The southern part of Kurogane Village woke up once again to the weight of a new body, as had become routine during that endless week. The rising sun, still low on the horizon, cast a faint orange light over the central market of the area, a long, narrow corridor typical of Japanese markets, with wooden stalls lined up on both sides, roofs of straw, slate, and wood overlapping to form a shaded tunnel, and the dirt floor was littered with straw and remnants of the previous day's merchandise. The usual smell of fresh fish, cooked rice, and dried herbs was now mixed with the metallic and rotten smell of coagulated blood.
The body lay on its back right in the center of the corridor, between two stalls selling fruit and tools, partially blocking the passage. It was the arms dealer Haruto, known to everyone in the southern district. His skin was dry and gray, wrinkled like old parchment, stuck to the bones of his face and exposed chest. His torso had been opened by a wide, irregular incision from his collarbone to below his navel, his ribs forced apart, revealing a completely empty cavity. His heart, lungs, liver, intestines, everything had been removed with brutal precision, leaving only dried blood on the edges and white bones exposed.
Deep claw marks, five parallel lines on each side of the neck, had torn the flesh down to the trachea, exposing broken cartilage. The entire left arm was missing, cut or torn off at the shoulder, the stump covered with a black scab. The face was swollen and disfigured, with diagonal cuts across the empty eyes, the mouth open in a silent scream, and pieces of tongue visible between broken teeth.
Some people gathered around the body, some merchants opening their stalls earlier or later than usual, residents carrying baskets, all looking away or covering their mouths with the sleeves of their kimonos. Low murmurs ran through the circle of people around the body and from stall to stall, growing as the sun rose: "Another one... how many have there been this week?", "They say it's the spirit of the mountain sentinel," "Don't look too closely, it brings bad luck."
In the middle of the crowd that had formed at a safe distance was Kira, the young apprentice guard. Her short brown hair, cut straight at ear level like a male soldier's, did not move in the morning breeze. She wore a long black cloak that completely hid her weapons, two short swords on her back, daggers on her thighs, and a throwing net wrapped around her waist. Her blue eyes, narrow and feline, shone intensely as they scanned the body inch by inch. Her pupils moved quickly, contracting and dilating as if scanning every detail, activating her innate ability to detect differences and more.
She did not look away. She did not blink. She remained kneeling beside the corpse, her black cloak brushing the dirty floor, until she finally spoke, her voice firm and low:
"This one too, Captain. The bloodstain in his hair... does not belong to him."
The captain of the guard, standing a few steps away, watched everything with his arms crossed. Tall, with a short gray beard and old scars on his face, he slowly puffed on his cigarette, releasing a cloud of thick smoke that mingled with the cold air. He took a small flat metal flask from the inside pocket of his cloak, the kind used by travelers to carry alcohol, took a long sip that made his throat move visibly, put it back, and lit another cigarette.
"Damn... whoever it was, they did me a favor with most of them. But not this time." He blew smoke out of his nose, looking at Haruto's body with a tired expression. "Haruto wasn't a criminal. He was arrogant as hell, he charged too much, but he didn't steal or kill. Good job, Kira. We're done here for today."
He turned his back, his black cloak billowing, and began to make his way through the residents who were silently moving away. Kira lingered for another second, his blue eyes still fixed on the strange bloodstain in the dead man's hair, before getting up and following him.
The people, still standing in groups around Haruto's body, began pointing fingers at the small group of adventurers who had arrived early to buy supplies. "You're the ones who should be guarding the village at night!" shouted a vegetable merchant, his face red with anger. "You protect humans, they say, but you let a demon run loose eating whoever it wants! There have been 100 deaths in less than 3 days, and this is probably the first one we've found today. We'll find more this afternoon!"
A middle-aged woman carrying an empty basket spat on the ground in their direction. "Adventurers... you only come here to steal the flame from our mountain."
"Insulted? We're the ones bleeding on patrol!" retorted one of the adventurers, his deep voice echoing through the hallway. "Almost no adventurer, even the worst ones, would kill a weapons supplier. Who would do that? We need him as much as you do. Don't blame those who have protected this village for years!"
The argument heated up. Voices overlapped, fingers pointed, some residents took a step forward, the adventurers clenched their fists. The air became heavy, charged with tension.
The captain of the guard raised his voice, firm and dry, without shouting, but with an authority that made everyone freeze.
"Shut up. All of you."
And everyone fell silent immediately...
