The road curved eastward, past wilted trees and dead lanterns. Raiken walked in silence, the kind only war-torn lands knew well. Each step pressed into dust that used to be homes.

  Then… he heard it.

  Crying. A girl’s voice. Muffled. Panicked.

  He moved.

  Past a shattered gate, down a half-burned alley, behind what remained of a tea house — that’s where he found them.

  Three soldiers. Drunk. Laughing.

  And a child — no older than ten — her kimono torn, wrists bound, blood on her knees.

  Raiken’s eyes narrowed. His hand reached back, slow, toward the hilt that now hung once more on his waist.

  But he never unsheathed.

  Because in the blink between breaths… they were gone.

  A silver arc — no, threads? Needles? A glimmer in the air — and the soldiers dropped, sliced in half cleanly, eyes still blinking as their torsos hit the mud.

  Raiken didn’t even flinch.

  From the rooftop above, a figure landed soundlessly — cloaked in dark silk, mask shaped like a moth’s wings. Graceful. Precise. Deadly.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  She knelt, untied the girl, and gently covered her with a shawl. The child sobbed into her arms.

  Then the woman stood.

  “Still pretending to be late for everything, are you?” she said, her voice smooth, but dry with sarcasm. “The world’s burning and now you show up?”

  Raiken smiled faintly.

  “I missed your poetry, Butterfly.”

  She pulled off her mask. Her eyes were older now — tired, sharper — but behind them was the same woman who once trained gods to become men.

  She stared at him for a second longer… then clicked her tongue.

  “Come. I have tea. And questions.”

  Scene- 2

  The wind howled as the two figures moved silently through the winding forest path. Ayame walked ahead, her steps soft, calculated. Raiken followed, every now and then glancing behind to make sure the girl was still resting safely where they left her.

  “You’ve changed,” Ayame said, not looking back. “Used to walk like thunder. Now you barely make a sound.”

  Raiken gave a quiet grunt. “Thunder’s easy to hear. Easy to kill.”

  She chuckled dryly. “Maybe you’ve grown after all.”

  They passed under an old torii gate, cracked and faded — moss growing where prayers once lived.

  Then her voice hardened. “Shihara’s not what you remember. Kaito… he doesn’t rule. He devours.”

  Raiken glanced sideways.

  “Executions are public now. Villagers forced to cheer or lose their tongues. Entire families hung because one boy dared throw a stone at a patrol.”

  He didn’t speak.

  Ayame continued, “But… there are still some who fight back.”

  Raiken’s eyes narrowed. “Fools?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But brave ones. They call themselves the Higanbana. A scattered group. No base. No banners. Just people tired of kneeling.”

  Raiken stopped. “You support them?”

  Ayame didn’t answer right away. Then:

  “I patch them up. Feed them. Pass messages when I can. They do what they can — ambushes, rescues, sabotage. But Kaito knows. He’s begun cleansing.”

  Raiken’s voice was a murmur. “Slaughtering them.”

  Ayame nodded grimly. “And the girl from earlier… she wasn’t just a villager.”

  Raiken tensed.

  “She’s the daughter of the Higanbana’s chief. They took her hoping to make him bend. Or draw him out.”

  A long silence followed. The wind pressed the trees into a whisper.

  Ayame looked at him. “You see now? You came looking for a dying land. But what you’ve found… is a war waiting to erupt.”