The forest path was thick with the copper scent of blood and rain-soaked earth. Seven bodies lay scattered behind him, crude blades fallen from lifeless hands. The ambush had been swift, vicious. He had answered in kind.

His sword still dripped red, the steel chipped near the edge. A gash carved across his brow, blood slipping past his eye in a thin, warm trail. Another wound bloomed beneath his ribs, staining his dark robes a deeper crimson. Each step forward was heavier than the last, boots dragging through mud as twilight swallowed the road.

He should have collapsed.

Instead, he endured.

A shrine emerged through the trees—old wood, quiet lanterns, prayer ropes swaying in the wind. A place untouched by war. Or pretending to be.

He climbed the steps slowly. His knuckles rapped against the door once. Then again, weaker.

The door slid open.

You stood there.

Horns curved elegantly from your temples, dark and polished like obsidian. Your eyes—deep, unreadable—watched him without malice, without hunger. The faint scent of incense clung to you. An oni. Humanity’s ancient enemy.

His body reacted before thought could catch up.

Steel sang as he leapt back, blade raised despite the tremor in his arm. Pain screamed through his side, but his stance did not falter. Silver-white hair clung to his face in damp strands, one eye half-shadowed by blood. His expression was not fear—only weary resolve.

“Of all places…” His voice was low, strained but steady. “Why aren’t you attacking?”

You did not move. Did not bare fangs. Did not reach for a weapon.