Kurohime

Azare stood his ground, though his body rebelled against him with every aching pulse. His muscles screamed, his breath was ragged, and the rusty sword he had stolen from the Death Knight felt heavier than ever in his trembling grip. The pain from his previous battles throbbed like a relentless drumbeat, yet he refused to fall.

"Azare, you're in no condition to fight. There's no shame in knowing when to retreat." Said his Anima in his mind

The voice in his mind was right. Every fiber of his being urged him to turn and run, to flee while he still had the chance. But his body wouldn't move—not out of defiance, but from sheer exhaustion. He was trapped, frozen between survival and death.

Before him, the towering beast stepped forward, its black eyes void of emotion yet brimming with something far worse—hunger for blood. It was a grotesque thing, taller than any human, with thick, sinewy muscles coiled beneath scarred flesh. Its jagged horns curved wickedly from its skull, framing a monstrous face with fanged jaws that dripped with the blood of its last victim.

The yokai's cleaver, massive and cruel, gleamed under the sickly moonlight, still slick with crimson. It lifted the weapon high, preparing to bring it down with devastating force.

Azare clenched his teeth, trying to will his body into motion.

Then the air shifted.

From the depths of the crimson forest, a presence emerged.

A dark figure moved through the trees with ghostly grace, their steps barely disturbing the earth. Before the yokai could strike, a chain lashed out from the shadows, wrapping around the beast's cleaver in an instant.

The yokai snarled, its monstrous strength resisting the pull—until the chain tightened like a vice. With a sharp, fluid yank, the creature was wrenched off balance and forced to its knees.

Azare's breath hitched.

She stood there, poised like a specter of the night.

Her oni mask was exactly as he remembered—black, adorned with intricate crimson markings that seemed to shimmer under the pale moon. Her form was clad in dark, flowing attire that blended into the shadows, and her long, silky hair cascaded over her shoulders like a river of obsidian. Two horns protruded from her head, sleek and polished, marking her as something far more dangerous than the beast she had just subdued.

The yokai let out a guttural growl, straining against its restraints.

"Who dares interfere in my battle?" it snarled, its black eyes narrowing. "How dishonorable."

A quiet chuckle escaped the masked warrior. "Tell me," she mused, tilting her head, "what's more dishonorable—intervening in a fight, or preying on an injured boy who's so broken he can't even move?"

The yokai flinched, its breath hitching as if it had only now recognized her.

"Wait… you're—"

The beast never got to finish.

In a single, fluid motion, she closed the distance. The chain snapped free, her blade flashed like lightning, and in the blink of an eye, the yokai's horn was severed.

A heartbeat later, its head hit the ground.

Azare barely saw her move. It was over before he could even register what had happened. The precision. The speed. The sheer ease with which she had killed it.

He swallowed hard.

The masked warrior turned toward him, her golden eyes gleaming behind the mask.

"You look like you've got both feet in the grave," she remarked, her voice carrying an almost playful lilt.

Azare tensed. His grip tightened around his sword, though he knew—deep down—it wouldn't make a difference.

"Careful, Azare. She isn't someone you want to cross." Said his Anima.

"Relax," she said, reading his stance with an amused tilt of her head. "If I wanted you dead, your head would already be rolling at my feet."

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached up and removed her mask.

Azare's breath caught in his throat.

Her face was nothing like he expected. It was sharp yet delicate, her skin pale as fresh snow, contrasting against the darkness that surrounded her. But what truly captivated him were her eyes—molten gold, radiant and piercing, like a predator studying its prey.

"I am Kurohime," she said smoothly, watching his expression shift. "I must say, I didn't expect you to survive this long."

Azare swallowed, his body still locked in place as Kurohime studied him. Her golden eyes flickered with amusement, yet there was something else beneath the surface—curiosity, perhaps, or maybe mild disappointment.

She expected him to be stronger.

"I—" Azare started, but his voice cracked. He hadn't realized how dry his throat was.

Kurohime raised an eyebrow. "Cat got your tongue?"

Azare scowled, forcing himself to straighten despite the weight in his limbs. "I wasn't expecting... you."

"Clearly," she mused. "You're barely standing."

A sudden gust of wind swept through the clearing, rustling the crimson leaves overhead. The scent of blood still lingered, thick and metallic, mixing with the smoky remains of the fallen yokai. Kurohime tilted her head, seemingly unfazed by the carnage.

"You shouldn't be here," she said after a moment.

Azare narrowed his eyes. "And you should?"

Kurohime chuckled, shaking her head. "Unlike you, I belong in Oblivion's Cradle." Her gaze flicked toward his sword, then back to his face. "You, on the other hand… I wonder how long you'll last before something tears you apart."

Azare bristled at her words. "I can handle myself."

She let out a soft hum, stepping closer. "Oh? Is that why you were about to be split in two?"

He clenched his jaw. He hated how easily she picked him apart, how effortlessly she made him feel small. But more than that, he hated that she was right.

Kurohime sighed. "I don't have time to play babysitter." She turned, retrieving her chain and securing it back around her waist. "You should find shelter before more of them come sniffing around. Blood attracts things far worse than that horned brute."

Azare hesitated. His mind screamed at him to ask—to demand—why she was even here. Why now, after all this time? But something in the way she carried herself told him he wouldn't get a straight answer.

Still, he couldn't let her leave. Not yet.

"Wait," he said, taking a step forward. His body protested, but he ignored it. "You knew that yokai."

Kurohime paused but didn't turn around. "Did I?"

"It recognized you," Azare pressed. "Before you—" He glanced at the decapitated corpse. "Before you killed it."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, finally, Kurohime glanced over her shoulder. Her golden eyes met his, colder this time.

"There are a lot of things in Oblivion's Cradle that recognize me," she said quietly. "That doesn't mean I care."

Azare's breath hitched. There was something in her voice—something deeper, heavier than her usual teasing tone. Before he could push further, she turned fully to face him.

"You said that i should meet you here and then you would train me." Said Azare.

"Azare... What is their that i can possibly teach you?"

The way she said his name sent a chill down his spine.

He opened his mouth, ready to answer—but the forest suddenly grew unnervingly quiet.

Kurohime's eyes sharpened. Her entire demeanor shifted, her hand moving instinctively to her kusarigama.

Azare felt it too. A presence.

No—several.

And they were getting closer.

"Wonderful," Kurohime muttered. "Looks like we have company."

From the darkness beyond the trees, glowing black eyes flickered to life. One pair. Three. Ten.

Azare tightened his grip on his sword. His exhaustion meant nothing now. Adrenaline surged through his veins.

Kurohime let out a slow breath, her lips curling into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Hope you weren't planning to rest anytime soon."

Then the night erupted with movement.