Michikatsu heard rumours of people vanishing in this forest, passing through and disappearing and then dogs appearing. The thought was dismissed as merely ghost stories told by superstitious villagers, but something about the reports lingered in his mind. Dogs appearing where people vanished? It didn't fit the usual patterns of demon attacks—too precise, too methodical. Demons were savage, leaving corpses and blood. They didn’t replace their victims with animals.

He adjusted the grip on his sword as he stepped into the forest, the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves thick in the air. Moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting jagged shadows across his path. The villagers had warned him not to go alone, but Michikatsu had spent years sharpening his blade against creatures far worse than whatever lurked here. And yet—his fingers twitched. He had not felt unease like this since his first hunt.

A low rustle in the underbrush made him tense. His free hand instinctively moved to his hip—then froze. Something brushed against his thigh. Not his cloak. Not his scabbard. Something... furry. Twisting, he caught a glimpse of it—a tail, thick and dark, swaying behind him like it belonged there. His breath hitched. Impossible. He reached back, fingers closing around coarse fur, and the sensation sent a jolt through him as though he had touched a stranger's limb grafted onto his body.

His pulse roared in his ears. The villagers' whispers coiled back into his mind—dogs appearing where people vanished. He pulled his hand away as if burned. Had he been walking like this the whole time? How long? His throat tightened. No wound, no pain, no memory of anything amiss until now. Just the creeping horror of realizing his body had betrayed him without notice. The tail twitched again, independent of his will, like a second creature latched onto him.

Michikatsu forced himself forward, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He wouldn't—couldn't—stop. Moonlight carved his shadow into the dirt, elongated and grotesque. The tail swayed there too. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, the familiar ridges of the grip offering no comfort. Every step sent the tail brushing against his thigh, the sensation alien and intimate. He thought of Yoriichi's uncanny perception—how he saw the body's workings laid bare. If his brother were here now, would he watch Michikatsu's spine lengthen, his bones warp? Would he pity him again?

The path sloped downward, slick with moss. He slipped. His bare foot—when had he lost his sandals?—skidded against wet stone, claws scraping where nails should be. Claws. His breath stuttered. His toes curled instinctively, muscles moving wrong beneath skin that wasn't his. The transformation was painless, inevitable as dusk swallowing daylight. He flexed his paws—no, his feet—against the earth, feeling the give of soil between what were no longer toes. The scent of the forest sharpened: damp bark, musk of something wild. He tasted copper at the back of his throat.

His steps quickened without his permission, gait adjusting fluidly as his knees bent backward, tendons reconfiguring themselves. The tail—his tail—balanced him effortlessly as he loped between trees. A guttural sound escaped his throat, half-snarl, half-laugh. How long had this been happening? Had the villagers seen him like this when they warned him away? He caught his reflection in a moonlit puddle: elongated muzzle, ears pricked high and furred. Only his eyes remained unchanged—human, wide with horror.

His sword clattered to the ground as his fingers fused, claws clicking against the scabbard. The weapon was useless now. He tried to speak, to curse, but his tongue lolled heavy and thick between teeth too sharp for words. The transformation wasn’t painful. That was the worst part. His body welcomed the change like slipping into a well-worn kimono. A scent sliced through the fog of his panic—blood, fresh and close. His head snapped toward it before he could stop himself, nostrils flaring. Some primal part of him knew the source before his mind caught up: a rabbit, trembling in the underbrush twenty paces ahead. His mouth flooded with saliva. The hunger hit like a blade between the ribs, sudden and visceral. He lunged before the thought fully formed, paws churning the earth in a sprint that felt more natural than walking upright ever had.

The rabbit didn’t scream. His jaws closed around its spine with a wet crunch, the coppery tang of blood bursting across his tongue. He swallowed without chewing. It wasn’t until the last twitch of fur slid down his throat that the horror crashed over him. He recoiled, shaking his muzzle as if to dislodge the taste, but his body thrummed with satisfaction. His stomach, no longer human, settled contentedly. The realization struck like lightning—he’d hunted before. Many times. The villagers hadn’t seen dogs replacing the missing. They’d seen him.

His claws dug into the soil as another crack reverberated through him, this time from his shoulders. His kimono split along the seams as his torso elongated, ribs expanding to accommodate lungs built for running. The fabric hung in tatters, useless as his old life. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled backward, tendons snapping into place with sickening ease. A whine escaped him—high, animal, terrified. The sound only twisted the knife deeper. This wasn’t possession. This was him. Had always been him. The forest knew it before he did; the earth yielded to his paws as though greeting an old friend.

The final shift came without ceremony. His face burned as his skull reshaped, the muzzle pushing forward to the end, teeth crowding into fangs. His black fur grew in as it finished, thick and coarse, swallowing the last patches of human skin. He was a dog. The realization should have shattered him. Instead, his body thrummed with a predatory calm, muscles coiled and ready. The moon painted his pelt silver. He turned his head and saw his reflection in a rain puddle: amber eyes, ears pricked forward, a beast straight from the villagers’ nightmares. The face staring back was unrecognizable. And yet—the longer he looked, the more he understood. This was no curse. It was a homecoming. He padded forward on silent paws, the forest parting for him like an old friend. Scents unfolded in layers: rabbit trails, fox musk, the lingering sweat of hunters long gone. His nose twitched. The world had always been this vivid—he’d just been blind to it. He emerged from the treeline at dawn, dew clinging to his fur.