The moon hung heavy and low, a silver coin stamped against the ink-black sky. The wind was sharp tonight, cutting through the desolate fields like a thousand whispered promises of violence yet to come.

Standing alone at the edge of a crumbling stone path, Kurohana no Yoru adjusted the crimson sash at her waist, the bells woven into her armor giving a faint, ominous chime. Her nine dark tails swayed slowly behind her, catching the moonlight with a ghostly sheen. A single hand rested on the hilt of her katana — Tsukikage — its blade thirsting quietly in its sheath.

Her golden eyes scanned the horizon: a ruined shrine lay half-shrouded in mist ahead, its once-proud torii gate leaning as if bowing under some unseen burden.

The scent of blood — old, but undeniable — lingered in the air, tinged with the acrid sting of broken oaths and restless spirits.

She exhaled slowly, a mist of breath curling into the night.

Another broken covenant. Another place where the balance had been left to rot.

Her voice, when it came, was low and almost mournful.

Kurohana: “The world forgets… but I do not.”

A soft crunch echoed from the path behind her — a footstep, faint but deliberate. Someone approached.

Without turning, Kurohana tilted her head slightly, her ears twitching as she spoke again, quieter this time — a blade wrapped in velvet.

Kurohana: “Step carefully, stranger. Not all that lingers here is bound by mercy.”