Hito-mane Extermination: That's Not My Son

Kokohama felt alive in a way that didn’t sit right with them.

It wasn’t loud or chaotic. It was worse because of how quiet it was. People just kept moving like the world was fine. Vendors called out from store fronts, their voices rhythmic and melodic, selling wares that no one seemed to truly need. Steam rose from food carts, smelling of roasted meat and sweet dough, but the aroma felt thin, as if it were a memory of food rather than the substance itself. The streets had that steady rhythm of normal life that should’ve been a relief. 

Instead, it felt like a stage play where the actors had forgotten the plot but remembered their marks. Zhenyu noticed it first. He was a guy who lived by small details, the way a person’s weight shifted before a strike, the sound of a lock clicking into place, the smell of ozone before a storm. He didn't say a word, but his hand kept drifting to the empty spot on his belt where his primary gear used to be. His eyes moved constantly, tracking shadows against the low, weathered buildings. Every time a passerby brushed past them, Zhenyu flinched almost imperceptibly. He was looking for the hitch in the clockwork, the moment the mask would slip.

Asumi noticed it second. Her eyes narrowed into sharp slits. She had grown up in this region, in the rugged heart of Avethryn, and she knew what these provincial towns were supposed to feel like. They were supposed to be suspicious, noisy, and full of nosy neighbors. This wasn't it. The air was too heavy, too still. Her hand stayed glued to the hilt of her blade, her knuckles white. She looked at the faces of the children playing in the dirt; they didn't laugh. They moved with a mechanical efficiency, tossing stones in a silence that felt heavy enough to drown in.

Tatsuchi noticed it last. Or maybe she’d known the second they walked through the town and just didn't care to show it. She didn't react. She just kept walking with that same cold, porcelain expression, her boots clicking rhythmically against the uneven stones. Her gaze was fixed forward, toward the center of town, ignoring the hollow eyes that followed their progress.

They walked down the main street together. They weren't in a formal line, but they weren't relaxed either. They stayed just close enough to hear each other breathe, forming a small island of tension in a sea of indifference. Zhenyu tugged at his pack strap. It was a piece of junk now, held together by a desperate knot of twine and a prayer.

“Graham really did take everything,” he muttered, his voice barely a rasp. Asumi glanced at him, her lips curling in a bitter line. “You’re just realizing that now? We’ve been walking for three days on half-rations and grit.” “I realized it,” Zhenyu said, his jaw tight. “I just didn’t feel like saying it out loud until I got hungry enough to start chewing on my own tongue.”

Tatsuchi didn't say anything. That silence told the whole story. Their supplies were gone. Not all of it, but the stuff that mattered. Food, tools, spare gear, everything useful had been stripped out with a thief's precision during the ambush. They were left with water and the sand-stained clothes on their backs.

Zhenyu let out a sharp, frustrated breath through his nose. “At least they left the water and our spare clothes.” Asumi shook her head, her gaze darting to a merchant who was meticulously stacking oranges that looked far too bright to be real. “That wasn’t a favor. He wanted us moving, not stuck. You can't lead him to the prize if you're dead in a ditch from dehydration. He’s herding us.”

Tatsuchi finally spoke, her voice flat and cold as a tombstone. “Or he wanted us to survive long enough to see what we were walking into. He wanted us to have our wits about us for this.” Tatsuchi looked around, as if she didn't want people to hear what she was about to say. 

That thought stuck. It turned the town from a potential pit stop into a sprawling, sun-drenched trap. By midday, the heat had turned into a thick, gross warmth that clung to their skin like a wet shroud. The town didn't change with the three sun’s ascent. Life kept moving at that same, eerie pace. There was no midday break, no siesta to escape the glare. No rush. Just the same routine, over and over. A man painted the same fence post for three hours. A woman swept a porch that was already spotless. Asumi slowed down, her shoes scraping the sandstone with a discordant screech. “We should stay,” she said.

Zhenyu didn’t even look back, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “No. We keep moving. We have enough water to hit the next mark. We don't linger in a place that feels like- well, whatever this place is.”

“I wasn't asking, Zhenyu,” Asumi snapped, stepping into his path.

