Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

Tokyo, Asakusa.

At one in the morning, Kaminarimon Gate still stood as that massive vermilion archway, like a silent behemoth crouching in the night. The bustling sounds of the daytime had long since faded, leaving only a few lonely lanterns swaying gently in the damp night breeze. Their orange glow cast flickering shadows on the cobblestones, like the wrinkles on an old man's face. A faint scent of incense mingled with the earthy smell of rain and the lingering aroma of sake and takoyaki from a distant izakaya. The wind whistled through the beams of Kaminarimon Gate, like someone whispering in the darkness.

Passing through Kaminarimon Gate, I walked along the approach lined with willow trees. The stone path, worn smooth by daytime visitors, made a soft "tap-tap" sound with each step, carrying far in the quiet night. The souvenir shops on both sides had their shutters down, their doors plastered with various posters: geishas in ukiyo-e style, adorable lucky cat figurines, and boxes of sweets bearing the words "Asakusa Specialties." The streetlights cast a dim, yellowish glow, barely illuminating the path, and in some corners, discarded tissues and empty drink bottles from the daytime visitors lay scattered, looking somewhat disheveled in the shadows.

Behind this row of lifeless souvenir shops lies a narrow alley, barely wide enough for one person to pass through. At the end of the alley lies an extremely inconspicuous shrine.

This shrine was pitifully small, lacking even a proper name, let alone a distinctive torii gate. There was only an old, dark brown wooden door, its paint peeling away to reveal the dark wood grain beneath. There was no door knocker, only a small, almost identical-colored brass latch, practically invisible unless one looked closely. The door remained closed year-round, thick dust accumulating in the cracks. A faded cloth curtain hung above the doorway, its patterns blurred; a gust of wind would slightly lift it, revealing a corner of the dark courtyard inside. Occasionally, late-night travelers would take a shortcut through, glancing at it hastily, assuming it was merely an abandoned backyard or a storage shed, never suspecting that a powerful undercurrent, capable of stirring up the entire Japanese shamanistic community, was brewing here.

But at this moment, the atmosphere inside the shrine was completely different from the deathly silence outside.

The inner hall was small and dimly lit, with only an old-fashioned oil lamp in the center, its tiny flame flickering and casting a swaying, yellowish glow over everything. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and an indescribable, musty smell, like something old and worn. The floor was covered with tatami mats, their edges worn and emitting a faint straw aroma. The walls were a simple, natural wood color, adorned with several ancient, undecipherable runes and a traditional Chinese ink painting depicting mountains, rivers, the sun, and the moon; the paper was yellowed and brittle.

Seven people were sitting upright on the tatami mat.

They sat in a circle, each in a different posture, yet all were exceptionally upright, like frozen sculptures. Their attire varied: some wore exquisite white hunting robes embroidered with dark gold cloud patterns; others wore tight-fitting black ninja outfits, the rough fabric clinging to their muscles, with short swords and several shuriken at their waists; still others wore ordinary dark kimonos, the hems casually spread on the tatami mats. But without exception, each of them exuded an aura far beyond that of ordinary people—a kind of authority born of long-held power, or the chilling coldness of years spent dealing with death, or unfathomable spiritual energy fluctuations, like undercurrents surging beneath a calm sea, making the air seem thick and viscous.

Seated at the head of the table was an elderly man with white hair and beard. He appeared to be nearing seventy, his face etched with deep wrinkles, as if carved by a knife and axe. Yet his eyes were exceptionally sharp, like those of a hawk, seemingly able to pierce the heart. He wore a spotless white hunting robe, the hem of which draped over the tatami mats like frozen snow. He wore a tall eboshi hat, its blackness contrasting sharply with his white hair. In his hand, he held a narrow, elongated scepter, seemingly engraved with tiny runes. He was none other than Saibe Daisuke, a high-ranking Shinto priest of Japan, holding a position of great esteem.

"Gentlemen," Saibe Daisuke began slowly, his voice aged and hoarse with the passing years, yet possessing an undeniable strength that resonated clearly in the silent inner hall, "you should all have heard about the unusual events that began a month ago."

His gaze slowly swept over everyone present.

Everyone remained silent, nodding slowly. Their expressions were solemn, their brows slightly furrowed, and their eyes held a hint of barely perceptible worry.

