The Sleepwalker

Nara Prefecture ― Suburban Town of Ikaruga

Genji Kawamura, 58, was once a nurse—calm hands, steady heart. Now, he lived off his late wife’s pension, drifting through days with the weight of a ghost.

He slept. He watched TV. He ignored his daughter’s calls.

After his wife died, everything fell apart.

He stopped volunteering. He stopped visiting his grandkids. He stopped going to church, muttering excuses—“sore knees,” “too many stairs,” “God understands.”

The house smelled of instant ramen and regret. Old family photos watched from dusty frames. When neighbors knocked, he stayed silent. When an apartment next door caught fire, he closed the curtains and mumbled:
“The world can burn. I’m tired.”

That same week, something strange appeared—a dark mark on the sole of his foot. He squinted at it. Probably a vein. He shrugged it off.

Yawns filled his days. A sigh was always nearby. Once a month, like clockwork, he phoned his brother to ask for money.

Then came the noise.

He was in the bathroom, scrolling on his phone, when he heard it:

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Who’s there? Just a minute!” he called, irritated.

But the sound didn’t stop. It changed. Not knocking. Hooves. A slow, steady clop-clop, like a horse walking on wooden floors. His blood ran cold.

“A horse...? In here?”

Panicking, he rushed out, pants barely zipped, expecting chaos.

He found nothing.
The house was empty.
Silent.

He chuckled nervously, trying to dismiss it.

Just then, the phone rang.
"McDonald’s delivery hotline."

He didn’t remember ordering anything.
"Maybe Yuji did."

Signs of The Headless Samurai

In the quiet town of Ikaruga, unease had begun to take root. Whispers floated through alleyways and under noren curtains—of a black horse seen galloping through narrow streets after midnight, of a headless figure leaping across rooftops with silent purpose. Some claimed they heard the distant sound of a sorrowful shamisen in their dreams—notes not quite human.

The samurai’s grip was tightening. He no longer waited. He came to you while you slept.

At Nara Station, Yuriko stood still amidst the motion.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the tiled plaza.

A shamisen player performed on the corner, his music clear, haunting. Passersby stopped to listen, transfixed by the sound. The tune seemed to pull something ancient from the air—and Yuriko felt her bones remember.

A young man stepped beside her, holding out a folded pamphlet.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said with a smile.
“That’s Yuji Kawamura. He’s performing at Nara Centennial Hall next month. Interested?”

Yuriko didn’t answer.
Her gaze stayed locked on the musician, unreadable.

“I’m Shun, his manager,” he added, still hopeful.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Still no response.

Shun laughed awkwardly, trying to cut the tension.

“Alright then… be careful,” he said, pocketing the flyer.
“The Headless Samurai hunts snobs like you.”

Yuriko finally turned her head. A breeze lifted her hair. In her palm, the faint outline of a lotus began to bleed through her skin.

The Dream Before Death

One night, Genji dozed off in his armchair—TV flickering with reruns, fast food wrappers crinkling under his elbow. He dreamed. A battlefield. The sky burned red. Cherry blossoms soaked in blood. Distant cries echoed—children, soldiers, prayers. Through the smoke came a headless samurai, his armor blackened with ash, his steps silent as dust. He held out a scroll.

Genji unrolled it with trembling hands. Names. Dozens of names. Every one of them someone he had ignored, dismissed, or left to suffer. Neighbors. Patients. Family. The samurai pressed a gauntleted hand to Genji’s chest.

“Sloth is not rest,” came a singing voice—not from the warrior, but from inside the dream itself. “It’s retreat.”

Genji jolted awake. Sweaty. Trembling. Heart pounding.

“Just a dream,” he muttered, forcing a chuckle. “Just a weird old dream.”

He shuffled to the table where a McDonald’s delivery bag waited. He didn’t remember ordering anything. Didn’t care.

“Lucky me—instant dinner.”

He peeled open the bag.
Inside, a human head, eyes open, lips twisted in a frozen scream. He recoiled—tripping backward, hitting the floor with a gasp. His eyes darted to his foot.
The mark was there now—undeniable. A black lotus. An inkblot of fate.

“I heard about this... on the news... the samurai…” he whispered, hyperventilating. “The mark... the mark…”

Then came the wind. A pressure—not cold, but crushing. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. The air thickened around him like hands pressing into flesh.

Before him stood the headless samurai, adjusting his gauntlet as if preparing for surgery. A faint whistle of a blade being unsheathed.
Genji’s neck began to tingle.
Then sting.
A fine, red line bloomed across his throat—clean, thin, final.
He tried to scream.
But no sound came.

When morning came, neighbors found him still in the chair. Head resting perfectly on his chest, detached cleanly.

Aftermath

No signs of forced entry. No visible wounds. Just a single, bloodless cut across the neck.

On the McDonald’s paper bag, written in dripping black ink:

“Forgiven.”

Beside it, a splatter of ketchup—shaped eerily like an inkblot.

A police officer, voice urgent over the phone, called Yuji Kawamura:

“Come to your father’s house. Now.”

Outside, an investigator paced the perimeter.

No footprints.
No broken locks.
No shattered glass.

Whoever—or whatever—had come, left no trace.
Only the mark.

The news broke that evening. Authorities issued a statement urging caution as a “pattern of unexplainable deaths” sweeps across the region. Each case clean. Each victim marked. Each scene silent—except for the ink.

The city whispered a name:
"The Headless Samurai."

A Train to Nowhere

Yuriko sat in a near-empty train cabin, the dim overhead lights flickering as fog licked the windows. She reached out and touched the cold glass. It shimmered. An image flickered into view—Genji's lifeless body, slumped in his armchair, shadows draped over him like mourning cloth.

She closed her eyes.

“Sloth has been silenced,” she whispered. “Who will I mark next?”

From her coat pocket, she pulled out a worn sketchbook—seven blank pages for seven sins.
Only three remained.

She turned to the window once more.

Across a moonlit field, she saw him—Kenshin, the headless samurai, galloping beside the train on his black steed, never falling behind.

He was waiting.

“Your songs are doing well, my songwriter,” Yuriko murmured. A smile touched her lips—but didn’t reach her eyes.

She turned to the next blank page. The name had come to her in a dream. Her pen moved with quiet purpose.

”Nami.”

[Next: Inferno in Red]