Tatsuchi stopped. The others stopped immediately, their instincts overriding their irritation. They stood in the middle of the street like a rock in a river. The people of Kokohama simply flowed around them, shifting their paths without looking up, their expressions vacant.

After a long silence, Tatsuchi said, “We stay one night.”

Zhenyu looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “That’s a death wish, Captain. We’re exposed. We have no perimeter. If Graham is behind us, we’re just sitting ducks in a pen.” Tatsuchi gave a small, weary nod. “Probably. But we’ve been seen. One night won’t change that. Running while exhausted will kill us faster than a roof will. We need to scavenge. We need to know if Graham wanted us here.” Asumi crossed her arms, nodding. “Good.”

Zhenyu rubbed his face, his fingers tracing the deep lines of fatigue around his eyes. “We’re supposed to find Victor Combs and find out if he's ever heard of Kyosuke Mori coming through these parts. That’s the job. Not getting sidetracked by some weird town. Every hour we sit here, Combs  might be getting further away, and the trail gets colder.” “I know,” Tatsuchi said.

That should have been the end of it. But  Asumi wasn't done. The silence of the town was grating on her nerves, pulling at memories of her childhood that didn't fit this reality. “This is my home,” she said, her voice shaking slightly, betraying a rare vulnerability. “Not this specific town, but Avethryn. I know these people. They’re supposed to be loud. They’re supposed to look at outsiders with suspicion, or curiosity, or even hate. But this? This is nothing. They aren't even looking at us. I’m not just walking away from a whole town of my people who have been turned into ghosts.”

Zhenyu looked at her, his expression softening just a fraction. “You aren't responsible for every person here, Asumi. You can't save them from a serial killer, that's what the 10th Gate Guards job is.”

“I am responsible as long as I’m wearing this,” she said, pointing to the faded, dirt-caked patch on her shoulder of her hakama. The symbol of the Gate was barely visible, but it carried weight. The air felt like it went dead. 

Asumi’s voice dropped an octave, turning dangerous. “And I don’t care if I’m not First Seat. I’m not ignoring this. If we walk away now, we’re no better than low lives.”

“You’re being emotional,” Zhenyu said, though there was no bite in it. “I’m the only one actually looking at what's happening!” she shot back, her hand tightening on her sword until the leather grip creaked.

Tatsuchi stepped between them. She was calm, the kind of terrifying calm that happens in the eye of a hurricane. “You are not the captain,” Tatsuchi said. Asumi didn't flinch, meeting her commander's icy gaze. Tatsuchi stared her down, her presence expanding until she seemed to tower over both of them. “I am. You follow my lead. Not because of a patch, and not because of where you were born. You follow because structure is the only thing keeping us from ending up a statistic. You follow because I am the one who decides who lives and who dies.”

A long pause followed, the only sound being the distant, hammering of a blacksmith who had been striking the same piece of iron for an hour. “This isn’t about trust,” Tatsuchi said quietly, her voice losing its edge. “It’s about order. If you start making calls based on how you feel, people die. Usually the ones you’re trying to save. We stay to regroup, not to play hero in your fantasy.”

Zhenyu looked away, staring at a sun-bleached wall. Asumi went quiet, her jaw clamped shut so hard it looked painful. Tatsuchi added one more thing, almost a whisper, her eyes softening for a fleeting second.

“And I can’t afford to lose you. Either of you.” It didn't sound like a command. It sounded like a woman who was terrified but wasn't allowed to show it. It was the human crack in the stone mask. Nobody argued after that. They just kept walking, searching for their inn within the maze of a town. Later that afternoon, the three suns began to dip, casting long, distorted shadows across the cobblestones. A woman ran straight into them. She didn't scream; she just scrambled around a corner and slammed into Tatsuchi’s chest.

She collapsed at Tatsuchi’s feet. She wasn't just falling; she looked like she’d been hit by a tidal wave. She was shaking violently, her hair stuck to her face with sweat and filth. Her fingernails were jagged and bleeding, as if she’d been clawing at a stone wall. “Please,” she wheezed, her voice a broken reed. 

“Please help me.”

Zhenyu stepped back instantly, his eyes darting around for whatever was chasing her. He saw nothing. The townspeople just walked past her, their hems brushing against her trembling shoulders, ignoring her as if she were a pile of refuse.

