Chapter 46: The Found Weapons

  The Tori no Ichizoku buildings, towering in their decaying grandeur, stood like rotting monuments to a forgotten era of power. The once-vibrant walls, now cracked and weathered, had absorbed the echoes of pain, violence, and secrecy, their history written in the whispers of those who had perished under its dark reign. Now, after years of neglect, the clan's empire had crumbled, but its lingering presence refused to vanish. The atmosphere was thick with a lingering, oppressive energy, a sense of loss and danger that filled every crevice, every room.

  "Careful," Temna murmured, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the stillness. He had always been the most attuned to his surroundings, his instincts finely honed after years of tracking and eliminating threats. Each step he took was deliberate, calculated. There was no rush, no wasted movement. Temna's calm gaze swept over the corridors as though reading the building's pulse, sensing the danger even before it arrived.

  Krishna, the impulsive one, could feel the weight of the air pressing against him. His mind raced in directions his body struggled to follow. His eyes darted over the shattered remnants of the walls, the signs of violence, but also of neglect. The eerie silence gnawed at him. He couldn't shake the nagging thought that Dr. Machinist's legacy—dark and terrifying—had never truly died. If anything, it was still very much alive, lurking in the corners of this forsaken place. But there was more to it, something beneath the surface that was making his blood run cold.

  "I can feel it," Krishna muttered, almost to himself. His words were laced with an edge, a creeping sense of dread that, though hard to admit, had been creeping into his thoughts since they entered the building. "This place feels like it’s waiting for us... waiting for something to happen."

  Martin, ever the cocky one, shot Krishna a glance, his smirk barely masking the unease in his chest. His usual bravado had dimmed under the weight of the atmosphere. "Yeah, well, it’s giving me the creeps too. Look at this place," he said, gesturing at the derelict surroundings. "I wouldn’t be surprised if we found a damn ghost haunting this place. But I’ll tell you one thing—whatever’s going down here, I don’t think it’s friendly."

  Takashi, with his cocky defiance usually a shield against his deeper insecurities, was doing his best to maintain a tough exterior. But the unease was eating away at him. He was younger, still learning, still untested in many ways, and the weight of the situation was beginning to feel too real. "I don’t know, man. This feels off. What if it’s all a trap?" He cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the silence. "I mean, look at how pristine everything is. It doesn’t add up. It’s like someone’s been keeping it all in check for... what? Waiting for the right moment?"

  Temna’s piercing gaze landed on Takashi, his older brother’s calm demeanor never cracking, but his words were stern and serious. "Don't overthink it, Takashi. Your instincts are off. This isn’t about traps. It’s about what’s been left behind. Focus. Stay sharp. We’re not just wandering into some old haunted house."

  Temna's words were always authoritative, but there was an undeniable tension in his voice as he led the way deeper into the compound. The brothers followed him, moving with precision and purpose, the shadows growing darker, the air thickening. Krishna's heart beat faster with every step, his eyes scanning the walls, the broken furniture, the remnants of what could only be described as horrific chaos.

  "Stay focused," Temna reminded them again, his voice a low command. "Whatever we find here, it won’t be pretty."

  They rounded a corner, and the building seemed to swallow the light. The oppressive weight of history seemed to close in on them. Krishna’s hand instinctively gripped his weapon tighter, but he couldn’t shake the sensation that they were not alone. The thought only became clearer as they came upon a door—weathered, old, and barely hanging on its hinges.

  "Well, this is it," Temna said, his voice quiet, almost reverential. "It’s here."

  Krishna exchanged a look with Martin, who gave a half-smile, his cockiness not entirely gone, but the air of uncertainty undeniable in his eyes. "Here’s to hoping we don’t find a shitload of zombies or some weird lab experiment," he quipped, trying to keep the mood light, but the fear in his eyes betrayed him.

  Takashi huffed, attempting to mask his unease with a forced chuckle. "Yeah, or worse, a damn army of freaks ready to take our heads off."

  Temna didn't wait for them to joke any longer. He pushed the door open with a slow, deliberate motion. The door groaned on its hinges, echoing like a warning. But there was no going back now. As the door creaked open, the brothers were greeted by a sight that silenced even their snide comments.

