The city had changed.
I didn't remember it being this loud. This fast.
Not that I'd seen much of it before—just one visit when I was a kid. I barely remembered the streets, but the scent of roasted soy and fresh noodles tugged at something old in me. Back then, I was holding my mother's hand. Now, my sword was the only thing at my side.
The crows had sent me here with minimal instructions.
"Investigate rising disappearances near the west district. Suspected demon activity. Proceed with caution."
That was all.
No names. No locations. Just a suspicion—and a city full of distractions.
I moved through the crowds like a shadow. It was a strange thing—hunting something that didn't want to be found, in a place where everyone wanted to be seen.
Children laughed at street performers. Merchants yelled about fresh dumplings. Somewhere, someone was playing a shamisen, the soft strings weaving through the city noise like silk threads.
I paused by a rice ball vendor. My coin pouch felt a little heavier than usual—my salary had just come in.
A small treat wouldn't kill me.
"One with pickled plum," I said.
The vendor handed me a warm, salted onigiri wrapped in fresh seaweed. I took a bite.
And then I heard it.
"UMAI!!"
It came from across the street, loud and full of life. I turned.
A tall man in a flame-patterned haori was seated in front of a small ramen stall, devouring bowl after bowl with military efficiency. His voice echoed every few seconds with the same praise, like a chant of joy.
"UMAI!! UMAI!!"
I didn't need a crow to tell me who he was.
The Flame Hashira.
Rengoku Kyojuro.
His presence was like a bonfire—warm, bright, but too strong to ignore. Even when he wasn't speaking, he pulled attention toward him like gravity.
I stepped up to the counter beside him.
He looked at me, eyes gleaming with energy.
"You must be Ryo Tsukihara!"
I bowed. "Yes, sir. I was told I'd be meeting you for this mission."
He placed his chopsticks down. "Excellent! A strong spirit in your eyes. Are you hungry?"
"…A little."
"THEN WE SHALL EAT!"
He slammed a hand on the counter. "Two more bowls for my friend here! And one for me."
"Another one?" I asked.
"Training the stomach is part of training the soul!"
I didn't argue.
We ate. Or rather—I struggled while he dominated the table. I finished two bowls. He finished seven.
"Your endurance needs work," he said, cheerful as ever.
I wiped my mouth and muttered, "I was saving room for dessert."
He laughed loudly, then paid for everything.
"A treat for my new comrade!"
The way he spoke—so full of confidence and ease—it was hard not to feel a little lighter just being near him. No wonder the stories about him all sounded larger than life.
We walked the streets after that, shoulder to shoulder. He asked about my training, my blade, my forms. I told him what I could.
"There's something strange here," he said after a moment. "Can you feel it?"
"Not yet."
He nodded. "That's what worries me."
We passed the main square. A crowd had gathered in front of a theater. Posters lined the brick walls in dazzling colors:
**THE MAGNIFICENT SABURO – Master of Illusion, King of Cards**
Beneath the title was a figure in a patterned cloak and a high top hat, grinning ear to ear.
Rengoku paused for a moment. "A popular performer. I heard his shows draw hundreds."
"Think he's connected?" I asked.
"Hard to say," Rengoku replied. "But it wouldn't hurt to look inside. Demons can hide among applause."
He pulled out a coin and flipped it.
"You'll attend the show. I'll scout the building from the outside."
I nodded. "Got it."
He turned toward the alley. "Be careful. A clever demon doesn't always show fangs first."
Inside the theatre, it was warm.
Chandeliers bathed the velvet walls in golden light. The crowd murmured with anticipation—families in formal wear, children bouncing in their seats, couples leaning close, their eyes wide with expectation.
This was quite a show.
I found my seat near the center and sat down quietly, hand resting on my lap, not my blade. I didn't want to stand out.
The air smelled faintly sweet—like incense or melted wax along with stage perfume and polished wood.
The lights dimmed.
Excitement rippled through the room.
Then—laughter.
Not from the audience.
From the stage.
A spotlight cut through the dark.
And there he was.
Saburo The Fool.
Tall. Thin. Dressed in western clothes. His face was white with painted features—smiling red lips, black tears beneath both eyes. He held a cane topped with a crystal sphere. His voice slithered across the room like a ribbon.
He looked like a Joker. A Puppet. A Magician
But the way he stood—the way the room seemed to bend around his presence—held something sharper.
He twirled a cane topped with a glass orb.
"Welcome… my wonderful audience!"
His voice rang with mischief, light and echoing.
The crowd burst into applause.
He bowed with a flourish. Smoke hissed from beneath his boots, rising in coils of shimmering blue.
Gasps and laughter followed.
Then the show began.
Floating cards. Spinning rings that defied logic. Silks turned to doves, and fire turned to flowers. Every trick was polished. Clean. Seamless.
Even I caught myself staring.
The illusions danced like dreams, perfectly timed with the music.
And yet...
There was something off.
Not wrong. Not dangerous. Just... off.
A rhythm I couldn't quite feel. A silence between beats. A tension that hummed beneath the crowd's cheer.
But it passed as quickly as it came.
I leaned back in my chair.
Maybe it was just nerves.
I didn't sense anything unnatural.
No demon aura. No killing intent.
Still…
My instincts whispered.
Keep watching.
Then came the finale.
He called a man from the crowd. A young dull boy, maybe twenty. Nervous but no emotion on his face.
Saburo waved a deck of cards. "For my final act, I shall divide this man's burden in half."
Laughter.
Saburo's eyes flicked toward the audience.
Then he raised a single card.
The air shifted.
And...
*SHHNK.*
Blood sprayed across the stage.
The man fell, split from collar to hip. Lifeless.
Dead.
I shot to my feet.
But no one screamed.
The crowd clapped. Cheered. Whistled.
Their faces smiling—too wide. Eyes unfocused. Their joy hollow, mechanical.
It hit me like a wave.
They weren't seeing death.
They were *seeing what he wanted them to see.*
A perfect illusion.
I looked at the corpse again. The blood was real. The cut was clean.
The man was gone.
But to everyone else, it was just… entertainment.
Saburo bowed, arms open wide.
"My sincerest thanks to our brave volunteer!"
The curtain began to fall.
I took a step forward, hand on my blade.
His eyes met mine.
And for a second, just a flicker—
The smile cracked.
And I knew.
He had seen me too.
To Be Continued…