A New Mask

Life, Relocation

The soul of Akechi Mitsuhide pitched forward, grasping uselessly at the air in a mad tumble. He hit the polished stone floor hard, tucked into a roll, and slammed upside-down into the opposite wall. Behind him, he saw an enormous skull lodged in the wall. It seemed as though he'd shot through one of its eye sockets. A black arm, sharp and withered, clawed through the portal for a moment, then pulled back with a hiss. Perhaps the air out here was as toxic to them as Yomi was to Humans. That was fortunate, then.

Mitsuhide's ghost stood and brushed spectral dust from his jacket. He popped his phantom collar and shook a handful of yellow dust from it, then took in his surroundings. Swords. A whole lot of swords. They covered the floor, with only a rabbit trail of sorts leading between the door and the giant skull opposite. Indeed, he seemed to be lying on a big, pointy pile of the things. That might have been bad, if Mitsuhide wasn't already dead. He reached down and attempted to grab a hilt, but his hand passed right through it. "Figures," he muttered.   There was no way he'd be going back through the skull-portal. It'd taken all his cunning just to get out of Izanami's realm with his soul intact. Instead, he turned and walked right through the giant double door. A few braziers burned in this room, illuminating two enormous statues, both carved in the likeness of fearsome-looking oni. Was he somewhere beneath Mount Ōe, then? Or perhaps in the lands of the Mōri Clan. Ectoplasmic lips scowled at that thought. Mōri Motonari was one of the few people Mitsuhide had a hard time dealing with.   Neither of those seemed quite right, though. There was something oddly familiar about this place. Perhaps he'd been here once before after all. He stepped out of the room and into a labyrinth, no doubt full of traps and dangers for the unwary. Those were of no issue to a ghost, though. As inconvenient as this state was, it did come with its perks.   Mitsuhide headed north first, following his instincts. As he proceeded, a certain sound reached his phantasmal ears. It was a rustling, bumping, and shuffling, as of someone sorting through a long-abandoned laboratory. An image of a masked man, clad in emerald finery, came unbidden to Mitsuhide's mind. No, it wouldn't do to run into someone like that now, especially "naked" as he was. Stepping one foot primly on the ground, Mitsuhide turned on his heel and walked back the way he came.   The other path through the labyrinth was more fruitful. It took a while, with more than a few dead ends, but he was in no hurry. Soon enough, he stood in a torchlit hallway stretching out in a single direction (thank the heavens for that) into the darkness beyond. A door to the left proved barred even to his insubstantial form, so Mitsuhide continued on before turning on a whim into a deep stairwell. He passed a pair of samurai guards bearing the Hashinara kamon on their armor. Ah. That confirmed a hunch he'd been fostering. It was definitely good thing he'd dodged that laboratory, then.   Of course, the guards didn't notice a thing as Mitsuhide strolled past. He gave them a friendly wave anyway and proceeded through the dim stone halls. Yes, there was a dungeon down here, conspicuously empty. Were the Hashinara getting friendlier, or did they simply have other ways of "disposing" of their enemies these days? Perhaps... Yes, perfect!   Mitsuhide phased through one last door and found himself standing in a spacious crypt. A series of stone slabs, arranged in neat rows, each displayed a single supine corpse. The bodies were well-preserved, perhaps magically, and not a single one held a soul. For a crafty spirit without a home, there could be nothing more perfect to stumble upon. Offering up a quick prayer of thanks to Amatsu-Mikaboshi, Mitsuhide started window shopping. There were a number of fine choices here, but... His eyes fell on a corpse he recognized from description, if not firsthand experience, and a wide smile broke across his face. Oh yes, how ironic that would be...