Seven years of restraint

"Elder Yorinobu," a familiar voice calls.

When he turns, both Atsunori and Avery are mid-bow.

You two, out of all people in the estate, huh?

His hand rises slightly in acknowledgement.

"I apologize if I'm out of line," Atsunori says, "but may I ask why you are on your own? It's dangerous."

"It's alright," he replies. "The security here is exceptional, I'm quite safe anywhere within the estate. But I appreciate the concern, Atsunori." Both hands retreat into his sleeves. "I was heading back anyway," he adds, already turning. "I'll see you two later."

A step. Then—

"With respect," Atsunori calls, "may we accompany you? Just for safety."

You? Questioning an Elder?

That wouldn't be the Atsunori he knows.

He allows himself a small, approving smile.

"I appreciate it. Please do."

They fall into step together, Avery keeping a respectful half-pace behind. The gardens are quiet—dim light filters through the sky. Memories resurface—walking this path with Atsunori years ago, chasing fireflies, laughing at nothing. He had been such a snotty little brat.

"Are you well these days?" His question carries genuine curiosity.

"Yes, I…" Atsunori falters, thoughtful. "To be honest, I've had some struggles since being discharged from the Kairi operation."

Well, isn't that interesting?

"And what you told me," Atsunori continues, "about how Kairi lost his parents…" He hesitates, inclining his head slightly. "Apologies. I'm not trying to blame you for telling me that."

"It's quite alright." He replies, then considers his words carefully. "If anything, I should be the one apologizing for placing that burden on you."

"I'm glad you did. That truth, though painful at first, ultimately helped me understand a lot about myself, and about Kairi. If he were to appear again, I feel more prepared than ever to face him."

Are you implying what I think?

If so, it's almost… tragic.

Had it happened a little sooner, things could have been different.

Clouds shift, dimming the afternoon sun. The Main House looms ahead—the moment is passing.

"Thank you for escorting me." Gentleness softens his words.

If Atsunori notices the sadness beneath, he doesn't mention it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Once inside, the hint of his earlier warmth vanishes. Softness dries away—only purpose remains.

The square halls stretch straight and narrow, polished wooden floors gleaming like black ink. Sliding doors filter muted sunlight, casting latticed patterns across the walls. A heavy scent of incense clings to the air—sharp, suffocating—a reminder of endless rituals and hollow ceremonies.

"Elder Yorinobu?" A startled servant bows quickly. "I beg you, please don't leave without notice. It's dangerous."

"I can leave when I want. Don't question me."

The man stiffens, bowing like a marionette moved by strings.

Yes, that's more like it.

A weak snicker slips through, barely audible, accompanied by a slight sting in his breast.

"I-Is something the matter?"

His face hardens to stone. "I'm about to have an important meeting with the other Elders. Ensure no one disturbs us under any circumstance. Am I clear?"

"Yes."

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

It takes less than five minutes for the other Elders to gather—he knows, because he counted every second. Servants withdraw. Doors slide shut. Four figures sit in perfect posture.

"For what purpose did you summon a meeting, Yorinobu?" Nobutaka says.

He lets the question hang. Draws one slow breath. Then smiles—bright, harmless, almost childlike.

"All of you, please do me a favor," he says lightly. "And die."

The strike comes before their shock registers.

His sleeve whips aside as his right arm swings—bone and tendon shifting—crack. Harumichi's neck folds unnaturally. His body crumples.

The illusion in the attacker's arm unravels, revealing the red, clawed hand beneath.

Nobutaka reacts, palms flickering with sparks. Too slow. A windslash shoots before the old man can blink.

Whoosh.

Separated cleanly, the head spins lazily upward.

Fumiko tries to scream. He's already there—fingers closing around her throat, stopping air from leaving. One squeeze. A brittle snap. Her eyes freeze wide.

Harumichi's corpse finally hits the tatami.

With this, all four Elders are dead.

This isn't nice. Not at all.

He shouldn't be smiling.

Yet the grin stretches wider—a child discovering mischief again.

A soft chuckle. Then a laugh, bubbling up, unstoppable.

"Heh… heh…
Ha… ha… ha ha ha!
This is what you deserve, you dirty geezers!"

He slams Fumiko's body down with a thud.

Stomps Nobutaka's skull until it bursts with a crunch.

Turns back to Harumichi, gripping the corpse by both ends.

"For my father—"
Fingers sink into flesh.
"For my mother—"
Ribs crack, tissue splits.
"And every—"
Blood splatters the walls.
"Single."
The spine snaps like a twig.
"Yokai!"

The room is painted red.

Standing amidst the ruin, his shoulders rise and fall with exhilarated breaths.

This really isn't nice of me.

I apologize.

But I needed to vent.

A hand runs through his hair, slicking back the strands that fell loose.

Time to go.

This part gets tricky. Illusions were never a Tengu's strength—reforming Yorinobu's face and robes will take time he doesn't have. And now there's the stench clinging to him: blood, bile, the sour reek of opened bodies. Add the extra magic he's just used, and anyone remotely sensitive will notice him instantly.

Guards will notice. Trying to leave in silence won't work.

Beneath the glamour, his body throbs with every heartbeat. His old wounds… some are weeping warm beneath his clothes. A fair price.

No one expected the attack so soon, in daylight—clean, abrupt, and from within the heart of their sanctum.

That shock alone will buy him a moment. Anyone who sees him, bloodied and rushing through the halls, will freeze, trying to make sense of what they're seeing.

And a moment is more than enough for someone like him.