The villages near the cave were the first to feel the ripples of Kagemori’s return, though they did not recognize them for what they were. It began subtly—a faint discoloration in the river, its once-crystalline waters darkened by a viscous, unnatural murk. At first, the villagers dismissed it as a natural occurrence, a quirk of the season. But as days passed, the unease grew. The river’s sickly hue deepened, and the fish vanished. Birds, once a constant melody in the trees, abandoned the area altogether.
The first death came without warning.
An old man, known to all as a fixture of the riverside, was found sprawled by the water’s edge. His body was grotesquely swollen, his face frozen in an expression of abject terror. Dark bruises marred his pallid skin, as if the very essence of life had been drained from him. The elders whispered of a curse, but most dismissed it as the natural end for a man who had lived his years.
Then came the others.
Within hours, more bodies surfaced—bloated, pale, their mouths twisted open in silent screams. The village erupted into chaos. Men and women began to fall ill, their bodies weakening as if the river’s poison had seeped into their very veins. Skin grew ashen, limbs stiffened, and mouths spilled blackened bile. The elders tried remedies: sacred chants, herbal concoctions, even the slaughter of livestock in desperate offerings to the gods. Nothing worked.
Death came swiftly. Entire families succumbed overnight, their homes silent but for the rasping of final breaths. Within days, the village was unrecognizable—a hollow, lifeless husk. The remaining survivors, gripped by terror, made the only choice they could. They fled.
Carrying what little they could, the refugees headed toward the distant city. Its towering walls and bustling streets seemed like a sanctuary, a place untouched by the horrors that had consumed their home. Yet they did not know that the shadow of death had already begun to stretch its fingers toward their supposed refuge.
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DEATH COMES TO THE CITY
The displaced villagers arrived in the city, weary and broken. Their arrival swelled the already crowded streets, their stories of sickness and death sparking quiet murmurs of fear among the residents. Yet the city, in its arrogance, believed itself impervious to the dangers of the wilderness. The newcomers were granted space in the abandoned quarters near the outskirts, and life resumed—at least for a while.
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The first sign of the city’s doom came with the setting sun.
It was subtle at first: a distant sound, like the faint beat of a war drum, low and persistent. The people dismissed it as a trick of the wind, but as night deepened, the sound grew louder, reverberating through the streets. Then came the screams.
One by one, the newly arrived villagers began to vanish. They were dragged from their beds, their cries echoing into the darkness. Those who attempted to help met the same fate. Panic rippled through the city, but no one could identify the source of the terror. The missing villagers were found hours later, or what was left of them.
The first body to be discovered was that of a woman. Her torso was torn open, her intestines coiled on the ground like discarded rope. Her face, locked in a rictus of terror, seemed to plead for a salvation that had never come. A child was found next, her small body twisted into grotesque angles, as though a cruel artist had sculpted her in mockery of life.
Blood pooled in the streets.
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THE MASSACRE UNFOLDS
The city descended into chaos. Each passing night brought more deaths, more horrors. Whatever hunted them remained unseen, a shadowy force that struck without warning or mercy. Survivors described fleeting glimpses: clawed hands that tore through flesh with inhuman ease, glowing eyes that burned with ancient malice, and laughter—deep, guttural, and filled with the purest malice.
The air grew thick with the stench of blood and decay. Streets that once bustled with life now lay silent, littered with the remains of the dead. Some were dismembered entirely, their limbs torn from their torsos as though by a monstrous force. Others were gutted, their organs left to rot in the open air.
By the week’s end, the city was unrecognizable. Over 8,000 lay dead, their bodies sprawled across the streets, some still twitching in their final moments of agony. Once a thriving hub of life, it had become a graveyard soaked in blood.
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KAGEMORI’S MARK
Though no one saw Kagemori directly, his presence was undeniable. His was not the violence of a simple killer—it was an orchestrated symphony of destruction, a deliberate unmaking of humanity itself. The survivors whispered his name, their voices trembling with fear. They spoke of the ancient samurai whose return heralded not vengeance, but obliteration.
The survivors, huddled together in the ruins of their former lives, stared into the abyss. They had witnessed evil in its purest form—a force that did not negotiate, did not reason, and could not be stopped.
The reign of pain had begun.