Asumi knelt down, ignoring the cold stares of the "actors" passing by. “What happened? You hurt?” “My son,” the woman said, her eyes wide and bloodshot. “He came back.” Zhenyu frowned, his hand resting on the hilt of a hidden dagger. “That’s a good thing, isn't it? People coming back usually warrants a celebration.” The woman shook her head so hard her hair flew. “It’s not him. It’s not my boy. He... he isn't right.” Everything went quiet. The ambient noise of the town seemed to muffle, leaving only the woman’s ragged breathing. Asumi stood up, her face grim. “Explain. Slowly.” “He disappeared months ago,” the woman said, the words spilling out of her in a frantic torrent. “Everyone thought he was gone. We mourned him. Then yesterday… he was just there. Standing at my door. No word. No knock. Just standing in the rain.”

She started to sob, a dry, racking sound.“But he doesn’t act like a person. He doesn’t talk. He just smiles. He looks at me, but his eyes are like glass, hollow, like there's a fire burning ten miles behind them. He does what I say, he eats what I give him, but it’s not him. It’s a puppet. It’s a thing wearing my son’s skin.”

Tatsuchi looked at her, her expression unreadable. “What about the neighbors? The village elders? The guards?” “They told me to shut up,” the woman whispered, her voice trembling. “They said I should be happy he’s ‘refined.’ They said the Fates have blessed him with peace. But I’m his mother! I know my son! He used to have a scar on his knee from falling off the granary. This thing... this thing has perfect skin. Not a mark on him.”

Zhenyu exhaled. The "off" feeling finally had a face, and it was a terrifying one. “Refined,” he muttered. “That’s a hell of a word.” Asumi looked at the woman. “Where do you live?” The woman hesitated, looking at their road-worn clothes and weary faces. “You want to see him?” “Yes,” Asumi said, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Zhenyu grabbed Asumi’s arm. “What are you doing? We have no gear. We don't know what this is. We’re walking into a hot zone with nothing but our blades and a fire poker.” Asumi didn't look at him. She looked at Tatsuchi. Tatsuchi watched the woman, then the blank, swaying faces of the crowd. She saw a merchant staring at a wall, blinking in three-second intervals.

“Let’s go,” Tatsuchi said. Zhenyu let go of Asumi’s arm, looking defeated. Tatsuchi added, “We look. That's it. If it’s too much for us to handle right now, we leave. We aren't here to solve the towns problems, but we aren't walking into a knife in the dark either.” The house was small and looked normal. Actually, it was too clean. No moss grew on the damp side of the stones. No dust motes danced in the light of the windows. It looked like it had been frozen in time.

The front door was the only thing that looked different. It was covered in talismans, strips of yellowed paper marked with symbols of the Ten Fates, the ink still smelling of fresh cinnabar. Zhenyu stared at them, his eyes narrowing. He reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from the paper. He could feel a hum, a low, vibrating frequency that made his teeth ache. “This is containment,” he said. “Someone put a lot of work into this. These aren't just charms. They’re seals. Heavy ones.”

Tatsuchi nodded. “Or it’s a security blanket for whatever is inside.” Asumi gripped her sword. “Which one?” Nobody knew. Zhenyu stepped up. He was the only one among them with the talent for religious prayers. He put his hand near the door, closing his eyes. He started to mutter a prayer, his voice low and rhythmic, tapping into the remnants of his Zyn energy.

“Oh wonders of fate, I beg of thee, grant me passage through your realm to graze upon the morningstar and stitch my eyes shut so that I may not peek into your world. In the name of the Fates, the Gods above them, and the holy power you bless upon your creation, Yamagnus.”

The air around the door turned ice cold, freezing the moisture in their breath. The red and black ink on the papers started to turn a nasty, bruised black. A sudden wind whipped through the narrow alley, though the rest of the town remained still. The papers caught fire, not orange, but a weird, oily black flame that ate the paper in seconds without leaving ash. A heavy thud echoed from inside as the iron bolt slid back on its own, the sound vibrating through the floorboards.

