Mount Kurama
Reunion at the Monastery
The moon hung heavy in the night sky, its pale glow barely piercing the thick mist that rolled down Mount Kurama. The air was cold, and sharp, with the scent of pine and ancient stone. Torches lined the winding path, their flames flickering as if struggling against an unseen force. Ahead, the silhouette of Kageyama Monastery loomed, its jagged rooftops cutting into the night like a scorpion’s claws.
Saikō Sasori stood at the gates, the jagged edges of his shoulder guards glinting faintly. The faint rustle of the wind stirred his dark yellow and black robes. Behind his mask, his gaze was fixed on the trail below, where the faint crunch of footsteps broke the stillness.
Tatsu Hime emerged first, the red-and-gold glow of her mask catching the torchlight. She moved with the elegance of her namesake, her steps deliberate yet light, as if the earth welcomed her. She clutched a pearl that shimmered like trapped moonlight in her hand, her fingers tightening around it as she approached.
Tatsu: The winds are restless tonight, Sasori. Ryujin whispers of trials ahead—but I will not falter.
Sasori offered a slight nod but said nothing. The sound of heavier footsteps soon followed.
Shinku Ryujin strode into view, his crimson gi streaked with faint scorch marks from a recent training session. His movements were sharp and precise, his fiery energy barely contained. He paused near a torch, running a hand over the flames as if drawing strength from its warmth.
Shinku: Suzaku’s flames grow uneasy. They hunger for battle. If Ultimate Wrestling dares challenge us, they will burn.
A low thud echoed as Ryota Arakawa arrived, his imposing frame casting a long shadow across the trail. The Azure Dragon’s symbol on his katana caught the torchlight, gleaming like the edge of a storm cloud. Unlike the others, his face was unmasked, his expression a stony mask of resolve.
Ryota: The mountain knows we are here. Seiryu demands we be ready. Hesitation will not be forgiven.
Sasori turned, his voice calm yet cutting through the tension like a blade.
Sasori: The elders have spoken. Chuluun Bold is no ordinary foe. The orb he carries within the Ultimate Wrestling Franchise belt threatens all of Japan and the balance we are sworn to protect. This mission is not for glory—it is for the Yokai. For the future.
Tatsu shifted, the pearl trembling slightly in her hand.
Tatsu: I have trained for this, yet Ryujin’s whispers linger in my mind. Have I done enough?
Shinku stepped forward, his voice sharp.
Shinku: Enough doubt, Tatsu. We are The Sacred Order. Together, we are stronger than any storm.
Ryota remained silent, his gaze fixed on the gates of the monastery. Then he suddenly spoke, his tone heavy with certainty.
Ryota: We carry the weight of centuries. That is all we need.
Sasori’s gloved hands rose, motioning for silence.
Sasori: Inside, the monks prepare the ritual. It is time to honor our guardians and prepare for what lies ahead. The storm will come, but we will endure.
The four warriors passed through the gates, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stone. Above them, the moon dimmed as the mist thickened, the torches’ flames flickering uncertainly. The mountain seemed to breathe, its presence a silent reminder of the trials ahead.
The inner sanctum of Kageyama Monastery was shrouded in an ancient stillness as if the very stones had borne witness to millennia of unbroken devotion. The chamber was circular, its walls adorned with intricate carvings of the Yokai guardians: Ryujin’s serpentine coils, Suzaku’s blazing wings, Seiryu’s protective scales, and the Scorpion God’s sharp-edged form. Golden silk threads hung from the rafters, twisting like starlight trails in the faint breeze.
A low altar of polished obsidian stood at the center of the chamber, its surface etched with arcane symbols that seemed to ripple under the dim light of a single flame. Encased in a crystal lantern, the flame burned an unnatural white, its glow steady but piercing. Monks knelt in a circle around the altar, their ochre robes swaying as they chanted words lost to time.
The Sacred Order entered silently, their steps echoing across the stone floor. Each carried the weight of their mission like armor, their faces—masked or unmasked—set with solemn determination.
