Tōtōsai bolted due north atop his three-eyed fire-ox. The blue-white flames of its four hooves streaked long contrails behind them, carving a dazzling arc across the sky above the ash-covered wasteland.
The old man sprawled over the ox's back, his bald head pressed against the base of its horns, his bulging eyes constantly darting backward. The Shura Form had withdrawn. That demon warrior who had been chasing him wasn't following.
"Did I shake him off?" His voice was hoarse, tinged with the giddy relief of someone who'd just escaped death. The fire-ox lowed once in response. The old man let out a long breath. He lay panting over the ox's back, and the wrinkles on his face finally relaxed a fraction. "That was close… that was close… How come everywhere I turn these days there's some unreasonable brute? This old man just wants to forge in peace, why is it so damn hard—"
He didn't finish. He saw what lay ahead. Imagawa Yoshimoto's column. Forty ashigaru. Six mounted samurai. Eight palanquin bearers. One palanquin. Neatly arrayed across the mountain road, perfectly blocking his path due north.
The only exit he could have taken after circling round and round with that fellow behind him for a full sixteenth of an incense within a few kilometres of the volcano..
The old man frowned. "A human army? What are they blocking the road for—?" This number of troops, at this level, could never stop an ancient, seasoned yōkai like him. What's more, he could fly! On this point, Tōtōsai was still quite confident.
And yet, the very next second, the spears in the ashigaru's hands moved. But not moved by the ashigaru. The spears were moving on their own. Forty spears simultaneously tore free of their wielders' grips. The shafts spun half a turn in the air, spearheads pointing downward.
They plunged into the ground in perfect unison, then bounced back up from the earth, hurtling horizontally toward Tōtōsai. This was not humans throwing. This was spears, flying on their own.
Wrapped around the shafts was an exceedingly faint, dark crimson mist. The mist was thin as spider silk, nearly invisible. But it was this very mist driving these wooden shafts and iron heads, things that should have been utterly lifeless.
Osore. Shinji's osore.
Over these three days, he had infused yōki into every single spear. He had "spoken" to each one. He had built Affection with them, even just one or two points. Not enough to make them into yōkai. Not enough to give them consciousness. But enough, under the catalysis of osore, to make them move.
Briefly.
For a single instant.
Move.
Just like he had done against that kamaitachi before. The same trick, used again. Osore, it was rumor. It was whispered tales. It was ghost stories. And it was also fuel. A temporary driving force.
Forty spears wove themselves into a forest of blades in midair, blocking the fire-ox's path forward. Tōtōsai stared, dumbfounded. Yet he still reacted quickly. He yanked the ox's horn, veering sharply. To the left. Though he could barrel straight through, doing so risked letting that fellow behind him catch up.
But then, within the column, the reins of all six warhorses snapped simultaneously. The leather-braided cords twisted through the air like serpents, snaking toward the fire-ox's four hooves.
The stirrups tore free of the horses' flanks, iron rings bouncing twice across the ground before rolling toward the fire-ox. The saddle straps loosened entirely, and entire saddles slid from the horses' backs, tumbling forward across the ground, attempting to trip the ox.
Tōtōsai veered again. To the right. But the withered tree stumps by the roadside began to stir. The ashen-white deadwood wrenched themselves up from the cracked, parched earth, no legs, no hands. They simply launched themselves from the ground and toppled sideways toward the fire-ox.
Like falling fence posts. One. Two. Five. Ten. The deadwood stumps arranged themselves into a semicircular wall in midair, sealing off Tōtōsai's rightward path entirely.
This was not the end. The bluestones by the roadside were trembling too. The stones Shinji had touched, spoken to, infused with a trace of yōki, they rolled faintly across the ground, wrenching themselves free of the soil, arranging themselves along the fire-ox's flight path into a field of jarring obstacles. Caught utterly off guard, the fire-ox's gait faltered. Its vision was blocked.
Its four hooves lurched sideways. The curtains of the palanquin fluttered twice. Yoshimoto's folding fan flew out from the gap in the curtain, spun once in the air, spread open, and smacked the fire-ox square on the nose with a sharp thwack.