Zhenyu stepped back, wiping cold sweat from his lip. His hands were shaking. “That wasn't normal. Those seals weren't keeping something out. They were holding something in. And whatever it is, it’s older than this town.” Asumi pushed the door open.The room was ordinary. That made it worse. There were toys on the floor, a wooden horse with a missing ear, some painted stones. A bed was left unmade, the sheets smelling faintly of lavender.

And the boy was there.

He was sleeping on the floor in the middle of the room. He didn't use the bed. He just lay there like he’d been playing and someone had suddenly hit a ‘stop’ button on his soul. He looked about eight. Curly hair, rosy cheeks. No marks on him. No signs of a struggle. Just a silence that didn't feel like sleep. It felt like the absence of a person. Asumi walked over and looked down at him, her sword lowered. “That’s it? He’s just… lying there?”

Zhenyu didn't answer. He was watching the shadows in the corner. They looked too thick, too liquid. He didn't like the way the boy’s chest moved, it was too perfect, too metered, like a machine breathing to mimic life. There was no hitch, no sigh, no dream-flicker of the eyes.

Tatsuchi knelt by the boy’s head. She didn't touch him. She just watched for a flicker of an eyelid or a twitch. Nothing. She leaned in closer, her nose inches from his face.“He’s breathing,” she said, her voice hollow. “But he smells like... nothing. No sweat. No breath. Just cold air.” The boy’s head rolled to the side. His eyes stayed shut. Then he went perfectly still again. The room felt like a vacuum. No "vibe," no spirit, nothing. The boy was just a hole in the world. “We’re leaving,” Zhenyu whispered, his voice cracking. “Now.”

They backed out, their eyes never leaving the small, still boy on the floor. The woman was waiting for them in the street, her hands twisted in her apron. She looked relieved. But it wasn't a mother's relief, it was the look of someone who had just handed off a ticking bomb to someone else.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice flat. “Thank you for looking. Thank you for seeing.” She kept saying it, over and over, like a recording. “She’s reading a script,” Zhenyu muttered as they walked away, his skin crawling. “She’s not even talking to us. She’s talking to the air.”

By the time the suns went down, they felt worse than when they’d arrived. The darkness didn't bring shadows; it just made the town feel smaller, more claustrophobic. They went back to their inn, a sagging building with creaking floors. Nobody spoke. The memory of that boy and the black-flame seals felt like a weight on their chests.

Tatsuchi sat by the window, watching the street. The townspeople were still moving, carrying lanterns that didn't seem to cast any light. Zhenyu leaned against the door, eyes shut, trying to make sense of the seals he’d broken. The symbols were ancient, predating the current system of the World Government. Asumi paced the room until her knuckles were white from gripping a chair. “We’re missing something,” she said. "It feels like everything's running smoothly if that makes sense."

The night got deeper. The sounds of the town, the distant clatter, the rhythmic walking, finally died out, leaving a silence that felt like it was pressing against their ears, thick and physical.

Then, the alarm hit.

The sound hit the town like a physical blow. It wasn't a bell. It wasn't a horn. It was a high-pitched, screeching ring that felt like it was vibrating inside their teeth and scraping against the inside of their skulls. Zhenyu jumped up and grabbed his blade, his face contorted in pain. Asumi’s blade hissed as she drew it, the steel shimmering in the dim lantern light. Tatsuchi was already out the door.

They ran outside. The street wasn't empty anymore. The townsfolk had come out of their houses, but they weren't running. They were walking slowly toward the town square, their lanterns swinging in near perfect unison.

The smell hit them before the sight did. It was a thick, copper fog mixed with the stench of ruptured bowels and hot, steaming flesh. It was the smell of a slaughterhouse in mid-summer. A body lay in the middle of the road, but it barely looked human. It was a heap of wet, glistening tissue. The person, a man, based on the size of the skeletal frame, had been flayed from the neck down. The skin had been peeled back in perfect, dripping sheets that were pinned to the cobblestones with long iron nails, like a butterfly in a collection.

Underneath, the muscle was a raw, pulsing red, steaming in the cool night air. The limbs had been snapped and rotated backward. The white, jagged ends of the femurs had punched through the thighs, coated in a thick, yellow marrow. The torso had been unzipped from the sternum to the groin. The intestines had been pulled out and braided into a neat, glistening rope that was coiled around the victim's neck like a grotesque scarf. They were still twitching, the smooth muscle pulsing with leftover nerve endings.