Sasori: Guardians of the Yokai, hear us. We stand before you not as mortals seeking favor, but as warriors bound to your will. Guide us through the storm and grant us the strength to protect what is sacred.
Sasori stepped forward first, his black gloves gripping the jade scorpion tightly. His masked visage was illuminated by the flickering flame, the sharp edges of his shoulder guards casting jagged shadows that danced across the walls. He placed the jade scorpion at the altar’s center, directly beneath the lantern. The flame flared green, casting an eerie glow over the chamber. A faint hum vibrated through the air, growing stronger as the others stepped forward to add their offerings.
Tatsu: I offer this pearl to Ryujin, guardian of the tides and keeper of wisdom. May the waters flow freely, unyielding and pure, washing away the darkness that seeks to consume.
Tatsu Hime approached next, the golden crown atop her crimson mask catching the emerald glow. She cradled the pearl in her hands, its opalescent surface shimmering with hidden colors. Her voice trembled slightly, but she steadied herself as she placed the pearl beside the scorpion. The flame flickered, and for a moment, the chamber filled with the scent of saltwater and the distant roar of waves. Tatsu closed her eyes, her shoulders relaxing as if Ryujin’s presence wrapped around her like a comforting tide.
Shinku: I bring this ember to Suzaku, keeper of the flames that renew and destroy. Let it burn brighter than the shadows, a beacon of hope and a weapon of fury.
Shinku Ryujin stepped forward, his movements sharp and deliberate. His crimson gi was streaked with ash, and in his hands, he carried a bronze dish holding a single ember, glowing faintly but fiercely. He lowered the ember onto the altar, and the flame surged upward in a burst of fiery orange. The chamber grew warmer, the scent of burning wood mingling with the incense. Shinku’s eyes gleamed with resolve as he stepped back, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.
Ryota: To Seiryu, the unyielding protector, I offer this fragment of our legacy. May its strength flow through us, unbroken and eternal.
Ryota Arakawa was last to approach. His towering frame cast a long shadow over the altar, and his unmasked face was etched with unshakable resolve. In his hands, he carried a shard of blackened stone, carved with the intricate scales of Seiryu. He placed the shard beside the pearl and ember. The flame flared blue, the light washing over the chamber like a wave of cold steel. A faint rumble echoed from deep within the earth as if Seiryu had stirred in acknowledgment.
As the final offering settled on the altar, the flame shifted. Its colors swirled—green, orange, blue—before merging into a radiant gold. The monks’ chants grew louder, their voices weaving together into a single, resonant note. The air thickened, and the room seemed to pulse with energy.
The flame expanded, its glow consuming the room, and within its brilliance, a vision began to form.
Elder One: Strength not his own, he wields. A storm bound by chains, yet unleashed in chaos. Seek the light, for only it may shatter the shadow.
Elder Two: Oh, storms are such lovely things, aren’t they? They tear, they cleanse, they reveal. But what will this one reveal, I wonder? The truth, Sasori… or the lie you fear most?
The vision in the flame solidified. Chuluun Bold stood in the center of a shadowed ring, his imposing figure illuminated by the crimson light of the celestial orb embedded in his championship belt. Tendrils of energy coiled from the orb, reaching out like grasping hands. Around him, shadowy figures loomed—faceless and menacing, their presence heavy with malice. The image blurred, replaced by Sasori himself, unmasked and younger, standing alone in the shadow of his fallen master. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the vision shattered like glass.
Sasori: The Yokai have spoken. The orb is not just a trophy—it is a weapon, one that must not remain in unworthy hands. If I fail to claim it in the ring, we will forcefully take it together before the night is done. Together, we are stronger than any shadow.
The others nodded, their resolve reflected in their silence. The flame flickered one last time, then dimmed, leaving the chamber near-darkness. The monks resumed their chants as the group turned to leave, their footsteps heavy with purpose.
As they exited the chamber, the chill of the mountain air greeted them, the mist curling around their feet like ghostly chains. Sasori paused at the threshold; his masked face turned toward the starless sky.
