Chapter: The Alley of Eradication
In the drowned quarter of Sakana Cove, where fish scales glint like forgotten prayers along gutters and salt eats into stone, there is an alley without a name. Locals do not speak of it unless pressed—and even then, only with lowered voice and a glance over the shoulder. The alley turns sharp and descends in uneven steps, always damp, always darker than it should be. At its end stands a single door of black cedar, carved with the kanji:
魂駆除 Tamashii-kujo — Soul Eradication.
The door opens without knock. The wind does not stir it, nor does the touch of mortal hands summon it. It opens when it is time.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of burned sage, old lacquer, and the sharp mineral tang of preserved things. The interior is narrow but deep. Lantern orbs—soft blue and green—hover near the ceiling, pulsing gently as if breathing. Their light casts long shadows against shelves lined with sealed spirit orbs, each containing the flicker of something caught between worlds: a sob, a curse, a scream that forgot how to stop.
Behind the counter rests a long blackened iron kettle, etched with charms and runes. It murmurs faintly in an old tongue when no one speaks. Steam from its spout curls unnaturally, forming symbols in the air before fading. Beneath the shelves, cages rattle quietly—filled with vermin common to the village: bloated silverfish, salt rats with cracked eyes, and things with too many legs that shouldn’t move as they do.
Scattered across the walls and floor are tools of a singular craft: a crossbow-staff, its limbs engraved with anti-phantasm glyphs; a spirit net woven from consecrated hair and night spider silk; and small mechanical talismans whose purposes are not explained. Hooks line the ceiling beams, some empty, others holding bundles wrapped in blue cloth, gently swaying though the air is still.
From the far end of the room, the wizard Bolin rises.
He wears robes of white, trimmed with blue—immaculate, ceremonial, and dustless. A wide silk sash crosses his chest and another binds his waist. His slippers whisper against the old wood as he steps forward. His scalp is bald, save for a single black topknot that curves like a brushstroke of ink. In his eyes is a sharpness born not of cruelty, but of long knowledge. A man who has seen too many haunted faces. A man who has sent too many spirits away.
His familiar, a silent bat named Yoku, clings to a ceiling rafter, its eyes closed, but never asleep.
Bolin regards you with a wizened glance—not quite a welcome, not quite a challenge. His voice is calm, measured, barely above the breath of the enchanted kettle.
“Vermin, spirits, restless dead. All can be removed… if the price is right.”
He tilts his head, listening not to you, but to something beyond you—some echo that followed you in, uninvited.
“Multiple infestations?” “I offer a discount for clustered removals.”
His hand brushes a lever beneath the counter. Somewhere behind the wall, a low growl answers. He makes no mention of it. His gaze never leaves yours.
“But know this: I do not deal with liches. I do not chase immortals, nor bargain with the dead who think themselves gods. That work belongs to another kind of fool.”
He steps aside, revealing the wide table at the center of the room. Upon it lie maps marked with inked wards, a ledger bound in sinew, and vials of sanctified ash. He gestures once.
“State your problem. Clearly. I do not waste time on riddles or regret.”
The door behind you closes.
The orbs dim.
The kettle speaks again in a language older than bones.
And so begins the reckoning.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
🪡 Chapter: The Hem-Stitch
Where the deadliest threads are weapons, and every stitch could be your last.
Hidden deep in the twisting alleys of Threadneedle Row, The Hem-Stitch masquerades as a humble tailor’s shop, but the truth is stitched in shadow and blood. The faded blood-red silk hanging like a ragged flag over the door is the only hint of what lies within—a secret arsenal for assassins and shadow traders who understand that killing is an art.
Inside, the air is thick with the sharp tang of iron, bitter herbs, and a faint whisper of poisonous brine. Black candles gutter in wrought-iron sconces, casting flickering light on rows of weapons carefully arranged like precious gems. Blades of every shape and purpose hang from the walls:
- Needle knives: slender, silent, almost invisible, designed for throat cuts and poison delivery.
- Kusari-gama chains and sickles, coiled like restless serpents waiting for the snap of command.
- Hidden wrist blades sheathed in lacquered wood, perfect for a last-second strike in a crowded room.
- Shuriken carved from bone and obsidian, their edges etched with binding runes to silence screams or curse wounds.
Shelves hold vials of venomous concoctions—black widow toxin, the bite of the whisper snake, and a shimmering blue-green liquid known as Ghost’s Breath, rumored to stop a heart without leaving a trace.
In one corner, neatly labeled satchels contain smoke pellets infused with shadow dust, thread bombs—tiny spheres of explosive silk—and whisper cords, fine wires capable of strangling a man silently when pulled tight.
Behind the counter stands Needletooth, the wingless Red Cap pixie assassin whose mere presence tightens the room like a drawn bowstring. Small but razor-sharp, he wears lizard-skin stitched with strands of widow’s thread, his blood-red cap pulled low over obsidian eyes that miss nothing.
His fingers never stop weaving—pulling invisible threads in the air, as if sewing fate itself.
“Needles, poisons, cords… each tool has its place,” Needletooth hisses, voice low and cold. “The art of the assassin isn’t just the blade — it’s the silence between strikes, the unseen cut, the hidden mark.”
A rack of silent boots, made from softened catfoot leather and lined with spider silk, waits for the customer who needs to walk unheard through moonlit streets. Nearby, there’s a collection of throwing darts, tipped in poison that causes madness, paralysis, or death—each labeled in cryptic runes.
For the bold, there’s a glass case with custom-forged blades—blades with names whispered in the assassin’s underworld: The Serpent’s Tongue, Silent Fang, and The Veil Cutter. Legend says each blade holds a curse, bound by Needletooth’s own needle and thread magic, capable of stealing life or secrets with a single slice.
Needletooth’s favorite clients are the quietest: bounty hunters with hidden pasts, rogue mages seeking a clean kill, and spies who pay in stolen secrets rather than coin. Deals here are never just transactions—they are pacts sealed with strands of hair, drops of blood, or whispered names.
In the back, behind eel-skin curtains, lies the workshop where Needletooth crafts custom weapons and weaves dark magic into each stitch and edge. It’s said that he can sew a man’s soul into a blade, binding his essence to it, or unravel the curse with a single touch.
The Hem-Stitch is no ordinary shop. It’s a crucible of shadows and silence, where the tools of death are spun with precision—and every customer leaves bearing a piece of Needletooth’s dark thread in their fate.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
