The road was painted with silence.
Shaketsu walked without sound, her pale form gliding through the forest like drifting snow. The ronin followed, his breath heavy, his wounds screaming with every step. He did not know why he obeyed her. Every instinct told him to flee. Yet he could not. Perhaps it was the song she hummed beneath her breath, the lullaby that wrapped around his spine and dragged him forward like invisible chains.
They emerged from the woods into a clearing. The smell struck him first—charred wood, iron, and rot. Then his eyes caught the shapes.
A village, or what was left of it.
The houses were blackened shells, their thatched roofs collapsed into embers. The well stood cracked, its rope dangling useless. Bodies lay in heaps, burned beyond recognition, while others were nailed to wooden posts as warnings, mouths frozen in screams that no one had heard. Flies buzzed in thick clouds, the sound as loud as a swarm of locusts.
The ronin gagged. His hand tightened on his sword.
"Demons did this?" he asked, though his voice trembled.
Shaketsu stopped beside him. Her eyes swept the ruin without sorrow, without pity, as though she had seen the same scene a thousand times.
"No," she said. "Men."
The ronin froze. "You lie."
Shaketsu turned her head slowly, her gaze piercing through him. "Do you think demons line bodies in neat rows? Do you think demons waste time nailing corpses for display? Demons devour. Men make art of cruelty."
Her words cut through him sharper than any blade. He wanted to argue, but the evidence surrounded him. The wounds on the dead were not the wild tears of claws or fangs—they were measured, deliberate, as if someone had taken pleasure in arranging them.
He staggered forward, stepping over a broken cart. His eyes caught something near the shrine in the village center. He wished they had not.
Children.
Small forms lay crumpled beside the offering stone. Their hands still clutched charms of protection, paper talismans scorched by fire. Their faces were untouched, almost peaceful—except for the ropes around their necks.
The ronin fell to his knees. His sword clattered to the dirt.
Shaketsu approached silently. She did not kneel, but she looked down at him as a mother might regard a child who had finally learned the truth she had always known.
"Your kind calls us monsters," she said softly. "But monsters are simple. Monsters are honest. It is man who perfects cruelty until it becomes ritual."
The ronin's hands dug into the earth. Rage burned hotter than grief, but his body trembled with helplessness. "Why… why would they do this?"
Shaketsu's voice lowered, almost a whisper. "Because vengeance is the only faith left in this world. To hurt another clan is worship. To burn children is sacrifice."
He lifted his head, eyes red. "And what are you, then? If man is worse than demon, what does that make you?"
Shaketsu bent closer, her hair brushing his shoulder like snow on fire. Her crimson eyes glowed, reflecting the ruin in their depths.
"I am forgiveness," she said. "But forgiveness wears blood."
He flinched at her words, unsure if it was mockery or truth. Yet something in him shifted. She had not killed him when she could have. She had not devoured him when she had the chance. Instead, she led him here, forcing him to see that his hatred had been too narrow.
The ronin swallowed hard. "If… if this is what man has become, then who do I fight?"
Shaketsu's lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile. "You already know. The ones who betrayed you. The ones who wear banners stained not with blood, but with lies."
His fists clenched. Images of his clan flooded his mind—uncles who plotted against him, brothers who drew blades against kin, a lord who had traded honor for power. He thought vengeance was only his. Now he saw it was the world's language.
Shaketsu straightened, her robes whispering. She looked at him as though weighing his worth.
"Stand," she commanded.
He obeyed before he realized it. His legs trembled, but he rose, gripping his sword though his hands still shook.
"You walk with me now," she said. "Not as servant. Not as prey. But as one who has seen truth."
He opened his mouth to protest, but the words would not come. Some part of him feared her, hated her. Another part—a darker, quieter part—recognized her as the only constant in a world that had shattered.
He followed again, step after step, deeper into the ruin. The lullaby rose once more, carrying through the charred air. This time, he did not resist it.
Above the village, smoke rose to the heavens. But the gods did not answer.
Only vengeance remained.