The woods thinned as the group pushed on, the trees giving way to a stretch of open meadow where the Nakasendō resurfaced, its packed earth scarred by cart ruts and horse prints. Taro breathed easier in the open, the river's chill fading behind them, but the kappa's gurgle still echoed in his thoughts—a slimy reminder that the road twisted more than just paths. His short sword bounced against his thigh, a rhythm that kept his senses sharp, his eyes scanning the horizon for red cords or worse. The companions moved in loose formation: Sora gliding with her usual poise, Kenta's armor a steady clink, Mika's steps light and probing, Jiro's hum trailing like smoke from a pipe.
The sun hung high, casting short shadows that offered no hiding spots, but Taro's gut told him trouble didn't always lurk in the dark. Goro's map was ashes in his mind now, burned by lies, but the valley ahead promised a post town by dusk—if they didn't hit snags. He glanced at Sora, her enigmatic calm a puzzle he'd stopped trying to force, focusing instead on the bond they'd forged through fire and water. The group felt solid, their edges fitting like stones in a wall, each one holding the line against the cracks.
Kenta broke the quiet, his voice low as he adjusted his katana's strap. "Open ground means eyes. Shogunate patrols run these stretches—checkpoints for papers, taxes, questions."
Mika rolled her eyes, kicking a pebble across the path. "Papers? We've got none worth flashing. One wrong look, and we're explaining yōkai scratches to samurai with itchy blades."
Jiro chuckled, uncorking his gourd for a sip. "Itchy blades beat yōkai claws. But Kenta's right—shogunate's tight on travelers. Whispers say they're hunting cultists, red cords and all."
Sora's gaze lifted to the meadow's far edge, where a line of figures crested a rise—mounted samurai, banners fluttering in the breeze, their armor glinting like fish scales under the sun. "They come," she said simply, her voice carrying a weight that made Taro's hand twitch toward his sword.
The patrol was small—five riders, led by a stern-faced captain in lacquered plates, his helmet crested with a plume that snapped in the wind. They reined in, blocking the path, their horses snorting steam. The captain's eyes swept the group, lingering on Kenta's armor, Sora's indigo robes, then Taro's weathered haori. "Travelers," he barked, his voice clipped like a command. "Papers. State your business."
Taro stepped forward, his stance easy but alert, channeling his old hashiriya guile—smile wide, words smooth. "Headed east, captain. Pilgrims to shrines, seeking blessings." He pulled a forged pass from his sleeve, Mika's handiwork from Okabe, its ink still fresh but convincing.
The captain took it, scanning the script with a frown. "Pilgrims, eh? With a samurai in tow and a monk reeking of sake? Looks more like ronin rabble." His men shifted, hands on hilts, eyes hard.
Kenta stiffened, his face a mask of restrained fire, but he held his tongue, his past betrayal a ghost that kept him silent. Mika edged back, her dagger hidden but ready, her lips pressed thin. Jiro raised his gourd in mock salute, his grin disarming. "Blessings for all, captain. Even the thirsty."
Sora met the captain's gaze, her calm unbroken, but a faint glow from her collar caught the light—a pulse, quick and gone. The captain's horse shied, snorting, and he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "What's that gleam? Show it."
Taro's pulse quickened, his mind racing for a diversion. Before he could speak, a rustle came from the meadow's edge—a figure bursting from the grass, cloaked and ragged, red cord flapping like a wound. The Flame Bearer lunged at the patrol, blade drawn, shouting curses about "the jade's power."
Chaos erupted—the captain wheeled his horse, his men drawing swords, the cultist clashing with the nearest samurai in a ring of steel. Taro seized the moment, signaling the group. "Move—through the gap!"
They bolted, weaving past the skirmish as blades flashed and grunts filled the air. Kenta covered their rear, his katana out but unused, his eyes locked on the fight. Mika darted low, snatching a fallen pouch from the grass—ryo, supplies. Jiro muttered a quick ward, the air shimmering faintly to mask their retreat.
They hit the woods on the other side, breath ragged, the clash fading behind. Taro paused at the treeline, glancing back—the patrol had the upper hand, the cultist down, but the captain's eyes scanned the meadow, searching. "That wasn't luck," Taro said, voice low. "The cultist drew them off. Why help us?"
Sora adjusted her collar, the glow gone. "Not help. Distraction. They want the jade, but not in shogunate hands."
Kenta sheathed his blade, his face dark. "Either way, we're marked now. Patrols will talk."
Mika jingled the pouch, her grin sly. "Marked, but richer. Let's see what the road coughs up next."
Jiro nodded, his eyes on the deepening woods. "Road's full of shadows. But we're weaving our own path now."
Taro pushed on, the group tight, the meadow's clash a scar on the day. The woods grew thicker, the sun dipping low, but with the patrol behind and the cult's games unfolding, Taro felt the pull stronger—the temple's call, not just a wish, but a reckoning.