The road bent into the ruins of an old shrine, its gates broken, its gods long fled. Moonlight spilled across the stones, but what stirred in the shadows was not the moaning of demons. It was laughter. Small, brittle laughter, like bells cracked by time.
The ronin froze. His hand went to his sword. But Shaketsu lifted one pale hand.
"Do not draw. They are mine."
From the dark corners of the shrine, children emerged. Barefoot. Thin. Eyes wide as lanterns, glowing faintly with something more than life. Some clutched broken dolls. Others dragged wooden swords too heavy for their arms. They ran to Shaketsu without fear, swarming her white robes.
"Mother!" one cried, pressing his face into her legs.
"Sing to us!" another begged, tugging at her sleeve.
The ronin's breath caught. "These… they are human?"
Shaketsu looked down at the little ones, her pale fingers stroking a girl's tangled hair. Her voice was soft, but not gentle—it was the kind of softness that burned.
"They were human. They were abandoned. Forgotten by clans that carved war into their blood. I found them before their hatred could bloom. I keep them here, where vengeance cannot reach."
The ronin stepped forward, his chest tight. "But… they're just children."
Shaketsu's red eyes flicked to him, sharp. "Do not be fooled by innocence. Children know grief sharper than any sword. I have heard them cry in their sleep, whispering names of fathers who never came home, mothers who never returned. Left alone, their pain would have festered. They would have become what you hunt."
The ronin faltered. The laughter around him cracked his chest like glass. He wanted to deny it, but he saw the truth in their haunted smiles.
One small boy with a scar across his brow tugged at Shaketsu's hand. "Will you let us go soon, Mother?"
Shaketsu knelt, her white robes folding like a shroud around her. She cupped the boy's face, her crimson eyes softening.
"Yes. When you are strong enough to choose mercy over vengeance… then I will release you."
The ronin's throat tightened. "You… you raise them, only to abandon them?"
Shaketsu's gaze snapped to him, cold as steel. "I do not abandon. I release. Mercy without choice is a chain. They must walk the world free—even if the world devours them. That is my forgiveness."
The children gathered closer, their small voices overlapping:
"Tell us the story, Mother."
"The one about the gods."
"The one about the fire."
Shaketsu closed her eyes. Her voice slipped into the night like a blade wrapped in silk:
"Once, gods promised to keep men safe. But men killed, even under the gods' eyes. So the gods turned away.
Once, mothers prayed for peace. But their children starved. Their prayers became curses.
From curses, demons were born.
And so I keep you here, away from the curse. Until you can walk without chains."
The children swayed, some yawning, others humming softly as if the tale were a lullaby. The ronin, however, felt his chest burning.
He whispered, "And if they fail? If their mercy is not enough?"
Shaketsu's voice grew low, heavy as tombstone.
"Then they will die as men. Not as demons. That is all I can give."
For the first time since meeting her, the ronin saw her not as demon, nor as mother, but as something else: a warden. Keeper of a fragile hope she did not believe in, yet refused to abandon.
The boy with the scar tugged her sleeve again. "Will you still sing when we are gone?"
Shaketsu brushed his hair back, her pale lips curving faintly. "Always. Even if you never hear me, I will sing. The world may forget you. I will not."
The ronin turned away, unable to bear the sight of her white figure surrounded by children who looked at her with love. Love for a demon. A demon of forgiveness.
For the first time, doubt coiled deep inside him like smoke. Perhaps forgiveness was more terrifying than vengeance.