We left the compound just after first light, the sky was still pale and quiet, the frost clinging to the temple tiles like breath not yet exhaled. I had barely slept, though I'd spent most of the night pretending otherwise. The silence before departure always held a strange weight like the hush between thunder and its echo. No one spoke as we passed through the north gate, but the sound of our sandals against the stone path echoed like war drums in my ears.
Souta led the way, naturally. His stride never changed, it was rigid, unhurried, as though time itself bent to let him pass undisturbed. He didn't look back once. Kento and I followed behind at a more casual pace, the sound of birds overhead interrupted only by the creak of Kento's worn gear and the occasional sigh from my side.
"So," Kento said eventually, his voice pitched low like he didn't want Souta to hear, though we both knew he would, anyway. "We're going to track down a warlord who's tied to the most secretive clan in the region, with zero reinforcements, following the grumpiest man in the Hoto hierarchy, and you're not panicking?"
I glanced at him, watching his lopsided grin fight off the cold. "I'm always panicking," I replied. "I just happen to panic very quietly."
"Impressive," he said, nodding. "Silent panic. That must be an advanced Kettai technique."
I didn't answer right away. The humor helped, but beneath it, the truth pulsed like a bruise. We were walking into a mission no one else had accepted. A warlord named Daizan had taken control of a key valley and turned it into his own private militia state. Most assumed he was just another brute with too much ambition, but our clan had intercepted something far more dangerous— signs that Daizan was being funded and supplied by the Yatsurugi, our oldest rival. Worse, it was now confirmed that the Fangless dacoits, who had been attacking and tormenting villagers for months, were also under Daizan's influence. That explained the resources. The weapons and The desperation.
And now, it was our job to make him disappear.
Only we weren't allowed to leave witnesses. Not this time.
I looked ahead at Souta, his form as immovable as the mountains rising beyond the hills. His silence wasn't casual. It was calculated. Every step he took was part of the mission. I wasn't sure if that made him strong… or hollow.
By the third day of travel, my legs ached with the kind of fatigue that settles in your bones. The road had turned rough, winding through narrow valleys where the trees grew thick and the air smelled like old moss and forgotten rain. Every few miles, we passed another village—if you could still call them that.
One had burned to the ground. Another was abandoned, the wind slapped doors open and shut with a rhythm that sounded like weeping. In the third, the only sign of life was a collapsed rice granary and a stray dog picking through blackened ash.
Kento went quiet after the first one.
Even he couldn't joke when the evidence of what the Fangless had done lay in crumbling walls and blood-stained dirt. We didn't stop to investigate, we didn't even need to. The smell alone told us enough.
At one point, I caught Souta glancing over a broken shrine, his jaw was tight. I thought I saw something flicker in his expression—memory, maybe, or guilt—but it was gone before I could be sure.
We didn't speak of it. None of us did.
That evening, the wind picked up hard, driving dust into our eyes and rattling the tree limbs like angry bones. By the time we reached the edge of the next village, I was half-ready to collapse. My feet were sore, my sword felt heavier than it should've, and even Kento had stopped making comments about Souta's refusal to blink for three days straight.
The village ahead looked intact, at least from a distance. Stone walls surrounded a cluster of modest homes and a large wooden hall that stood at the center like a shepherd among sheep. It wasn't marked on the clan's maps. That was odd.
Souta stopped at the outer gate. He stood still for a long time before saying, "We rest here."
Kento let out a grateful breath and dropped onto the nearest bench. "Thank the gods," he muttered, pulling off his travel pack and slinging it down beside him. "I was starting to hallucinate you smiling."
"I don't smile," Souta replied without turning.
"Exactly," Kento whispered to me, grinning. "Hallucination confirmed."
I allowed myself a tired chuckle as we entered through the main path. Villagers peeked from their windows but didn't approach. A few nodded politely. Most just watched in silence. It wasn't fear. It wasn't even suspicion. It was something else. Something harder to place.
At the center of the village stood the hall—a broad structure adorned with faded banners and carved wooden symbols that looked vaguely religious, though I didn't recognize any of them. A robed man stood at the entrance, his arms spread wide, face beaming as he greeted us.
"Welcome, travelers," he said, voice warm and theatrical. "The divine has guided you to our humble village of Kiriwa. Please, rest and eat. All are welcome in the light of the Nine-Fold Flame."
Kento leaned in toward me. "What in the flaming tofu is a Nine-Fold Flame?"
"No idea," I whispered. "Sounds like it burns nine times harder than normal."
The man heard us but only smiled wider. His teeth were far too white for a villager.
I narrowed my eyes.
There was something off about him. Not in his smile, but in how well it fit—like a mask worn by someone who'd forgotten it wasn't their real face.
Souta's gaze didn't leave the man for even a second. "Who are you?" he asked simply.
The man bowed low, robes fluttering. "I am Master Ensho. Priest of the Divine Flame. Shepherd of the Enlightened Path. Humble servant of the gods and—"
"A Con man," Souta interrupted flatly.
The man froze for the briefest moment before recovering with a soft chuckle. "You wound me, noble warrior. But perhaps you'll think differently after you've heard the Word."
I glanced around. Dozens of villagers were now gathered behind us, silent and still. Their faces showed no expression, only obedience.
I suddenly wasn't tired anymore.