Yet although the presence had manifested, that yōki did not draw any closer. It halted roughly three hundred paces beyond the outskirts of Kaede's Village, still as a stone statue.
Once Shinji's blood-mist perception net unfurled, he gained a clearer reading. It was a single figure. One yōkai. No, wait. There was another, far fainter, lesser yōki signature beside it.
The daiyōkai's aura was so overwhelmingly dense, however, that it had completely swallowed up that tiny trace of noise. Still, the figure had made no move to enter the barrier's perimeter. Not even the slightest probing gesture. It simply stood there. As if waiting.
"No hostile intent," Shinji judged.
If Sesshōmaru wanted to fight, he wouldn't wait so quietly. With his power, the barrier around Kaede's Village couldn't stop him, unless Kikyō poured her full strength into maintaining it. But he hadn't forced his way in. He'd simply stopped. It really did seem as though he was waiting for the people inside to come out on their own.
"I'll go take a look."
Shinji settled the demon mask over his face and gave his gray robes a shake. In an instant, crimson armor sheathed his body, bone spurs bristling around him, hideous as a demon, ferocious as a war god. Whether the visitor bore ill intent or not, he would make every preparation.
Kikyō watched him. Watched the way he stepped so decisively in front of her. It always made her feel safe. Profoundly, immeasurably safe. But she still shook her head.
She knew full well the caliber of the being outside. The density of that yōki just now was hardly any less than the Tsuchigumo's when it had first arrived.
"You can't beat him," Kikyō said. Blunt. Unsparing. And utterly earnest. "We'll go out together."
"I know I can't beat him." Shinji neither agreed nor denied it. "But if he wants a fight, being inside won't change anything. Better to go out and see what he actually wants."
He paused.
"Besides, if it does come to a fight, you can support me from inside the barrier. Cover me. I'll pull back."
In his current state, he was certainly no match for a daiyōkai (Great Demon). But with the geographical advantage he'd built over this stretch of time, with every object inside and outside the village at max Affection, withdrawing safely was absolutely within his power.
Even without factoring in the Kantō Earth's Affection, within the bounds of Kaede's Village, Shinji was, in every practical sense, something akin to a genuine local deity.
Kikyō clearly knew this as well. So she was silent for only a breath before nodding.
"Then be careful."
"I'll be ready to strike at any moment."
Few words. The same as always. And yet, just as always, they filled Shinji with an unshakable sense of security.
The corner of his mouth curled beneath the demon mask. He gave a slight nod, then turned and leapt, stepping beyond the barrier. The spiritual light at the boundary rippled faintly where he passed, then sealed shut and steadied.
He walked along the stone-paved path outside the village. The shadow of the torii gate high above slid over his head, and the autumn wind slipped into his sleeves, stirring his white, unbound hair. The Jizō statue at the village entrance fell away behind him.
Three hundred paces. He didn't walk fast. He wasn't stalling, he was simply feeling. With every step forward, that yōki's presence grew one layer clearer. The weight of it pressing more tangibly upon him. Like walking toward an invisible mountain.
Two hundred paces. One hundred paces.
Fifty paces.
Until he saw.
Outside the village, at the bend of the road, two figures stood by the wayside. One tall. One short.
The tall one, silver-white hair cascading to his waist, without a single trace of any other color. Under the cold moon of the autumn night, it gleamed with a soft, frigid light. His face was so handsome it surpassed the bounds of humanity.
At the center of his brow, a crescent moon of deep purple. On each cheek, two crimson stripes. His golden, slit-pupiled eyes were half-lidded, his gaze falling upon Shinji from above, so indifferent it held almost no emotion at all. Over his white kimono, he wore armor of the same color. A mantle of fluffy white fur draped across his left shoulder, it seemed almost alive, its tip swaying faintly in the breeze. At his waist hung a single sword, ancient and understated, its edge drawn wholly inward.
That was Sesshōmaru.
Exactly as Shinji knew him, yet far more oppressive. After all, through a screen, the crushing pressure of a real, living daiyōkai could never be so visceral.
Standing before him felt… truly like standing before a sheer, insurmountable cliff face. The sensation was even more suffocating than the Tsuchigumo. The Tsuchigumo was wild, unbridled, you could feel its terror. Sesshōmaru gave off none of that. And yet, unknown power, that was the greatest oppression of all.
By comparison, the short figure was utterly inconspicuous. He barely reached Sesshōmaru's knee. A little green-skinned yōkai with a pointed mouth and gaunt cheeks, dressed in dark brown official robes and wearing a court cap, like some sort of minister.
But in his hands, he held a bizarre staff that was longer than his entire body. At its crown was a wooden carving of a human head, an old man on the left side, a young maiden on the right.
