We were halfway down a ravine trail when I tried to access the map.
The forest was still, save for the crunch of dried leaves beneath our boots. Kento was ahead, swatting at flies with his sleeve, while Souta trailed silently behind—always exactly ten paces from the rear, always listening to things the rest of us couldn't hear.
I slowed my pace, turned my thoughts inward, and whispered, "Show me."
[Map Fragment Accessing…]
[Integration Level: 31%]
[Coordinates Obscured – Environmental Lock Active]
[Status: Incomplete – Source Data Required]
[Kettai Alignment Path: LIGHTNING // BLOODLINE UNKNOWN]
A lattice of faint golden lines blinked into view behind my eyes—strange curves etched in a topography I didn't recognize. The shapes twisted like rivers or root systems. One symbol pulsed faintly, deep at the edge of a forest range I couldn't name.
But when I reached for it—nothing. The lines blinked out. The map closed like a door I didn't know how to open.
[Note: Full Synchronization Required. Path Will Unfold With Action.]
I exhaled, more frustrated than confused. The system didn't care if I understood. It just expected me to keep walking.
We reached the lake at dusk.
I smelled it before I saw it—the faint copper of blood mingled with still water and rot. Kento crested the hill first, and I heard the sharp intake of breath before I followed him.
The water stretched out in a long, stagnant curve, broken only by lilies and the shapes floating among them. Bodies. Dozens.
Men. Women. Children.
Their robes were stained red, most with the symbol of the Sato Clan—a blue phoenix embroidered at the collar. They hadn't been killed in battle. There were no weapons. No wounds in defense. Just slashes across the back. Or neck. Or through the ribs. Some still clutched each other even in death.
I dropped to one knee, bile rising in my throat.
"They didn't even sink them," Kento muttered, voice flat. "Just… tossed them in."
Souta stood at the water's edge, unmoved. He stared at the reflection of the trees and said nothing for a long while.
"They were killed as a message," he said at last. "Sato civilians. No resistance. No reason to fight back. Someone wanted it known."
Kento turned to him, anger curling at the edges of his voice. "And you're just… fine with this?"
"I'm aware of it," Souta said simply. "That's different."
[System Alert: Witnessed Atrocity – Internal Conflict Rising]
[Emotional Divergence Detected: Stability Holding]
[Note: Refrain from action unless tactically viable. ]
I gritted my teeth. I didn't care if it was tactically viable or not.
I wanted it to strike it.
By the time we reached the outer district of Daizan's village, the sky had begun to darken again. War had not only touched the region—it had sunk its claws in and made a nest. Homes were gutted, fields trampled, and the few civilians we saw kept their eyes down with their backs hunched. At the far end of the valley, Daizan's manor loomed like a bloated spider's nest, golden lanterns glowing through gauze curtains, music and laughter wafting out even as smoke curled from the nearby rice silos—burned out and abandoned.
"He's throwing another banquet," Kento muttered. "While his men gut civilians."
Souta adjusted the edge of his travel cloak, his expression unreadable. "Daizan doesn't govern. He indulges. The rest is delegated to knives."
Kento looked at me. "So, how are we getting in?"
I waited for Souta's answer, already dreading it.
He reached into his pack and held up… silk.
Bright, floral, painted silk robes.
I blinked.
"No."
Kento just stared. "You've got to be kidding."
"It's the fastest way in," Souta said, already unrolling the fabric. "Daizan's brothel gate opens at sundown. He accepts new performers nightly. You'll pose as oiran attendants."
"I don't even know how to walk in that thing," I protested.
"You don't need to," he said. "Just be quiet, smile, and don't drop anything."
Kento was still gawking. "Why do you have this many robes?"
Souta pulled out a folding fan and snapped it open with a grace that was… terrifying.
"I came prepared," he said without emotion. "I always do."
.
.
.
That evening, we approached Daizan's manor under a velvet sky streaked with orange, draped in silks none of us were proud of. The fabric rustled with every step, painted in florals and faint cherry blossom embroidery that shimmered under lantern light. Our disguises were flawless—or at least, Souta's was. Mine pinched in places that defied logic, and Kento looked like a collapsing paper crane trying to walk on stilts.
My face was powdered into submission, the air around me was sweet with the smell of plum rouge and crushed iris. The layered kimono chafed beneath my arms, and the obi tied at my waist might as well have been a strangler vine. I walked in tight, careful steps, trying not to trip over the unfamiliar height of the wooden geta. I failed every third step and silently cursed every ancestor that had allowed this mission to happen.
Beside me, Kento grumbled curses under his breath as if they might save him. "My ancestors are screaming," he muttered. "I'm going to kill Souta in his sleep. Slowly. With a hairpin."
"Speak louder," I hissed, "maybe the guards will help."
Souta, of course, was a vision.
He glided ahead with unsettling grace, his hands poised just so, his expression demure but unbothered. His hair was pinned in a perfect twist with lacquered combs, and his lips were touched with vermilion that made his deadpan stare all the more disconcerting. He carried a folding fan he'd painted himself during the walk—as if preparing for war wasn't time-consuming enough—and now fanned himself lazily with it, eyelids half-lowered.
At the gate, two armed guards looked up from their dice game, their eyes dragging over us with the dull hunger of boredom.
"New girls?" one of them asked.
Souta stepped forward before either of us could open our mouths and ruin everything. He bowed low, wrists angled delicately, and tilted his head with an expression that somehow screamed mystery and contempt all at once.
"Fresh petals from the misted hills," he said in a breathy, high-pitched drawl that sent a chill down my spine. "Lord Daizan has such exquisite tastes. We simply had to answer his call."
The guard blinked once, then nodded, apparently satisfied with that explanation.
He waved us through without another word.
The gate creaked open.
Once inside, I leaned toward Souta and whispered, "I'm not even mad anymore. I'm just scared of how good you are at this."
He didn't respond.
He batted his lashes.
[System Update: Infiltration Successful – Tactical Mission Parameters Aligned]
[Sub objective: Gather Intelligence on Daizan's Militia Movements]
[Reward: Map Synchronization Increased to 35%]
The inner courtyard of the manor was a hallucination carved in silk and smoke. Lanterns glowed in soft, golden tiers from every beam and railing, casting a flickering glow on the polished stone beneath our feet. Music drifted from within—flutes, koto strings, hand drums—melting together in a rhythm meant to soothe and seduce. Perfumed incense wafted in thick curls from lion-shaped burners placed at the corners of the garden, and veiled dancers spun between firelight and shadow with eerie precision.
Servants in red and black brushed past us without so much as a second glance. Daizan's palace of decadence operated like a theatre—choreographed, gilded, and carefully lit. But underneath the laughter, beneath the sheen of wealth and painted courtesans, there was a smell that perfume couldn't hide.
Rot. Something festering behind the curtains.
Kento leaned in, eyes scanning the masked guests and wandering guards. "Either we're in the belly of a beast or the ribs of a very drunk dragon."
"Same difference," I muttered, adjusting my grip on the tray of tea I'd been handed. "Just hope we're the poison and not the meal."
Something about the air here felt wrong. Too forced. Too rehearsed. It wasn't just that the region was at war while Daizan held feasts—it was that the people here had gotten good at pretending not to notice. Everyone smiled. Everyone danced. And no one looked anyone in the eye for more than a second.
Daizan ruled not just with money and soldiers.
He ruled by distracting them from the blood on their shoes.
And we had just walked straight into his favorite performance.