A small ramen shop stood open under the night sky, its red lanterns casting a warm glow against the widening darkness that enveloped the mid-autumn evening. The wooden sign above the entrance swung gently in the cool night breeze, creaking softly as if to announce the shop's welcoming nature. The subtle scent of simmering broth wafted through the air, tempting passersby and ensnaring the senses of anyone who approached.
Inside, a middle-aged man busied himself behind the counter, ladling steaming broth into a ceramic bowl with the grace of a craftsman. This was Oda Urasawa, a humble ramen seller who took pride in his culinary arts, his hands deftly performing the familiar tasks that had become a ritual over the years. Each bowl he prepared was a masterpiece, a reflective glimmer of his dedication to the craft. The modest establishment had seen its share of wanderers—families laughing over dinner, lovers sharing stories over steaming bowls, and tired souls seeking solace in his warm soup. All the while, Oda remained the diligent host, a whirlwind of activity behind the counter.
However, this evening felt different—an unusual air tinged with foreboding brushed against him. Normal? Yes, the rhythms of the night were familiar: the chopsticks clinking against bowls, whispered conversations, the delicate cadence of life at his ramen shop. Yet there was an undercurrent he could not shake. Urasawa's instincts, honed after years of serving humanity's complexities, began to stir with unease.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the noren curtains at the entrance rustled, parting to reveal a tall man clad in navy-black robes. The figure emerged from the deepening shadows, and something about him seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. He looked imposing—his sharp features bore an air of quiet menace, and his expression was inscrutable, betraying nothing. However, it was the sword at his waist that drew the most attention: a straight, single-edged blade, reminiscent of a chokutō—an uncommon choice in these modern times, indicating he belonged to no ordinary lineage.
"Welcome…" Urasawa managed to stammer, though he could feel his heart thumping in his chest. The man was eerily still as he took a seat, black-clad demeanor contrasting starkly against the warmth of the shop. He ordered in a low, calm voice, as if he were a regular.
Yet it was the way the man's eyes flicked over the realm of Urasawa's ramen shop that sent chills running down the back of the ramen seller's neck. Those eyes scanned the shelves, the counters, as if they could pierce through the very fabric of reality surrounding them. Urasawa's hands trembled slightly as he prepared the dish, his instincts screaming at him that something was not right. He quickly placed the bowl in front of the stranger, hoping the transaction would end swiftly.
The man picked up his chopsticks with elegant precision, taking a bite of steaming ramen. He chewed thoughtfully, savoring the broth's flavor. After a moment, he nodded. "This is quite good. My partner would like it a lot. Unfortunately, she is… well, actually, I don't know where she is. She scurries about a lot, you see."
Urasawa forced a nervous chuckle, though dread coiled within; his unease only deepened as the man continued. "I will bring her around sometime later… maybe during the festival… Mister Snake."
Urasawa froze, feeling the chill of an unseen specter swirl around him. His grip on the counter tightened as his face drained of color. "W-what are you talking about? My name is Oda Urasawa," he stammered, beads of perspiration forming at his temple.
The man, still smiling, reached for his sword. The black blade gleamed ominously under the lantern's flickering light, catching Urasawa's breath in his throat. "Reveal your true form, or I will exorcise you."
A wave of cold washed over Urasawa, terror coursing through his veins. Shadows danced at the corners of his thoughts, hinting at dark memories long buried. He hesitated for a moment, wrestling with the impulse to flee, but exhaustion settled into his bones. The time for running had long passed.
With a resigned sigh, Urasawa gave in to the inevitable. His human form flickered, and with a puff of smoke, he vanished, making way for a small green snake that slithered out from a pile of discarded clothing at the foot of the counter. Its beady grey eyes darted around anxiously before raising its head to offer a hesitant greeting.
Taro glanced over the counter, observing the unique transformation with a mix of fascination and relief. "Was I correct in my assumption, Mister Snake?" Taro said with a measured calm that belied the quickened rhythm of his heart. "You do have the answers I want, don't you?"
The snake hesitated, its tiny tongue flicking in and out as if tasting the tension in the air. "There are four great demons in this city… or at least, there were. Rumor has it the demon that plagued the noble family was killed."
Silence settled between them, thickening the atmosphere as Taro continued to absorb the information. The mere existence of demons had frightened many. Yet, warriors like him sought resolution, sought justice. He had assumed there would be remnants but hadn't anticipated the confirmation of their existence.
"YOU KILLED THE LINGERING DEMON?!!?!" the snake suddenly blurted out, eyes wide in disbelief. "I thought it was invincible."
"Yes," Taro replied simply, devoid of pride but filled with resolve. "Now go on. I need to know what I'm up against." The stakes grew heavier as he processed this conversation.
The snake let out a strange coughing sound—Taro had no idea how a snake could cough—and continued with trepidation, "Now, there are three left."
"Tell me more."
"East Side—Red Banner Demon. He is always carried on a throne by his demon followers, his blood-stained banner waving behind him. He is obsessed with territory, seeking to expand his influence within the city."
Taro nodded, visualizing the chaos a being of such nature could enact on his hometown.
"West Side—Blue Mirror Demon. He resides in the red-light district, entranced by his own reflection. His weapon is a large mirror, but I don't know what it does…"
"Interesting," Taro murmured, intrigued as he scratched his chin. "What about the last?"
"South Side—Gold Hair Demon. He is unpredictable, violent. His golden hair grows and moves at his will, like living chains. It's said he can ensnare anyone within reach."
A small tension gripped Taro's chest. It felt as though every living creature in the city was at the mercy of these beings. He needed to act—quickly.
"And you already killed the North Side one—the Black Lingering Demon." The snake's eyes narrowed as it watched Taro's response.
Taro nodded, finishing the last droplets of sake from the clay bottle, letting its warmth linger. "That was valuable information. Thank you." He said putting down the sake.
"My name is Taro Tsubasa by the way."
He stood, and in a gesture of gratitude left a small pouch on the counter. The snake slithered forward, eyeing it with astonishment before peeking inside. Its body jolted in shock at the money that was five times the usual payment.
But when it looked back up, Taro was already gone, merging with the night, his form swallowed by the fog-laden streets of the city.
Underneath the weight of a fleeting silence, Taro walked through the desolate paths, the whispers of the snake's words echoing in his mind as he ventured deeper into the heart of the city. Each footstep resonated with purpose, now fueled by the need to confront the menace lurking into the shadows. He had expected there to be other demons, but this confirmation shifted the atmosphere—an inevitability set against him.
As he approached a curved bridge stretching over the city's river, the surroundings felt eerie in their stillness. The area was deserted, as if the safety of the world held its breath in anticipation. The further he walked onto the bridge, the denser the fog became, curling around his feet like ghostly fingers, weaving through the emptiness of the nighttime.
Then, without warning, came a sudden sharp sting. Taro blinked, surprise flashing across his face as a thin cut opened on his cheek, bright red trickles appearing. He touched the wound gently, recognizing the dull throb that accompanied the realization.
Drip. Drip.
Somewhere in the mist ahead, he could hear blood dripping onto wood—a wailing call that raised the hairs on his arms.
Taro narrowed his eyes and unsheathed his sword, the black steel gleaming vividly beneath the silver moonlight, slicing through the thickening fog. Whether from courage or instinct, his resolve hardened.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself, feeling the smoothness of the hilt beneath his fingers.
"Foul demon… show yourself." he commanded, his voice ringing out against the void, aimed at the unseen threat lurking within the fog.