  Inside was a room—vast, unwelcoming, and filled with weapons. But these weren’t ordinary weapons. They were tools of unspeakable horror, designed for destruction and pain. The walls were lined with surgical tools—gleaming scalpels, forceps, and bone saws—each one more terrifying than the last. Their surfaces glinted menacingly in the dim light, each one more finely crafted than the last. Some had been used, stained with the remnants of old blood, but every instrument was meticulously preserved, almost as if someone had been tending to them all these years.

  Krishna’s breath caught in his throat. He stepped forward, his eyes wide with a mix of horror and fascination. "This is..." He couldn’t even finish his sentence, the words failing him. "This is sick."

  Martin, normally unfazed by the grotesque, swallowed hard as his eyes flickered over the instruments. "Holy shit. These things are straight out of a nightmare." His usual cockiness faltered as he scanned the room, his posture a little more defensive. The familiar glint of a weapon in his hand was no longer reassuring—it was an acknowledgment that they were in over their heads.

  Temna stood at the threshold, his calculating mind taking in the room’s contents, piecing together the grim reality. "These aren’t just weapons," he muttered, his voice calm, but with an edge that suggested the severity of what they were facing. "This is Dr. Machinist’s work. This is what he left behind. These tools were meant for something more than killing—they were meant to send a message. A reminder."

  Takashi stepped forward hesitantly, his face pale as he looked over the massive blades and grotesque devices. "Wait... you think Machinist's still around? After all this time?"

  Krishna’s mind was racing, his thoughts chaotic, trying to piece together the truth from the fragments that didn’t make sense. "If these weapons are still here, someone’s been keeping them in perfect condition. Either Dr. Machinist is still alive, or someone else is carrying on his work. We’re in the middle of something we don’t understand."

  As they moved through the room, collecting the weapons, the air seemed to grow heavier. The silence grew deafening, and with each item they picked up, they could feel the weight of the building pressing in on them. Each weapon felt like it was absorbing the darkness of the room, its malevolent energy seeping into their skin, into their bones.

  With the weapons packed, the brothers made their way back through the narrow halls, their minds heavy with the knowledge of what they had uncovered. But they weren’t done yet. Dr. Machinist’s legacy was far from gone, and whatever was waiting out there—whatever threat still lingered—was coming to the forefront.

  "Whatever happens next, we stay together," Temna’s voice broke through the tense silence, steady and resolute. The brothers knew that nothing was certain. But one thing was clear: they were in this together, for better or worse.

  As they proceeded down the narrow hallways, the sense of dread only deepened. The oppressive weight of the Tori no Ichizoku compound’s twisted past hung heavily over them, like a dark cloud waiting to burst. Every step seemed to echo through the building, and the strange silence that followed each sound seemed even louder, almost mocking them. Krishna felt as if the walls themselves were closing in, watching them with eyes they could not see. It was as though the building was alive, aware of their presence, and it did not want them to leave.

  The brothers had passed through the crumbling corridors of the compound, passing rooms that once held the dark mysteries of the clan’s most vile dealings, yet there was a sense that they were only just scratching the surface. As they moved forward, the hallway took on a different feel—like they were moving deeper into the very bowels of the building. There was a stench that became more pungent as they walked, an acrid, metallic scent that hung in the air, mixing with the mustiness of decay. Krishna’s nose wrinkled in disgust as the odor hit him. It was the smell of something far worse than mere rot.

  "Something’s not right," Krishna muttered, his voice low and edged with unease.

  Temna paused, his hand signaling for the others to stop. His eyes scanned the hallway, each movement deliberate and cautious. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise, a sure sign that something was amiss. The others knew better than to question him at times like this, and they too grew still, senses heightened.

  "Stay sharp," Temna instructed in a low voice. "This place isn’t finished with us yet."

  As they continued, the layout of the building grew more labyrinthine. The once grand architecture had crumbled into chaos, but even in the ruin, there was something unsettling about the space they moved through. Rooms with barred windows that seemed to look into nothing, doorways that led into deeper shadows, and walls adorned with strange symbols, half-erased and almost forgotten in their twisted nature. The walls themselves seemed to tell a story of violence and pain—scratches and marks, some of which looked like desperate clawing, others that were too deliberate to be random. It was as if the building itself was a scarred being, one that had absorbed all the atrocities committed within it.

