Shadows Beneath the Lanterns

Chapter 3: Shadows Beneath the Lanterns

Kamishirou. 

It has been eighteen years since he was last called by that name. A name tainted in blood, duty, and an unshakeable weight of expectation. A name he had discarded like an old, rusted chain—only for it to be pulled taut around his throat once more. 

Daiki glared at the vendor, his jaw tightening. His gaze locked onto the vendor.

Such a despicable man. Daiki knew he was trouble. There was something in the vendor's demeanour—the easy confidence, the way he observed them with quiet amusement, as if he were privy to a secret no one else knew. His wrinkled fingers toyed absentmindedly with a set of polished game tokens, the subtle smirk tugging at his lips as he handed Koushirou the fan.

It was an ordinary prize, yet it felt far from innocent.

The symbol of the hawk—wings spread mid-flight. It was painted on the fan was far too familiar, hidden in plain sight. A mark used only by those tied to the underground syndicates of Edo. 

To any onlooker, it would seem like nothing more than an elegant design, something an artisan might have painted for beauty's sake. But Daiki knew better. He had seen that insignia before—etched into the hilts of concealed blades, sewn into the sleeves of men who never walked in the daylight.

And yet, it was here—carelessly displayed among festival trinkets, waiting for someone to claim it. A mark of the underground. And now, it sat in his son's hands.

Was it a mere coincidence?

Daiki doubted it. 

His fingers twitched as his instincts screamed, every fibre of his being urging him to act. His gaze flickered towards the vendor's expression, searching for a tell—some sign of intention. The way the old man's eyes lingered on Koushirou, the casual manner in which he had spoken—like he knew something Koushirou didn't—sent warning signals blaring in Daiki's mind.

His instincts screamed at him.

He took a step closer, his fingers curling into the fabric of his yukata sleeves. The urge to rip the fan from Koushirou's hands and demand an explanation burnt hot in his chest. To take the fan, demand an explanation, get Koushirou away from here before it was too late. But he couldn't—Koushirou was watching. And Aiko... She was watching too.

Her gaze flickered between them, sensing the tension even if she didn't understand its cause.

He forced himself to breathe.

The vendor's eyes flicked to Daiki then, and for the first time, the amusement in them faded. A knowing glint replaced it—sharp, assessing. It was a look Daiki had seen before. The kind that stripped a man bare, searching for weaknesses hidden beneath skin and bone. A hunter's gaze. 

This wasn't just a vendor. He knows me.

Daiki's muscles tensed, though his expression remained carefully neutral. His hands, resting at his sides, curled slightly—an instinct, a reflex. He had spent years unlearning the urge to reach for a blade that was no longer there.

And yet, here he was, teetering on the edge of old instincts.

The old man tilted his head, studying Daiki with the same patience one might afford on chessboard. Then, as if reaching a conclusion, he exhaled a slow, knowing sigh.

"I was told you'd vanished," the vendor murmured, just loud enough for Daiki to hear. His voice no longer carried the casual charm of a merchant peddling wares. It was lower now, weighted. "Guess that was only half true."

Daiki said nothing.

The old man chuckled, shaking his head. "You chose well, you know. A quiet life, a good woman, a son who doesn't yet know what his name means." His gaze flicked toward Koushirou, who was still examining the fan with a delighted smile. "But you knew it wouldn't last, didn't you?"

A cold weight settled in Daiki's chest.

A warning. A reckoning.

The old man let the silence linger between them, waiting, watching. Then, his lips curled slightly. "Or maybe you were just hoping that if you lied to yourself long enough, it'd become the truth."

Daiki's fingers twitched.

Before he could respond, Koushirou turned to him, his eyes brimmed with excitement. "Father, look at this! The details on the cherry blossoms are amazing."

Daiki tore his gaze away from the vendor, forcing himself to focus on Koushirou. Koushirou was beaming—utterly unaware of the tension crackling between the adults around him.

A heartbeat passed.

Then another.

Daiki swallowed the unease and forced himself to smile. "It's well-crafted," he said, nodding at the fan. "You have a good eye."

Koushirou grinned, pleased.

The vendor chuckled, his voice light again—as if the conversation from moments ago had never happened. "A young man with good taste. That's a rare thing." He gestured toward the fan. "And for a young man with such exquisite taste, consider this a gift."

No. Nothing came without strings, not in this world.

Daiki stiffened. 

