After a long time, the perfume seller approached Mount Audaki Maru.
The traces of his sword battle had faded from the edges of his garment.
When the dust behind him began to settle,
his steps moved forward into the open plains—
a silent land that stretched on without end.
Pale and dry fields, scattered with ancient bones,
where no plant dared to grow.
Gray herbs bent low,
as if the wind had forgotten how to lift them.
The sky was dark,
lit only by the clear glow of the moon.
The shadows grew long.
The perfume seller stopped.
He sensed it before he saw it.
Something in the air—
a strange scent, layered and unclear,
mingled with ash and rusted iron,
cut through his breath.
It was unlike any yōkai soul he had faced before.
He said nothing.
His hand reached quietly into the leather bag.
Fingers—slightly worn from use—moved between the glass bottles,
until they settled on one he hadn't touched in a long time.
With his first step into the heart of the field,
his shadow split away from his feet.
The shadow took form several meters away.
No voice. No movement.
Just the outline of a human figure—unnaturally tall—
emerging as though it had risen from a wound torn into the earth.
His features slowly came into focus:
two grotesque horns,
eyes glowing with the fractured color of broken agate,
and a mouth that shouldn't exist—yet knew how to speak.
It was Audakimaru.
And yet… something was wrong.
His movement was too smooth,
as if the wind itself guided his limbs.
No weight. No gravity.
A living shadow.
The perfume seller hadn't drawn his sword yet.
He looked at the shadow and spoke in a faint, almost tired voice:
"If you are a reflection… then you've come late."
The shadow answered, its voice echoing like a whisper lost in an ancient graveyard:
"But just in time…
to show you that your steps lead not to the mountain—
but back to your past."
Suddenly, it lunged.
The perfume seller leapt backward in an instant.
At the same moment, a bottle flew from his right hand—
shattering mid-air into a cloud of amber-colored mist.
But the shadow tore through it without hesitation.
Unaffected.
The sword sliced through
nothing but air.
The perfume seller lunged
forward,his blade aiming for the figure - yet it met no flesh .
No resistance.No sound of metal or bone.No one was hurt…except him.
The shadow' s claw had passed through his left shoulder like smoke,
but the pain
was as if his very soul had been torn apart.
His blood spilled onto the cracked soil,staining it with vivid red.
On the other side of each strike,the shadow's attacks landed.
Real injuries.
Real blood.
One after another,savage wounds,slashes,deep gashes.all in a single breath of time.
But amid the onslaught,
he noticed something.
The shadow didn't fight randomly.
Its movement followed a familiar rhythm…
It mirrored Audakimaru's style .
perfectly.
But blindly.
Without soul.
Without heart.
A faint,crooked smile tugged at the corner of his lips,despite the pain.
As if challenging the very illusion.
"So…"he muttered,his voice thin.
"You are an illusion…but you still hurt."
Time stilled.
His breath was heavy.
His eyes looked onto the untouchable opponent.
untamed, unreadable.
Sweat trickled down from his brow, sliding past his cheek to the edge of his mouth,
where it mixed with blood .
The taste…
was like a memory he' d
forgotten for years.
The air grew heavier, slower.
Every motion the shade made sent a silent echo through his body—
as if his bones could hear it before his ears.
But he did not retreat.
With measured caution, he began to circle the shade in a slow arc.
His stance held steady, his breathing disciplined.
One hand brushed lightly against another vial.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then murmured under his breath:
"I'll play for you—but the Benzaiten stays silent."
He hurled a new bottle—
It burst midair into a sharp green cloud, laced with a repellent scent.
It did not target the body… but perception itself.
The shade froze.
It twitched-just for a moment.
It did not step back… but something inside it trembled, as if a thread had snapped.
"This… I know this…" the shadow muttered.
The perfume seller didn't wait.
He moved like a silent killer, creeping forward with deadly intent.
With a swift kick, he scattered the remains of a dry bone across the ground
the sudden sound shattered the shade's focus.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
In that second, the perfume seller pounced into the void.
Not to strike, but to test.
His sword passed through the shadow's body—again.
But something had changed.
The shadow was no longer the same as before… it had grown heavier.
The perfume seller touched his chest. Blood still flowed, but the pain no longer tore through him like before.
"You've taken form…" he said.
"The more you resist, the more real you become."
