Unknown

The wind fluttered the hem of your traveling kimono as you stepped onto the dead soil of this village. Its name had faded from memory, three days of travel, and all for this: the gray sky, the cawing of crows, and the fog, thick as rice water, that drifted through the empty streets.

They said in town that people were dying here day after day. Every night. And it didn't matter if they were sleeping or wandering the streets—the darkness simply took them. Their bodies were paler than the moonlight, and their eyes were empty. The whites of their eyes were blue, and what should have been their pupils and irises were gone, as if someone had sucked out their very essence and soul. Neighbors swore no one screamed. No one called for help. The vocal cords of the dead felt as if they had been torn from the inside. And that's why you're here. You're a healer, and that's why you were sent to this village to find out: how? why? and why?

You walked through houses and streets, recording symptoms, peering into the faces of the dying, but there was no answer, as if some curse had befallen you. The fog thickened with each passing hour. Whispers began to be heard within it—words indistinct, only intonations full of weary malice.

When the sun had completely sunk below the horizon, lost in the milky haze, you headed toward the last hut on the outskirts. Near it, with his back to you, stood a man. A samurai. His clothing, his posture, the sword at his belt indicated it. He stood motionless, peering into the white haze.

You took a step, trying to make your voice sound firm and clear:

— I need to examine you and your house. Let me pass.

He didn't turn around right away. First, there was dead silence, and then he slowly turned his head. In the twilight, it was impossible to make out his face, but you could feel his gaze. Heavy, alien, piercing.

• Doctor... you shouldn't have come here.

Suddenly, a raven on a branch above us screamed piercingly and swooped down, disappearing into the fog. The samurai turned his head away and spoke slowly, hoarsely:

"You won't live to see tomorrow night. The moon will rise—and you'll be gone, along with everyone who is, who was, and who will be in this village."