The vendor reached beneath the table and retrieved a wrapped object. The cloth binding it was worn and frayed, its edges yellowed with time. And yet—despite its battered exterior—there was reverence in the way the old man handled it. He carefully unravelled the object. Underneath, its sleek metal shimmered under the lanterns, its edges razor-sharp, its design eerily familiar.

It was a sword. And it wasn't just any sword. It was a demon-slaying blade—one forged not for ceremony, but for battle.

Unlike the delicate festival trinkets scattered across the vendor's stall, this weapon bore no trace of ornamentation for beauty's sake. It was made with purpose. The blade gleamed beneath the lantern light, its surface polished to a mirror sheen, yet carrying the weight of countless untold stories. The steel was folded to perfection, its edge honed to a razor's bite, whispering of blood spilled and demons felled.

The hilt was wrapped in dark silk, aged yet sturdy, meant for a grip that would not falter in the heat of combat. Intricate engravings ran along the tang—prayers, perhaps, or ancient seals meant to bind malevolence in steel. And embedded in the tsuba, barely visible under the shifting glow, was a single, crimson gemstone, pulsing faintly as if it held a life of its own.

A weapon of legends. A relic of war.

And now, it lay before them, waiting.

Daiki inhaled sharply. He knew this relic. It was an object he knew all too well. At its centre bold and unmistakable, was a crest—the Kamishirou crest.

His past, lay bare before him.

The vendor pressed his palm against the cold steel, letting the blade catch the lantern light. The faint glow danced along its edge, illuminating the intricate engravings etched into the metal—symbols of warding, of sacrifice, of a purpose far beyond mere combat.

A weapon forged to cut through more than flesh. A blade meant to sever the unnatural.

His fingers trailed along the hilt with reverence, as if reacquainting himself with an old companion. The steel did not waver under his touch; it remained unwavering, resolute—much like the fate it carried.

Daiki's mouth opened to object, but before he could, Koushirou had already accepted the sword with a quick bow of gratitude. "Thank you, sir!"

The vendor smiled.

Then—his gaze cutting to Daiki, voice dropping just enough to be almost imperceptible—

"A man can pretend to be many things," he said, voice almost contemplative. "A farmer. A merchant. A father." His gaze lifted, locking onto Daiki's. "But in the end, we are what we have always been."

"Be sure to keep it close. You'll need it soon, young master." The vendor leaned forward, whispering in a clueless Koushirou's ear. Daiki felt ice crawl down his spine.

A breath.

Then another.

The sword lay between them like an unspoken truth.

Koushirou frowned, tilting his head. "Huh?" He glanced between the vendor and Daiki, oblivious to the weight of what had just transpired. "What does that mean?"

Daiki didn't answer. He couldn't answer. 

"We're leaving," said Daiki, his voice was sharper than intended, slicing through the hum of the festival chatter. His grip on Koushirou's wrist was firm, not forceful, but there was no room for argument. His other hand reached for Aiko's, fingers tightening around hers in silent urgency. "Now."

Daiki couldn't bear to imagine the horrors of his nightmare. He refused to let the horrors of his past bleed into this moment—to let his nightmare twist itself into reality.

Before Koushirou could protest, Daiki pulled them away from the stall, from the vendor's knowing smirk, from the weight of unseen eyes pressing against his back. The festival lights blurred as they wove through the bustling crowd, the scent of grilled skewers and sweet rice wine mixing with the dampness of the evening air. The festival lights should have felt warm and welcoming— a moment of joy and laughter. For Daiki, every flickering lantern, every shadowed alley, every pair of unfamiliar eyes felt like a threat waiting to be unveiled

Laughter and music rang through the streets, yet it all felt distant—as though Daiki had stepped out of the warmth of the celebration and into something colder, something darker. 

Aiko could barely keep up. She was out of breath. 

"Daiki, slow down -" 

"Not here," Daiki muttered. His voice was low and tense. 

He pushed forward, weaving between kimono-clad figures and street performers. Paper lanterns swung lazily overhead, their soft glow casting rippling pools of orange light across the packed streets. The scent of roasted chestnuts and sizzling meat filled the air, but Daiki barely noticed it. All he could focus on was getting away.

Away from him. 

Koushirou stumbled, struggling to keep up as Daiki dragged him along. His son's grip tightened around the war fan, the innocent prize now feeling like a curse in Daiki's eyes. The vendor's voice still echoed in Daiki's mind, wrapping around his thoughts like a vice. 

