After tending to his numerous wounds, the Perfume Seller continued his steady march forward, despite the faint pain accompanying every movement. In the calm serenity that always precedes a storm, his breaths were measured, and his eyes tirelessly scanned the horizon.
As he crossed through a deserted field, a sudden shadow flickered in the darkness. He paused briefly, a strange, inexplicable feeling rising within his chest. Before him stood a mysterious samurai, cloaked entirely in deep black—from his kimono to the kataginu cloak concealing his armor. His face was hidden behind a glossy black menpō mask, adorned with sharp horns that seemed to belong to another realm.
The two exchanged fleeting glances, each trying to ignore the other as if they were nothing but passing shadows in the night. Yet, the Perfume Seller never lost his sense of the lurking danger in the moment, feeling a heavy weight radiating from the mysterious samurai.
The samurai paid no heed to stopping; instead, he slowly turned and walked toward the castle, leaving behind an aura of enigma.
Continuing along the winding path, the Perfume Seller carefully felt the lingering pain from the wounds inflicted in previous battles. His steps were slow and measured, as if weighed on the scales of pain and patience, under the stillness of that night's clear calm.
His mind was fixed on a single purpose: to reach Odakimaru's castle and extract the rare crystal from his chest.
As he neared the mountain's foothills, he sensed something unusual in the air; a faint scent of smoke mingled with the aroma of incense. Not far ahead, just a few meters away, the temple gate and Odakimaru's castle glowed softly in the light of numerous candles. There, a silent crowd had gathered, each person holding a candle wrapped in colorful "Wato" paper, their faces masked by vacant stares—as if under the spell of some mysterious enchantment.
Although the crowd appeared ritualistic and peaceful, the Perfume Seller sensed an unnatural heaviness hanging in the air. This was no ordinary festival-it was a ceremony that transcended mere tradition. The rites served as a veil for something far deeper: a spiritual control enforced through the mysterious mist emanating from the crystal embedded in Odakimaru's chest.
He stood at a distance, behind the fields, watching every movement carefully. He noticed the guards did not thoroughly search everyone; they let the crowds pass with ease, as if something rendered the attendees virtually invisible.
A sharp thought stopped him: How could he enter the castle under such intense spiritual surveillance? Then, the Perfume Seller recalled a rare vial tied to his waist - the "Shadow Cloak" perfume - not meant for attack or defense, but for concealment. This fragrance erased the trace of his spirit, masking it with the scent of the crowd so the guards would remain oblivious to his presence.
But that wasn't all.
He observed the servants arriving through the back gate, carrying ritual tools, passing without strict scrutiny. At that moment, he lightly released a scent that distracted the servants, then slipped quietly among them, disguised beneath a simple cloak.
Within the crowd, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He was nothing but a shadow among shadows, his masked scent blending seamlessly with the incense smoke.
No one sensed his presence.
He moved as if the air did not touch him, as if his shadow never touched the ground.
He passed beside the guards, their eyes lifeless-unable to see him, unable to sense him. Even the priest standing by the gate, wrapped in heavy robes and vacant stares, remained motionless. It was as if the Perfume Seller's existence had been erased from the present.
But inside… it was a different story.
Deep within, his pulse beat to a discordant rhythm. It was as if his heart remembered every moment of danger he had faced before and now held them all tightly within his chest. His breaths were measured-not because he was calm, but because he could not afford a single misstep in exhaling.
One wrong breath could mean the end.
The place was strange-not only in its features but in its very feeling…
As if the mist was invisible, yet undeniably present.
As if the air itself wasn't air… but the skin of something watching you without being seen.
And as he advanced with deliberate steps, he spotted a group of servants entering through a side door.
Their arms were extended, carrying ritual vessels, their faces blank and lifeless-as if they were not servants, but the rituals themselves, walking on two legs.
This was his chance…
He reached into his side pocket. Despite his training, his fingers trembled slightly. A small movement-barely visible-but enough to betray something he had been suppressing the entire way: a subtle shiver unworthy of a man like him, yet it surfaced nonetheless, as if warning his body of what awaited beyond those walls.
