Blood Mist Over the Ancient Capital
“A… achoo!”
A sudden sneeze burst out of nowhere. Si-ho wiped under her nose with her grimy sleeve. Is someone talking about me? Her head tilted quizzically.
…But this pouch of silver coins. Is it really okay to take it?
Finders keepers for stuff dropped on the ground, sure—but that applied to a thousand-won bill or a ten-thousand-won note. When the stakes climbed to a million or ten million, it started feeling off. Money like that, with no clear origin, was bound to be trouble. What if it was tied to crime, or dirty funds? That’d be a headache.
Si-ho pondered for a moment, then slyly cracked open the pouch and sniffed it. Sniff sniff.Can I really take this?
“……”
Only a faint metallic tang wafted from inside. Not a joke—this wasn’t some pointless quirk. Call it a superpower or trauma-induced hallucination, but Si-ho could smell blood on anything that posed a threat to her life. Poisonous mushrooms, toxic herbs, venomous bugs—the works. It was entirely thanks to this ability that she’d survived the brutal wilds at the mountain’s edge all this time.
Her plan to head into town for groceries relied on it too. Just avoid the blood-scent like always, and she’d be fine, right?
But once she actually reached central Kyoto…
…Huh?
Blood-scent blanketed the entire city like a haze. Murderous intent slithered through every alley. It was a city of death, submerged in a vast crimson fog. Si-ho’s pupils trembled at the slaughterhouse vista, far beyond her expectations.
Whoa. Maybe a lifetime munching grass in the boonies… wouldn’t be so bad.
She started edging backward—then paused.
…? Wait a sec.
The blood-scent enveloping Kyoto wasn’t that thick. She inhaled cautiously, uncertain. Yeah… it’s not heavy everywhere.
She’d just been overwhelmed by the sheer scale at first. Calmly gauging the average density, it was actually faint—like a few drops of red paint in a big bucket. Some districts reeked heavily, but others remained clear.
…So if I stick to the clean areas?
She could buy groceries without running into major threats. Treat the blood-scent like navigation, map a safe route, and stick to it.
“Ughhh…”
After dilemma number 1,863, Si-ho steeled herself one final time.
“I-I’ll be super careful. Buy food and escape…!”
She held her breath, slapped her cheeks smack smack, and after an eternity of hesitation, the white-haired girl plunged into the crimson sea of the city.
The millennium-old capital, Kyoto. A city that had held the seat of power for over a thousand years—hence its name, literally meaning “capital.” Just like “Seoul” meant capital in old Korean.
Whoever controlled Kyoto ruled the land. That’s why assassins from every corner swarmed here now.
“Heard about last night? Some court noble got hit right in front of the palace.”
“These damn traitors… Choshu bastards again!”
“Shh! Watch your mouth—who knows who’s listening…”
A tense undercurrent sharpened the air in downtown Kyoto. Crowds glanced suspiciously, whispering. In this powder keg where blades could flash anytime, civilians were on high alert—though nothing compared to Si-ho.
Just then, a lost citizen scanned around, spotted her, and lit up.
“Excuse me, could you point me to the nearest market…?”
“Eek!”
Si-ho recoiled in terror, bolting away. “…Huh?” The man reached out in confusion, but the white-haired “old man” vanished like a gale.
He blinked blankly. What just happened?
“Sir, try this new fabric—it’s top-quality…” Merchants hawked—nope, bolt.
“Sorry, could you hold my bundle? I need empty hands for a bit…” A burdened woman pleaded—bolt.
“Grandpa, hello!” A smiling kid waved—bolt.
Soon Si-ho was pale, drenched in cold sweat.
…As expected of a blood-reeking city. Criminals lurk everywhere!
Asking directions from a stranger? Classic ploy to lure her into an alley for kidnapping. Trying on clothes? Sleight-of-hand pickpocketing. Holding luggage? Offloading drugs or stolen goods—straight out of the news. Cute kid greeting her? Softening her guard for the adult ambush.
Using kids in crimes? Vicious scum.
Si-ho huddled against an alley wall, trembling. Baffled citizens stared, but to her, even that was predators eyeing weaknesses.
No one in this world can be trusted…!
Of course, it was all Si-ho’s persecution complex. Kyoto might be a demon capital, but it was still a city of people. Not everyone was wrapped up in grand assassinations or terror plots. For average folk, overdue rent and crying kids were scarier than killers.
They trembled inwardly but carried on: selling goods, growing veggies, minding children, exchanging greetings, cooking rice.
Lunchtime hit right on cue. Smoke rose from homes and shops, carrying warm, nutty aromas that tickled Si-ho’s nose. She gulped involuntarily, her stomach growling loudly.
“U-ugh.”
She peeked from the alley. People gathered at roadside benches, digging in. The savory scents made her nose twitch.
…This smell.
Tofu. Soft, snowy-white, steaming fresh from the pot. Kelp broth: kombu steeped in soft water for umami, simmered with green onions, yuzu, grated radish. Just the aroma made her mouth water. Chunky tofu blanched, dipped in sweet-salty soy, slurped with hot broth.
Kyoto’s famous tofu nabe. The assault on her senses overwhelmed her—saliva flooded her mouth.
“……Hah. Looks… tasty…?”
Si-ho snapped out of her drooling daze. Me? Swayed by petty temptations?
I need to grab supplies and get home ASAP.
She berated her slackening resolve, dragging her reluctant feet—step, hesitate, step, hesitate—when…
“Ahem. Excuse me, elder. Have you eaten yet?”
A clear young boy’s voice came from behind her.
Japan is a land of bu—martial ways. For over 600 years, samurai ruled by the sword, fostering a culture that revered bushido and solved problems with steel. (They nearly reverted to barbarism after two bombs, but anyway.)
This martial spirit birthed countless sword schools—over 700. Most were obscure local dojos, though. Only a elite few claimed true fame.
Among them, the “Three Great Schools of Edo”: first, Hokushin Ittoryu; second, Shindo Munenryu; third, Kyoshin Meichiryu. (The order of second and third flipped depending on whose student you asked.) No one disputed Hokushin Ittoryu’s top spot.
And the boy who’d appeared behind Si-ho? He was the adopted son of its founder, Chiba Shusaku.
Dojos adopted heirs for one reason: to pass the lineage to exceptional talent.
Izuki Ishihara shone blindingly. He’d rocketed through Kirigami, Shomokuroku, Chumokuroku as the youngest ever. Now he eyed Daimeiroku—full Menkyo Kaiden.
But Izuki stalled at the final threshold, despite breezing prior ranks.
“Everything’s fine but your iaijutsu,” Shusaku noted.
Horsemanship starts with mounting; archery with nocking. Swordsmanship begins with the draw—the foundation, taught first.
Yet Izuki lagged there inexplicably.
“Too slow. Way too slow.”
How to fix it? Izuki asked.
“Your heart,” Shusaku replied calmly.
The rational Shusaku didn’t spout empty mentalism—if he said it, it was fact.
Izuki mulled their exchange alone one day when that sound echoed across the Kansai region.
“……!”
He bolted up, electrified. The overwhelming power in that sound left him awestruck.
Who in the world wields such force…?
Drawn like by fate, Izuki yearned to meet its source—maybe enlightenment awaited. For three months, he roamed Kansai: repelling bandits, smashing tsujigiri ronin, aiding officials, seeking the owner.
And now, finally—in a Kyoto alley, face-to-face with Si-ho.