The land wept. Endless rain, unrelenting and bitter, pressed down on the world like an ancient sorrow refusing to be forgotten. Each drop of liquid sorrow pounded the earth, muting the cries of the souls it mourned. The ancient rain had lived here since before the memories of men could linger—before the last living echoes of an entire clan, slaughtered to sate the thirst of one cruel, unyielding emperor. Beneath this sky, there was no rest.
The small village in the distant hills felt like a ghost of its former self. The only sound above the gentle drum of the rain was the scraping of wood against stone, the wind's lament pulling at the abandoned structures, now little more than half-formed skeletons. Among the hollowed buildings, the smell of incense burning in the cold air reminded the few lingering villagers that spirits roamed freely here—their shapes flickering just outside the realms of reality. In this place, the ghosts did not wait to be summoned. They simply remained.
And from within this limbo, three figures emerged.
Ryoujin (涼刃)
In the center stood the first figure, a silhouette outlined in the ghostly light that seeped from the overcast sky. Ryoujin. Cold as the night itself, his black tunic absorbed the rain, like it was thirsty for it. He had become the darkness he walked in, but the light still slipped into his consciousness—the irksome reminder of the man he once was, the man who once believed in ideals like love and loyalty.
His hand, palm-up, was tinged red, droplets of rain soaked into the crimson scars of the mark. His fingers twitched. There was no sound. No cries. Even the spirits, those invisible witnesses to their wrongs, seemed to hold their breath. The shadows only moved when Ryoujin allowed them to. He did not glance at the faces of those long gone from the land. Yet he felt them. Always, he felt them.
Shion (士恩)
Next to him, Shion stood, his back straight despite the near suffocating oppression in the air. As always, his thoughts hid in the silence of his mind, his past, and his power hidden beneath the surface like a river running deep. The world didn't know how much of Shion remained. His blood magic swirled within him—a curse and a gift—coursing through his veins. He was the healer and the executioner all in one. A silence followed every decision he made. The weight of sacrifice never had the courtesy of asking for consent before it arrived.
The faintest drop of water caught on his fingertips as he touched the ground where their clan once stood. His eyes softened for only a moment—a fleeting remembrance—before returning to the calculated, impassive gaze that the world had long learned to respect. "We should leave soon," he murmured. His voice was a quiet roar against the storm—always firm, even when a dozen memories of pain clung to his bones like endless chains.
Akira (晃羅)
The third was Akira, who still bore his storm in his chest. Unpredictable. Chaotic. In a world draped in endless rain, Akira burned brighter. Despite his fitful temper and volatile magic, there was something about him that seemed not to fit with their grim purpose. He walked with a restlessness that haunted the air around them. The light winds carried his stray strands of dark hair, barely controlling them even as he stood still.
"Are we really going to make them wait, Ryoujin?" he asked with irritation tinging his voice, glancing at the sky with frustration. His arms twitched—sparks dancing across his fingertips, the rain stewing into a gathering storm. "If I'm going to get soaked for nothing—"
"Don't," Ryoujin's voice was firm, yet far from comforting.
Akira's lips curled into a smirk, his anger dissipating in moments of steely resolve. They may not speak it, but there was an understanding in the charged silence between them—the unspoken pact that had bound them through wars, betrayals, and vengeance. But even with that knowledge, what was the price for such power?
The Echoing Spirits
Their arrival to this village felt somehow incomplete, as though something beyond their cursed mission awaited them here. It was no accident that they had come to this desolate place, where time did not run as it did in other parts of the world.
As Akira's frustration bubbled into impatience, something stirred at the edges of their sight.
First, it was faint—a ripple against the gray fog, barely noticeable to the eye, like a fleeting afterthought. Yet Ryoujin's senses, as sharp as any assassin's, caught the disturbance with a deadly precision. He motioned for them to halt, and the three paused under the dead gaze of the village.
With a low hum, the rain seemed to slow, suspending a heartbeat that hung in the air like an omen. Shion, looking straight ahead, felt the warning before it even took form. The blood binding his veins sang, a sensation familiar to those who had crossed paths with the spirits, those now-defied souls who writ