  The brothers' steps quickened as they entered a large room, but the stench intensified. It was an open space, lined with tables and makeshift counters that looked like they had been hastily built and abandoned. The floor was slick with a strange, viscous substance. A sudden realization hit Krishna—the room they had just entered was not just a storage space; it was a place of ritual, a place of unspeakable acts. The air was thick with the scent of old blood, and as they looked closer, the brothers saw the remnants of what could only be described as a cannibalistic operation.

  There were jars of grotesque substances, things that looked like they belonged in a horror film rather than in reality. In the corners of the room, grotesque implements—tools that might have once been used for dissection or carving—lay discarded, dripping with what could only be human remains. The walls were stained, not just with blood but with something far more disturbing. Some of the walls bore what appeared to be grotesque murals, painted with the blood of past victims—depictions of human suffering, twisted and malformed, as if the clan had indulged in a form of ritualistic cannibalism. The realization that this was a cannibal soup kitchen—a place where the bodies of those unfortunate enough to be captured had been cooked and consumed—sent a shiver down Krishna’s spine.

  "What the hell is this?" Martin asked, his voice cracking slightly, betraying the horror that was finally settling in. He was the least likely to be shaken, yet there was no denying the sickening nature of what lay before them.

  Temna didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, examining the contents with a calculating gaze, taking in every detail. "This was a feeding ground. The Tori no Ichizoku wasn’t just about power and control. They had their own twisted rituals. It’s no wonder they managed to remain so feared for so long. They were feeding on their enemies—literally."

  Krishna’s stomach churned at the thought. "So this is it? This is what the building was for? Not just weapons, but feeding on the broken?"

  The room seemed to grow colder. The shadows that clung to the edges of the walls seemed to grow longer, darker, as if they were alive—perhaps they were. This room had a history, and the past that echoed through its walls was nothing but death and torment. The walls weren’t just lined with tools of death; they were lined with the remnants of souls long forgotten. Krishna’s eyes darted to the far corner of the room, where a staircase led down into an even darker part of the building. A faint light flickered from the base, like a beacon calling to them. Something was down there.

  "I think we need to go deeper," Krishna said, his voice hushed but resolute. There was something in the air that pulled him toward it, something that whispered that they were not done here yet.

  Temna nodded. He had been expecting this. "Alright," he said, his voice colder than ever. "But we move cautiously. Stay alert."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  They descended into the lower levels of the building, the steps creaking beneath them, the cold air pressing in tighter with each descent. The light grew fainter as they moved further into the darkness, the shadows swallowing them whole. The deeper they went, the more the building seemed to take on a life of its own—a grotesque, suffocating presence that left them feeling like prey being stalked by something far older and more dangerous than any of them could fathom.

  At the base of the stairs, they emerged into a massive room, larger than anything they had encountered so far. The floor was covered in the remains of broken bodies, remnants of the clan's most twisted operations—discarded remains of their enemies, friends, and allies alike. The room was strewn with bloodied rags, jagged glass, and rusted chains. But what really caught their attention were the kill rooms—rooms designed for nothing but torment.

  In the center of the chamber, there was a large iron chair, its arms and legs bound with shackles. It looked like something pulled from a medieval torture chamber. The chair was stained with dried blood, and scattered across the floor were tools for dismemberment—surgical knives, chainsaws, and even crude devices that looked like they'd been pieced together from spare parts. It was a place where victims had been slowly broken, their lives snuffed out piece by piece.

  Takashi shuddered, his face pale as he stepped back. "What the hell is this place? Are we in the depths of their madness? This is... this is something else entirely."

  Martin looked away from the scene in front of him, his jaw clenched. "It’s more than just a hideout. It’s a house of horrors. These people weren’t just power-hungry—they were sadistic, twisted beyond recognition."

  Temna said nothing for a moment, his eyes scanning the room, piecing together its grim story. "This is Dr. Machinist’s legacy. The clan’s thirst for control didn’t just stop at the world above. It extended deep into the bowels of their compound—into this place. A place where they tore people apart, both physically and mentally. The worst part is, I think they were doing it to fuel something bigger. Maybe to create something... something even worse."

