In the mist-shrouded land of Joya, an unsettling calm lay thick over the mountain valley as guildmates Tsukishima and Ikazuchi made their descent into the forsaken village below. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the soft crunch of their footsteps on the uneven trail. Even the faint wind seemed to hesitate, as if unwilling to disturb the unnatural quiet that had settled over the place. The air pulsed with an eerie energy; a weight that clung to the dense fog, curling around the scattered huts and seeping into the worn stones underfoot. Pale tendrils of smoke drifted from chimneys. The scent is sharp with the bitterness of burning herbs and incense; the villagers’ desperate ward against the malevolent Yoki spirits that plagued their children by night. Each dawn, parents woke to find their young fevered and trembling, as if marked by an invisible hand. Once lively, the streets lay empty and lifeless, the once-vibrant village market now a ghost of its former self, with empty stalls and faded banners sagging under the weight of neglect.

Tsukishima observed the scene with an impassive expression, though a spark of intrigue glinted in his cold, crimson gaze. As someone who has dabbled with the demonic, his life had been a crucible of battles against creatures of shadow and malediction. Yet, Yoki spirits were a different breed; a rare, restless force that defied mortal control, elusive and insidious. A thrill sparked within him at the challenge. His own powers, once grounded in dark magic and the influence of the Demon King, were no longer a part of him. But he had a cunning mind and had not yet fully tapped into the true depths of his new vampiric potential. Even feeling that there was something more that still remained hidden. However, this was no simple mission. It was a test of his resilience and ingenuity, a chance to prove that even without magic, he was as formidable as ever.

Their guide, Takumi, an elderly village elder cloaked in faded robes, led them further into the heart of the village. The old man’s voice was barely a whisper, his words shaped by fear and desperation. “At first, we believed it to be an illness,” he murmured, his gaze flitting to the shadows. “But then we saw it in their eyes; our children, staring back at us with something else in them… something ravenous. We tried charms, prayers, every protective rite we know, but the curse only grew stronger. Each night, another child falls under its grip. Roused at dusk into uncontrollable violence. Our children have become strangers.”

Tsukishima’s face remained impassive but he listened intently. These details were invaluable. He could sense Ikazuchi’s tension beside him, his usual arrogance dimmed by the darkness saturating the air. Ikazuchi’s eyes darted restlessly over every shadow, as if he expected an ambush at any moment. For once, even he was silent. The trio rounded a corner, approaching the village center, and the air seemed to chill. A sudden fracture of the silence echoed down the street. From narrow alleys and dim thresholds, young figures began to emerge. Children, no older than ten, staggered into view, each clutching something heavy or jagged. A sickle, a splintered branch, a kitchen knife dulled over the years. Their faces were drained of life, as if they were mere vessels, and any trace of innocence had been stripped away. Instead, their eyes glowed with an unnatural, fierce light, burning with the essence of Yoki energy, like embers fanned by an unseen hand.

Tsukishima’s gaze sharpened as he took in the sight. His hand instinctively drifted to his daggers, but he hesitated, casting a sidelong glance at Ikazuchi. These were children. They were victims twisted by something ancient and ravenous. Yet the way they approached, with an eerie, methodical precision, chilled even him. They moved in unison, a strange, puppet-like choreography that hinted at a malevolent intelligence orchestrating their every step. “So, what’s the play?” he asked.

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