Room 099 was cold.
Whether it was the tension or the actual temperature, Akaya couldn't say for certain. It was probably both, he concluded, keeping his mind objective.
At the back of the chamber stood a twisted, ominous tree. Its roots spread thick and proud. And nestled at its base, like a child clinging to their mother, was a swordsman clad in black hakama—his body itself made of wood, as if part of the cursed tree.
His sword was stabbed into the ground beside him. Within reach. Always within reach.
Akaya stepped forward.
Tap, tap. His footsteps echoed through the stillness.
Shibahime stopped at the doorway, but he continued, unbothered. The moment he passed twice the distance she'd dared to cross, the air changed—without warning, without command.
The Treant Swordsman moved.
Slowly, deliberately, his hand reached for the hilt. He gripped it and pulled the blade free.
Akaya swung his arm sideways.
