Nestled deep within a cradle of mist-laced mountains, the village of Kumawara slumbered beneath cedar shadows and clouds that never fully cleared. No roads led to it—only foot-worn trails lost to time, guarded by fox shrines and gnarled trees. The villagers called it *Yamamon no Niwa*— The Garden Behind the Mountain .
To outsiders, it was a whisper. To those who lived there, it was a way of life steeped in memory and shadows. They burned incense at thresholds, planted protective herbs in windowsills, and drew salt spirals in the soil. Not from superstition—but survival.
Because sometimes… the spirits did not stay in the dark.
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The home smelled of cedar smoke and cold sweat. Lanternlight wavered against the paper walls as Sayori, tears streaking her powdered cheeks, knelt beside her husband's unmoving body. Haruki had been ill for three days, but the fever had passed—replaced by silence far more terrifying.
Now he sat, upright but wrong. His eyes were dull, his breath shallow, and when he smiled… it was not with his own mouth.
An elder stepped forward—the Teacher, robed in soot-colored cloth, his white hair tied tightly behind him. His face was a weathered sculpture of wisdom and weariness. In one hand he held an old tomahawk, its blade etched with forgotten runes. Behind him stood his apprentice, a boy no older than fifteen: Elemento Hoshikawa, eyes wide with terror and reverence.
"Do not speak," the Teacher said. "Whatever it says—don't answer."
Haruki's body shivered. A sound emerged from his throat, *not* a voice, but the layered groan of something clawing its way through a pipe. His head jerked side to side. Bones cracked without pain.
Then suddenly—*he attacked*.
The Teacher moved like wind through reeds.
With a grounded pivot, he caught the lunging Haruki by the wrist, spun him midair, and flung him into the center of the room. The man landed on his feet like a puppet reset, claws of blackened fingernail flashing toward the old man's throat.
The Teacher muttered nothing. Instead, he struck with his palm—*a blow that sent a shockwave through the walls*, rattling rafters and extinguishing candles.
Haruki recovered immediately. The *spirit inside* was strong.
They fought.
- The Teacher wove sigils mid-motion, igniting *ash trails that snapped like whips*.
- The possessed man moved like a storm—*bones twisting backward*, body crawling along walls and lunging from the ceiling.
- Every strike was countered. Every move—predicted.
Then the old man whispered, "Now… it ends."
He tossed the tomahawk into the air—not at Haruki—but *through* him. It spun slowly, unnaturally, over the man's body. Haruki froze, convulsing. The spirit screamed—**a wail of a thousand whispers** bursting from his throat.
"Elemento," the Teacher barked. "Bottle. Now."
The boy surged forward and knelt beside his master, placing the thick glass vessel beneath Haruki's chest. It pulsed in his hands—**warm, then cold, then warm again**.
The tomahawk shuddered.
With a sharp motion, the Teacher snapped his fingers—the **blade plummeted** straight down, landing squarely in Haruki's chest.
No blood.
Only silence.
And then a sound like *wind being pulled through wet silk*. A mist—black, twitching, and howling—**bled out** from the embedded weapon.
The spirit tried to flee. The bottle called it instead.
The mist twisted midair, hissed, then *funneled directly into the vessel*. Inside, it flailed, forming a single distorted face across the glass—then shrank into stillness.
*Frost crawled over the bottle's surface.* Sayori gasped as her husband collapsed—alive but unconscious.
The Teacher rose. He plucked the tomahawk from Haruki's chest and drove it into the floor beside the sealed bottle. He examined the frost for a long moment before speaking.
"One spirit trapped," he muttered. "Thousands still wander."
Then to his student, with neither praise nor anger—just truth:
"This was the easiest you'll ever face."
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