  Krishna’s breath was shallow as his mind grappled with the horror before him. "This is madness. These aren’t just weapons we found. These are tools for an entirely different kind of war. A war fought in the darkest corners of humanity."

  The brothers stood there, each one of them processing the true extent of the Tori no Ichizoku’s depravity. It wasn’t just the legacy of a clan—it was the legacy of monsters. But one thing was clear: whoever had kept this place in pristine condition wasn’t done yet. They had only just begun to prepare.

  As they made their way out of the torture chambers and back to the narrow hallways, their minds were heavy with the knowledge of what they had uncovered. But the feeling of being watched—the sensation that something was moving just out of sight—grew stronger with every passing step. Whatever lay ahead, whatever awaited them in the dark depths of this forsaken building, it was waiting for them to come. And there was no way to stop what was coming next. The Kurushimi brothers were about to face a threat unlike any they had encountered before, and the stakes had never been higher.

  the discovery

  The discovery was a revelation, one that sent chills down the Kurushimi brothers’ spines. The air in the abandoned Tori no Ichizoku camp had grown thick with a sense of malevolent presence, the very atmosphere seemingly charged with the history of dark rituals and unspoken horrors. The walls, crumbling with age, felt as though they were watching the brothers’ every movement, silently observing as they peeled back the layers of a past that had never truly died.

  As they stepped further into the room, the brothers could feel the oppressive weight of the discovery bearing down on them, thick and suffocating. The cold air seemed to deepen, the room becoming unbearably still. It was as though the space itself had been preserved, a museum of horrors left behind, waiting for the right moment to be unearthed. Every detail in the room, every item, was deliberate, as though placed with intent—almost as if someone had anticipated their arrival, watching their every move from the shadows.

  The room was sparsely furnished, with little more than a few broken tables and shattered remnants of the clan’s previous activities. Yet, what lay at the center of the room—the collection of robes—felt like a message. There was something about them that commanded attention, drawing the brothers in despite their unease. It was an eerie calm, almost as if the robes themselves were waiting for someone to come and claim them once again.

  The dark red fabric of the robes hung from the hooks along the wall, their presence far more sinister than they first appeared. The brothers stood frozen for a moment, staring at the garments with wide eyes. Each robe was impeccably preserved, the rich crimson hue somehow untouched by time. Despite the disrepair of the building around them, these garments had been carefully maintained, their elegance remaining intact. The fabric, though aged, gleamed with an unnatural luster, absorbing the dim light and casting an ominous aura across the room.

  The Red Robe Soldiers, as the brothers had come to understand, were the elite warriors of the Tori no Ichizoku. Their role in the clan’s operations had been legendary—silent, lethal, and loyal to their cause. These soldiers had been trained to carry out the most heinous of orders, executing missions with chilling efficiency and brutal precision. The mere sight of the robes sent a wave of nausea through the brothers, knowing that these garments were not just symbols of power but of terror, an emblem of a group that thrived on death and destruction.

  Krishna's hand instinctively reached out, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of one of the robes. His breath caught in his throat as a wave of dread washed over him. The robe felt cold to the touch, like the grave, but its material seemed to pulse with a dark energy, as if the very history of the Tori no Ichizoku was embedded within it. His mind raced with the unsettling realization that these robes were not abandoned—they had been preserved for a reason.

  Temna stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the robes with grim determination. "These aren’t relics of the past. Whoever left these behind didn’t do so by accident. These uniforms were kept in pristine condition. They were meant to be used again."

  The revelation struck the brothers with the weight of a thousand thoughts. The Red Robe Soldiers, they knew, had once been a symbol of fear. Their presence had marked the Tori no Ichizoku’s most secretive operations—missions that had been carried out with a brutal efficiency that left entire cities trembling. But if these robes were still here, untouched by time and decay, what did it mean? Who had been keeping them? And more importantly—why?

  Martin’s voice was low, heavy with disbelief. "But this doesn’t make sense. The Red Robe Soldiers were all but gone before we were born. The Tori no Ichizoku was destroyed years ago. We’ve been told they were wiped out—gone from the world."

