Chapter Seven - The Inquisitor Arrives
The Little Silk Curtain was always a maze of intrigue and hushed whispers, its narrow alleys and tight markets concealing truths within the folds of everyday commerce. Mysterious traders haggled under taut canvas canopies, vibrant banners flapped and snapped in the breeze, and spice merchants painted the air with a symphony of scents—rich cinnamon, fiery pepper, and the exotic tang of distant lands. Yet today, an unfamiliar tension crackled in the humid air, coiling tightly around the bustling streets like an invisible python. A name passed from lip to lip: The Inquisitor.
First, he had been spotted near the scene of the crime, though weeks had passed since blood had seeped into the cobblestones of that particular alley. There, he had stood, a towering presence in his deep brown robes that seemed woven from the very soil he called his domain. With hands like hardened clay, marked with years of toil and magic, he had crouched low, running his broad fingers through the dirt, the mere sight enough to send onlookers scurrying. His wide-brimmed hat shadowed a sun-scorched face, only his eyes peering out—two dark, inscrutable orbs that reflected nothing but absorbed everything. He was a man who never spoke unless necessary, a hunter who stalked not with blades but with relentless, silent questions, unraveling lies with each step he took.
The ground told him stories no human witness ever could. He read it as one might read a book, noting the worn grooves left by desperate feet and the errant marks where someone had fallen, struggled, and failed. He moved from the scene to the back alleys, his presence a ghostly echo in the labyrinthine streets. Whispers swirled like leaves in his wake; shopkeepers bolted their shutters, mothers pulled children close, and even the street dogs slunk away, whining. This man, this Brown Wizard Inquisitor, was not to be trifled with.
Down by the bustling docks, a constant cacophony reigned. Here, life pulsed and churned like the river delta’s own heartbeat: sailors shouted orders over the rhythmic creaking of ships' rigging, cargo barrels thudded heavily against the wooden planks, and fishmongers bellowed over their catches. The inquisitor drifted through this chaos as easily as a shadow slipping between cracks. He seemed impossibly quiet despite his size, and his robes brushed the ground without a whisper. He moved among dockworkers and ship hands like an apparition, his presence felt more than seen.
The inquisitor knew that secrets thrived here, imported as easily as illicit spices and rare silks. His gaze combed through every interaction, noting the subtle handoffs of contraband, the fearful glances of sailors who spoke too quickly, too nervously, of far-off storms that never seemed to exist on any known chart.
It was here, amongst this sea of stolen glances and half-truths, that a pickpocket made a fatal error. A wiry man with quick, clever fingers—a local thief who had swindled countless tourists and merchants without a second thought—saw the inquisitor’s heavy brown robes and presumed an easy mark. He brushed past the wizard with practiced skill, a bump of the shoulder meant to distract, while his hand slipped into the folds of the long coat, fingers closing around a small pouch of coins.
But the Brown Wizard was no fool. His gloved hand, like a vice of gnarled oak, closed around the thief’s wrist before he could even think to pull away. The inquisitor’s dark eyes bore into the pickpocket’s very soul, and his lips parted just enough to whisper a spell, ancient and chilling. The thief let out a strangled cry as the fingers that had so deftly stolen from others curled inward, his knuckles cracking and locking into place. The inquisitor released him, and the thief stumbled back, clutching his maimed hand, five fingers now rendered useless—an eternal mark of his folly. The crowd around them parted, silent as the grave, unwilling to interfere or even breathe too loudly.
For three days, the Brown Wizard moved through the Little Silk Curtain, a relentless force of nature in search of truth. He visited markets and alleyways, brothels and inns, each step of his boots leaving an imprint as heavy as a curse. By the third afternoon, he had completed his hunt. He stood in the shadow of an old temple, a place where ivy strangled the once-pristine marble columns, and called for the Blue Wizard's guards. His voice, though soft, carried a weight that brooked no disobedience.
"I have the answers you seek," he said, his tone like the finality of a closing tomb. "Meet me at the agreed location."
The sun dipped lower, casting the Inquisitor’s tall form in streaks of crimson and gold. He was a farmer of truths, but unlike those who sowed seeds of life, he harvested lies with a cold and unyielding precision. He was more than just a Brown Wizard; he was the Inquisitor, and for those who had dared disturb the sanctity of his beloved delta, a reckoning was coming. Someone would pay for this disturbance, and he would ensure that the debt was collected in full.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter Eight - A Fox in the Henhouse
The chamber lay in an eternal twilight, drenched in cold shadows and the solemn glow of oil lamps. The flames licked hungrily at the wicks, casting fleeting, ghostly light upon the worn gray stone walls, which bore the scars of ancient times. The ceiling soared into a yawning darkness, vanishing into an abyss of shadow where the light dared not venture. Along the walls, great fireplaces roared and crackled, their heat pulsating into the cavernous space, but never enough to chase away the creeping chill. Embers broke free and danced briefly in the void above, before fading into nothingness.
The door stood solemnly behind the table, a monolith of rich mahogany wood, thick as the trunk of an ancient tree and carved with exquisite depictions of war and sorcery. These scenes twisted and writhed across its surface, capturing moments of triumph and terror, beauty and destruction—a work of artistry in a place utterly devoid of warmth. Beyond this imposing entrance, three guards from the Blue Wizard Bastion waited, armed and alert. They stood as rigid as statues, for within this room the Council of Five had convened, deep in conversation with the Inquisitor. Whispers of the council’s purpose had spread, though no one truly knew what was being discussed.
