Trial By Blood

The morning air was colder than Ryunosuke expected. Mist clung to the forest floor like forgotten breath, wrapping around the soles of his shoes as he followed the narrow trail. Ancient pine trees loomed on either side, their branches creaking faintly in the breeze.

Kenji walked ahead in silence, his cane tapping the stone steps carved into the mountain path. He hadn't said much since they left the guesthouse before sunrise, only that Ryunosuke needed to "earn something before he could carry it."

"Where are we going?" Ryunosuke finally asked, his breath fogging in front of him.

Kenji didn't stop walking. "To the place where your father bled for the first time. And where others will decide if you're worth the memory of him."

Ryunosuke said nothing.

Each step felt heavier than the last—not from the climb, but from the weight in his chest. His father's old name, once just a word in the air, now sat like iron in his mouth. Riku Hiyashi. The man he never truly knew. The name he was beginning to wear like a skin that didn't quite fit.

The path curved, revealing an old torii gate draped in moss. Beyond it stood a weathered shrine, its red paint faded and wood bowed with time. But it stood proud, untouched by tourists or modern repair.

"Is this where the family met?" Ryunosuke asked.

"No," Kenji replied. "This is where they were judged."

They stepped beneath the gate, and Ryunosuke instinctively ducked his head, unsure why. The shrine's stillness felt sacred, but also watchful—like something unseen had stirred when he arrived.

Kenji finally stopped near the entrance and turned to face him. "From here on, you speak only when asked. You act only when told. No matter how strange the customs, no matter how unfair the task—you do not flinch. Understood?"

Ryunosuke hesitated, then nodded. "Understood."

Kenji looked him over. "You brought it?"

Ryunosuke reached into his jacket and pulled out the thin leather cord around his neck. Hanging from it was the ring with the Hiyashi crest—the blooming iris and the coiled serpent. He clenched it tightly in his hand.

"Good," Kenji said. "Hold it like you mean it. They won't accept your blood unless they believe it still burns."

The doors of the shrine creaked open.

A figure in gray robes beckoned silently from within.

Kenji gave Ryunosuke one last look. "Don't be afraid. But don't expect kindness either."

Ryunosuke stepped forward. The mist swallowed the trail behind him.

The air inside the shrine was thick with the scent of cedarwood, old paper, and something faintly metallic—like the memory of blood. Dim lanterns cast flickering shadows on the walls, revealing faded murals of serpents coiled around blooming flowers. The floor creaked under Ryunosuke's steps as he followed the robed figure deeper inside.

They passed a sliding door at the back, behind the altar. Without a word, it was pushed open to reveal a narrow staircase descending into the dark.

Kenji joined him again, his voice low. "This place was built before your great-grandfather's time. Back when power didn't wear suits."

Ryunosuke didn't answer. His fingers still clutched the ring, the metal warm from his grip.

The descent was short but steep. At the bottom, a cavernous room opened beneath the shrine—lit only by standing candles set into stone alcoves. The walls were rough, carved directly into the rock, and at the center sat a low circle of cushions around a sunken fire pit filled with ash.

Four figures waited in silence. Three men, one woman—all dressed in subdued black and gray. No flashy tattoos, no suits, no guns. Just eyes—sharp, silent, and watching.

Kenji stepped aside.

Ryunosuke stood alone before them, the flames dancing light casting across his face

The eldest man, his hair tied back in a silver knot, finally spoke.

"State your name."

Ryunosuke's throat felt dry. "Ryunosuke Hiyashi Omeo."

Another voice—this time from the woman, younger than the rest but with a steel edge to her posture.

"Why have you come?"

He hesitated. "To learn who my father was."

"No," she said. "You've come to prove you're not weak."

The third elder—bald, with a jagged scar over his left eye—leaned forward.

"Your father turned his back on the Family. On our blood. Tell us, what would you die for?"

The question struck harder than Ryunosuke expected. He glanced at Kenji, but the old man only stared ahead, expression unreadable.

"For… the people I care about," Ryunosuke said quietly. "Not for legacy. Not for tradition. For them."

A pause. The fourth elder—the youngest-looking man with calloused knuckles and a voice like gravel—snorted softly, as if amused.

"Spoken like someone who hasn't bled yet."

The woman stood. "Then let him."

She gestured toward the stone doorway behind her, where another figure waited—masked and silent, holding two wooden swords.

"Strip off your jacket," she said. "You will face the trial. You don't need to win. You only need to survive."

Kenji's voice cut through softly behind him. "Remember: don't fight like your father. Fight like yourself."

Ryunosuke took off his jacket and stepped into the courtyard beyond the stone arch, bare arms cold in the winter air. The gravel crunched beneath his shoes.

His opponent raised a bokken.

And then, without a word, the fight began.

The wooden blade came fast—faster than Ryunosuke expected. It cracked against his side before he could even raise his arms.

Pain bloomed instantly across his ribs.

He stumbled back, breath catching. The masked opponent didn't follow up immediately. They stood poised, unreadable behind the black lacquer mask, holding the bokken low like a coiled serpent.

Ryunosuke forced himself upright, heartbeat thundering in his ears.

