As the general continued walking with them, his steps steady and cold, he finally spoke:
"I am Satoshi."
For a moment, silence. Then Hiroshi broke it.
"What was that? That village… those people… the smoke-eyed dead?"
Satoshi sighed. "The dead are returning. We don't know why. They crawl back just to kill the one of their family members. They don't rot. They don't speak. But they only seem hostile toward family. The Shogun warned us this would happen for years, and we ignored him. Now look at us — the old fool was right."
Sachiko asked quietly, "Why is this happening?"
Satoshi shrugged. "Ask the monks. They say the gods are angry. Others say this land was cursed from the beginning. But me? I've seen enough to believe it's grief. That grief brings them back."
Hiroshi frowned. "What do you mean, grief?"
"I mean," Satoshi said, "that the more you grieve, the more likely your dead return — and not with kindness. I've seen it. A man cried for months over his son. Then the boy came back and strangled him in his sleep. But a woman who poisoned her husband? No tears. No grief. He never came back."
Kibo tensed. "So what happens if someone stops grieving at all?"
Satoshi shook his head. "No one knows. All I know is, the Ministry tried sacrificing that girl. Thought it would fix things. It didn't. Everything just got worse."
Kibo stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened. Yuki. He knew they were talking about her.
Satoshi turned to Sachiko suddenly, pointing at the long blade on her back.
"That Naginata. Where did you get it?"
Sachiko hesitated. Her voice turned low.
"From someone who cared about me. That's all you need to know."
Satoshi didn't blink. "That Naginata belongs to a high-ranking sect. Only samurai's and temple lords own those. If you stole it—"
"I didn't steal it," she snapped.
Then Satoshi turned to Kibo. His gaze narrowed.
"And you. The two-beaded necklace… we gave that to a girl I remember now."
He stepped closer. "You died in that fire. I was there. You weren't supposed to survive."
Kibo's breath caught. Hiroshi's hand hovered near his bow.
"You've mistaken us—" Hiroshi began.
Satoshi's hand went up.
"Arrest them."
Soldiers poured from the woods, surrounding them.
Kibo drew his blade. Sachiko stepped in front of him, Naginata drawn. Hiroshi raised his bow — but it was too late.
They fought hard, but they were caught off-guard. Hiroshi was knocked out first. Sachiko followed soon after.
Kibo, exhausted and distracted by what he'd heard about Yuki, couldn't hold out long.
As the three collapsed, the general gave his orders:
"Leave the boy with the bow and sword here. Take the one with the necklace — and the girl with the Naginata. And take the Naginata too."
Soldiers dragged Kibo and Sachiko away.
Rain began to fall again.
And in the mud, Hiroshi stirred — alone.
As time passed and the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky turned to ash. Hiroshi stirred, covered in mud, the last rays of sunlight brushing across his face.
His eyes blinked open. Pain echoed through his limbs, but he was alive.
He sat up slowly, breath shallow, and looked around.
Silence.
The others were gone.
Only the crimson blade lay beside him, half-buried in the dirt. He gripped it tightly and stood, unsteady but determined.
That's when he saw them — hoofprints and footsteps, etched into the soft earth. A trail. The army had left in a hurry.
He followed it.
As Hiroshi walked, the wind picked up. Trees whispered. The forest thinned.
And then... he stopped.
The mountain. The river. The bend in the trees.
He knew this place.
It was his home.
His breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he looked down at the bundle of food Kibo had given him back in the yokai realm. Wrapped in leaves. Still warm.
He gripped it, and ran.
Branches whipped past him. Dirt flew beneath his feet. His heart pounded with a wild mix of fear and hope.
He would see them again.
He would feed them.
He had allies now. He had survived.
He sprinted down the path, over the ridge, and into the village.
But the moment he crossed the gate, the world fell silent.
The village was dark.
Empty.
Just like before.
No lanterns. No voices. No footsteps. Only wind and shadows.
He walked forward, slowly now.
He reached his house. Still standing. Still as broken as he remembered.
He opened the front door.
"Mom? Dad?" His voice trembled. "I... I brought food..."
No answer.
He stepped deeper inside, heart pounding, eyes darting across the darkened room.
"Mom?" he called again. "Dad?"
No one.
He walked to the back.
And dropped the food.
His eyes widened. His heart stopped.
There they were.
His parents.
Hanging.
Their necks bound with rope, swaying gently in the wind.
A paper was nailed to the wall beside them. A notice.
EXECUTED FOR THEFT.
No family to repay the debt.
Hiroshi stepped forward, like a puppet with cut strings.
He collapsed at their feet, arms wrapping around their legs. His tears finally fell.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I should've been here…"
His body sank, curling into a fetal position.
He sobbed.
Then—
A sound.
A scraping, digging noise.
He looked up.
In the graveyard behind his house…
Something was crawling out.
A hand. Small.
Then a face. Hollow. Smoke-eyed.
His sister.
Once full of light, her innocent gaze was now vacant — black mist swirling from her sockets. She pulled herself out of the grave, crawling toward him.
"No…" Hiroshi whispered. "Not like this."
He crawled backward.
But she kept coming.
Her tiny hands reached for his throat.
The sister he died to protect — now trying to kill him.
Hiroshi couldn't move.
Couldn't fight.
This was the soul he cherished most.
But when her hands tightened around his neck, he had no choice.
He drove the crimson blade forward.
A sudden gasp of smoke burst from her body. The black fog evaporated. Her arms fell limp. She dissolved in his arms — until only her dress remained.
He collapsed, holding it, tears streaming down his face.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm so sorry…"
Then, a voice — soft, fading, almost imagined.
"Thank you, big brother… for freeing me.
Please… don't worry."
The voice vanished.
Hiroshi sat in the dirt for a long time, eyes red and body shaking. When he could move again, he buried his parents near his sister's grave. He placed the food Kibo gave him between the three mounds.
"I'm sorry," he whispered one last time.
Then he stood.
He looked down at the crimson blade in his hand.
He remembered those who still needed him.
Sachiko. Kibo. Yuki.
And for the first time, he stood not for survival, not for shame — but with purpose.
With resolve.
He walked forward.
Not as a liar.
Not as a selfish person.
But as Hiroshi — a boy who had nothing left, yet would give everything for the people he loved.