Wasuren gripped the hilt of his katana, knuckles pale beneath the leather. The forest pressed in on him with unnatural weight. Like many children, he had grown up with tales of the Yamata no Orochi—the eight-headed, eight-tailed serpent whose body sprawled across valleys and hills. A god of serpents, worshiped and feared, with scales like armor and poison breath said to melt even steel.
Now, seeing the carnage scattered through Hebimori, he could not shake the chill in his blood.
"Why would it do this?" he asked, voice low, heavy.
"Perhaps it felt threatened," replied Masaki Taishō, eyes hard beneath his brow.
Wasuren frowned. "Threatened… by what, or by whom? This—" He swept his gaze across the twisted corpses, the half-devoured remains. "This is no battle. It's a massacre."
Masaki stepped forward, scanning the trail. "The bloodshed doesn't end here. We follow. If this was the work of an Orochi descendant, we must kill it before it grows bolder. The villages won't survive otherwise. Come."
The Wolf Wardens advanced, nineteen blades moving as one. The deeper they went, the heavier the air grew. It thickened, colder with each step, until every breath burned like acid mist clawing at their throats and stinging their eyes.
Then, they saw it.
In a nest of rotting leaves and jagged stone lay three eggs, green and slick, each the size of a clenched fist.
Wasuren and Masaki froze. A chill cut down their spines.
The forest hissed.
CLANG.
A sword slipped from trembling fingers, clattering against a rock. Heads whipped toward the sound—just in time to see a samurai engulfed in darkness, swallowed whole by a massive serpent's maw.
From the trees slithered terror itself.
A two-headed serpent, its scales a shifting emerald sheen, blending with the leaves like living jade. Its body was thick as tree trunks, coiled across branches, eyes black as tar with thin, needle-yellow pupils that pierced through courage itself. One head chewed on its prey. The other glared, lips peeled back, fangs dripping venom.
The forest stirred—dozens of smaller serpents slid out from shadow, hissing, scales glimmering like molten jade in the mist.
Masaki inhaled sharply, chest rising like a mountain before the storm. His voice thundered out:
「狼の万死,集え!」
Ōkami no Banshi, tsudoe!
The Wolf Wardens snapped into formation as if pulled by a single heartbeat—Qi flaring, blades bared, eyes blazing. The air itself seemed to shrink from their killing intent.
Their answering cry split the fog:
"Kariudo kamae!" — Hunters, ready!
The serpents slithered, striking with shrieks that rattled the canopy—but then stopped. Their scales shivered, bodies stiffening.
It was fear.
They could feel it through the ground, through the air. The samurai stood like wolves cloaked in fire, their Qi pouring out like suffocating mountains. To the snakes, it was visible—an aura of death incarnate.
But the two-headed beast roared, a hiss so violent it warped the mist. The shockwave broke the lesser serpents from their trance, and they lunged forward.
Steel flashed. In moments, serpent heads littered the soil, their bodies twitching as ichor stained the leaves black.
Wasuren had hardly moved. Heat rippled off his frame in waves, a barrier of fire around his still form. The snakes that dared slither close faltered, burning alive with a single strike of his blazing katana. He stood unshaken, a pillar of flame and steel—a living pyre shielding his comrades.
Yet it was only a distraction.
The two-headed serpent struck. Its maw opened wide, belching a jet of poison mist. One samurai wasn't fast enough. The venom tore through his arm, flesh melting, bone dissolving as he screamed—a raw, terrible sound that curdled the Wardens' hearts. He collapsed, writhing, his fate uncertain.
"Wolf Wardens!" Masaki bellowed. "Avoid the breath of Orochi's spawn!"
His eyes cut to Wasuren. "Ren! With me—we end it here!"
Wasuren nodded once and fell to his side. Another spray of poison split the air, sizzling against bark where they had stood only moments before. They dodged, then sprinted together—toward the beast's heads.
"I'll take its gaze," Masaki growled, hammer in hand. "You strike when I bind it."
Wasuren said nothing. In battle, words were ash. Only trust mattered.
Masaki raised his voice again, rallying his men through the chaos:
「狼の万死,集え!」
Ōkami no Banshi, tsudoe!
And again, the cry came back like thunder:
"Kariudo kamae!"
Samurai surged at his back, cutting down snakes that tried to block their charge. Masaki himself moved like a storm, his massive frame leaping from branch to branch, hammer crashing down to splatter serpent flesh. No serpent breath, no fangs, no coils could stop him.
Beside him, Wasuren ran silent as shadow. His katana blazed white-hot, each step trailing sparks.
One head lunged for Masaki, venom spilling. He dodged, planting his feet on a high branch—only to find the second head descending from above, fangs wide to swallow him whole.
A blur cut across the trees.
Wasuren.
His strike blazed like the forge, his blade slicing into the serpent's neck. The flesh melted before steel even bit, the wound tearing wide as fire consumed the scales. The beast convulsed, thrashing violently, crashing through trunks as it tried to fling him off.
The second head whipped toward him, jaws snapping—
But Masaki was already airborne.
He dropped from above with his war hammer raised high, both hands gripped white-knuckled.
"ORA!!"
The impact cracked the forest like thunder. Bone shattered beneath the blow. The serpent's skull caved with a sickening crunch, its massive form collapsing, shaking the earth as it slammed into the ground.
Masaki landed heavily, rolling to his feet. Behind him, the beast twitched, blood hissing as it mingled with venom.
The serpent's body finally went still, its twin heads slumping lifelessly to the ground. The Wolf Wardens stood in silence for a moment, breathing hard, before someone stepped forward with a long blade and hacked through the thick necks. The two heads were lifted high, proof of their kill, and a murmur of awe rippled through the group.
They left the massive carcass where it lay, though not untouched. Veterans among them began the task of gutting and harvesting—draining blood, cutting through scale and sinew to reach the glittering beast core deep inside the serpent's chest. The core pulsed faintly with violet light, stronger than anything the rookies had seen pulled from the Inoshishi. The younger soldiers whispered among themselves, eyes wide, while the older Wardens remained quiet, their faces grim.
Every other beast slain in the hunt was hauled back on poles and carts, to be butchered for meat and stripped for their own lesser cores. The air smelled of iron and smoke as the trophies were prepared. By the time the company marched back to the gates of town, they carried the serpent's heads at the front. A crowd gathered, voices rising in shock and celebration when they saw the proof of Hebimori's most dreaded legend felled. Children pointed and cheered; elders only frowned, muttering dark omens about disturbing such a creature's rest.
That evening, a feast was held. Fires burned bright, meat roasted on spits, and the Wardens sat in a ring with laughter, stories, and the sweet relief of survival. Yet for Wasuren, the firelight seemed distant. He ate little, his thoughts circling back to Kaito's words: father has called for you.
When the laughter quieted and the others settled into rest, Wasuren rose. The serpent's heads still sat mounted on spikes beyond the fire, their dead eyes reflecting the glow. He tightened his fists, drew a slow breath, and turned away from the revelry. It was time at last to answer his father's call.