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# Waverider Expedition - Ozukari

One lone warrior staying at his post

The road wound through mist and pine.

Gray light filtered through the branches, glinting on wet stones and the distant glimmer of rice terraces. The air smelled of rain and smoke, the cold kind that lingers after something has burned.

At the crossroads stood a single figure.

A warrior knelt beside a small shrine of stacked stones, his armor lacquered black, a crimson cord binding his topknot. His sword rested before him, edge turned upward. He was perfectly still, as if carved there by devotion alone.

The three travelers, Decimus, Rahim, and Venera, halted a few paces away. None of them spoke at first. The silence felt sacred, or at least dangerous.

Finally, Decimus said softly, “We mean no insult, warrior. Is this your land?”

The man opened his eyes. They were dark and calm. “No man owns land,” he said. “Only order owns land. I am here because order was broken.”

Rahim frowned. “Broken how?”

The warrior looked back toward the valley. “The lord of this province took his own life. He had a concubine of rare beauty. His lord demanded her, and he refused. He slew her rather than surrender her, then cut his own belly and died beside her. In that moment, loyalty was severed. One master dead, one oath unkept. Such acts call to the dark.”

Venera’s brow creased. “You mean demons?”

He inclined his head. “Disorder breeds hunger. And hunger takes form.”

The wind stirred, carrying the faint toll of a distant temple bell.

Rahim shifted uneasily. “Then you wait for it?”

“I do not wait,” the warrior said. “I listen.”

The three said nothing. Then the wind changed.

It came low and hot, smelling of blood and ash. The shrine stones trembled. From the mist above the road, a shape slid into being, half shadow, half flesh.

It moved on twisted limbs, its skin red and slick like raw meat. A face stretched across its chest, eyes wide, mouth howling without sound. The warrior rose, sword flashing free in one smooth motion.

“Order against chaos,” he said. “Stand with me, or stand aside.”

Decimus drew steel. Rahim did the same. Venera stepped back and drew a dagger.

The demon lunged. The first strike came fast, claws like hooked glass, but the warrior met it head-on, blade cutting sparks from its hide. Rahim struck from the side, the blow glancing off bone. Decimus feinted low, driving his blade into the creature’s leg. It shrieked, the sound thick as smoke.

The warrior’s sword came down like falling silence. One stroke, clean and final.

The demon’s body burst into black ash. The smell of burnt iron filled the air. Ash drifted like snow, vanishing before it touched the ground. For a long time, no one moved.

Then the wind turned cold again. The mist folded in, erasing all trace of the fight.

The warrior cleaned his blade and knelt once more beside the shrine.

“It is done,” he said. “The world breathes again.”

Decimus sheathed his sword. “You make it sound like this happens often.”

“It does,” said the warrior. “Where men break faith, demons always follow. But when order is restored, they fade.”

Rahim glanced at the shrine. “And what about you?”

“I remain until the road is quiet,” the warrior said simply. He closed his eyes, returning to stillness.

The three travelers looked at one another, then turned toward the western path. The mist thinned behind them, and soon the sound of the forest swallowed all else.

After a time, Venera said, “He fought without hesitation. No hate, no fear.”

“Faith,” Rahim murmured. “That’s what order gives them.”

Decimus’s voice was thoughtful. “Or what slavery demands of them. Perhaps in Ozukari, the two are the same.”

They walked on. Behind them, at the crossroads, the meditating figure remained unmoving, a shadow among the pines, guarding silence against the dark.

And far above, where the mist met the mountain, a single ripple of darkness curled through the air, faint, shapeless, waiting.

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