneath her next strike
but her elbow found his ribs anyway.
He stumbled.
"I told you. Stop watching my hands," she snapped.
"I wasn't!" he wheezed, cradling his side.
"Then you're just slow."
From the side, Naoko Shindō leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching them with mild amusement. "Careful, Mikasa. He still needs those ribs to breathe."
"He needs to learn," Mikasa muttered. "Or he'll be coughing up his lungs on his first mission."
Rei groaned and pushed himself up. "You're a terrible motivational speaker."
"You're still alive, aren't you?"
Naoko walked over, offering him a cloth. "Your form is improving. But you still hesitate."
"I keep hearing voices mid-fight. Kind of hard to focus."
Mikasa raised an eyebrow. "Still having dreams?"
"Worse than dreams."
After training, Hayato summoned them to the Sacred Armory ,a grand chamber beneath the base, its walls lined with weapons suspended in spiritual stasis. Rows of floating sigils illuminated each artifact, each blade humming with dormant power.
Before they could begin choosing weapons, Hayato held up a hand and gestured toward a spiraling glyph hovering midair.
"Before you choose your tools, you must understand where you will be using them," he said gravely. "Cursed Realms , what we call Noroi Shūkai ,are distortions of reality created by an Onryō's lingering hatred. Their grief and wrath reshape the physical world into a manifestation of their pain."
He turned toward Rei. "You've already seen fragments of such spaces in your dreams."
Hayato gestured and the glyph split into three swirling sigils. "There are three major classifications of these realms."
"The first is Noroi Shūkai (呪い集界), or Cursed Convergence. This occurs when multiple spirits' anguish overlaps and contaminates a location. These areas may not immediately seem hostile, but they grow more twisted the longer they persist. Memories fade. Space distorts. Sometimes, even time folds in on itself. These are the most common type ,but still lethal."
He paused. "The second, rarer classification is Kegai (禍界), or Calamity Realm. This is the signature of ultra-powerful Onryō, such as Shūen. These realms are not merely cursed , they are their own distorted dimensions. In a Kegai, the laws of physics unravel. Oceans can fill the sky. Fire can weep. Gravity bends, and shadows scream. These realms are born from hatred so deep, it becomes a world in itself."
Rei's mouth went dry as he remembered the shoreline from his dream.
Hayato's gaze darkened. "The third and least understood is Makyou Fukugen (魔境復元), or Abyssal Restoration. It's only been theorized ,described in one forgotten scroll. A cursed realm where life and death lose distinction, where the soul might be reshaped. It is the realm where the most forbidden spiritual techniques originate. It may even offer... resurrection. But at a price."
Silence followed, thick as fog.
Hayato then gestured to the weapons. "Now. The tools we use must be compatible with these domains."
He stepped toward an ornate platform where seven blades stood on elevated plinths. "These are the Seven Sacred Swords of the Shisōkai. Each forged for a specific purpose. Each a piece of spiritual history."
He walked slowly along the row, explaining each with solemn care:
"The first is Kagutsuchi (火産霊). A blade imbued with divine fire, capable of burning away not just the Onryō's form, but the spiritual anchors that keep them bound. It's used in purging high threat malevolent spirits."
He motioned to a sleek silver weapon. "Next is Yureikiri (幽霊斬り) which is your current blade, Rei. It's swift, precise, ideal for severing weaker attachments and guiding residual spirits without fully annihilating them."
Hayato continued. "Inyouzan (陰陽斬), the Blade of Balance, is designed to dispel illusion-based realms and karmic echoes ,dangerous for Onryō who manipulate memory or emotional perception."
He then pointed to a shimmering blue-hued blade. "Mizukari (水狩り), the Water Hunter, is attuned to aquatic and drowned type spirits. The blade itself flows like water and solidifies in cursed terrain. It warns the user of cursed moisture nearby."