"Be sure to keep it close. You'll need it soon, young master."

A simple phrase—harmless to anyone else. But to Daiki, it was anything but that. The message had been deliberate. A warning. A claim. And worse—it was a veiled threat, one that only he could understand.

They turned into a quieter street, the festival's sounds growing muffled behind them. The air was cooler here. The stone path beneath their feet was damp from the afternoon rain. The flickering lanterns above cast long, shifting shadows along the walls of the wooden buildings lining the alley.

Only then did Daiki stop. His grip on Koushirou's wrist relaxed before he finally let go. Aiko pulled her hand back as well, crossing her arms as she studied him, her gaze sharp.

Aiko turned to him, arms crossed. "Daiki. Who was that man?"

A litany of worries ran at the back of his mind, each one coiling tighter around his thoughts like creeping vines. His grip on Koushirou's wrist remained firm, his other hand hovering protectively near Aiko's. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs, but his expression remained still—controlled. He had learnt long ago that fear was a scent predators could track.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. He could lie. But Aiko knew him too well. And Koushirou…he was no longer a child. he boy had grown up watching him, learning from the way he carried himself. If he sensed fear, he would ask. If he sensed deception, he would press.

Daiki settled for something in between.

Daiki's jaw clenched. His grip loosened—just a little—but he didn't stop moving."Someone who shouldn't be here,"

Someone who shouldn't know who you are. 

Daiki kept that thought to himself.

Koushirou's frown deepened. "But why? He acted like he knew you. He seemed—"

"It doesn't matter," Daiki interrupted. The last thing he needed was Koushirou asking questions about that man, about that symbol. About things he had spent years burying under the guise of normalcy.

Aiko exhaled, clearly dissatisfied. Her eyes searched his face, searching for answers he wasn't willing to give. The tension in her jaw told him she knew he was hiding something.

"Daiki," she tried again, quieter this time. Aiko searched his face, waiting for more, but he offered nothing. "Please. Just tell me—"

Her lips parted, as if to say something else—but a voice cut through the quiet.

"Leaving so soon?"

The voice was smooth, almost amused. But beneath its casual tone was something else—something that curled like a knife beneath the words.

"I was hoping you'll stay longer, Lord Kamishirou."

Daiki stopped cold. The air around him changed. Daiki stiffened at the name. A deliberate taunt. A reminder that no matter how far he ran, they still knew who he was.

The breath he had been about to take stalled in his throat. The air around him seemed to shift, turning cold despite the lingering warmth of the festival.

Slowly, he turned.

From the darkness of a nearby alley, a figure stepped forward, his silhouette cast long under the flickering lantern light. 

The man walked with a measured pace, his dark silk kimono shifting with each step, the fabric embroidered with faint patterns of silver thread that shimmered under the glow. The auburn of his hair gleamed, even in the dim glow.

Daiki recognised him immediately.

Kyoji.

The Asakusa Group's second-in-command. A man whose presence was both suffocating and deliberate, like a snake coiling just out of reach. Worse still, he wasn't alone in this game. He was the partner of the visitor from the night before, Shirogane.

Kyoji's smirk was easy, relaxed, as if he had simply run into an old friend on a leisure stroll. He took his time closing the distance, his movements fluid, unhurried—like a predator who knew his prey had nowhere left to run.

Daiki's muscles coiled with tension. He met Kyoji's gaze, his own unreadable, but the suffocating weight of the past pressed against his chest.

Kyoji took another step forward, unhurried, deliberate. His dark silk kimono shifted with the movement, silver embroidery catching the light like the edge of a blade. His smirk never wavered, his amusement only growing as he studied Daiki's expression.

"A bit rude, don't you think?" he mused, tilting his head. "Vanishing before we could catch up properly." His voice carried the same lilt as a gambler turning over a winning hand, knowing the outcome had been decided long before the game even started. "Shirogane will be so disappointed."

Daiki remained silent, his body coiled tight beneath his yukata. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to move, to put himself between Koushirou and this man, but he knew better than to react too soon. Kyoji was waiting for that—watching, studying, always two steps ahead.

Kyoji's eyes flicked to Aiko, then to Koushirou, lingering on the war fan still clutched in his son's grip. His smile widened, eyes glittering with something sharp, something amused.

"Oh?" He gestured toward the demon-slaying sword. "Looks like someone's already received his welcome gift."