He drew the small vial. Its glass was cold, as if it had just emerged from the mouth of a ghost.
Then, with calculated precision, he dropped it to the ground.
Taaak.
The sound wasn't loud… but it sliced through the moment like a dagger.
A subtle scent rose-an intricate blend of lavender and burnt smoke, carefully crafted to disorient the mind and scramble sensory signals in that brief space between awareness and reaction.
The servants paused, turned for a brief moment.
Time froze.
And in that pocket of stillness, the Perfume Seller moved with the lightness of a trace.
He slipped behind them.
He was not a man.
He was not smoke.
He was a calculated void-a shadow with a scent that resembled surrender.
**
He entered.
And for a moment, silence claimed him.
Not the silence of the outside world-but the silence before a storm, deep in the chest of a man who knows he's standing in a place his feet were never meant to touch.
He was now inside the castle walls.
Every step could be his last.
Every corner held the possibility of death.
But he wasn't afraid.
He was focused.
Not because he lacked fear… but because he had long since learned that fear cannot be killed-it must be used.
And now, he was using it-as a hidden weapon… just like he did with his perfumes.
…Just like he did with his perfumes.
He advanced through the stone corridors, his footsteps so soft they seemed not to touch the ground.
The walls were draped in a faint veil of mist. The torchlight dimmed and flickered, as if the castle itself were breathing-slowly… suffocatingly.
Everything here was being watched-not by eyes, but by intent.
This wasn't a human fortress.
This was the mouth of a living creature… and its heart lay above, in the temple.
He had to ascend.
He lifted his gaze toward the long staircase leading into the heart of the mist… where Odakimaru awaited.
The air grew heavier, as if even words would choke if spoken.
But he did not retreat.
He reached for another vial and prepared himself for the ascent.
He knew that with every step, he was drawing closer to his enemy… and to the goal that awaited him.
He began ascending the long staircase, each step amplifying the silence within him. Behind him, the echo of the steps whispered that he was drawing closer to an inevitable fate.
To enter the temple…
The mist inside the castle thickened. In the corridors, the torchlight trembled in rhythm with the breath of the place. Every stone here guarded a secret. His heart beat in silence, as if testing the balance between his physical composure and the tension coiled in his chest.
Then he stopped.
In a wide hall, bathed in the flickering glow of torches, the Perfume Seller stood at the edge of the shadows.
At the center of the chamber, a stone platform rose-and upon it stood Odakimaru, towering like an idol. He did not move… yet his presence alone filled the air with a suffocating spiritual pressure, like a nightmare just beginning to wake.
The mist rose from the castle floor, creeping between the pillars, slipping beneath the skin.
Odakimaru's voice finally emerged-cold, low, as if spoken from the chest of the earth:
"I didn't expect a human to reach me without kneeling before my mist. What is your name?"
Footsteps echoed. The Perfume Seller stepped forward, his eyes not on Odakimaru… but on the mist itself. As if he were reading it. As if he were scenting something unseen.
Then he whispered:
"Names are illusions… like the mist you breathe. Spirits have no names—nor do I. Call me what everyone else does… the Perfume Seller."
The flames on the torches flickered.
Odakimaru did not smile… but he didn't hide his displeasure either.
He looked at the Perfume Seller as if he were something that should not exist.
"The scent of arrogance clings to you… Let's see how you fare against true mist."
The Perfume Seller gripped the neck of his Benzaiten-the instrument that hid his sword-and drew the blade, its edge gleaming under the moonlight.
With the ease of a master, he raised a third vial from his belt.
A sharp scent followed, piercing the chest as if digging for an ancient feeling long forgotten.
It wasn't merely smelled… it reminded the body it was still alive.
Then he spoke:
"Let's see… if the scent of truth is stronger than your illusion."
Odakimaru stood motionless, watching with cold eyes that masked an unbearable savagery.
