Chapter 1: The Shadow Born
The birth of Kurofuku was unlike the cries and gasps of mortal creatures entering the world. No mother bore him, no father named him. Instead, he came into existence on a moonlit night deep within the heart of Mt. Kirama’s magical glade. It was a night when the heavens wept silver rain, and the shadows of the mountain stirred, gathering as if in ritual.
From the hollow roots of the ancient cedar tree, he emerged—a being born of shadows, formed from the mountain’s magic and the deep, ancestral energies that flowed beneath the earth. His fur shimmered like liquid midnight, streaked faintly with silver where the light touched it. His tail, long and flowing, had an ethereal quality, almost phantasmic as though it wavered between solid and incorporeal. When he moved, the shadows followed, clinging to his form like a second skin, wrapping him in an aura of quiet mystery.
Kurofuku’s first steps were into darkness, but to him, the shadows were no void. They were alive, pulsing with secrets and whispers. As he padded across the glade, his paws left no trace, dissolving into the shadows with each step. When he leaped between two pools of darkness, he discovered he could faze—his body melting into one shadow and reappearing from another as though the world between them was his personal bridge.
The spirits of the mountain watched in awe, their ghostly forms flitting between trees. They murmured among themselves, for never had they seen such a creature—a shadow tanuki, born of magic, a conduit between the material world and the shadow realm.
Kurofuku’s tail often seemed to dissolve entirely, curling into a wisp of smoky shadow before reforming in a new shape, giving him a spectral, otherworldly presence. With time, he learned to fully disappear into the veil of the shadow world, becoming a ripple in the air, a faint glimmer in the edges of perception. When he did so, he felt the strange and endless landscape of the shadow realm calling to him—a world of shifting forms, whispers, and infinite depth.
He was not bound by the physical constraints of the forest. The shadows carried him where he wished, phasing him through the cracks in rocks or allowing him to sink into the earth only to rise elsewhere. The wind of Mt. Kirama swirled around him in playful abandon, a partner to his magic, lifting him high into the treetops or shielding him when the mountain’s storms grew fierce.
One quiet morning, Kurofuku discovered something curious among the twisted roots of an old pine: a battered, lacquered umbrella, seemingly discarded. Its surface was chipped and weathered, yet when he touched it, the umbrella pulsed faintly with magic. He immediately felt an affinity with it, as though the umbrella had been waiting for him.
Kurofuku spent weeks restoring the artifact, weaving his shadowy essence into its frame. The umbrella became more than just a tool—it was an extension of himself. With a flick of its handle, he could call forth gusts of shadowy wind to veil his movements or cast illusions that danced like spirits in the air. With it, he could ride the winds of the mountain, soaring over treetops with laughter ringing in his ears.
Life on Mt. Kirama was a blend of wonder and solitude. Kurofuku reveled in the freedom of the forest, learning to manipulate shadows as easily as a musician plays a flute. He pulled pranks on the mountain spirits, weaving illusions of shadowy creatures that sent them scattering. But there were times when he gazed into the endless depths of the shadow world and felt an ache he could not name.
For while the mountain was his home, there was a lingering sadness woven into his essence. He was a creature of the in-between, a being that straddled light and darkness, form and formlessness. Though the spirits of the mountain adored him, Kurofuku often felt like he was both part of the world and separate from it.
The mountain whispered to him in the rustle of leaves and the sigh of the wind, hinting at a destiny beyond its sacred bounds. For now, though, Kurofuku was content to play in the moonlight, his shadow weaving intricate patterns across the forest floor, a creature born of magic and mystery, yet still discovering the depths of his potential.
But the mountain knew more than it would say. It always did.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
### Chapter 1: The Muck and the Madness
Tengukensei sat slumped in the muddy trench, his arms folded tightly to his chest, weighed down by filth and despair. The torrential rain had transformed the battlefield into a quagmire of clay and corpses, where men and beasts sank waist-deep into the muck, their spirits sinking even deeper. Across the open field of No Man’s Land, the enemy’s trenches were barely visible—a dark, jagged line of death cutting through the endless mire. The rain came down in sheets, soaking through armor and robes, chilling warriors to the bone.
The air reeked of rot, sweat, and the acrid stench of alchemists’ fire. Bodies littered the trenches, left where they had fallen—mud-slicked, broken, and bloated. The pounding of blue wizard mortars had been unrelenting, their machines belching fire and smoke into the air like the breath of mechanical dragons. Arrows tipped with black magic and catapulted stones carved through the night sky, streaking death to both sides indiscriminately. There was no time to move the dead. No time to grieve. The healers were far behind the lines, leaving the wounded to rot in the trenches or drown in the rain-filled craters where they crawled to die.
