At the end of the village, where the palace sits atop a small mountain,surrounded by long stairways and an ancient temple, the fog flowed like a living entity, penetrating every corner of the place. At the heart of this fog, a mysterious samurai man, all black, stood from his head to the soles of his feet, wearing kimono, hacama and categino cloak that tops his heavy shield.
"His face was covered by a jet-black menpō (面頬) mask, adorned with two sharp demonic spikes that seemed to emanate from another world, shrouded by an aura of mysterious darkness.
Behind him, the tip of a long samurai sword shone dimly over his back.":
I came with a message, but you should know: we made you stay of our own free will."
Odakimaru stood beside him. Though his body seemed frail, his gaze was sharp—unmoved by fog or silence. His voice came low and grave, hollow as a ruined bell, yet firm with a strange weight.
"I followed his orders. But the path is far from complete."
He studied the samurai for a moment, then gave a slow nod.
"Let things unfold as they must… for now. Remember—your being belongs to the Yin. And Yin is made whole only through obedience to Shin.
To stray from his will is not rebellion by word, but betrayal in silence—when a shadow turns from the source of its shape. Act not on your own volition. Just as fog does not rise by itself, it only breathes in the presence of Shin's shadow.
Odakimaru… is merely the echo of that will. And he remains only so long as that will allows him to."
The samurai turned and walked away, vanishing into the fog with steady steps—leaving the mist behind him thicker, darker.
Odakimaru lingered for a moment, watching the vanishing silhouette. Then, slowly, he turned toward a faint rustle from the nearby shadows. A new figure emerged with a lazy, animal-like gait—eyes gleaming with mischief.
.It was Tanuki
Tanoki smiled sarcastically.
"Wasn't that visit a little short?"
Audakimaru didn't reply. His body remained tense, as if the presence of the samurai still lingered in the air. He ignored Tanoki's remark.
After a moment, he spoke softly, as though to himself.
"He is on his way… the perfume seller."
Tanoki's eyes lit up slightly, and the smirk on his face faded just a little. He replied with a mocking, challenging tone:
"Do you sense danger?"
Audakimaru smiled — a cold, indifferent smile.
"Danger does not concern those who cannot be touched."
He turned back toward the fog.
After a long silence, Tanoki's expression grew distant.
"Go then… perhaps your human body is still useful for observation."
He repeated, this time with a lighter tone, eyes drifting toward the horizon:
"Shall I go watch the perfume seller?"
Audakimaru's smile didn't waver as he answered in a low voice:
"No need. I will send my shadow."
Tanoki faded into the fog, leaving Audakimaru alone in the silent courtyard.
The air was still. The fog thickened, as if the mountain itself had stopped breathing.
Audakimaru slowly raised his right hand, as though drawing back a hidden veil in the air, and whispered barely loud enough to be heard:
"Among the shadows of shadow… I summon you."
The wind stirred suddenly, rising into a slow spiral around his feet, then slipped toward a shallow pool at the base of the stone steps.
The water was no longer still. It rippled like a mirror stirred by an unseen hand — alive and pulsing with strange rhythm.
Its color darkened into black, and the surface began to boil… as if something ancient was clawing its way up from the depths.
Then, a shadow emerged.
It resembled Audakimaru in height and posture, but its features were fluid — ever-shifting, refusing to hold form.
No eyes, only two glowing specters in the color of molten silver. It moved unnaturally, as if gravity did not fully apply.
Audakimaru looked at the figure calmly and spoke with quiet authority:
"He's approaching. Follow him. Watch him.
And if he comes too close… end him."
The shadow said nothing. It bowed faintly — as if the earth absorbed its motion — then melted back into the fog, leaving behind only a faint trace of moisture and ash.
Audakimaru turned his gaze to the pale moon, barely visible behind the veil of mist, and said to the night:
"Everyone who came close… vanished in the end."
Silence returned. The fog grew thicker.
It was as though nothing had ever happened.
On the far side of the village, away from the noise of the festival, the perfume seller stood before a simple wooden table he had just purchased.
He pulled out a small pouch filled with herbs and dried fruits. The moment it was opened, a smell escaped
vivid, dreamlike.
He began preparing a special perfume, one crafted to nullify Audakimaru's fog and sever the mental grip it imposed on the weak-minded.
The ingredients were rare, complex:
• Flory plant blood, which blooms only when the dead pass nearby, releasing a mystical life force.
• Ashes of a yōkai, blended with sandalwood and chilled incense.
With steady fingers, the perfume seller sprayed the blend onto his wrists, then onto his neck.
A faint aura surrounded him — a scent that masked his spiritual presence and pushed back the dark mist.
Then, without a word, he began walking toward Audakimaru.
The path was dry, layered with soft dust, winding between abandoned fields far from any living soul.
The wind whispered around him, as if guiding him alone.