With a cruel smile, he whispered:
"Do you think your perfumes will save you?
My mist shows no mercy."
And in an instant-he vanished.
Not in the usual way. He evaporated, like a wisp of fog dissolving into the air.
But the Perfume Seller was ready.
The air grew heavier. Vision disappeared into the dense mist, so thick even fingers were lost in it.
But his eyes did not close.
He took a deep breath.
Seconds passed…
Then-Odakimaru struck from behind.
But the Perfume Seller spun with his blade-
Steel met steel before the strike could land, and sparks burst like fireflies in the mist.
A clash followed. Then another.
Odakimaru was faster.
But the Perfume Seller was more precise.
This wasn't a battle of speed.
It was a battle of senses.
Every heartbeat was a wager.
Every breath, a risk.
The air was thick-not just with mist, but with pressure.
It pressed against the lungs, filled the nose with a cocktail of incense and steel, made even thinking feel like drowning.
Odakimaru struck again, a sweeping arc meant to sever bone.
The Perfume Seller leaned just out of reach, the blade grazing the strands of his hair.
He didn't flinch.
He couldn't afford to.
In this fog, sight was a lie.
Only instinct mattered.
The scent of blood, the rhythm of footsteps, the faint vibration in the floor.
He wasn't just fighting with a sword.
He was listening to the mist.
Reading the tension in Odakimaru's presence, tasting the hostility in the air like a connoisseur sampling poison.
And in that space between strikes-
He countered.
A sudden slash from Odakimaru
fast, brutal, and unseen through the fog-
pierced the Perfume Seller's shoulder.
Blood spilled onto the stone floor like ink from a broken quill, writing pain into the silence.
But he didn't scream.
He staggered back two steps, exhaled slowly through his mouth.
And then… he smiled.
"You hurt me. That's good."
His voice was calm, eerily calm.
"It means I'm still alive."
The mist thickened-so dense that even light vanished inside it.
In the suffocating silence, there was only one sound…
Breathing.
But not human.
It was a low, animalistic hiss-
like some massive predator circling its prey, patient and hungry.
The Perfume Seller didn't move a muscle.
But inside…
his heart was counting.
One… two…
Now.
From the fog, it came-
A shadow with no shape, no weight… only a killing intent sharp enough to tear the air apart.
But the sword was already rising.
Clang.
Steel split the silence-
One spark. Then another.
A third strike thundered like a war drum in the dead of night.
Odakimaru recoiled.
But the fog followed him like a loyal hound.
His body flickered in and out of sight, his blade lashing out again and again-each strike faster, more ruthless, a blur of motion that left no time to breathe, let alone think.
But the Perfume Seller wasn't thinking.
He was feeling.
Every motion of his body was a ritual.
His foot anchored in a precise step.
His blade swept out at an impossible angle.
A subtle bend in his spine, no different than light breaking across the surface of still water.
He didn't fight like a man.
He didn't fight like a swordsman.
He flowed like a reflex-
precise, brutal, silent.
Every step a reply to death before it asked the question.
Then-recoil.
A sudden upward slash, like wind turned into a blade.
Odakimaru blocked it-
but didn't see the other hand.
Fooled.
A needle sank into his neck. Not lethal-disruptive.
The mist stuttered, as if it had forgotten itself.
Odakimaru chuckled.
"You think… the mist obeys me?"
The air grew heavier.
"I am the mist."
And he erupted.
The palace floor cracked beneath him.
Spiritual pressure surged-columns of stone bent like reeds.
The mist was no longer mist.
It was a flood of scorched souls,
howling up from the earth,
screaming as if brought back to life
for one reason only-
Vengeance.
The Perfumer dropped to one knee.
Blood leaked from his ear.
But he smiled.
And whispered:
"You unleash the spirits…
I listen to them."
He pulled out a vial-dark, sealed tight with wax-and shattered it against the floor.
A black vapor rose, thick and rancid.
It didn't smell sweet.
It smelled like buried rot-like something ancient clawing its way out of its grave.