He tightened his grip on his own bokken, its smooth, unfamiliar weight cold in his hands. His stance was poor—he knew that. He hadn't trained for this. But something inside him refused to step back.

He lunged, clumsy but committed. The bokken in his hands swung downward—and met nothing. The masked figure slipped sideways, fluid, then struck his shoulder with a sharp snap.

He grunted, stumbling again. Another blow landed across the back of his thigh. He fell to one knee, gravel grinding into his skin.

Laughter flickered from somewhere in the shadows above the courtyard.

They're testing me, not for skill… but for something else.

He spat blood from his lip and stood again.

The figure tilted their head, then charged—this time faster, blade raised. Ryunosuke didn't try to block. Instead, he stepped inside the arc of the swing, more belligerent than was strategic, and rammed his shoulder into their chest.

They staggered.

It wasn't elegant—but it worked.

The crowd above went quiet.

Ryunosuke swung, catching the edge of their mask. Wood cracked. The blow sent both of them spinning apart.

The opponent recovered quickly, sliding back into stance—but the mask now dangled from one side of their face, broken.

A woman. Young. Late twenties maybe. Dark hair pulled tight, her mouth twisted into something halfway between a grin and a grimace.

She exhaled sharply and straightened.

"He's got his father's stubbornness," she muttered, loud enough for the elders to hear.

From above, the woman in gray stepped forward, her voice calm. "Enough."

Ryunosuke lowered his weapon, chest heaving. Sweat clung to his skin, mixing with blood along his ribs and temple.

The masked woman gave him one last look, nodded once—respect, maybe—and walked away without a word.

Kenji appeared at his side again, his voice lower now.

"Not bad, boy. You'll feel all of it in the morning. But you stood your ground."

Ryunosuke didn't speak. He simply looked at his hands—bruised, trembling, but steady.

They brought him back into the chamber without ceremony.

The fire in the pit had burned lower, casting long shadows on the stone walls. The elders remained seated, unmoved, as if time had passed differently for them. Ryunosuke stood before them, sweat cooling on his skin, blood drying at the edge of his eyebrow.

The woman who had first spoken regarded him now with a neutral expression. "You didn't win."

"I know," he said quietly.

The bald elder with the scar leaned back, arms crossed. "But you didn't yield."

"Your father never yielded either," said the one with silver hair. "And it made him both feared… and doomed."

Ryunosuke held his silence, unsure whether to feel pride or shame.

The younger elder with the calloused hands stood, walked forward, and crouched by the fire pit. From a small wooden bowl, he drew a single black stone, smooth and oblong, and placed it before Ryunosuke's feet.

"This is not a reward," he said. "It's a weight. One you carry now."

Ryunosuke looked at the stone. It seemed ordinary. But something about it felt cold even from a distance.

The woman continued, her voice solemn. "You are permitted to walk among us. But not above us. You are not Riku. And if you try to be, you'll meet his end."

The words were final—but not cruel. Just truth, spoken without apology.

Kenji stepped forward again, his gaze meeting Ryunosuke's.

"It's done," he said. "You've been judged."

Ryunosuke bent slowly, picked up the black stone, and closed it in his fist.

It was heavier than it looked.

Kenji escorted him back.

Outside, dusk had fallen. The mist had lifted, revealing a sky painted in soft hues of lavender and rust. The trail down from the shrine was quiet now, the air heavy with pine and the distant murmur of river water below.

Kenji walked beside him for a time, saying little.

Ryunosuke's muscles ached with each step, and the cold crept into the bruises beneath his shirt, but he kept walking. The black stone remained in his jacket pocket, its weight swinging slightly with every stride.

"You didn't flinch," Kenji said eventually. "That's more than most could say."

"They didn't accept me," Ryunosuke murmured.

Kenji gave a half-shrug. "They don't accept anyone who lived. They only trust ghosts."

They walked in silence again. The shrine faded behind them, swallowed by the trees.

When they reached the fork in the road near the base of the mountain, Kenji paused. A dark car waited for him just beyond the trees—one of the older models, polished but unremarkable.

"This is where we part," Kenji said. "For now."

"You're not coming back?"

"I've got things to arrange," he replied, then glanced at Ryunosuke's shoulder. "You've got things to survive."

Ryunosuke nodded.

Kenji gave a small nod in return, then climbed into the car without another word. The headlights blinked on, then vanished into the fog as the vehicle rolled away down the gravel road.

Ryunosuke stood there for a moment, alone beneath the swaying trees. Then he turned and made his way back to the guesthouse.

By the time he reached the quiet wooden building, night had fully arrived. The hallways were dim and still. He slipped inside his room, dropped his jacket onto the chair, and sank down onto the futon with a quiet groan.

His body throbbed with exhaustion—but his hands moved on their own.

He reached for his sketchbook, opened it to a blank page, and drew.

First the stone—simple, oval, black.

Then petals around it. Red ones. He didn't know why.

By the time he looked down, they had begun to swirl, like blood in water.

Ryunosuke stared at the image in silence, the soft sound of his pencil still echoing in the room.

He didn't sleep right away.

But for the first time since arriving in Japan… he didn't feel like an outsider anymore.