The sky bled crimson over the ravaged lands of Yomi-no-Kuni, a parallel realm twisted by ancient wrath and the sins of gods. The trees here grew with bones instead of bark. The rivers gurgled black blood. Winds whispered forgotten prayers.
In the center of this cursed expanse walked a lone figure, Kenshiro Arai, the last of the Amaterasu-blessed. A samurai exiled from his world after slaying a shogun possessed by a wolf-spider yokai. He now wandered Yomi’s domain, seeking redemption through steel.
Kenshiro wore tattered robes of ash-gray, his armor pieced from past battles, demon fangs and charred Oni hide woven into the breastplate. His katana, Tsukiyomi’s Fang, hummed low, the blade forged from a fallen moon shard, able to cleave through spirit and flesh alike.
His first encounter came swift.
A Hannya-Hound, a hybrid of a weeping Noh demon and starving mutt, leapt from a fog of rot. Its eyes glowed with memories of suicide victims, jaw unhinged wider than natural. Kenshiro stepped aside, unsheathing his blade in a flash. The creature's scream was cut short, its body twitching as two halves hit the soil, not blood, but a chorus of moans leaking from its corpse.
He muttered a prayer and moved on.
The second trial stood at the bridge of Kagutsuchi’s Maw, a canyon belching flame.
From the molten rock rose a towering Tengu-Kirin hybrid, with obsidian wings and limbs of spiked bamboo. Its bird mask cracked open to reveal a serpent’s skull. “Samurai,” it hissed, voice like flint on steel, “your soul carries guilt. Let me feast on it.”
“I carry it to bury it,” Kenshiro replied.
Their duel was ballet and fury. Fire rained. Steel clashed. The creature impaled Kenshiro’s arm with a horn, but he drove his blade through its throat and dragged upward, severing mask, head, and ego in one clean sweep.
He knelt, pulling the horn from his bleeding arm. No scream. No whimper. Only breath, steady, and focused.
But Yomi never tired.
At the edge of the Mirror Lake, beneath a red eclipse, waited his final adversary: Yurei-no-Mother, a hybrid of a banshee and an unborn spider queen. She floated above the water, dozens of infantile heads swirling around her like a halo, each sobbing.
“You killed your master,” she moaned. “You severed your clan’s bloodline. And now you seek peace?” Her hands split into talons, her silk-thin hair stretching like webs.
Kenshiro stood unmoved.
“Peace is not my prize. Only purpose. You stand between it.”
She attacked with shrieking winds and grief-born illusions. Each strike was a memory, the faces of those he failed. His village burning. His love taken by plague. His blade striking the innocent.
He dropped to one knee. The weight was crushing.
But then, a whisper from the katana: “Cut through. Cut through.”
He roared, slashing upward. The illusions shattered. Her spectral form recoiled.
With one last breath, he impaled her, blade piercing through the sorrow of a thousand dead infants, slicing her clean from the world. She let out a shriek that bent the lake and sky — then silence.
Kenshiro stood alone again.
The red sky above began to clear. A crack of golden light stretched across the horizon. Yomi was not cleansed. But the path forward was open.
He tightened his grip on the hilt, walking toward the glow.
Because the only redemption for the damned…
...is to keep walking through Hell with your blade drawn.
In the center of this cursed expanse walked a lone figure, Kenshiro Arai, the last of the Amaterasu-blessed. A samurai exiled from his world after slaying a shogun possessed by a wolf-spider yokai. He now wandered Yomi’s domain, seeking redemption through steel.
Kenshiro wore tattered robes of ash-gray, his armor pieced from past battles, demon fangs and charred Oni hide woven into the breastplate. His katana, Tsukiyomi’s Fang, hummed low, the blade forged from a fallen moon shard, able to cleave through spirit and flesh alike.
His first encounter came swift.
A Hannya-Hound, a hybrid of a weeping Noh demon and starving mutt, leapt from a fog of rot. Its eyes glowed with memories of suicide victims, jaw unhinged wider than natural. Kenshiro stepped aside, unsheathing his blade in a flash. The creature's scream was cut short, its body twitching as two halves hit the soil, not blood, but a chorus of moans leaking from its corpse.
He muttered a prayer and moved on.
The second trial stood at the bridge of Kagutsuchi’s Maw, a canyon belching flame.
From the molten rock rose a towering Tengu-Kirin hybrid, with obsidian wings and limbs of spiked bamboo. Its bird mask cracked open to reveal a serpent’s skull. “Samurai,” it hissed, voice like flint on steel, “your soul carries guilt. Let me feast on it.”
“I carry it to bury it,” Kenshiro replied.
Their duel was ballet and fury. Fire rained. Steel clashed. The creature impaled Kenshiro’s arm with a horn, but he drove his blade through its throat and dragged upward, severing mask, head, and ego in one clean sweep.
He knelt, pulling the horn from his bleeding arm. No scream. No whimper. Only breath, steady, and focused.
But Yomi never tired.
At the edge of the Mirror Lake, beneath a red eclipse, waited his final adversary: Yurei-no-Mother, a hybrid of a banshee and an unborn spider queen. She floated above the water, dozens of infantile heads swirling around her like a halo, each sobbing.
“You killed your master,” she moaned. “You severed your clan’s bloodline. And now you seek peace?” Her hands split into talons, her silk-thin hair stretching like webs.
Kenshiro stood unmoved.
“Peace is not my prize. Only purpose. You stand between it.”
She attacked with shrieking winds and grief-born illusions. Each strike was a memory, the faces of those he failed. His village burning. His love taken by plague. His blade striking the innocent.
He dropped to one knee. The weight was crushing.
But then, a whisper from the katana: “Cut through. Cut through.”
He roared, slashing upward. The illusions shattered. Her spectral form recoiled.
With one last breath, he impaled her, blade piercing through the sorrow of a thousand dead infants, slicing her clean from the world. She let out a shriek that bent the lake and sky — then silence.
Kenshiro stood alone again.
The red sky above began to clear. A crack of golden light stretched across the horizon. Yomi was not cleansed. But the path forward was open.
He tightened his grip on the hilt, walking toward the glow.
Because the only redemption for the damned…
...is to keep walking through Hell with your blade drawn.