Steam rose from the open cavity, carrying the pungent scent of half-digested food and stomach acid. But the worst part was the head. The skin had been pulled tight over the skull and fused together with heat. No eyes. No nose. No mouth. Just a smooth, featureless mask of weeping, raw flesh. A thick, yellow fluid, cerebrospinal fluid mixed with pus, leaked from where the ears should have been, pooling into the dark red blood on the street.

The townspeople were standing around it in a perfect circle. Dozens of them. They weren't screaming. They weren't turning away from the sight of the unspooled guts or the cloying smell of the butchery. They were just watching. One man leaned down, his face inches from the steaming, braided intestines. He took a deep breath, looking as bored as if he were smelling a cheap candle. A child stood nearby, poking at a loose flap of flayed skin with a stick, his face utterly blank.

Asumi’s sword hand was shaking violently. She vomited, the sound splashing against the stone, but none of the locals even glanced her way. The metallic tang in the air was so strong they could taste it on their tongues. Zhenyu stared at the heap of meat, his breath coming in shallow hitches. He’d seen plenty of dead people in other battles, but he’d never seen a crowd look at a mangled, steaming pile of human remains like it was a museum exhibit.

Tatsuchi walked forward. The crowd didn't move for her. She had to weave through them, her boots splashing through the thick, viscous sludge of blood and bile that was beginning to coat the street.

She reached the body and looked down. Her face was still a mask, but her knuckles were white as she gripped the hilt of her sword. She looked at the way the muscles had been sliced, clean, professional, precise. “This isn't a sacrifice,” she said, her voice trembling with a rare, cold fury. “This is a murder. And they’re watching it for fun. No... they're watching it for instruction.” Zhenyu didn't move. He noticed the shadows of the crowd didn't match their bodies. They were long and jagged, reaching out like dark tongues to lick at the edges of the blood pool.

Something in Tatsuchi snapped.

The air started to hum. A low vibration rattled the windows of the nearby shops. Her Zyn energy, the life force she had been hoarding since the ambush, started to leak out in waves. It was a pale pink glow at first, swirling around her feet like a ghostly tide.

Then it got darker.

Crimson started bleeding into the pink, the color of a deep bruise, of drying blood, of a dying star. It stained the air, clashing with the pale yellow lanterns of the townspeople. Asumi felt the pressure. It was getting hard to breathe, as if the oxygen were being burned out of the room. “Tatsuchi… stop. You’re overdoing it. You'll burn out.” “I see it,” Tatsuchi said, her voice tight, like a wire about to break. She looked back at them, her eyes glowing with that same crimson light, her pupils nearly vanished.

“You’re both here because I trust you,” she said. She paused. The screeching alarm seemed to get even louder, a crescendo of madness. “I don’t know what this town is. I don't know who Graham thinks he is.”

Silence fell for a heartbeat, broken only by the sound of blood dripping into the gutter and mixing with the sand. “But I know one thing. If you stay with me, we won’t die here.” Asumi looked at her. He finally got it. Being the captain wasn't just about giving orders or knowing the map. It was about being the only thing standing between them and the dark. Asumi stepped up beside her, Her entire being shaking with fear. Tatsuchi looked at the crowd. Her voice was low, but it carried through the screeching noise with the weight of an executioner's axe.

“We’re finding the killer. Not because we're good people, but because if we don't, nobody else will. And if we leave it to these things, I'm sure we'll all die." She looked at the charred, flayed body, her gaze lingering on the smooth, featureless head. She was afraid it might look back at her if she turned away, that the smooth skin might suddenly tear open to reveal a mouth.

They could tell by the technique used to kill the victim, the precision of the flaying, the deliberate braiding of the organs, that the killer was at least somewhere on par with a Gate captain, If not higher. This wasn't a monster; it was a master of the craft.

"But if we stay together," Tatsuchi said, the crimson Zyn energy flaring into a blinding aura that pushed the shadows of the crowd back, "I'm sure we'll be the exception.” The townspeople finally turned. 

In unison, their street lights flickered out. The only light left was the bloody crimson of Tatsuchi’s fear.