Tengukensei clenched his fists, his long slender red fingers digging into the muddy earth as the word spread down the trench. The senior wizards were calling for another assault. Another reckless wave. Another suicide run into the jagged thorns, enchanted barbs, and toxic vapors of No Man’s Land.
He felt Woolah beside him, the manic kobold muttering curses to himself while wiping rain from his blood sword, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Nearby, Nuke, the robot hybrid, sat silent, his metallic limbs caked with mud. His glowing eyes scanned the trench, betraying no emotion—just readiness. Sachiko, the Oni, leaned on her massive blade, her horns glinting faintly in the rain, her face set in a grimace of silent fury.
The horn blew, a long, wailing note that echoed across the broken land. It was a death knell, a harbinger of chaos. The Kaiju Clan, along with thousands of other warriors and wizards, rose to their feet, their weapons gripped tightly as they prepared to charge.
Tengukensei was the first to leap over the trench wall, his voice tearing through the din of war.
“BANZAI!”
The cry rippled through the ranks as they surged forward, plunging into the sucking mud of No Man’s Land. The enemy, warned by the horn, was ready. Blue wizards unleashed their lightning, their magic arcing through the rain to strike down dozens at once. Machines roared to life, their gears grinding as they launched projectiles and fired molten beams of energy into the charging mass. Bodies crumpled, lifeless, into the mire.
Still, Tengukensei pressed on, his clan at his heels. Woolah darted between the explosions, stabbing at anything in his path. Sachiko’s blade swung in wide arcs, cleaving through brambles and flesh alike. Nuke marched forward with mechanical precision, his fey club crushing bones and the skulls of their enemy.
The ground was littered with the dead and dying. Gas canisters hissed, releasing clouds of alchemical poison that turned lungs to fire and left bodies writhing in contorted agony. Spells and counterspells clashed in the air, their detonations sending shockwaves through the ranks. Tengukensei’s leather clad boots struggled for purchase in the mud as he neared the enemy trench, the cries of his clan urging him onward.
But this wasn’t the first time he’d seen such slaughter.
It had all begun years ago, in the shadow of the Silk Curtain.
The Seeds of War
Kaiju Bay had been a land apart, sealed from outsiders by the Koukotsu Mandate, its gates closed to all but the most determined traders. For centuries, the Eastern Alliance had lived in relative peace, their magic and martial traditions untouched by the creeping influence of the West. But as the emperor grew older, he allowed foreign merchants to cross the Curtain. At first, it was trade: silks for spices, scrolls for gold. Then came the missionaries.
The blue wizards of the West sought to evangelize, spreading their magic, their gods, and their machines. Tensions simmered. The Eastern Alliance resisted the intrusion, their traditions clashing with the Western Group’s dogmatic insistence on progress and unity under their arcane rule.
Peace seemed possible, however. A diplomatic mission was formed, and leaders from both sides gathered to negotiate. Pacts were signed. Treaties written. The emperor himself declared a celebration, inviting his people to rejoice in this newfound understanding.
But peace is fragile.
On that fateful day, during the emperor’s festival, a rogue blue wizard struck. The assassin, furious at the betrayal of his cause, unleashed a storm of blue lightning that tore through the emperor and his empress, incinerating them in an instant. The crowd exacted their revenge, tearing the assassin limb from limb, but the damage was done.
The Eastern Alliance called for calm. Tengukensei himself had urged restraint, but his voice was drowned out by cries for vengeance. The West must pay.
The Western Group claimed innocence, but they feared retaliation. And so they prepared for war.
The first strike came during the pagan festival, a time of celebration and reflection. The Eastern Alliance launched a devastating surprise attack on Kelpie Bay, obliterating the Western Armada’s fleet. Alchemists’ fire rained down from enchanted blimps and massive battle condors, turning the docks into an inferno.
The Western bastion retaliated. Wizards and warriors took to the field. Goblins, kobolds, and kooplings were conscripted into the fray. Magic and machine merged in unholy union, creating weapons of unparalleled destruction.
Two and a half years later, the Runiverse was drenched in blood.
Back in the present, Tengukensei reached the enemy trench. His blade flashed as he struck down a soldier, only to be blasted back by a surge of blue lightning. He hit the ground hard, his vision blurring as the mud swallowed him. Around him, the battle raged on, the cries of the dying drowned out by the roar of machine and magic.
Another day on the front. Another step closer to hell.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
