The fog lay thick over the shrine.

  It was more than weather—denser than mist, colder than winter’s frost.

  Like a veil between worlds, it stretched over the sacred grounds, devouring sound, swallowing color, even bending time itself.

  The daimyō’s men stood in tense formation.

  Swords drawn, eyes searching the grey, they waited for something they already felt.

  Something was there.

  It didn’t move. It didn’t speak.

  But it was watching them.

  They didn’t know.

  They felt it.

  A pressure weighed on them—like an ancient gaze rising from depths no soul could measure.

  Their muscles were tight, their spirits silent.

  Miko stood at the edge of the circle, trembling.

  Her body was little more than a husk. Her gaze was empty.

  Fingers clenched around the prayer band at her wrist—a thin thread of hope against the inevitable.

  But hope was a poor shield here.

  Because as she looked into the hollow, yawning sockets of the apparition’s helmet, all protection fell away.

  This was no human.

  No Oni. No Kami.

  This was death.

  Not as metaphor.

  Not as myth.

  But as a being—born of darkness, of nothingness.

  A presence so vast, so deep, it did nothing... and changed everything.

  Miko’s mind tried to cling to something—light, thought, anything.

  But the void before her consumed it all.

  The longer she stared, the more she felt she was falling.

  Not downward.

  Inward.

  Layer by layer, she unraveled.

  Identity. Will. Memory.

  Only fear remained.

  Her breath quickened. Her heart pounded against her ribs as if it too wanted to escape.

  She tried to look away—but couldn’t.

  Something held her.

  Something pulled her deeper.

  Then—she fell.

  Like a puppet with its strings severed, she collapsed.

  Her body hit the ground with a dull thud.

  And everything fell silent.

  The captain's eyes went wide.

  “Miko-san!”

  He rushed forward, kneeling beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  She was unconscious. Still.

  Cut off from the world.

  His gaze lifted—straight into the figure that still stood motionless.

  Unchanged. Unmoving.

  A statue of shadow.

  But no statue ever made by human hands.

  That helmet—with its hollow eye sockets—was more unbearable than any blade.

  It saw them.

  Without moving.

  Without expression.

  But with judgment.

  The daimyō’s men stood frozen.

  None dared speak.

  None dared breathe.

  Until one of them broke.

  “No... no, no!”

  One of the younger soldiers, barely twenty, lost control.

  Eyes wide, breath panicked, he threw down his sword.

  “I’m not staying here! I’m leaving!”

  He turned, broke formation—and ran.

  A mistake.

  A gauntleted hand caught him by the collar.

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  Tessa lifted him effortlessly.

  A strength that denied every law of flesh and bone.

  His feet dangled in the air.

  His hands clawed at her armored arm.

  But she drew him closer.

  Slowly.

  Deliberately.

  The cold steel of her helmet neared.

  And neared.

  Until only inches separated him from the darkness that waited inside.

  The young man stared into it.

  He saw no eyes.

  Only void.

  Deep. Endless. Bottomless.

  A grave that needed no earth.

  “N-n-no...” he whispered, trembling.

  Then, in blind panic, he drew his sword.

  One last act.

  A scream.

  A swing.

  KRRACK.

  The sound rang across the shrine like a divine sentence.

  Not because he had struck her.

  But because his blade shattered.

  Steel—forged, blessed, hardened—broke like glass.

  The pieces hit the stone with a metallic clatter.

  Tessa hadn’t moved.

  Not even flinched.

  Not a scratch on the helm.

  The man gasped.

  His eyes darted from the broken blade to the figure holding him.

  Nothing.

  He had done nothing.

  Tessa tilted her head.

  Then opened her mouth.

  And spoke.

  Not loudly.

  Not in anger.

  Her voice was low.

  Ancient.

  “Th’aat keruk me’vor. San drah’nar.”

  The words echoed through the silence, rippling through the fog like waves across water.

  They slithered across the stone, into bones, into marrow.

  None understood them.

  But all felt them.

  It was no language.

  No dialect.

  No forgotten tongue.

  It was something else.

  Something older than words.

  The captain swallowed.

  “What did she say?” someone whispered.

  No one knew.

  But all understood:

  Leave.

  Tessa dropped the man.

  His body collapsed—onto his knees, then onto his side.

  Unconscious.

  Not dead.

  But gone.

  His mind had seen enough.

  And then—

  she vanished.

  The fog began to melt.

  Its density faded.

  The air returned.

  The light returned.

  The day returned.

  But nothing was as it had been.

  Miko didn’t move.

  The ground remained still.

  Only the broken sword remained.

  A silent proof.

  That it had happened.

  On the way back to the cave, Tessa rubbed her chin.

  “Maybe I overdid it,” she muttered.

  “You think?” Mike sounded smug.

  “I thought it was excellent theater. Especially that stare. Even I got chills.”

  Tessa frowned.

  “She shouldn’t have looked at me.”

  “Well, she did. And now she’ll never sleep again.”

  Tessa sighed.

  “That’s what I’m for, right? To scare people.”

  “And to found religions,” Mike said.

  “I’m already workshopping names. How about The Whispering Empress? Or Tessa, the Sigh-Mother of Edo?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Just saying. Congrats. You just laid the foundation for a cult.”

  Tessa stopped.

  A cult?

  No.

  She’d never meant to be a goddess.

  Never wanted worship.

  And yet...

  Miko had believed.

  In that moment—in that gaze, in that collapse—she had made a choice.

  And if she believed...

  Others would follow.

  Tessa smiled.

  The captain still stood at the shrine.

  In the place where the apparition had stood.

  One of his men stepped up, cautiously.

  “Captain... what do we tell the daimyō?”

  The captain stared down at the broken sword in the dust.

  Then said quietly:

  “We angered a god.”