The journey to Black Peak was as grueling as ever. The forested path wound through jagged cliffs and ancient trees, their gnarled branches clawing at the twilight sky. The air grew colder the higher Ryuken and Ayame climbed, and the silence was unnatural—no birds, no insects, only the crunch of leaves beneath their boots.

Ayame pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her light blue hair swaying with every step. “Why does he always insist on living in the most inconvenient places?” she muttered.

“It keeps away people who aren’t serious about seeing him,” Ryuken replied, walking steadily ahead. His hand rested near the hilt of his katana, as if expecting trouble.

“And it’s working. I’m very close to turning around.”

Ryuken smirked faintly but said nothing. Ayame’s complaints were lighthearted, but they both knew Takeshi Kuroya wasn’t someone they could ignore—not when regenerating bandits were on the loose.

After another hour of hiking, they reached the foot of Black Peak. The terrain flattened, revealing a small, dilapidated shrine surrounded by scattered scrolls, broken tools, and strange markings carved into the rocks. Smoke curled lazily from a nearby shack—Takeshi’s infamous “laboratory.”

“Still as messy as ever,” Ayame noted, wrinkling her nose.

Ryuken stepped forward and rapped sharply on the wooden door. “Takeshi Kuroya. We need to talk.”

The door creaked open slowly, revealing an old man with a hunched back and a long, wispy beard. His hair, tied in a haphazard bun, was streaked with white, and his robes were stained with ink, soot, and various unidentifiable substances. His sharp, dark eyes squinted at the pair.

“Ryuken. Ayame.” Takeshi’s voice was gravelly, tinged with irritation. “You again.” He sniffed, then turned on his heel and began walking back inside. “Come in, then. And wipe your feet!”

Ayame exchanged a look with Ryuken, shaking her head before stepping in after him.

Takeshi’s home was a labyrinth of chaos. Shelves overflowed with dusty tomes, vials filled with murky liquids, and ancient tools. Strange symbols had been scrawled across parchment and walls alike. A large cauldron bubbled ominously in the center of the room, its contents a sickly green.

“Why does it always smell like rotten eggs in here?” Ayame muttered, her nose crinkling.

“Alchemy isn’t about pleasant aromas,” Takeshi shot back, hunched over a desk cluttered with scrolls. “You’re here for answers, so speak.”

Ryuken stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “We fought bandits. But they weren’t ordinary—they regenerated after taking fatal wounds. Even fire barely stopped them.”

Takeshi’s hands froze mid-motion. Slowly, he turned to face them, his brows furrowed. “Regenerating?” he repeated, his voice low. “Tell me everything.”

Ryuken and Ayame recounted the fight: the unnatural movements of the bandits, the way their wounds knit back together, and how the fire finally reduced them to ash. Takeshi listened intently, stroking his beard, his sharp gaze never leaving them.

When they finished, he fell silent, staring into the bubbling cauldron as though it held the answers.

“You’ve encountered something dangerous,” he muttered finally. “Very dangerous.”

“Do you know what it is?” Ryuken asked.

Takeshi turned toward a nearby shelf, rummaging through scrolls until he found one wrapped in dark leather. He unrolled it carefully, revealing a diagram of a humanoid figure surrounded by strange markings.

“These bandits sound like they’ve been afflicted by Oni-kin corruption.”

“Oni-kin?” Ayame echoed, leaning closer.

Takeshi nodded grimly. “The corruption of the oni—demons—can infect living beings, warping their bodies and minds. Normally, those infected lose all reason and die within days. But if someone has figured out how to control the corruption…” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “They could create an army of the undead—regenerating, unstoppable soldiers.”

The room fell silent.

Ryuken’s voice cut through the tension. “Can they be stopped?”

Takeshi sighed, rubbing his temples. “The fire was smart—that suggests their bodies are still mortal on some level. But to truly defeat them, you’ll need to sever the source of their corruption. If someone is controlling them, that source will be nearby—a talisman, a sigil, or a master oni.”

Ayame crossed her arms, frowning. “So we need to hunt the puppet master.”

“Exactly,” Takeshi replied. “But be cautious. The one who controls these creatures may have far more power than you’re prepared for.”

Ryuken nodded, his expression calm but resolute. “Then we’ll find this source and destroy it.”

Takeshi smirked faintly. “You samurai never change. Charging straight into danger.” He turned back to his desk, scribbling furiously on a scrap of parchment. “Take this. It’s a mixture I’ve been working on—an oil that burns hotter and sticks to flesh. Coat your weapons with it before you fight.”

Ayame raised an eyebrow as Takeshi handed her the small vial of thick, crimson liquid. “You’ve been making this for fun?”

“Everything I do is for science,” Takeshi retorted. “Now go before you clutter up my home.”

Ryuken inclined his head slightly. “Thank you, Takeshi.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Takeshi muttered as he turned back to his scrolls. “This corruption will only spread if you fail.”

As Ryuken and Ayame stepped out of the shack, the cold night air bit at their skin. The path ahead was dark, lit only by the pale light of the moon.

“So,” Ayame began, slipping the vial into her pouch. “An army of regenerating bandits controlled by a master puppeteer. Sounds fun.”

Ryuken’s expression was unreadable as he gazed into the distance. “This is bigger than we thought.”

Ayame stepped closer, brushing her fingers gently against his. “Then we’ll face it together, like always.”

He glanced at her, his stoic demeanor softening just a fraction. “Together.”

The two of them stood at the edge of the forest, the wind carrying whispers of the darkness yet to come. Whatever lay ahead, Ryuken and Ayame would face it as they always had—side by side, unshaken and unstoppable.