Then, he reached behind him.
His fingers touched the lacquered wood of Benzaiten, the instrument bound to his back.
He lifted it.
Not as a weapon-
but as a voice.
He played.
Not music.
Lament.
A wail, raw and hollow, echoed through the chamber-
like centuries of strangled spirits weeping through strings.
Every note struck something deep inside Odakimaru.
Not his body.
His shape.
His myth.
The mist around him shivered.
The fight shifted.
It was no longer blade against blade-
but will against essence.
The salesman lunged.
Two steps-he feigned a fall.
A sudden leap. Full rotation.
His blade carved the air like a broken scream.
Odaki parried, but too late-
the edge sliced across his eye.
Blood. Hot and fast.
He roared, more beast than man-
but didn't back away.
He lunged again, hand snapping like a trap,
grabbing the perfume seller by the throat,
dragging him with brute force.
Then it began.
Steel. Bone. Flesh.
Strike - a slash to the ribs.
Strike — a backhand to the jaw.
Punch — straight to the temple, knuckles cracking skin.
Blade — driven between them like a desperate truth.
Their feet skidded on blood-slick stone.
No distance. No grace. Just pain.
Fists met flesh. Nails tore skin.
Kicks echoed like hammers on hollow bone.
Swords lay forgotten behind them...
Now they fought like predators: fangs against fangs.
No technique. No elegance.
Just chaos — bloody, and blind.
The perfume seller's mouth filled with blood.
His breath turned ragged.
Each strike felt like a piece of his soul being torn away.
Odaki Maru was laughing.
A broken laugh, cracked and full of madness.
"Then he grabbed him.
By the throat. Lifted him off the blood-slicked ground "like he weighed nothing"
The world choked.
But the perfume seller didn't.
His left hand, trembling and slick with blood, reached back— Desperately reaching for something to hold on to.
His fingers brushed metal.
Not hope. Not memory. Just steel.
He clenched the hilt of his sword.
With a roar that tore through the fog, he slammed his forehead into Odaki's face-once, twice.
The monster reeled.
That was enough.
He spun.
Steel howled.
The blade drove forward—
clean, cold, final.
A last, deliberate strike—no blind fury, no sacred rite,
but a cold, measured echo of a melody destined for death-
piercing Odaki's chest It emerged from his back.
Time froze.
The mist fell. Sound vanished. Spirits fell silent.
In the moment the crystal was pulled free, no one spoke.
Even death… only watched.
A surge of blood rose, followed by Odaki Maru's scream.
He staggered back, the sword still lodged deep in his chest.
The mist crumbled around him, as if the world he had built was suffocating.
The perfume seller didn't move for a moment.
He watched. Breathed slowly.
Then stepped forward.
His hands didn't tremble… they moved like a man performing a sacred ritual.
And suddenly, he lunged—grasping the sword's hilt buried in the wound.
He knelt before the half-collapsed body, gripping the sword tightly, his hand resting on Odaki Maru's chest—right over the heart.
He whispered a word in a language no one truly knows… except those who have seen it in dreams.
Suddenly, the skin beneath his hand glowed.
A golden light emerged from within.
Not mere energy… but a gland, something organic and spiritual, breathing and suffocating, writhing inside the body.
Odaki Maru gasped.
A prolonged scream tore from the depths of his being:
"Aaaaaaahhhhhhh—!!"
The perfume seller did not hesitate.
With one hand, and a violent strength that belied his calm, he sliced through the chest with the sword and pulled out the golden gland.
The scene resembled a demonic ritual… but in truth, it was a rare extraction.
A process mastered only by those who have crossed between worlds.
The crystal emerged, glowing like a heart stolen from a non-human creature.
Odaki Maru choked, locking eyes with the perfume seller for a moment.
The mist dissolved around him, even his bones vanished.
Then he disappeared.
Not faded—melted into the air, like smoke when it stops lying.
The perfume seller stood alone in the hall.
His hand was bleeding.
His shoulder was raw and bruised.