Sasori: The storm comes… and we will weather it.
The courtyard of Kageyama Monastery lay cloaked in an unnatural stillness. The mist that clung to the mountain paths had thickened, twisting and curling around the stone lanterns like spectral hands. Even the air felt heavier, laden with a cold that seeped into the bones. The Sacred Order stood at the courtyard’s center, their silhouettes stark against the ancient walls. Their earlier ritual had left the air charged, as if the Yokai themselves lingered in unseen corners, watching.
Hurried footsteps broke the silence. A young monk emerged from the shadows, his ochre robes fluttering as he stumbled forward. His lantern’s flickering light illuminated his pale, sweat-slicked face. He bowed deeply before speaking, his voice shaking.
Monk: Saikō Sasori. Sacred Order. The winds carry troubling whispers.
Sasori turned slowly, his imposing figure radiating calm authority. His voice was measured, yet it carried the weight of expectation.
Sasori: Speak, brother. What troubles you?
The monk clutched his lantern tightly, the light trembling with his hands. His voice was low, as though afraid to disturb the spirits lingering in the mist.
Monk: The Yamamoto clan’s movements grow... unnerving. They have tightened their grip over the venues and city. Merchants whisper of alliances forged in blood. But worse, there is... a shadow among them.
Tatsu stepped forward, her crimson mask catching the pale moonlight. Her voice trembled with restrained fury.
Tatsu: Ryujin’s waters grow restless. A shadow among them? Speak clearly, brother.
The monk hesitated, his eyes darting between the Sacred Order. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, heavy with fear.
Monk: A warrior cloaked in darkness. They say he moves like a demon, untouched by the living flame. He bears a mark—a fallen Yokai.
The words hung in the air like a curse. Shinku’s fists clenched at his sides, his fiery nature barely contained.
Shinku: A demon? Or a coward hiding in shadows? If he dares face us, Suzaku’s flames will consume him.
Ryota’s voice cut through the tension, calm and deliberate.
Ryota: A fallen Yokai’s mark. It can only be Kaito Nakahara.
The monk nodded, his voice trembling as he continued.
Monk: He has been seen near the Kurāken no Suana venue, alongside the Yamamoto clan’s envoys. Rumors say he prepares for something... something that bends even the Yamamoto’s will.
Sasori’s gaze turned to the mist-covered paths, his voice dropping to a low growl.
Sasori: Kaito Nakahara. Once a brother, now a shadow. If he seeks the orb, he will find only judgment.
Tatsu gripped the pearl she carried, her voice resolute.
Tatsu: Ryujin demands vigilance. If Kaito Nakahara walks among the Yakuza, his corruption must be stopped before it spreads further.
Shinku stepped forward, his fiery resolve unshaken.
Shinku: Let him come. Suzaku’s flames will purify whatever darkness he carries.
Ryota’s hand rested on the hilt of his katana, his words heavy with conviction.
Ryota: “Seiryu does not bend to shadows. Nor will I. If Kaito Nakahara stands in our way, he will fall.
The monk’s voice wavered as he bowed deeply.
Monk: The allied monasteries watch and wait, unsure of their footing in this storm. They look to you, Sacred Order, for the path forward.
Sasori raised a gloved hand, silencing the monk with a commanding gesture.
Sasori: Return to your brothers. Tell them to stand firm and stay their hands. The Sacred Order will meet this storm head-on. The Yokai demand it.
The monk bowed again, retreating into the shadows with his lantern. The courtyard fell silent once more, save for the faint rustling of the wind. Sasori turned to face his team, his voice steady.
Sasori: The path ahead grows darker, but our resolve must burn brighter. Together, we face this storm. Together, we endure, and together you three will succeed in the Ronin Rumble come tomorrow night.
The others nodded, their silent agreement resonating in the cold, mist-laden air. Above them, the Yokai carvings on the walls seemed to shimmer faintly, as if offering their silent approval.