Everything was silent. No village. No city. No people.
Only this long, desolate road
leading toward the heart of death.
The perfume seller didn't stop. His steps were steady, as though the night itself paved the way before him.
He knew he was being watched.
Not a suspicion — a certainty.
As he neared a narrow wooden bridge spanning a dried stream, he heard footsteps.
They were ahead of him.
From the ruins of the fields, five warriors emerged.
Their steps were heavy, deliberate — as if the earth remembered every footfall.
They wore light armor, metal plates across their chests, and long swords strapped to their backs.
Their faces were bare, their eyes focused — trained, professional.
They moved with the readiness of those raised for this moment.
At their center stood a broad-shouldered young man, his hair tied back neatly, a long scar marking his right cheek.
He stepped forward, stopping ten meters away.
His voice was firm:
"Your journey ends here, perfume seller. We cannot let you pass."
The perfume seller stopped at last.
He looked at each of them in silence.
Another young man said:
"We've been tracking you. We didn't think you'd take the direct path to Audakimaru."
The leader answered without looking at him:
"We're the elite unit sent to hunt you down. It's best if you surrender."
The perfume seller sighed, mockery in his voice:
"What an honor… to be pursued by the Tsukinoy clan.
But sadly, I haven't decided today will be the day I die."
Then, calmly:
"There is no perfume between us to cloud the air… no fog to deceive.
Only swords now divide life and death.
Let's see who remains standing."
The soldiers drew their swords
The perfume seller gripped the hilt of his instrument — Benzaiten — and unsheathed the blade hidden inside.
It glimmered under the moonlight, the glow of an ancient weapon.
"This won't take long," he said. "There's no time for delay."
The first swordsman charged.
A direct, swift, clean attack.
The perfume seller deflected the first blow
then the second.
But the third strike tore through the side of his robe and grazed his skin, a thin line of blood tracing his shoulder.
He stepped back.
The swordsman seized the opening, darted behind him, and slashed down with the strength to split a skull.
But the perfume seller dropped low, rolled in the dirt, rose, and delivered a blinding side-slash.
The swordsman ducked at the last moment — barely escaping.
Blades clashed in a flurry, iron echoing through the still air, dust swirling violently beneath their feet.
Then—
One moment.
The enemy's sword sliced through empty air.
The perfume seller had vanished — moved out of reach — then swept around in a precise arc, blade aimed at the exposed side behind the shield.
The swordsman froze.
His chest heaved.
Then… he staggered back.
The sword fell from his hand.
The perfume seller took one step forward.
Time stopped.
His breath was heavy, sweat dripping from his brow.
A cold, mocking smile spread across his face, eyes locked on the shock written across his enemy's features.
The swordsman raised his eyes — as if to speak his final words—
But he never got the chance.
His head was gone before a syllable left his lips.
The head hit the ground.
And so began the massacre.
The second and the third attacked together.
Fast strikes, brutality that carries weight and experience.
One of them is beaten from the top, the other from the side.
Soldiers tried to coordinate their movements, however.
"The soldiers were quickly surprised by the perfume seller, his microscopic movements broke them, but they were unable to keep up with his movement."
The perfume seller was targeting decisive areas, frequent stab wounds that torn the nerves of the hands, then descended into the thigh and legs.
He heard the sound of the bones cracking under the strikes, and the soldier fell screaming on his knees, unable to resist.
***
"In a swift motion, he drew a small perfume vial with his left hand and sprayed it onto the blade of his sword. A sharp, penetrating scent spread through the air—thick and heavy, like a poisonous vapor."
The third tried to pay attention ...
Stabbing him.
The sword penetrated its guts at that moment. The perfume exploded in the middle of its chest
Purple smoke filled the place.
Blood falls abundantly.
The fourth did not see the battle clearly.
Half his step was delayed ... and it was enough.
With a swift strike , a head was severed.
The body fell into the pond,sending a ripple across the stagnant water.
Drops of blood splash onto the perfume seller's robe
Only the leader remained.
He stood alone,sword held steady,his eyes scanning the fog,alert to every subtle movement
He tried to focus
the fog had parted for a brief moment.
Seizing the chance, he charged toward the perfume seller.
***
The final clash was swift.
Sparks flared as blades collided.
The air filled with swirling dust.
Then…
a flash of motion, like lightning.
***
The sword ripped through his
chest,
piercing deep and tearing out
from his back.
His eyes flew open wide in
Shock and pain,
his body convulsed violently as
he struggled to breathe,
blood pouring freely ,staining
everything around him
***
The leader collapsed heavily to the ground.
The perfume seller smoothly sheathed his sword back into the oud (Benzaiten).
He wiped the blood from his face with a calm, almost indifferent gesture.
Then, without a hint of haste or remorse,
he resumed his steady stride—as if nothing had happened.