But his heart? Silent.
Yet in his grip… the gland pulsed.
A crystal of living mist.
It glowed faintly, as if struggling to breathe-
but he would not let it.
…He returned it to the designated vial,
then sealed it tightly, as if the whole world had slipped back into silence.
Carefully, he wrapped the vial in its tailored cloth, then cradled it close as if it held something far more valuable than it seemed.
For long seconds, he stood alone in the empty palace hall.
The mist dissipated.
The air thickened with the scent of ash and perfume.
And the silence… was like the stillness after a funeral.
The perfume seller did not look back.
Slowly, he returned his sword to the musical instrument-Benzaiten—then wrapped a cloth tightly around his wounded hand, binding it firmly.
The steps he took toward the door were slow, heavy-
as if every bone in his body was reminding him it was still alive… barely.
**
When he stepped out of the palace, the night still lingered.
But In the east, night unraveled slowly—
a faint, colorless light bleeding into the edges of the sky.
Threads of violet crept across the horizon, delicate and slow—
like fingers brushing the edge of a dream.
A muted shade of steeped tea followed, bleeding softly into the sky.
He moved down the temple's ancient stone steps,
each breath escaping his lips in pale, fading wisps.
Every inhale took effort.
Every exhale cost him a sliver of will.
He was alive…
but the price of survival still echoed in his bones.
**
High above, on a weathered wall cloaked in shadow-
where no one ever bothered to look—
a lone tanuki lay curled beneath a decaying wooden pillar,
eyes half-lidded, watching the world pass in silence.
His eyes widened-
not in fear, but with the kind of genuine astonishment that rarely touched creatures like him.
He whispered, voice low and brittle, as though the truth was too heavy to speak aloud:
"That… that simple merchant…
was never simple at all.
He's a far greater threat than we ever imagined.
Not just to Odakimaru-
but to the entire realm of spirits and yokai."
He kept watching the Perfume Seller as he walked away,
back slightly hunched…
yet every step steady.
**
As the night receded, the first strands of sunlight broke across the sky.
The mist had vanished completely.
And the temple—once a haven for Odakimaru-
now stood hollow and lifeless,
nothing more than a silent shell.
**
The Perfume Seller returned to the winding path,
descending once more from the mountain.
There was no one. No sounds. No rituals.
As if everything had vanished with the mist—
like it had never existed at all.
The cold wind combed through his unkempt, shoulder-length hair,
as he pressed a firm hand against the bleeding wound on his side.
His gaze remained fixed forward.
He didn't look back.
In the distance, the outline of the old city emerged—
quiet, unmoved,
as if it hadn't heard the screaming.
**
By the time he reached the city,
sunlight spilled like broken gold across the wooden rooftops.
Sparrows danced along the cobblestones,
and life was slowly returning to the streets.
But he…
he was never part of that life.
**
He stepped into a crumbling wooden shop at the market's edge.
Even before the door creaked open,
he was met by the scent of aged timber and layered perfumes—
familiar, bittersweet.
He offered a muted greeting.
The old shopkeeper, polishing his tools with a frayed cloth, turned slowly.
For a moment, he said nothing.
But his eyes locked onto the stranger's ragged clothes—
sliced at the shoulder, blood dried on the fabric, skin still raw beneath.
With dry sarcasm, he set the cloth aside and said,
"Rough night… wasn't it?"
The Perfumer allowed himself a faint, unreadable smile.
"Yes."
He reached into his robes, placed a few worn coins on the counter,
and picked up the small, hand-crafted vials—
as if resuming a path long interrupted.
**
He left the city without fanfare.
At the main gate, an old gatekeeper waited,
holding the reins of a calm black horse.
No words were exchanged.
Only a nod.
**
He mounted.
The sun had risen high enough to tint the sky in soft gold.
He looked toward the horizon.
Then spurred the horse forward.
**
Where he was headed-no one knew.
But the spirits would smell his coming before he arrived.
And he…
was no longer just a Perfumer.