Those events were no secret to the Japanese monks. The gangland shootout in Shibuya late at night was unprecedented in scale and ruthlessness; when the police arrived, they found only corpses strewn across the ground and a scene of carnage. The series of murders in Shinjuku were bizarre, with victims' faces contorted in extreme terror, as if they had witnessed the most horrific things in the world. The large, long-established merchant family in Shinagawa was wiped out overnight, dozens of members killed without a trace; there were no signs of struggle at the scene, and the victims died silently in their sleep. Even… the Self-Defense Forces stationed on the outskirts of Tokyo and the US military engaged in armed conflict during an exercise due to a “misunderstanding,” resulting in significant casualties. In just one month, hundreds of people had silently died in Tokyo, this bustling international metropolis. The official explanations were either gangland feuds, crimes committed by mentally ill individuals, or accidents, but the true cause remained a mystery.

"We've investigated every lead we can," a middle-aged man dressed in black ninja attire began. He was of medium build, with dark skin, a grotesque scar running from his forehead to his jaw, and a sinister gaze. His voice was low and hoarse, like two stones rubbing together. He was the current leader of the Iga school, the legendary descendant of Hattori Hanzo, Hattori Kenichi. "What those dead have in common is—they all exhibited severe mental abnormalities before their deaths. Some suddenly went mad, hacking at anyone they saw; some fell into deep hallucinations, babbling incoherently at thin air, and eventually starved to death; and others…"

He paused, seemingly considering his words, a hint of apprehension flashing in his eyes.

"And some people... seem to be possessed by something."

"Possession?" Another young man dressed in a dark blue Onmyoji hunting robe frowned. He looked to be no more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, with handsome features and a hint of arrogance between his brows. A delicate octagonal pouch hung at his waist. He was Abe no Seimei, a rising star from a prestigious Onmyoji family in Kyoto and a direct descendant of the Abe clan. "You mean, an evil spirit is at work?"

"It's not necessarily an evil spirit." Kenichi Hattori shook his head, his fingers unconsciously stroking the hilt of the short sword at his waist. "We Iga-ryu have a secret technique that can briefly control a person's mind. But that requires close contact, and can only control one person at a time, and the duration is extremely short. Such a large-scale, simultaneous occurrence of mental abnormalities in different areas could never be achieved by ordinary magic. That power... is too bizarre, and too powerful."

Saibe Daisuke nodded slowly, his white beard trembling slightly with his movement.

"Therefore, we suspect that there is external interference."

He stretched out his thin but steady hand and took out a scroll from his wide sleeve. The scroll was wrapped in dark blue silk and tied with a thin red cord. He gently untied the cord and slowly unrolled the scroll on the low table in front of him.

The scroll contained intelligence written with a brush, the characters were neat, and there were also some simple symbols and map markings drawn next to it.

"A week ago, our informants in Hong Kong sent word," Daisuke Saibe said with a hint of gravity. "Similar strange events have occurred in Hong Kong—thirty-seven people have died mysteriously within a week. The manner of their deaths is extremely similar to that of the victims in Tokyo; all of them died with mental instability and distorted faces."

The expressions on everyone's faces grew even more serious, and they seemed to be breathing cautiously.

Hong Kong.

It was a small port in southern China, leased to the British over a century ago. Today, it's a bustling hub where Eastern and Western cultures and economies converge, a melting pot of diverse individuals and deeply entrenched power structures. But for Japanese cultivators, its greater significance lay in the fact that it represented the traditional sphere of influence of Chinese cultivators. After 1949, for some unknown reason, Chinese cultivators largely withdrew from the world, almost disappearing altogether. Yet, Hong Kong remained their last "backyard" overseas, a forbidden zone where no one else could tamper with it.

"You mean..." the young Onmyoji Abe no Seimei asked tentatively, his tone tinged with disbelief, "that it was done by Chinese cultivators? They... they want to break the agreement from back then?"

"Uncertain." Daisuke Saibe shook his head, his eyes deep. "But it's very likely. Besides them, we can't think of any other force with the power and motive to orchestrate such a large-scale incident simultaneously in Tokyo and Hong Kong."

He surveyed the crowd with piercing eyes, exuding an undeniable air of authority.

"We must send people to Hong Kong to investigate. If it was indeed the work of Chinese cultivators, we need to find out—why did they target Tokyo? This absolutely violates the 1949 agreement! We need an explanation, and we also need to know their next plan!"

"Send someone?" Kenichi Hattori sneered, his voice laced with mockery and disdain. "Send whom? You? Me? Or any of you here?"

He abruptly stood up, his movements as swift as a leopard, and walked to the narrow window, pulling open the paper shoji door. The night outside immediately rushed in, bringing with it a thicker dampness and a chill. He gazed at the deep darkness outside, the silhouette of Senso-ji Temple faintly visible in the distance.