But the shadow gave no reply.
Instead, it began to stretch and writhe like smoke, then shrank.
The fog around it shattered like broken glass.
In a moment of silence, it seemed the world itself had stopped.
Then…
The fog dissipated, revealing a new body emerging from the shadows.
No centuries marked it, no glowing eyes.
Only two dark eyes, like mirrors, and a face that knew more than anything.
His face.
A perfect copy—detailed, unscarred, untouched.
But lifeless. As if it were a hollow mask of its owner.
The shadow said with his
voice:
"Why do you carry his ashes after all this time?"
He died in the end. Spirits want him, and this is his eternal fate.
To kill other souls with the aim of changing the fate of one soul… an uncomfortable matter."
The perfume seller (in a soft, but fixed voice): "I do not ask for forgiveness from anyone.
I do not seek to justify what I do.
But I know that his soul has not yet been tried ...
Just pulled, as the shade is withdrawn, without sound, without chance, without farewell. "
Complete.
"I do not bring him back to life…
Nor lift him from hell to bliss.
Every Yukai I crushed—
Every tone I played, every perfume I released from their breath,
.Was not in vain
I do not kill to save, but to restore the balance his actions broke.
Shadow (cynical):
But the price… is paid with other souls.
Yukai and innocent lives alike—those who stood on the path of truth—make no difference.
Their blood is now on your hands… no one else's."
Perfume Seller:
"Rather, my hands are proof that I chose pain, not forgetfulness.
If I wanted him to rest, I would have buried him long ago.
I defied his fate and his rule.
But I carry it… because his voice hasn't faded yet.
And because this ash…
Still lingers deep within my mind."
Then, with a broken voice, the shade whispered:
"You didn't save him."
The perfume seller fell silent—for a moment.
Then…
He spoke, his voice steady, though pierced with pain:
"As long as he hasn't been judged, the path remains open."
At that moment, something changed.
The shadow's eyes stared with unwavering focus. Its feet remained still, but a strange tension in the right shoulder betrayed its intent.
The perfume seller saw what others wouldn't—
A slight twitch in the muscle, a subtle flicker in the pupil.
A strike was coming.
But from where?
Above? Beneath the ground?
No.
From within it.
And in a fleeting moment
Instead of dodging the incoming blow,
he charged forward.
He closed the distance to the shadow in half a step, then darted to the right in a sudden burst—scattering a small vial of perfume.
It wasn't meant to harm.
It was meant to obscure.
But it was enough to shift his position.
"Always expect the trap of the strong," he whispered to himself.
Beyond the white fragrance
sudden movement.
A dark blade tore through the air where he had just stood.
"If I had delayed a second…" he muttered,
"It would've been over."
But the attack revealed something else.
The shade's sword was longer than his own.
Its reach—greater than he had imagined.
A direct clash… would mean death.
He moved in silence, his mind racing with analysis:
"My opponent mirrors me…
But he's stronger—physically.
Longer reach… no use of perfumes.
And yet, he anticipates every move I make as if he were… me."
The solution?
Don't be you.
He smiled suddenly. Then he threw Benzaiten to the ground.
The silhouette paused.
"Abandon your weapon?"
"I abandoned your expectation of me," the seller muttered.
In a flash, he darted forward unarmed, weaving through the trembling grass, his body tilted so low it nearly touched the earth. His hand reached for his waist and pulled a small dagger hidden beneath the inner belt — a weapon never used before.
He popped open a small bottle and poured it over the blade.
The shadow lunged quickly
But he was a second too late.
A stab to the side.
Not fatal. But enough to break the rhythm.
The shade recoiled two meters, its eyes now glowing with a brutal, gray light. It hadn't expected to be deceived.
The perfume seller didn't chase after it. He stood his ground, his body tilted to one side, breath deep and steady, the dagger dripping not with blood… but with a strange scent.
It was a special perfume — not lethal, but disorienting.
A fragrance that made the opponent see a false version of the weapon wielder's intent.
The shade stared at him… then lunged
At an illusion.
The perfume seller had already moved
From the opposite side.
He made his way through the vacuum as if fighting the air itself.
His steps made no sound. His movement left no trace.
"Fighting shadows," he whispered,
"is nothing like fighting men…
not even the Yukai."
"Yukai follow instinct…
Humans follow reason.
