Mist crawled down the ridge like a living thing. Cold. Wet. Clinging. Kaito climbed. Each step heavier. The pass revealed itself piece by piece. Jagged cliffs. Iron gates. Banner of Takeda snapping in the wind. Rust-red sun behind thick clouds. Sunstone Pass. A fortress carved from frost and stubborn stone.
At the gate, two guards stared. Hard eyes. One held a yari, chipped from use. The other sized Kaito up like he was meat.
"Name."
"Kaito. Wakato. Orders from Gokenin Moriko."
The older guard took the parchment. Read it twice. Thrice. Then spat.
"Another one," he muttered. "Go on. Inside."
The gate groaned open. Kaito stepped through.
Smoke. Clamor. Shouting. Barracks to the left. A stony courtyard ringed with straw dummies. Soldiers sparred. Chainmail clashed. Boots stomped mud. Shouts echoed off the walls. Not training. Not ritual. Survival.
Kaito barely had time to breathe before he was met by Nakamura. Wakato, senior. Polished armor. Sword worn but cared for. Face unreadable.
"So this is the pig-stabber."
Kaito bowed. Low. "Reporting, sir."
Nakamura didn't return it. He walked. Kaito followed.
"You think slaying one beast makes you special? Boars are dumb. War is worse. Men stab you in the back here. If not with steel, with silence."
Kaito said nothing. Just walked.
Nakamura stopped at the barracks.
"You bunk there. Bottom right corner. Don't be late for drills. And keep your mouth shut."
Kaito stepped in. Six other soldiers glanced up. One looked away. Another sneered.
He dropped his pack. Sat in silence.
Night fell. Rain tapped the roof. He slept light. Dreams filled with stone plates, red eyes, roars.
---
Morning came with a horn blast. Cold rice. Rotten miso. Then drills. Endless drills.
Thrust. Withdraw. Block. Turn.
Mud clung to his feet like dead hands. Instructors barked. One struck him with a rod for stepping left instead of right.
"Faster, Wakato. Or you'll die fast."
By midday, a bell rang. Warning.
Scouts returned. Bloodied. One carried the other. Something attacked the supply trail. Not bandits. Something worse.
"Four men dead," the scout said. "The fifth… we found only half of him."
Command met. Nakamura spoke in hushed tones with the officer in charge. Watanabe. Veteran. Scar over one eye. Voice calm like thunder.
"Double perimeter. Lock down. No one leaves."
Kaito itched. That same feeling. Like the air held its breath. Like the cicadas should scream but didn't.
That night he sharpened his spear. Quietly. Alone.
The next attack came just before dawn.
Screams. Metal clashing. A blast of wind and something else. Something wrong.
The wall cracked under weight. Kaito ran out, half-dressed, weapon in hand.
He saw it.
It stood like a man. But wasn't. Skin mottled gray. Eyes sunken, glowing faint blue. Armor fused to flesh. Sword fused to bone. It screamed. The sound didn't end.
Two soldiers charged. It batted them aside like insects. One hit the wall. Bone snapped.
Kaito moved. Instinct.
He flanked. Didn't think. Just moved. Targeted the knee. Weak point. Thrust hard.
Spear bit deep. But didn't stop it.
It howled. Grabbed the shaft. Yanked.
Kaito flew. Hit the ground. Pain. Breath gone.
He rolled. Grabbed a fallen yari. Stood.
Others regrouped. Five against one. Still barely enough.
It bled black.
One soldier cut across its back. Another jammed a pike through its side.
Kaito saw the opening. Lunged again. This time the eye.
Tip of the spear punched through. It screamed once more.
Then silence.
It collapsed. Smoke rose. Not from flesh. From the air around it.
Watanabe arrived. Saw the corpse. Eyes narrowed.
"Corrupted."
He spat.
"No more drills," he said. "We train for war now."