By the time Kashi returned to the village with the banner of Lord Daigo's clan flying beside him, a new wave of hope surged through the remnants of the Yamada. Behind him marched a contingent of 1200 disciplined samurai and ashigaru foot soldiers, all clad in dark green armor lined with gold. Their presence transformed the once-shattered group of survivors into a budding army.
The people cheered. Some cried. Others dropped to their knees as if the mere sight of order and steel had banished the nightmares of recent weeks. Shiori stood quietly among them, her gaze fixed on Kashi with an unreadable expression.
That night, around a crackling fire, Kashi met with the elders and surviving commanders. Strategies were formed, maps drawn in the dirt, and messenger hawks prepared to seek hidden Yamada outposts across the land.
But Kashi knew something more was needed.
He rose the next morning before dawn, walking toward a field cleared for training. Shiori was already there, standing silently as the sun's first rays lit her figure in pale orange. She was different now—stoic, colder, her childlike softness buried beneath a mask of indifference.
"Shiori," Kashi called.
She turned, offering a faint nod.
"I want to train you personally," he said. "You've seen what the Oni bring. We need more than soldiers—we need warriors who can stand against their darkness."
She blinked, then offered a simple, "Yes, Lord Kashi."
He frowned at the formality but said nothing. Instead, he unwrapped a long, curved weapon with a polished wooden shaft and a wide, crescent blade—the naginata.
"This was my mother's," he said softly. "She died fighting to protect our clan. It's yours now."
Shiori's fingers hesitated before wrapping around the shaft. She gave it a few test swings, off-balanced but graceful.
Kashi stepped behind her, correcting her grip. "Let it flow with your body. A naginata isn't just swung—it dances."
Over the next few days, Kashi trained her with increasing intensity. Every parry, every sweep and spin, every pivot was drilled until her muscles ached. But she said nothing. Only when the weapon began to move like an extension of her body did he begin the next lesson.
"Ki," Kashi said one morning, resting cross-legged beside a still pond. "Is the essence of life. Every being has it—but few know how to harness it."
He raised a finger and drew a circle in the air, his fingertip glowing faintly with white light.
"Ki can enhance the body—strengthen muscles, sharpen reflexes, allow you to survive wounds that would kill another. With enough control, it can heal, sense, and eveb unleash devastating attacks."
Shiori watched silently.
Kashi stood, took a deep breath, and struck a tree with his palm. A white shockwave blasted from the impact, sending leaves spiraling and splitting the bark.
"I learned this when I was your age. From an old monk who saved me from a landslide. It saved my life more times than I can count." He stepped behind her. "Try to focus. Feel the energy at your center. Picture it flowing through your veins like water through rivers. Let it fill your limbs."
She tried. Failed. Tried again. Slowly, she began to glow faintly with silver-white light.
"Good," he whispered. "Now, again."
Days turned into weeks. Kashi trained not only Shiori, but his new troops—teaching them formations, how to fight Oni, how to resist the creeping dread that came from the dark aura of corrupted lands. And at night, around fires, the whispers grew.
The Oni. Their Marks. The Price.
The Oni did not simply destroy. They marked. When their blades or claws touched flesh, the wounds festered—but worse was the spiritual scar. The Oni Marks glowed with foul Ki, seeping into the soul. For some, it amplified strength. For most, it corrupted.
Madness. Rage. Bloodlust.
Kashi had seen it firsthand. Brave samurai who turned on their own. Mothers who tore their children apart in fits of possession. The Marks were not just brands—they were seeds of darkness. But the question lingered: Why? Why mark humans at all?
One night, Kashi spoke to the village's old priest, a blind man named Takemura. "The Oni are not beasts," Takemura said. "They are fallen spirits—once divine guardians who grew bitter, twisted by jealousy and hunger. Their Ki was pure once, like ours. But they rejected balance. They craved domination."
"Why mark humans?" Kashi asked. "To create more like them," the priest whispered. "To extend their will. Each marked soul becomes a beacon. A channel. Some even say the Oni grow stronger with every soul corrupted." Kashi clenched his fist. "Then we sever that link."
Meanwhile, across the ruined lands, a grand hall echoed with laughter.
Deep within the blackstone fortress of Kazugura, the Oni Lords celebrated. Their conquest was nearly complete. From mountaintop shrines to castle cities, their flames had spread. The monstrous Warlord Goromai, whose skin was blue-black stone and horns like temple pillars, raised a chalice of crimson wine.
"To the weaklings who thought honor could save them," he growled. "To the mortals who crawled and begged beneath our feet," hissed Lady Maika, the Oni temptress whose beauty hid a deadly, venomous soul.
Only one Oni sat silent—their master, simply called Dai-Oni, a massive figure cloaked in darkness. His red eyes glowed as he stared toward the east.
"A spark still burns," he muttered.
The foreign lord—Sir Alderic, a knight from a land far west who had joined the Oni for power—laughed from behind his polished steel mask. "My lords," he said arrogantly, "grant me more men. My scouts say the last resistance is nothing but stragglers. I will put the final nail in their coffin."
Lady Maika waved her fingers. "Take them. Burn the forests. Dig the graves." Sir Alderic bowed low. "You honor me. Soon, this world will kneel before the true order." The Oni Lords toasted again. Their guards relaxed. The fires of conquest flickered low, their hunger momentarily sated.
But none noticed the whisper rising from the east.
A whisper of steel, flame, and light.
A whisper called Yamada.
Back at the hidden village, Kashi stood atop a hill, watching the warriors train in the field below. Shiori stood beside him, panting, sweat dripping from her brow. The naginata in her hands shone faintly with white Ki.
"You've come far," Kashi said.
She nodded. "Still not strong enough."
"You will be."
A pause.
"Why do you keep helping me?" she asked quietly.
"Because I've been where you are," he said. "Wounded. Lost. Angry. Cold."
She looked away.
"It'll eat you alive," he added gently. "Pushing others away doesn't make the pain stop." She said nothing. "Whatever happens," he continued, "you're not alone." And though she didn't reply, she didn't walk away either.
From the distance, a scout came running. "Lord Kashi!" he shouted. "A foreign army marches on the river village!" Kashi's eyes narrowed. "So the fools think we're broken still."
He turned to Shiori. "Rally the men. We strike before they reach the gates."
He turned to the east, to the shadows of the mountains where their enemy lay fat and arrogant.
"You wanted war," he muttered. "Let me show you what a Yamada war looks like."