"Shikuro (死黒)," he said with a hint of caution, "is not a sword. It's a slab. Forged from pieces of gravestones. It can destroy a spirit entirely, but at a cost. Its swing consumes both stamina and will."
"Haganeame (鋼雨), or Steel Rain, sings as it slices the air. That sound disrupts spiritual echoes, especially helpful against auditory anchored spirits like mourners or children."
Finally, he rested his hand on a slim, crystalline weapon. "Tsukihibana (月火花), the Moonfire Bloom. This sword does not kill. It traps. A pure sealing blade, it can suspend an Onryō's soul in spiritual stasis until purification is possible."
On the next row were supplementary spirit tools. Hayato picked up a pair of metallic gloves. "Kyōmen Gauntlets (鏡面の籠手). Reflective armor capable of redirecting spiritual attacks. Very rare, highly unstable."
He pointed at a set of arrows with braided rope. "Shimenawa Arrows (注連縄の矢). Once embedded into an anchor object or a spirit's heart, they restrict movement and disrupt cursed auras."
And lastly, he lifted a trio of bells. "Fukuin Bells (福音鈴). Each bell has a different effect ,one calms, one blinds with spiritual static, and one seals the immediate space."
As he returned the bell, Hayato's gaze hardened. "You must learn to adapt. Because the realms these spirits create are not just battlefields. They are living nightmares ,reflections of what broke them."
Rei nodded, silent, the weight of his path anchoring deeper in his bones.
Now determined to free himself
.
.
.
.
.
The following two months passed in a blur of steel, sweat, and silence.
Rei trained relentlessly. Every morning began with combat drills under Mikasa's supervision swordsmanship, defensive wards, spiritual tracking. Every night ended with him passed out in the library, surrounded by scrolls detailing Onryō behavior and sealing techniques.
He sparred with others. Studied talismans. Learned how to read a cursed map, identify cursed weather patterns, and hold his breath during rituals. He practiced in spiritual simulation chambers , sometimes emerging with bloodied palms, sometimes victorious.
His bond with Naoko deepened. They often shared quiet lunches beneath the sakura bonsai in the courtyard, discussing legends, philosophy, or simply watching the koi swim.
"I think I finally stopped flinching when the mark pulses," Rei told her one day.
"That's good," she said. "It means you're adapting."
"What about you?" he asked. "Why'd you join Shisōkai?"
She hesitated. "To keep promises. And maybe... to stop feeling powerless."
Two months later, Hayato stood before him with a small ceremonial box.
"You've earned your place, Rei Kuzunoha," he said. "You are now officially a Shisōshi Initiate. Your rank is low, but your progress is undeniable."
Rei bowed as Hayato handed him a blade.
Yureikiri's upgraded form, reforged with blessings to allow it to pierce minor Cursed Realms.
That evening, Naoko found him in the corridor.
"You did it," she smiled.
He rubbed the back of his neck, blushing slightly. "Barely."
She stepped closer. "Still proud of you."
From the shadows, Mikasa rolled her eyes. "Lovebirds, huh?"
Rei turned red. "It's not—!"
Hayato's voice echoed down the hallway. "Rei. Naoko. Mikasa. Report to the War Room. Now."
All three turned.
The atmosphere changed in an instant.
The War Room glowed with red sigils as holograms of spiritual readings hovered midair. A spirit had awakened in a rural temple ,the echoes of a child's cries and unnatural fog spreading through nearby towns.
"This is a Chinkon Sakusen," Hayato explained. "Soul Calming Operation. The target is known as The Forsaken Child. We believe it can be pacified, not destroyed. This mission is ideal for your field debut."
"Two other Shisōshi would accompany you"
"Aoi Kirishima, a barrier specialist with a gentle manner but fierce loyalty."
"Takeshi Aoba, a loud, overconfident rookie who respected Rei too much."
"Depart at nightfall," Hayato instructed. "This child's sorrow runs deep. Don't let it drown you."