The shrine of Edo sat quietly atop its hill, surrounded by ancient trees whose branches stretched toward the sky like gnarled, timeworn fingers.

  The morning was clear, cloudless, almost painfully pure—

  as if the heavens themselves had chosen not to interfere in what was to come.

  But something was wrong.

  The birds were silent. No buzzing. No fluttering.

  Only the distant whisper of wind brushing over rooftops and temple beams, like the breath of another world.

  When the daimyō’s captain and his men climbed the steps toward the shrine, he felt it immediately:

  This silence was not peace.

  It was expectation.

  His boots echoed dully against the stone path. No sound answered them—no rustling, no distant cluck of hens, no children’s laughter from the village.

  Only glances—the wordless exchanges of his men, looking at each other, saying nothing.

  No one dared name what hung in the air.

  This place was sacred.

  And sometimes... sacred places look back.

  Miko stood before the altar.

  Her hands folded, eyes on the offerings. Fresh rice, sweet sake, delicate incense—each giving off their scent into air that felt colder than it should have.

  She had known this moment would come.

  For days, she had felt the weight of their gazes grow heavier.

  How the silence behind her had become louder.

  How mistrust had crept toward her like a thick fog.

  And now they were here.

  The captain stepped forward.

  A man in his middle years, his features sharply drawn. A scar ran down his left cheek like a flaw carved into otherwise flawless discipline. His eyes were still—yet deadly attentive.

  “Miko-san.”

  She raised her head and bowed slightly.

  “Captain-sama.”

  He watched her for a long time. Too long.

  As if trying to stare through her forehead into her soul.

  Then, calmly:

  “I’ll be brief. Tell me what happened that night at the shrine.”

  Miko’s fingers clenched the fabric of her robe.

  She had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

  “I... have already told you everything.”

  A pause.

  Then the captain tilted his head—not as a show of respect, but like a man weighing how to seal a boiling spring with a stone.

  “Have you?”

  His men stood behind him like shadows. Silent.

  Hands resting loosely on their sword hilts—not hostile. Not yet.

  But this wasn’t a conversation.

  It was a test.

  And she was already in the center of it.

  She tried to stay composed. Her voice firm. Her gaze steady.

  But the captain gave her no room to breathe.

  His questions came slowly, deliberately—

  words spun like nets, barely felt until you realized you couldn’t move anymore.

  “We’ve heard from multiple witnesses,” he said, “that something occurred here.

  Something... not of this world.”

  Her knees nearly gave.

  “I...”

  He said nothing. Just waited.

  Patient.

  Merciless.

  Then—

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  “I saw her.”

  The words echoed across the shrine grounds, freezing the air for a heartbeat.

  The men exchanged looks. A few shifted subtly, a half-step back.

  The captain, however—still.

  Eyes fixed on her.

  “What exactly did you see, Miko-san?”

  Her breath quickened.

  She saw it in her mind—clear as if it had just happened.

  That presence.

  Those eyes.

  “A figure,” she whispered.

  “Tall. With eyes that... weren’t human.”

  Her fingers trembled, gripping her prayer beads like a lifeline over a yawning abyss.

  “She wasn’t of this world.”

  Her voice sounded hollow—like a whisper from a dream, or a memory too large for the soul to hold.

  But it was no lie.

  The captain let her words settle on his tongue.

  And they tasted like danger.

  “That is not good,” he said quietly.

  No sooner had he spoken than the wind began to stir.

  Cool. Urgent.

  Miko shivered. Goosebumps rising across her arms.

  A sudden gust swept across the shrine, rattling the paper talismans and trembling the offerings.

  The scent of incense was snatched away, scattered into nothing.

  And then... the fog came.

  Thick.

  Heavy.

  Crawling.

  It poured over the stone steps as though rising from the earth itself.

  It coiled around pillars, slid across the ground.

  It wasn’t just fog.

  It had... intention.

  “What the hell...?” one of the men muttered, stepping back.

  “Where’s it coming from?” another whispered.

  But no one knew.

  The captain placed his hand on his sword.

  This was no change in weather.

  It was a warning.

  Miko heard her own heartbeat—loud, frantic.

  She knew this feeling.

  It was like that night.

  Like the moment the world had cracked at the seams.

  Then—a sound.

  A breath.

  Long.

  Deep.

  Not human.

  The men drew their blades—almost in unison.

  “Formation!” one shouted.

  They clustered together, shoulder to shoulder, back to back.

  Swords ready.

  Panic simmering beneath the surface.

  Miko stood among them.

  Trapped.

  She clutched her prayer beads so tightly her knuckles turned white.

  Then—something moved.

  A shadow.

  Large.

  Slow.

  Silent.

  It drifted through the mist.

  No body. No face.

  Only... presence.

  Weight.

  Like death taking its time.

  The men froze.

  No one spoke.

  “What... is that?” someone whispered.

  The fog thickened.

  It devoured shapes, swallowed color.

  The shrine vanished into grey.

  The temperature kept falling.

  Miko heard someone next to her suck in a shaky breath.

  Even the air seemed heavier—pressing not just on bodies, but on souls.

  Something was there.

  Something was waiting.

  Something was watching.

  And then, the captain understood:

  They had found something.

  But it was not a goddess.

  It was something even gods would fear.

  The fog was everywhere.

  The shadows moved.

  And the captain knew:

  They hadn’t found the truth.

  They had awakened death.