The sky bled like ink.
Crimson clouds swirled like brushstrokes, fluid and unnatural, as a woman in a torn kimono ran across the horizon. Her breath hitched. Her sandals slipped. Her vision spun in first-person, dizzy with fear. Smoke bloomed from behind her like a second sky.
She stopped briefly beside a haystack — hands shaking — and tucked something inside: a small bundle wrapped in cloth, secret and trembling. She whispered nothing. Her eyes burned.
Then she ran again, toward the chaos.
The village was already burning. Roofs caved in like paper. Walls collapsed under heat. The air filled with screaming.
Standing outside the homes like sentinels were samurai, cloaked in black armor. Their faces were hidden behind soot-stained masks that looked more demon than human.
They didn't move. They didn't stop her.
She sprinted toward a house in the center — a noble home, now drenched in flame. Its wood cracked and groaned as if trying to hold on a little longer.
She vanished inside.
Inside, fire danced across the walls. A girl screamed.
Two masked samurai dragged her out of the house by the arms. Her voice cracked as she fought them.
"Kibo!"
Blood painted the floorboards.
Kibo, a boy no older than seventeen, lay there, coughing violently. His hands clawed at the floor as if trying to stand. Blood pooled in his mouth.
His vision warped. Sound turned to static.
Darkness took him.
Then: silence.
Kibo awoke in a surreal field of cherry blossoms. The petals didn't fall; they floated — sideways, upward, frozen in time. The air had no warmth. No cold. No death.
Just stillness.
Somewhere, soft piano notes began. A song he couldn't place — Yume to Hazakura. Faint, dreamlike.
He stood.
His wounds were gone. His hands steady. But nothing around him was familiar. The sky was soft and painted. The earth was too still.
He walked.
He didn't know how long it took before he found the corpse.
It was massive — a yokai unlike anything he'd seen. A Kotobuki — once a symbol of long life and harmony — now lay dead on the grass, a crimson blade embedded in its chest. Its body was part lion, part human, part bird — majestic even in death.
Kibo knelt before it. Out of respect. Out of confusion.
He reached for the blade.
As he pulled the sword free, the world around him stopped breathing.
The song cut. The wind halted.
He felt a chill.
He looked up.
A giant ONI stood behind him.
It didn't move. Its face was covered by a cracked mask. A second sword — sky-blue — hung from its waist.
The Oni stared at the corpse of the Kotobuki. Then at the sword now in Kibo's hand.
Then… it laughed.
Low. Mocking.
Kibo didn't flinch. But he didn't fight either.
He ran.
He sprinted into the woods, deeper and deeper, past trees twisted with strange bark and glowing veins. Shadows darted between trunks — other yokai watching. One flitted past his shoulder, startled. The Oni's heavy steps followed — slow, unhurried, entertained.
And then, distracted.
Another small yokai zipped past. The Oni turned.
It chased it instead.
Kibo didn't question why. He found a tree and climbed. Hid high in the branches, breath steady.
From above, he watched the Oni consume the yokai it caught — its body absorbed into black mist and drawn into the Oni's own.
Kibo's hand clenched around the crimson blade.
He couldn't fight that. Not head-on.
But he could trick it.
That night, he baited another small yokai with a ribbon, tying it to a low root. He waited above in silence, hidden in shadow.
The yokai cried softly, frightened.
The Oni returned.
It raised its blue sword, preparing to consume again.
Kibo whistled.
The yokai looked up.
He leapt.
From above, his sword grazed the Oni's mask — not a kill, but a wound. Black liquid oozed from the crack. The Oni roared.
It swung wildly, blindly. Kibo was knocked back into the dirt. Blood in his mouth.
But now… it couldn't see him clearly.
He darted between trunks, sliced the Oni's legs, stayed in motion. Each swing of the Oni's blade shattered branches, split stones.
Kibo waited.
When it finally charged in desperation — blinded and unbalanced — he stepped aside, jumped high, and plunged the crimson blade into its mask.
The Oni screamed.
Its body broke apart into ash and black fluid. Its face melted.
Then it was gone.
Kibo woke up by a quiet lake.
Only the crimson blade remained. The blue sword was gone. No Oni. No corpses.
He hunted a small yokai, cooked it over a fire.
The night sky stretched above, stars reflecting perfectly in the water's surface.
He sat in silence.
From his sleeve, he pulled a chain with two beads.
He stared at it.
Then whispered:
"I'm sorry, Yuki."
FLASHBACK:
Sunlight. A noble courtyard. Kibo swept the stone floor in servant's robes.
Yuki, dressed in ceremonial silk, sat nearby.
YUKI
Did you train today?
Kibo
A little. When no one was watching.
YUKI
I finished my dance lessons. And reading. She's strict lately.
She glanced toward the manor.
YUKI
They're taking me tomorrow.
Kibo
Your grandmother?
YUKI (quietly)
She's not really my grandmother. Just someone who raised me after my parents left for the capital.
She blinked hard.
YUKI
I hate it here. I feel like a puppet. Like… I'm just something they own.
Kibo stayed quiet. Then said:
Kibo
I don't know what I want either. But sometimes I think about running. Just seeing the world — even if I'm not strong enough to live long.
Yuki looked at him, eyes soft.
YUKI
You're dying?
He coughed. Blood on his sleeve.
Kibo
Probably.
She took off her necklace — a string with two polished beads — and placed it in his hand.
YUKI
Then let's go. Together.
Kibo
How?
She didn't answer.
BACK TO PRESENT:
Kibo stared into the fire.
The beads sat in his hand, still warm.
Behind him, in the shadows beyond the tree line…
...something watched.