The tremors grew stronger.
The lanterns hanging from the wooden beams swayed violently, casting warped shadows that stretched and twisted across the walls. The sound of iron hooves striking the wet stone outside was growing clearer—measured, relentless, like the approach of something inevitable.
The man in black did not move immediately. His sharp eyes flickered from the trembling teahouse walls to the tea in my hands, then toward the half-open door where an unnatural fog began to seep in.
"Are you going to just sit there?"he asked, voice low and tight with something between frustration and wariness.
I smiled slightly, raising the cup of Blood Bodhi tea to my lips, though I did not drink. The liquid's crimson hue swirled, reflecting the flickering light, as if something inside it was alive.
"You seem troubled,"I murmured, tilting my head to observe him.
The man's jaw tightened."If you knew what was out there, you wouldn't be wasting time with riddles."
I chuckled softly."Oh, I know exactly what's out there."
As if on cue, the wooden shutters blew open with a violent gust, sending scrolls tumbling from the shelves. The scent of damp earth and rusted iron filled the air—a scent unmistakably woven with death.
A chorus of eerie whispers followed, slithering through the air like unseen specters, their voices overlapping in a maddening chant:
"Return what was taken…return what was taken…"
The man in black took a step back, his hand still hovering near his concealed weapon."What do they want?"
I placed the teacup down onto the wooden counter with a deliberate slowness, letting the sound echo through the now-unnaturally quiet room.
"They are searching for a debt unpaid,"I said."Perhaps a soul stolen. A fate rewritten. A promise broken."
His eyes darkened."And you think I am the one they seek?"
I did not answer immediately. Instead, I extended a finger and traced a symbol into the wooden surface of the counter. The air around us shifted subtly.
Outside, the fog thickened, and shadows formed within it—indistinct figures in the armor of a time long past, their outlines flickering like a dying flame. Some still clutched rusted weapons, others bore the marks of wounds that had never healed. Their gazes were empty, yet filled with an endless hunger.
The man in black inhaled sharply."Shadow troops."
I nodded."They are caught in a cycle of death, unable to find peace."
A silence stretched between us.
Then, the iron-shod hooves halted.
A stillness settled over the street outside. Even the rain, which had been pounding relentlessly, seemed to momentarily pause.
Then—
A single knock came at the door.
Not the frantic pounding of a desperate traveler, nor the hesitant rap of a lost stranger. This was measured, precise, deliberate.
The man in black turned toward me, his voice tense."You're not going to open it, are you?"
I glanced toward the door, then reached for the celadon teacup once more. The tea inside remained undisturbed, but its surface reflected something unnatural—
A pair of hollow, soulless eyes staring back at me.
A second knock.
Louder this time.
The man in black exhaled sharply, his patience fraying."I won't wait for them to break down the door."He moved—his cloak billowing as he reached for his weapon.
I lifted a single hand."Wait."
He froze mid-step, his fingers mere inches from the hilt.
The door creaked—not open, but inward, as if breathing.
A long, drawn-out exhalation of the house itself.
The temperature dropped.
For the first time, the man hesitated. His instincts were sharp—he had sensed it, too.
This was no ordinary haunting.
The teahouse itself was responding.
I stood slowly, the wooden floorboards groaning beneath my step."Floating Life Teahouse does not refuse guests."
The man's lips parted, about to protest, but before he could speak—
The door swung open on its own.
The mist surged in, swirling like living tendrils, wrapping around the furniture, the lanterns, the very air itself. And from its depths…
A figure emerged.
Tall, draped in ceremonial robes that had once been magnificent but were now faded with time. His hands were hidden within the sleeves, but the way he carried himself, he was no ordinary ghost.
The man in black stiffened beside me. His hand clenched into a fist."…Him."
I raised an eyebrow."You know this one?"
The figure's face was obscured by the mist, but his voice—**rich, ancient, and steeped in an authority that had not faded even in death—**echoed through the teahouse.
"Tea Master, I have come for what was promised."
The air turned to ice.
The man in black took a step forward, his voice low and sharp."You should not have come here."
A chuckle came from the mist, hollow and without warmth.
"Neither should you, General."
A long pause followed.
The man in black stilled.
Not a single muscle moved. But I saw the way his shoulders tensed—the flicker of something buried deep flashing in his gaze.
"…General?"I murmured.
His jaw clenched.
The mist-enshrouded figure stepped further into the teahouse. Though his face was still unclear, something about his presence felt wrong—like a thread left untied in the fabric of fate.
"Tea Master,"he said again, addressing me this time."This place has remained beyond the reach of time for long enough. It is time to settle the old debts."
I studied him, then flicked my gaze toward the man in black.
The pieces were coming together.
Floating Life Teahouse was built on the remnants of forgotten histories, feeding off the lingering traces of obsession, regret, and fate unfulfilled.
And now, a visitor had come to collect.
I exhaled slowly."And if I refuse?"
The mist figure did not hesitate.
"Then the cycle will begin anew."
A deep rumbling shook the teahouse.
The shadows on the walls began to move.
The man in black drew his weapon.
And outside, beyond the threshold of Floating Life Teahouse—
The dead began to rise.