Shinji knew that staff. The Nintōjō, the Staff of Two Heads. A demon artifact that could manipulate flame, crafted from the head of a fire-breathing yōkai.
The little yōkai's name was Jaken. Shinji recognized him, too, from the original story. Sesshōmaru's attendant. His retainer. Errand-runner, punching bag, and mouthpiece all in one.
At that very moment, the little yōkai had already noticed the gray-robed figure approaching from the direction of the barrier. His green face, which one second had been dripping with sycophantic adoration for Sesshōmaru, instantly swelled with an overbearing, self-important expression the next. He raised the Staff of Two Heads and jabbed it toward Shinji.
"Hey! Are you the one they call the Demon God around here?!"
His voice was shrill and grating, like the rusted hinge of an iron gate.
"Hurry up and come pay your respects! This is the eldest son of the Western Lands' Inu-yōkai clan, the great Lord Sesshōmaru! To behold Lord Sesshōmaru's true visage is a blessing worth eight lifetimes of—"
Before he could finish, Shinji walked right past him. Just walked straight past. Didn't even glance at him. His gaze was fixed in one direction the entire time, Sesshōmaru.
"—of, of blessing… H-Hey! Are you listening to me?!"
It was only after Shinji had passed that the rest of Jaken's words sputtered out. He hopped up and down on the spot in fury, banging the Staff of Two Heads against the ground with dull, thudding strikes. But no one paid him any mind.
Shinji stopped three paces away from Sesshōmaru. The crimson demon mask and those golden, slit-pupiled eyes met in the space between them.
Silence stretched for three seconds. A single breath.
Sesshōmaru did not move. He didn't so much as lift his eyelids. His golden pupils simply rested on him, flat and indifferent, as though looking at something of little importance that had nonetheless stirred a faint degree of interest.
"So you are that demon warrior," he said.
His voice was low and even, unhurried, each word carrying an innate, effortless arrogance, the instinctive condescension of one who had never placed anyone on equal footing with himself.
That condescension made Shinji uncomfortable. But Shinji had always been a realist. The other party was stronger than him. Naturally, that gave him the right to look down. All he had to do was become stronger himself.
"Mn," he replied.
Sesshōmaru spoke again. "You are capable of summoning the dead."
This time, Shinji didn't answer right away. Behind the demon mask, his crimson eyes narrowed faintly. The fact that he could summon the dead was known to some, but not many. Kikyō knew. Momiji and Botan knew.
The subordinates of the previous Uesugi Kenshin knew. Those who had witnessed the battle at the Tahōtō knew. And, the Tsuchigumo. During that fight, though he hadn't summoned any dead, he had used the soul-anchoring ability of the Soul-Chasing bow arm Change.
With the Tsuchigumo's level of insight, recognizing the essence of that power wouldn't have been difficult. And judging by the direction Sesshōmaru had come from, it was almost certainly the Tsuchigumo who had told him. It seemed they had crossed paths.
After a moment's thought, he replied. "Depends on the circumstances. The longer a lingering soul has been scattered, the harder it is to call back. If it's fully dispersed, it can't be summoned."
The ability to summon the dead wasn't common in this world, but with such limitations, it wasn't anything extraordinary either. Some of the greatest human onmyōji and high priests could achieve similar results. It was simply a matter of specialization. What humans could accomplish, yōkai often could not.
After all, barring cheats like Shinji, even a daiyōkai's evolution carried a degree of randomness they couldn't control. Yōkai who happened to evolve abilities related to the dead were exceedingly rare.
Sesshōmaru's gaze rested on him for a long moment. At last, something flickered in those golden eyes, not interest, not hostility, but something deeply concealed, pressed to the very bottom. Shinji couldn't identify what it was, nor did he care to try.
"I want you to summon a departed soul," Sesshōmaru said. "In return… I will do one thing for you."
A trade. Equal and fair.
Shinji thought to himself, Yes. This is Sesshōmaru. That habitual condescension toward all those weaker than himself. But precisely because of that condescension, everything in his eyes was balanced and just, exchangeable.
He considered it again. He didn't refuse. If he could make a daiyōkai like Sesshōmaru, who possessed both personal strength and the backing of an entire faction, do something for him… even just one thing, that was no small gain. But which departed soul could warrant Sesshōmaru going to such lengths to seek him out? That, he still needed to ask.
"Summon whom?"
"The half-demon of the Western Lands. Inuyasha."
The air froze for a single beat. Sesshōmaru's voice held no inflection, as though speaking of something that had nothing to do with him at all.
Shinji stood where he was. Beneath the crimson demon mask, his expression had gone utterly still.
Inuyasha.
Dead?