The temple was quiet now.
Not the kind of quiet that brings peace — the kind that waits. Ayane stood at the edge of the broken altar, her fingers tracing the grooves left by centuries of forgotten prayers. Momiji knelt nearby, her eyes closed, her breath steady. The air was thick with something ancient. Something wrong.
Ryu had vanished again.
He did that sometimes — slipped into the shadows like a memory trying to forget itself. Ayane didn't chase him. She knew better. He wasn't running. He was listening.
Beneath the earth, something was whispering.
The Demon's Origin
Kurozume wasn't born in hell.
He was born in a village.
A nameless place, long erased from maps and memory. The people there had once worshipped the gods, but gods didn't answer prayers. So they turned inward. They fed their hatred, their envy, their grief. They built altars to their own pain.
And pain answered.
Kurozume was the echo of every betrayal, every murder, every broken promise. He didn't rise from fire — he rose from silence. From the moment a mother cursed her child. From the moment a brother stabbed his kin. From the moment a man chose vengeance over forgiveness.
He feeds on emotion. Not just fear — but the kind of darkness that wears a human face.
Regret. Shame. Lust. Rage.
He doesn't kill. He waits. He watches. He whispers.
And when the soul is ripe, he devours.
Preparing for Descent
Ayane sharpened her blades, her movements slow and deliberate. She wasn't just preparing for battle — she was preparing for confession. She had her own regrets. Her own shadows. She knew Kurozume would taste them.
Momiji wrapped her robes tighter, her eyes glowing faintly. She had studied the old texts, the forbidden scrolls. She knew what they were walking into. This wasn't a demon to slay. This was a mirror.
Ryu returned at dusk.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes said everything — the curse was growing. The Grip of Murder pulsed like a second heartbeat. He was losing pieces of himself, one kill at a time.
Ayane stepped forward. "We're ready."
Momiji nodded. "We know what he is."
Ryu looked at them — not as warriors, not as women, but as comrades. As the only ones left who understood what it meant to bleed for something that might never heal.
He turned toward the abyss.
The descent would begin at dawn.