He sat on the tatami mat, his breath ragged, the pre-dawn chill seeping through the thin walls of his room. He meticulously wrapped layer after layer of bandages around his forearms, hiding the pale skin that crept beneath his sleeves. Each strip felt like a confession, a desperate attempt to contain the monstrous hunger gnawing at his core. The scent of his own sweat mingled with the sharp, metallic tang of the poison simmering in his veins — Akaza’s cursed blood. His fingers trembled as he secured the final knot over his knuckles, the linen stark against the unnatural pallor. Outside, the first birdsong pierced the silence, a cruel reminder of the sun’s imminent rise.
He couldn’t risk it. Not today. Not ever again.
He pulled a hooded cloak over his head, the fabric coarse against his sensitive scalp. On the low table lay a sheet of rice paper, weighted by a smooth river stone. His brush hovered, ink dripping like a tear. "Senjuro." He scrawled, the characters bold yet aching.
"Your dreams are your compass—follow them fiercely. Protect Father. Eat well. Live brightly." He hesitated, then added: "Do not seek me. This is my duty." The lie tasted bitter. Duty was slaughtering demons, not becoming one. He imagined Senjuro’s hopeful eyes clouding with confusion, then grief. The thought clawed at him sharper than any demon’s talon.
He pressed his palm flat against the paper, leaving no fingerprint, only the ghost of his warmth.
He slid open the shoji screen. Dawn hadn’t yet breached the horizon, but a thin, gray light seeped through the garden’s bamboo grove. Dew clung to spiderwebs strung between maple leaves, each droplet a tiny, mocking sun. He stepped onto the veranda barefoot—the bandages muffled his tread, but the damp wood sent a jolt of cold agony up his legs.
At the gate, he paused. Behind him, the Rengoku estate slept—a fortress of wood and tradition, sheltering Senjuro’s gentle dreams and his father’s bitter oblivion. Ahead, the winding path vanished into mist-shrouded pines. He touched the folded letter tucked inside his cloak. Senjuro would find it tucked beneath his training sword, weighted by that smooth river stone.
I’m sorry, he thought, the words echoing louder than any farewell he’d penned. Forgive me. The urge to turn back, to glimpse his brother’s sleeping face one last time, was a physical weight. Instead, he inhaled sharply—the air tasted like wet stone and impending rain—and broke into a run.
The sun breached the horizon like a blade. Kyojuro flinched as its first rays pierced the canopy, searing through the thick wool of his hooded cloak. It wasn’t fire—not yet—but a deep, cellular wrongness, a slow cooking of his altered flesh. Sweat pooled beneath his bandages, stinging the charcoal-gray skin they hid. He’d wrapped himself meticulously: layers of linen beneath the cloak, thick gloves hiding his claw-tipped fingers, a scarf shielding his neck.
It bought him time. Enough to vanish into the mountains where humans rarely ventured. He pushed harder, boots crunching frost-hardened earth, lungs burning with effort. Distance was his only shield now. As he would remove himself, from here, flee, and try and undo this and if not, end his life.
@bellsplitter