  Takashi’s hand clenched around the grip of his weapon, his mind spiraling. "What if they’re not gone? What if someone’s been hiding in the shadows, keeping the Red Robe Soldiers alive? What if they’ve been waiting for the right moment to return?"

  The brothers exchanged tense looks, their hearts pounding in their chests. The discovery was far more than a relic from the past. It was a sign—an unmistakable sign—that the Tori no Ichizoku, or at least a part of it, was still very much alive. The realization was both terrifying and maddening. Their mission had been to eliminate the remnants of the clan, to end its reign of terror once and for all. But now, they were faced with the terrifying possibility that this mission was far from over.

  Before they could dwell on this newfound dread, the brothers’ attention was drawn to a table positioned at the far end of the room. It was a low, wooden table, its surface covered in dust and grime. But upon closer inspection, the dust had been disturbed, and upon the table lay a set of masks—cold, sleek, and unmistakably the masks worn by the Red Robe Soldiers.

  The masks were hollow-eyed and unnervingly sharp at the edges, designed not only to hide the identities of those who wore them but also to strike fear into anyone who looked upon them. Each mask was meticulously crafted, the hollow eyes seeming to stare into the very soul of anyone who dared to gaze upon them. They were designed for intimidation, to instill terror in the hearts of their enemies—and to remind the wearer that they were a part of something greater, something darker.

  Temna’s hand trembled as he picked up one of the masks, its weight unsettling. It was heavier than he had anticipated, and as his fingers traced the contours of its jagged edges, a sense of foreboding gripped him. "These masks... they’ve been here for far too long. Who’s been maintaining them?"

  Krishna’s mind churned with grim possibilities. "If the Red Robe Soldiers are still active... if these masks and robes have been kept intact... that means someone is still carrying on the legacy of the Tori no Ichizoku. Someone has been hiding in plain sight, keeping the organization alive in the shadows."

  Martin’s face darkened as he absorbed the weight of the implications. "But why? Why now? What could they possibly want with these old traditions? The world has changed. The Tori no Ichizoku should be a thing of the past."

  Takashi’s jaw clenched as he let out a slow breath, the reality of their situation sinking in. "This isn’t just about Dr. Machinist anymore. He may have been the orchestrator of the experiments, but someone else is playing a far older game. Whoever’s behind this isn’t just interested in chaos—they want to revive the Tori no Ichizoku in full force. They want the power, the fear, and the control that came with it."

  The atmosphere in the room grew heavier, thick with tension. The brothers understood now that their mission had shifted. This wasn’t about dismantling remnants of the past—it was about facing a resurgent force, one that had been quietly lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to rise again. They had to find out who was behind this resurgence and stop them before the Tori no Ichizoku could make its grand return.

  Temna’s voice cut through the thick silence, sharp and focused. "We’ve found what we need. But this isn’t the end—it’s only the beginning. Whoever’s behind this revival isn’t just a ghost from the past. They’re a real threat, and we can’t afford to let them operate in the shadows any longer."

  Krishna clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. "We’ve come this far. There’s no turning back now. We’ll hunt down every last trace of the Tori no Ichizoku and ensure they never rise again."

  The brothers exchanged determined looks, their bond stronger than ever. This discovery had set them on a new path—one that would take them deeper into the heart of the shadows, where the legacy of the Tori no Ichizoku still lingered. And this time, they wouldn’t stop until every last vestige of the clan had been eradicated.

  the Fight

  The atmosphere in the Tori no Ichizoku camp felt as though it had become a battleground, the walls still soaked in the oppressive aura of dark history. The brothers—Krishna, Temna, Martin, and Takashi—stood shoulder to shoulder, their determination only growing with the discovery of the Red Robe Soldiers’ remnants. They were not only facing the resurgence of a violent past, but now they were about to face something much worse: an active member of the Red Robe Soldiers, one who had been lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  The dim light flickered as the brothers moved cautiously into the heart of the camp, the echo of their footsteps muffled by the silence. Their hearts pounded in their chests as the realization of their pursuit began to set in—this wasn’t just about finding artifacts anymore. This was a fight for their lives.

  From the darkness, a figure emerged.