Koushirou tensed under the weight of Kyoji's gaze, his grip instinctively tightening around the object in question. He didn't understand, not fully—but he could sense the undercurrents in the air, the way his father stood rigid, the way his mother barely breathed.

Daiki forced himself to speak, his voice steady. "We're not interested in whatever game you and Shirogane are playing."

Kyoji chuckled. "Game? No, no, Daiki. This is tradition. Family matters, you understand." He made a vague, dismissive gesture before slipping his hands into his sleeves. "And speaking of family—" his gaze flicked back to Koushirou, slow, deliberate "—he should be honoured. Everyone gets an invitation."

Daiki stepped forward instinctively, blocking Koushirou from view. His voice dropped to a warning. "He is not part of this."

Kyoji's lips parted in mock surprise. "Not part of this?" He let out a low whistle. "Daiki, Daiki… Do you hear yourself?" He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. "You don't get to decide that."

Daiki's breath was slow and controlled, but inside, the past clawed at him with cold, merciless fingers. The Kamishirou name was supposed to have died with him. He had made sure of it. But now, it was being forced upon his son like an inheritance of rusted chains.

Kyoji, as if sensing his thoughts, sighed dramatically. "You should be thanking us, really. Shirogane's been so generous—waiting all these years, letting you play house." He glanced around, his smirk deepening. "Nice little life you built. A beautiful wife. A strong son. Peaceful. Quiet." He dragged the last word out, savouring it. "Would be a shame if someone… disturbed that."

Daiki's hands curled into fists at his sides.

Kyoji smiled, as if pleased.

Kyoji tilted his head, considering. "You know, I almost envy you. To be able to lie to yourself for so long? To wake up every morning and pretend you weren't one of us?" He clicked his tongue. "Must've taken real effort."

His gaze flicked to Koushirou.

"But there's one tiny problem with that, Daiki." His voice lowered, just enough to make the hairs on the back of Daiki's neck rise. "No matter how hard you run—" his smirk sharpened "—blood always catches up."

Daiki moved before he could think, stepping forward just enough to block Koushirou from Kyoji's line of sight. A small, almost imperceptible reaction.

But Kyoji caught it. Of course he did.

And he grinned.

Daiki forced himself to breathe evenly. "This conversation is over."

Kyoji gave an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. "That's a shame." He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a folded piece of paper, flicking it toward Daiki. It landed lightly at his feet.

It was the cursed parchment Daiki had received through Shirogane—the summons he had burnt to crisps before Aiko or Koushirou could ever lay eyes on it. Yet, somehow, the message still found its way back to him. Daiki wasn't surprised if any of the Asakusa Group members had someone with mind-reading abilities. He wouldn't even question it. Because they always seem to know.

No matter how far he ran or how deep he buried the past, they would unearth it.

Kyoji's smirk never wavered, but there was something in his gaze—something patient, assured, like a man waiting for the inevitable. He took a slow step back, the lantern light catching the silver embroidery of his sleeves, the intricate patterns glinting like the edge of a blade.

"Three days, Lord Kamishirou." He took a step back, the lantern light catching the silver embroidery of his sleeves. "You know what happens if you refuse."

He turned to leave, but at the last moment, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Oh, and Daiki?" His gaze glimmered with cruel amusement. "Tell me—when you wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, reaching for a blade that isn't there—" his lips curled, "—do you ever miss it?"

Daiki said nothing.

Kyoji let out a soft chuckle. "I think you do."

And with that, he disappeared into the crowd, vanishing like smoke in the wind.

But his presence lingered.

A long silence.

Then, with a knowing smile, Kyoji turned and disappeared into the crowd, his presence fading like a shadow swallowed by the night.

But his words remained.

Three days.

The scent of roasted chestnuts and incense still lingered in the air, but to Daiki, it might as well have been smoke from a battlefield long since abandoned. His grip on Koushirou's shoulder was too tight, and only when his son winced did he realise it.

He loosened his grip. 

Daiki stood frozen, the weight of inevitability pressing down on him. The past was no longer a memory. It was here, standing at his doorstep. They wouldn't let go.

"Father?" Koushirou was confused. The hint of hesitation was evident in his voice.

Daiki exhaled, long and slow. He felt Aiko's stare, felt the weight of Koushirou's confused gaze. Aiko knew what Daiki was going to say. 

Because in that moment, he knew—

The shadows had finally caught up to him.

And this time, it was coming for his son.