But the shade?"
He exhaled slowly.
"It reflects you… without a soul.
No reaction. No intention. No fear.
Just mimicry.
Even its mistakes… are copied."
The shade suddenly stopped.
Then it turned toward him
mirroring the expression on his face,
the angle of his stance,
even the subtle tension in the muscle of his right leg.
The perfume seller laughed softly.
"You mimic hesitation? Excellent."
Then he threw a new bottle to the ground.
It exploded into a dark fog, without smell or color… a deadly perfume.
It wasn't meant for him.
Rather, it was to test something else.
Meanwhile, he quickly reached for the musical instrument (Benzaiten), from which he drew his sword and focused on the swirling smoke.
The perfume seller fixed his gaze inside the cloud.
Would the shadow attack without sight? Use its senses? Or merely follow tradition?
A moment passed.
Then another second.
Suddenly, the sword appeared.
The fog parted in a straight line.
But the strike was not aimed at him.
Rather, it targeted the direction where the perfume seller was expected to come from.
"Beautiful…" he whispered.
"You have reflexes. So… I am not just a shadow. You are ready."
The seller rushed in a circular motion, flicking his dagger near the shadow's head-not to strike, but to create a sharp metallic clang.
Just the sound of metal colliding.
The shadow turned instinctively.
A fatal mistake.
At the same moment, the perfume seller caught him off guard from the other side, delivering a kick to the back joint-not to exert force, but to unbalance him.
The shadow staggered.
That was all he needed.
With a swift movement, he aimed a precise stab toward the loin.
The sword passed through the body… but this time, it was ineffective.
A strange feeling-light resistance, as if piercing through a soft, glowing barrier.
"The shade has become half concrete…" he muttered to himself.
"This means…"
He slowly raised his head.
"He has begun to turn… toward me."
The atmosphere shifted.
The wind suddenly stilled, dust hung motionless in the air as if time itself had slowed not stopped, but waiting.
The shadow stood firm.
His sword held at a slight angle, right knee bent, as if ready to spring.
The perfume seller remained still.
He too understood.
Now, the second stage had begun.
A faint sound echoed inside—not fear, but relentless analysis:
"I am no longer fighting a mere image… but a copy.
I don't have to be faster.
Or smarter.
Rather… I am no longer 'me' at all."
He smiled.
Then he took out a transparent bottle-empty of liquid.
Inside, a faint, swirling steam hovered.
It did not attack or harm, but rather drained the surrounding spiritual energy for a brief moment… just a flash.
If the balance of power was disturbed even for a moment, the shadow's form would crumble.
He tossed the bottle upward.
The instant the shadow rushed forward,
he advanced—not to strike, but to lure the shade closer.
Then
The bottle exploded.
Light shattered.
Sound faded.
Gravity seemed to waver for a moment.
Then everything returned to normal.
The perfume seller knelt on one knee.
The shadow… was gone.
He stared into the empty space where the shadow had vanished, as if watching the fading trace of an idea, not a body.
His chest rose and fell—not from exhaustion,
but from the weight of something unseen being lifted away.
Something he hadn't known he was carrying.
He felt a sudden void within, silent and deep…
then slowly, a heavy awareness filled him:
he had been freed from an unnamed burden,
yet it still lingered, just beneath his skin.
His sword lay on the ground, half-buried in the dirt,
as if it had taken no part in the fight.
Beside it, his musical instrument—"Benzaiten"—rested quietly,
a silent witness to the battle,
holding a calm serenity like Buddhist stillness.
The fight had progressed.
He bent down and picked up the sword first, studying it for a moment… then carefully sheathed it inside the instrument's hollow.
The sound of the metal sliding against the oud's wood was like an ancient door closing on a pact of hesitation.
He tightened the cover of the machine.
Then whispered:
"Shadows… are not defeated by force. But by steadiness."
A pause, as if speaking to his own soul.
Then, in a faint voice—like breaking years of silence—he added:
"And I… am no longer afraid to repeat myself."
He lifted his head, eyes fixed ahead.
The mountain awaited him, shrouded in thick fog that embraced the palace above.
He extended his hand, pulled his cloak around his shoulders, and took a step forward.
Then he began to walk… neither hurried nor slow, but with a rhythm like the final notes before an epic overture unfolds.