  The Red Robe Soldier, a towering figure draped in the crimson fabric, moved with chilling precision. His steps were deliberate, his eyes cold and unfeeling as he adjusted his mask—perfectly smooth with hollow eyes staring into the void. It was impossible to tell his identity, but his posture, the way he held himself, spoke volumes. This was no ordinary fighter.

  Krishna’s eyes narrowed as he sized up the soldier. "Get ready," he muttered under his breath, signaling his brothers to take defensive stances.

  Temna gripped his weapon tightly, his muscles tense as he braced for the inevitable confrontation. "This one feels different. He's not just a soldier."

  Martin, with his keen instincts, was the first to react. "This one’s trained. MMA style. He’s not just about brute force—he’s precise, tactical. We need to work as a team."

  The Red Robe Soldier took a deep breath, his movements fluid as he adjusted his stance. Then, in a blur of motion, he struck.

  The fight erupted in an instant.

  The soldier’s first move was a low, sweeping kick aimed at Temna’s legs. But Temna was prepared, ducking under the strike and countering with a swift punch to the soldier’s midsection. However, the Red Robe Soldier absorbed the blow, spinning with a fluid motion and retaliating with a brutal elbow strike to Temna’s ribs. The impact was deafening, but Temna gritted his teeth, refusing to let the pain slow him down.

  Martin was next to engage, his movements sharp and calculated. He charged forward with a series of rapid jabs, each strike aimed with deadly intent. But the Red Robe Soldier was quick, dodging and weaving with practiced ease, his MMA training evident in every move. He parried Martin’s attacks with grace, then spun low to the ground and swept Martin’s legs from under him, sending him crashing to the floor.

  Krishna watched the fight unfold, his mind working a thousand miles a minute. "He’s quick," he muttered, analyzing the soldier’s movements. "We need to disable him—get him off balance."

  Takashi, always the first to act with a burst of raw power, surged forward. He threw himself at the soldier with a devastating roundhouse kick, but the Red Robe Soldier caught his leg mid-swing. With a twist of his body, he hurled Takashi to the ground, his speed and strength overwhelming.

  The brothers regrouped quickly, realizing that this fight wasn’t just about overwhelming force. They were dealing with someone who understood combat from a psychological and strategic perspective. Each move the soldier made was calculated—nothing was wasted.

  Temna, breathing heavily from the earlier hit, called out, "Don’t let him control the pace! We need to overwhelm him!"

  Krishna took the lead. With his sharp mind and quick reflexes, he feigned an attack, baiting the soldier into a false opening. As the Red Robe Soldier lunged to strike, Krishna sidestepped and used his opponent’s momentum against him, sweeping his legs out from under him with a quick, practiced move.

  For a moment, the Red Robe Soldier stumbled, his balance momentarily broken. The brothers saw their chance.

  Martin rushed forward, landing a brutal knee to the soldier’s ribs. Takashi followed suit, landing a powerful punch to the soldier’s jaw, snapping his head back. The Red Robe Soldier retaliated with a swift knee to Takashi’s gut, sending him staggering, but it was clear he was starting to lose ground.

  The soldier’s movements became more frantic as the brothers closed in, working as a cohesive unit. Their combined strength and relentless attacks began to wear him down.

  With a final, synchronized move, Temna and Martin flanked the soldier, trapping him between them. Krishna moved in from the front, his eyes burning with focus. With one fluid motion, he brought his elbow down on the soldier’s exposed neck, knocking the wind out of him and sending him crumpling to the ground.

  The room fell silent. The brothers stood over the Red Robe Soldier, panting heavily from the intense battle. His crimson robe lay in tatters around him, his mask now shattered and his identity revealed—nothing more than a shadow of a forgotten past.

  Krishna looked down at the defeated soldier, his breath steadying. "This is just the beginning," he muttered. "There are more out there. And we’re going to find them all."

  The brothers exchanged determined looks, their resolve solidified by the brutal fight. This wasn’t just a fight for survival—it was a fight to end a legacy of terror that had somehow managed to resurface. And they would see it through to the end, no matter the cost.

  As they turned to leave, the heavy air of the Tori no Ichizoku camp felt less oppressive, but the shadow of what awaited them still loomed large.