I spin and lash my sword at the wraith. Whoosh—my blade cuts fog, sliding through its body like wind through smoke.
Of course. I curse my own stupidity, a cold stone in my gut. Wraiths are air and hunger; plain steel is rain on glass.
“Doesn’t hurt at all. Be kind, okay? I haven’t eaten in ages, heh-heh-heh…” The voice is sugar-sweet, yet the face is a ruined mask, like cracked porcelain smeared with ash.
I want to snap back, but dread beats in my ribs like a drum. I need to drive it off fast, or I’ll be bled dry. My strength leaks like sand through a sieve—no, it’s being siphoned.
Fine. If normal slashes fail, try Sword Aura—no. Sword Aura blazes like lightning; the movement’s too big. It’ll see and slip away like a shadow at dawn.
What about Sword Intent? I steady my breath, a lake under frost. I sheathe Sword Intent along the blade, hoping it can cut a spirit’s form like moonlight through mist.
Do it now. I coax Sword Intent into the Shattered Light Sword, a dim star wrapping steel. I keep my face calm, like winter stone. I raise the sword, silent as snowfall.
“Useless. Blades can’t hurt me. Be good and become my meal, heh-heh-heh…” Its body swells like a storm cloud. A blood-red maw yawns wide, a cave of knives lunging for me.
Too late. I duck low, a reed in the wind. My grip tightens. I snap the Shattered Light Sword upward in a clean arc.
Rip!
The wraith splits in two, a curtain of shadow torn. Its spirit form scatters like ash in a breeze, dimming by the heartbeat.
“How—impossible! Ordinary swords could never hurt me!” Her scream frays like rotten silk, then fades as her form dissolves, a candle drowned in rain.
“The Shattered Light Sword is ordinary in my hand if I can’t rouse its power. But with Sword Intent bound to it, it’s anything but ordinary.” My voice is steady, a bell after thunder.
I head for the second room, urgency gnawing like frost. I need to find Sakurazuki fast. My strength is a leaking lantern; maybe half remains.
Tap-tap-tap. I reach the second door soon, hoping no new phantoms crawl out. I twist the handle and push, breath held like a swimmer’s.
Crumple—thud! A heavy shape tips toward me like a falling tree. I slip aside, a fish under the blade. I look down, stomach tightening.
A mannequin lies there, grotesque as a carnival nightmare. The face is a parody, paint clotted like bruises. It’s sickening.
The room holds nothing else, empty as a drained bowl. I turn to check the third room—but then—
Click, click, click…
The mannequin twitches. The movements jerk like tangled puppetry. After five or six seconds, it struggles up, a scarecrow learning to stand. Its smile is wrong, lit by a dim bulb like a fox’s grin.
I’ve seen too much tonight. Fear nags like cold rain under the collar. Sleep will be a nest of nightmares. I bite down a whimper.
“…”
No words. It shuffles closer, joints grinding like rusted hinges. Each step screeches, a nail across glass. I feel energy pulsing inside it, a furnace behind plaster.
Got it. Break the core, and the beast falls. I don’t waste breath. I drive the Shattered Light Sword at its chest, a spear of dawn into clay.
Clang!
Hard as bone under ice. But the Shattered Light Sword bites deep, steel sliding in like a hot knife. Wrong—no core. I yank for another thrust.
Damn! It won’t pull free. My eyes snap up. Its heavy, old hands clamp the blade like iron vices. Strength surges like a press. The sword won’t budge.
“…”
Silence curdles. Its belly splits open with a wet tear, a flower of rot. A mass of tentacles spills out, slick with mucus like swamp vines. They lunge for me, a tide of eels.
I choke down the urge to vomit, bile sharp as copper. I gather Sword Aura at full force, a storm coiling around a pillar. I launch the technique.
“Sword Qi Storm!”
A tornado of Sword Aura roars from me, a white dragon spiraling. It shreds the reaching tentacles to pulp and drags the mannequin in like dead leaves.
Crack-clatter…
In a blink, the mannequin turns to raining parts, bolts and limbs pattering down like cold hail. I wipe sweat from my brow, breath steadier, and head for the last room.
One minute later.
Gulp. Twice now, opening doors has served me my worst fears on a plate. Will this one go harder? I swallow and ease the third door open, heart tight as a fist.
Creeeak—
The heavy sound scrapes my nerves, a saw through wood. When the door yawns wide, I close my eyes first, like bracing for a wave.
Hmm. It feels ordinary, like a quiet pond. I open my eyes and scan. Nothing stirs. The third room is bare—wait. A painting hangs inside, a lone window on the wall.
I conjure a light orb from Sword Aura, a soft star in my palm. Curiosity tugs like a cat’s paw. I step in and stand before the painting.
“…Beautiful.”
A girl smiles in a garden, blossoms bright as dawn. The brushwork sings; details glimmer perfect as frost. It’s more alive than a photograph, a mirror that breathes.
Bang!
The door slams behind me, a thunderclap in a tomb. My heart jumps like a rabbit. I hurry back and try the handle, fingers cold.
“…A trap?”
No matter how I turn, the door won’t yield, stubborn as a mountain. I rake my hair, frustration burning like a nettle. How did I miss it? Why did I walk in like a fool?
“Ke-ke-ke…”
A laugh crawls through the room, thin and damp, like wind in a grave.
I turn. The garden in the painting is now drowned in blood-red, a river of scarlet flooding beds of flowers. The once delicate girl is a corpse-beauty twisted by ruin.
Her hair hangs wild, hiding half her face like storm-tossed reeds. Her face has no eyes—just two dark pits, deep as wells. Her white dress is blotched with blood like falling petals. Her hands are dyed red, and fresh blood slides from her fingers, dripping from canvas to the floor like rain.
At her feet lie many eyes, scattered like pearls spilled from a broken string.
“My eyes… are they with you? Can I borrow yours, just to see?”
The voice rasps like torn silk. Two pale hands, veined with red, stab through the painting into the room, hovering before me. The stench of blood hits, copper-thick, turning my stomach like a rough wave.
