Red Death S1

Kumo arrives at the edge.

His robe is torn. His sandals worn. But his eyes—clear.

He turns once, toward the path behind.

Shirogane is long gone.

He steps forward.

The trees part like they know who's entering. Not to welcome—but to test.

EXT. FOREST SHELTER – NIGHTFALL

Under a leaning tree, Kumo lights a modest fire.

He unfolds an old satchel—his father's.

Inside, a bundle of scrolls. Handwritten. A folded note.

He opens it.

"If you're reading this, you've chosen the hard road. Good.You'll need to know pain before you know strength.These techniques are not for showing off.They're for surviving what should kill you.

Learn them slowly. Or die quickly.

–Hirai."

Kumo smiles faintly.

Kumo (soft):

"Sounds about right."

He unslings a wooden practice sword—scratched and uneven. Notched from sparring sessions and sleepless nights.

He stands.

And swings.

MONTAGE – DAYS OF TRAINING

He swings in rhythm with his breath. Controlled. Repeating the same stroke hundreds of times.

He runs with weight tied to his legs, pushing his balance.

He crawls under thorned roots, blindfolded, feeling the forest.

He dodges falling logs and sets up spring traps—to test his own reactions.

He eats sparingly, drinks dew.

But the forest doesn't stay patient forever.

EXT. HELL FOREST – DAY FOUR

Kumo's breathing is ragged. He's shirtless now—sweat streaking down his bruised torso.

He practices footwork beside a stream, steps sharp but still slightly unbalanced.

Suddenly—SNAP.

A vine lashes out from the underbrush—like a serpent, fast and barbed.

Kumo rolls away—barely.

Another tentacle shoots out—rips a tree in half behind him.

Kumo (panting):

"What… the hell…"

It's a forest predator—a sentient plant with sensory tendrils and a core buried in its trunk-like body.

A third vine whips at him—cracking against his ribs. He yells, flying backward into the dirt, coughing blood.

His wooden sword skids out of reach.

The vines close in.

Kumo sees them ready to strike.

He rolls.

Into his bag.

And grabs the one thing wrapped in silk.

A katana.

Not legendary. Not magic. Just steel.

But it's real.

SHHHH—K.

He unsheathes it.

Breathes.

The vines strike again—one-two from opposite angles.

He ducks. Slides. Spins.

Each movement trained—but raw. Still too slow.

The blade scrapes bark. Misses.

Another vine slices his shoulder open.

Blood.

Kumo (gritting teeth):

"I'm not dying here."

He sidesteps a fourth strike. A fifth.

Finally—

He sees it.

The core. A pulsing green orb nestled deep in the trunk, glowing faintly.

He plants his foot.

Lets the pain steady him.

And thrusts.

The blade pierces through bark—through armor—into the heart.

The plant lets out a soundless screech—its vines twisting madly, then going limp.

Kumo stumbles back, bleeding, gasping.

The katana drips with acidic sap.

He collapses to his knees.

Kumo:

"…That… was just the edge?"

He looks around.

No more monsters.

Just silence.

And pain.

Kumo (softly, bitter):

"Ryu… how did you survive this…"

(beat)

"How did you walk through worse and keep going…"

He looks at his blade.

Then down at his shaking hands.

Kumo:

"…I won't stop until I find that answer."

EXT. EDGE CAMP – NIGHT

Kumo sits, ribs wrapped by a old cloth, body broken—but eyes still burning.

He writes in the dirt with a stick. dragging it slowly across the dirt.

Kumo (softly, with a half-smile):"If he were here… he'd be leaning against that tree."(beat)"…arms crossed. Watching. Probably annoyed."

He draws a second figure beside the first. Just two rough lines and a scar where the mouth should be.

Kumo (voice trembling just a little):"But he wouldn't walk away. Not yet."

"One day, we'll stand side by side—as teammates and friends."

He drops the stick. Silence.

The fire crackles low. Somewhere in the forest, a howl echoes, distant and fading.

Kumo leans back against the tree, clutching his wrapped ribs. His eyes are tired—but not defeated.

And for a moment, under the bloodied moon, he almost smiles.