They began their journey toward the Sanctuary, the air heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and rot. Everywhere they turned, they met the same hollow, ghastly faces of villagers watching from the shadows of leaning huts, with eyes that held a feral, starving light.
"Puuuuuuhhhh,"
Now and then, they would see people puffing heavy smoke that singed their noses, with a tat sharpness, it smelt like acrid incense.
"Hhhhh. I think it would have been better had we cast aside these silks and donned some torn rags," Watanabe muttered, trailing lazily behind the elder. For every single step Watanabe took, the elder was forced to take two, his breathing a ragged whistle.
"Perhaps. But the time for such disguises has long since passed," Yorimitsu replied. His gaze drifted toward Shion. He slowed his pace, moving toward her and tapping her shoulder twice before taking her hand.
(Are you well?) He gestured, their movements fluid and hidden from the others.
(I am...) She signed back, her expression uncharacteristically soft. (This place... it carries the same scent as Iga.)
(Iga?) Yorimitsu's brow twitched. (What transpired in those mountains, I know there was a war, but I am not sure of the details.)
(A tale for another time,) She responded, her hands moving with sharp finality.
(Very well...) A soft smile touched Yorimitsu's face. (Let us make a pact. When I find the means to restore your voice, you will tell me the truth of your past. All of it.)
Shion offered a small, solemn nod. Satisfied, Yorimitsu moved back toward Watanabe.
"Taisho, what was that?" Watanabe asked, his curiosity overriding his fatigue. "I know you share an understanding with her, but such silent speech... how?"
"A small trick I mastered under my master in the high peaks," Yorimitsu said, his voice trailing off into a memory.
"A Master?!" Watanabe's eyes widened. "I wonder what kind of person they are. It would be nice to meet them—"
Before Yorimitsu could offer an answer, the elder's voice cut through the air, sharp with terror.
"Stay your tongues and steady your hearts. We are now approaching Kasumi-no-Kawa."
Just as the elder spoke, a sudden, unnatural fog surged forward, swallowing the world within a single heartbeat. It was not the damp mist of the mountains, but something thicker, a white shroud that tasted of salt and rot.
"So, this is the threshold," Yorimitsu murmured. He reached forward to touch the vapour, surprised by its density.
"Ha?! Interesting."
"Taisho?!" Watanabe's voice drifted through the haze. Yorimitsu stopped in his tracks, glancing toward the sound, but the voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Yorimitsu looked to his left, and just as he was about to go, a voice cut his movements stiff.
"Do not move."
The cold, withered hand of the Chief clamped onto Yorimitsu's wrist. In the shifting white gloom, Yorimitsu could just barely see that the old man was already holding Watanabe's hand, while Shion gripped Watanabe's other side. They were a chain of shadows in the white.
"I warned you from this moment, you heed only my counsel," the elder hissed. He began to pass a thin, black thread of silk between them.
"This is your lifeline. If I tug twice, you must stop. Once means we move. Three times... three times means you run as if the gates of Jigoku are opening behind you."
The elder wrapped the cord around each of their wrists. Though it was light as a spider's web, it felt unnaturally firm.
"One final geis," the elder's voice sank to a deathly whisper, barely audible over the sudden, rhythmic lapping of water. "Do not respond if you are called by name. From this breath until we reach the far bank,"
The elder pointed at Yorimitsu. "You shall be 赤 (Aka): Red."
He looked at Shion. "You, 緑 (Midori): Green."
He turned to Watanabe. "And you, 青 (Aoi): Blue."
"I shall be 黒 (Kuro): Black."
"Now... we tread."
The elder moved into the depths of the fog, leading them by the silk thread.
'Mmm. The air is thick with the scent of the departed', Yorimitsu thought, his eyes sharpening as he peered through the mist.
'What has anchored so many souls to this place?' Yorimitsu wondered, his gaze cutting through the haze as they waded deeper. Through the shifting white veils, he caught glimpses of the impossible: round straw huts standing perfectly still beneath the water's surface, and stone sculptures of dogs staring with moss-covered eyes.
'A settlement? People once lived within the embrace of this river?'
His eyes snagged on a Temari ball, its colourful silk threads miraculously unravelled and floating like a dead jellyfish. In the shadows of the huts sat rows of dolls, their kimonos pressed neat and their black wigs shimmering in the gloom. They sat in perfect formation, as if waiting for a playmate who would never return.
'This place is wretched,' Watanabe thought, his skin crawling as he kept his grip on the silk thread.
Tug! Tug!
The signal travelled through the dark cord. Yorimitsu froze. Around them, small, flickering green Hitodama lights fluttered through the mist like lost fireflies before vanishing into the dark. A moment passed in agonising silence before the elder tugged once.
They moved forward.
This rhythmic dance continued for what felt like hours, stop, wait for the spirits to pass, and move again. Yorimitsu ground his teeth in frustration. 'Tch... even straining my Reiryoku to its limit, the veil only parts for a few paces. After the duel with Inoue, I grew arrogant. I believed my strength sufficient for any trial... but in this mist, I am as blind as a commoner. I must become stronger.'.
Chim! Chim!
The sharp, clear ring of a bronze bell shattered the silence. Slowly, the density of the fog began to unravel. Standing upon the muddy bank of the river, Yorimitsu saw the Elder's Back, standing before a crude wooden frame. He was pulling a cord attached to a single, ancient bell.
"Huuuu." Yorimitsu exhaled, the tension finally leaving his shoulders as his boots found solid, dry earth. "We have reached the river's edge."
"Watanabe!!!"
A voice pierced the lingering mist, sharp and familiar, echoing from the dark water they had just escaped.
"Yes!!" Watanabe shouted back, without thinking twice.
"You fool! I commanded you not to respond!" the elder roared, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and sheer terror.
"Ha?!" Watanabe spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Will you... Will you help me carry my baby across the river?"
The voice was feminine and soft, like the rustle of silk against stone. It carried a weight of sorrow that seemed to drain the warmth from the air. Watanabe's eyes went wide. From the edge of the dissolving fog, a woman emerged. She was clad in a white burial kimono, the Shirosabishiki, and her long, matted black hair veiled her face. In her arms, she cradled a bundle wrapped in tattered cloth, swaying rhythmically as if soothing a child.