He took one last drag on his cigarette, exhaled the smoke slowly, and put the flask in the inside pocket of his black cloak. His gray eyes scanned the crowd.
"I have three days. Three days to resolve this before the imperial guild sends someone from above. Until then, no one takes justice into their own hands, no one accuses anyone without proof. Understood?"
An elderly woman, hunched over, with a gray shawl over her shoulders, stepped forward, her trembling finger pointing at him.
"Three days? My nephew died the day before yesterday! Three days for what? For more bodies to appear?"
The captain slowly turned his face toward her. His gaze was cold, direct, without anger, just an icy intensity that made the woman take half a step back. He didn't blink.
"Then do my job, Mrs. Hanna, or whatever your name is, granny. Take your sword, go out at night, find whatever is doing this, and bring its head to the square tomorrow morning."
His voice was low, calm. "Or shut up and let those who know how to do this work... Tsk!"
The silence that followed was absolute. No one dared to respond.
The captain turned his back, his black cloak rippling slightly. He walked over to the small group of Haruto's family, his widow and two teenage children, who were waiting silently next to a closed tent. He stopped in front of them and took off his hat for a second in respect.
"My condolences. The guard will take care of the body. You will have everything you need for the funeral."
Then he gave a short nod to Kira.
"Let's go, Kira."
The two walked away down the corridor, making their way through the people who now lowered their eyes or dispersed in silence. The sun was already higher in the sky, but the market seemed colder than ever....
At night, Shinjimaru's room was dark and quiet, lit only by the faint light of the moon coming through the half-open window. He slept soundly on the futon spread out on the wooden floor.
The door opened silently. Yuki, his younger brother, entered with light steps. He carried in his hands a ball of ice water that he had just formed right there. Without hesitation, he threw the ball directly at Shinjimaru's face.
The water exploded coldly, soaking his hair, neck, and chest. Shinjimaru woke up with a start, choking, his eyes suddenly opening.
"Get up. We have an appointment."
Yuki said only that. He turned his back and closed the door with the same silence as before.
Shinjimaru sat there for a second, water running down his face, his body shaking from the shock of the cold. He didn't complain. He didn't curse. He just thought, as he always had lately: "I deserve this. After all, I dishonored the Ensho clan." He didn't change his clothes, continuing to wear the simple, wrinkled yukata he slept in, just got up from the futon, grabbed the bottle of liquor he kept next to his pillow, and left the room.
In the hallway of the inn, a crowd of adventurers was already moving silently, all dressed and with their weapons sheathed. Shinjimaru followed the flow, staying behind Yuki, who walked ahead without looking back. He drank as he walked, taking short, steady sips, the liquor warming his chest against the cold of the night. He looked at his brother with restrained hatred.
"I will mark you, Yuki. I will personally ask Ebony for a slow death for you and the entire Ensho mansion."
Every now and then, he would glance down at his left wrist. The cut made by Afro's claw was still bleeding slowly, a thin trickle that never completely stopped. He would wipe the blood away with his sleeve, but it would soon start dripping again.
After a few minutes walking through the narrow streets, the group arrived at the main square in that area. The ground there was different from the rest of the village: gray stone tiles laid neatly in a wide circle, surrounded by paper lanterns hanging from wooden poles that cast a yellowish, flickering light. In the center was an old stone well, surrounded by low wooden benches where the residents used to gather during the day. At night, the place seemed larger, emptier, the echo of footsteps louder.
The captain of the guard was already waiting for them, standing in the center, his black cloak open, a cigarette in his mouth releasing constant smoke. When he saw the group arrive, he made a short gesture with his hand.
"Sit down."
Everyone obeyed without question. Adventurers, mercenaries, even the well-known criminals from the south side, no one had anything against the captain. They liked his style: direct, no lectures, no pretense. He protected the village as best he could, and did not judge those who lived on the margins as long as they did not cross certain lines.
The men sat in a circle on the cold stone floor, cross-legged or kneeling, forming a semicircle around the captain. Shinjimaru sat further back, still drinking, his wounded arm hidden in his sleeve.
The captain took a drag on his pipe, spat the smoke to the side, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Kira. You may speak."
Kira, who was standing beside him, stepped forward. His black cloak swayed slightly. With his right hand, he lifted a fine strand of hair, holding it between his thumb and forefinger for all to see. On the strand was a dark, dried bloodstain.
Her blue eyes slowly scanned the circle, pausing for a moment on Shinjimaru.
"The night killer is sitting here."