Kusuriuri | REQUEST

The manor’s roof loomed over the forest trees like a beacon long before Kusuriuri reached it. It wasn't grand, not in the way of a daimyo's sprawling palace, but it possessed a certain austere beauty to it, it's dark timber walls and heavy tiled roof exuding an air of faded elegance. Yet, an unsettling aura clung to it, a subtle tremor in the fabric of the spiritual world that only he could perceive. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as he took in the details: the flickering, uncertain glow of a few lanterns already lit for the rapidly incoming night, the way the wind seemed to sigh rather than whistle through the eaves, and the faint, almost imperceptible hum that seemed to resonated from within.

Another one. The world was truly overflowing with the festering rot of human desires and regret. He adjusted the strap of his wooden medicine box before moving forward. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, scanned the estate’s weathered façade, noting the slight tilt of a roof tile here, the peculiar discoloration of a wooden beam there — minute things that most would overlook, but which, to him, it all seemed to hum with a nascent wrongness.

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The gate creaked open, revealing a man in the entryway, his face was a mask of weary anxiety, eyes darting nervously towards the shadowed interior of the house as if expecting something to jump out of there. The man's (presumably one of the servants) gaze flicked towards Kusuriuri’s unusual attire, then quickly away, as if afraid to offend.

"Ah, you must be the… the one from the village," he stammered, his voice thin with apprehension. He'd seen him earlier when he had been down there to escort Inoue. He gestured vaguely towards the interior. "Come in, come in. It's… it's getting dark."

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The Lord was a portly man whose perpetually worried expression seemed etched onto his face, wrung his hands as he led Kusuriuri through a dimly lit hallway. The air inside was heavy and stale. It bore what he could call, if it were a scent, melancholia, like a dark rainy day.

“Of course you can stay, it would be a pleasure but,” Old Hisamoto stammered, his voice reedy with something akin barely suppressed terror. He gestured vaguely down the corridor. “Such… such inexplicable occurrences have been happening lately. The lantern lights, the… the shadows… and the music…the music!” His eyes darted nervously, as if expecting some unseen horror to materialize from the gloom just like the servant had. “You must think us mad. My daughter thinks so…it seems she is the only blessed one not to be afflicted.”

Kusuriuri merely offered a placid, almost imperceptible, nod. “Indeed,” he murmured, his voice a low, even tone, devoid of judgment or alarm. “Tell me, good sir, what precisely plagues your esteemed abode?” He allowed a beat of silence, then “Beyond the general disquiet, that is.”

The owner visibly trembled, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. “It’s… it’s the koto, Master! That damn koto!” His voice rose in pitch, bordering on a frantic whine. “Ever since poor Ishijima passed,… that cursed instrument just… plays itself! At all hours! And it’s always out of tune! A discordant wail that scratches at the very soul!” He threw his hands up in a gesture of utter despair. “Sometimes its disembodied! We’ve searched every nook, every cranny! And...and...It’s not here! And it's not our new kotoist, Sasaki. But the sound… It's everywhere now! It’s driving us mad! Absolutely stark raving mad!”

As if on cue, a thin, reedy plucking sound, undeniably that of a koto, began to reverberate through the silent house. It was indeed out of tune, each plucked string a jarring assault on the ears, like a discordant lament that seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves. The melody was erratic, a fractured thing, as if played by trembling, uncertain hands.

The owner let out a strangled shriek, his face contorting into a mask of pure horror. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, fixed on a specific room down the hallway. “There! There it is again! That god-awful caterwauling! I can’t—I can’t take it anymore! It’s tearing my fucking sanity to shreds! That damned instrument, that fucking wailing spirit! Make it stop! Please, make it stop!” He stumbled back, bumping into the wall with a thud, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his entire body wracked now with violent shivers. He looked as if he was about to collapse.

Kusuriuri’s composure, however, remained unruffled. His expression was a perfect mask of calm. The discordant notes of the koto, rather than disturbing him, provided a crucial clue, a fingerprint of the entity at play. He allowed a flicker of something akin to curiosity to pass through his eyes. A koto, hm? Not a typical manifestation. Most spirits were drawn to more visceral expressions of their torment. This soul, or what remained of it (if it indeed was the soul) was clinging to an obsession? A broken melody, a broken heart. Or perhaps — he did not finish processing his train of thoughts, for just as it was about to cross his mind the sound of a sliding door opening filled the hall; an angry shliick and clack that preceded a loud “Sasaki, don’t you dare!” of a female voice.

Footsteps came. Thud, thud, thud! Landing harshly on the wooden floor with an unquestionable haste. The new kotoist, Sasaki Genta, soon appeared from within the shadows of the corridor, with a look on his face that was more terrifying than the disembodied and offensive tune that bounced from the old walls. He passed by the crying Amasaki Hisamoto and Kusuriuri without tossing a single glance their way. He was all rage. All annoyance. His focus centered on one specific room that he bulldozed towards. Behind him trailed Lady Kiriko, tugging at his sleeve which did nothing to deter him.

“This is enough. You know what will solve all of this? Getting rid of that damn, cursed instrument!” he snapped, opening the room that had once belonged to Ishijima, and right in the corner stood the koto, an antique beauty in all its rights. He did not wait, moving towards it and grabbing it. The notes died.

That night he destroyed it and burned it. And now, what had once been mere melancholy and mischief turned into unbridled rage.