In the heart of the room, a colossal slab of white granite served as the council’s table, its smooth surface supported by thick stone legs. Around this grand altar of governance, the five Blue Wizards had taken their seats, each draped in ceremonial robes of shimmering azure. The room itself seemed to bend to their presence, shivering under the weight of arcane power. Yet before them stood the Inquisitor, the Brown Wizard himself, his back turned as he bent to light his pipe in the flames of a fireplace. Smoke curled and twisted around his stoic figure, the scent of burnt herbs mingling with the acrid tang of old stone.
The eldest of the Blue Wizards leaned forward, his ancient frame hunched under the weight of years. His long, flowing white hair tumbled past his shoulders, and his beard, thick as storm clouds, gathered in his lap like a silken snowdrift. His voice creaked with authority as he spoke. “Well,” he demanded, “what news have you, Inquisitor? A life has been taken from our order. The blood of a Blue Wizard is not so easily spilled without consequence. I expect retribution.”
The Brown Wizard turned slowly, a guttural laugh rumbling from deep within his chest. It was a sound devoid of mirth, rich and mocking, as though he alone understood the cosmic joke playing out before him. “Mmm, yes,” he drawled, smoke escaping his lips in sinister wisps. “The blood of the Blue is most precious indeed. Fear not—I have a name. And you will be most pleased.”
The Blue Wizards exchanged glances, their eyes lighting up with vindictive excitement. They clapped hands to the table and cheered, the echoes of their glee bouncing through the chamber. “Speak, man!” one bellowed. “State your findings!”
The Inquisitor puffed at his pipe, exhaling slowly, and began to pace. He moved like a circling predator, his dark robes sweeping the stone floor with a sound like dry leaves in an autumn graveyard. His eyes flicked between the wizards, each in turn, as he spoke. “You have been deceived,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, dripping with mockery. “A fox in the henhouse. A friend turned fiend. My investigation has led to an unexpected conclusion.”
The Brown Wizard’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “The emissary you so trusted, the one who has feasted at your table and whispered honeyed words into your ears, has betrayed you. The culprit is none other than the Tengu Enchanter. Yes, the oriental red demon in disguise. He has come for retribution, to avenge the evils inflicted upon his homeland by the so-called Blue Scourge, the evangelists who traveled east to plunder and cleanse the heathens.”
Gasps exploded from the gathered wizards, and the chamber filled with a chorus of outrage. Fists slammed the granite table; blue-robed arms gestured in anger. The walls trembled under the force of their fury, and the fires roared higher, embers scattering like stars. “The red demon must be found and burned!” one thundered, his voice raw with hatred.
The Brown Wizard nodded solemnly, his footsteps never faltering as he circled the table. “Yes,” he agreed, his voice a serpent’s whisper, “retribution must be exacted. A pact, then, to cleanse Kaiju Bay and raze it to the ground until the hermit of Mt. Kirama lies dead at your feet.”
The Blue Wizards nodded fervently, and the eldest wizard called for a toast. Goblets of rich, red wine were poured, and the five wizards raised their glasses, sealing their murderous pact with a ceremonial drink. The Brown Wizard watched them, his eyes glinting like obsidian.
“Ah, but there is a price,” he said, his voice growing colder. The wizards paused, the goblets halfway to their lips. “For this information,” he continued, his tone mocking and theatrical, “payment must be made. Gold is not enough.”
The wizards frowned, confusion clouding their minds. A strange drowsiness settled over them, their vision beginning to blur and their limbs growing heavy. They realized, too late, that something was terribly wrong. The room spun, and the Brown Wizard’s form seemed to shimmer, shifting between human and something else entirely. His skin darkened to crimson, and his grey and blue robe fell from his shoulders, a small breeze rustling through the room. His face elongated, the features reshaping his face. The Tengus nose sprouted forward, he could smell their fear.
The Blue Wizards could only watch in horror as the Brown Wizard transformed, shedding his disguise like a serpent shedding its skin. Before them stood Tengukensei, the Tengu Enchanter, his eyes black voids filled with ancient vengeance. His robe, no longer brown but shimmering with dark power, billowed around him like a storm.
“Payment,” Tengukensei whispered, drawing the Whispering Blade from his robe. The katana gleamed with an otherworldly light, a blade forged in shadows and whispers. He moved with a grace born of centuries, his feet silent on the stone floor. One by one, he approached each wizard, the blade singing as it sliced through the air.
The Blue Wizards, paralyzed and helpless, watched in horror as Tengukensei methodically slit their throats, the razor edge of his katana opening crimson smiles in their pale flesh. Blood gushed forth, drenching the white granite table and pooling across the floor, soaking the cold, unfeeling stone. The Enchanter’s face remained impassive, never twisting in joy or rage. He simply whispered, “For the lives you stole behind the Silk Curtain.”
With his grisly task complete, Tengukensei’s form shimmered once more, the illusion of the Brown Wizard returning in full. He bellowed a desperate, well-practiced cry for help. The door burst open, and the three guards rushed in, weapons drawn. Tengukensei, still in the guise of the Brown Wizard, moved like a striking hawk. His blade flashed, and one guard’s head tumbled to the floor, severed cleanly from his neck. The second fell in two pieces, his torso split with a single, fluid stroke.
The third guard turned and fled, his terror overwhelming all sense of duty. He ran as if the hounds of hell were at his heels, convinced that the Inquisitor had gone mad. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the chamber in silence once more, save for the crackling of the flames and the slow drip of blood pooling on the cold, cold stone.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