Motoyasu's round spectacles also slipped from her nose, the lenses flashed once in the air, like a tiny mirror, refracting the orange-red glare of the volcano straight into Tōtōsai's eyes. The old man was dazzled.
"Wh—"
In that single instant, the straw rain capes on the ashigaru's backs detached from their bodies. They spread open in midair, like woven grass nets, dropping down over the fire-ox's head. The capes were light. They couldn't stop the fire-ox. Couldn't stop a Ninth Transformation old yōkai. But they didn't need to stop him. They only needed to block his sight. Create chaos. Buy one or two seconds. It was enough.
The violet lightning detonated almost simultaneously from due south. Shinji's figure shot through the chaos, the spear-forest, the reins, the deadwood, the flying stones, his Lightning-Sinewed Body at full speed.
In the very instant the fire-ox was blinded by the rain capes, his right hand clamped onto the back of Tōtōsai's collar. His left hand pressed against the crown of the fire-ox's head, lightning pouring from his palm and delivering a powerful paralytic shock.
The fire-ox's three eyes rolled back in unison. The flames on its four hooves went out. With a heavy thud, the ox crashed to the ground.
The old man was hoisted into the air by the collar, his four-shaku-tall frame dangling, his stubby legs kicking twice. "L-Let go of me—!"
Shinji didn't let go. His crimson demon eyes, behind the mask, regarded him with perfect calm. "Can we talk now?"
Tōtōsai stared at him with those bulging eyes, the wrinkles on his face compressed into a knot. His expression hovered between terror and fury, but what dominated was sheer shock.
He twisted his head to look back at the devastation behind him. Spears flying horizontally. Reins thrashing wildly. Deadwood blocking the road. Stones rolling across the ground. Rain capes shrouding his head. Even a folding fan and a pair of spectacles had joined the encirclement.
These things, all of them, were utterly ordinary objects. Not a single one was a demon artifact. Not one possessed self-awareness. Not one was capable of moving, should have been capable of moving. And yet they had moved.
In the same instant. Toward the same target. Each in its own way. They had moved. Even for someone who had lived for centuries and more, who had once followed Tōga, the greatest daiyōkai of the Western Lands, through countless campaigns, who had forged countless demon blades and divine weapons, who had witnessed every conceivable kind of monstrous sorcery, even for Tōtōsai, with all his vast experience, this technique of briefly animating all things, of entangling a yōkai with mundane objects… was something he had never once seen.
Tōtōsai knew, of course, of the existence of osore. And yet, even osore could never be enough to make ordinary objects move on their own!
"You little brat… just what in the world are you… where did you come from, you damned demon… no, even demons aren't as demonic as you!"
His voice trembled. He was shaken. Whether from shock or from the electricity, it was hard to tell. Violet arcs of lightning continued to pour steadily from Shinji's hand, flowing like an unbroken stream of water.
Shinji was just about to speak,
When, from within the collar of Tōtōsai's tunic, a tiny figure suddenly leapt out. So small it was barely the size of a fingertip. Six spindly legs. Dressed in a plain, unadorned kimono. A flat, compressed body. Bald head. White whiskers.
A yōkai born from a flea. It sprang up and landed back on Tōtōsai's shoulder. It lifted its head, which seemed no larger than a pinhead, and then, as though straining with great effort, turned and sniffed vigorously in Shinji's direction.
Then,
"The scent of Young Master Inuyasha?!"
The voice was deep and aged, but both yōkai present heard it clearly. Tōtōsai's body went rigid on the spot. His bulging eyes darted sharply to the flea on his shoulder, then back to Shinji.
"Myōga, what did you say?!"
"That's right! Lord Tōtōsai!" The flea called Myōga bounced twice on his shoulder, all six of its spindly legs trembling without pause.
"This person, he carries the scent of Young Master Inuyasha! Young Master Inuyasha is still alive! Not his yōki, it smells like the scent left behind when Young Master Inuyasha turns human on the night of the new moon… but it's not quite the same… And…"
It sniffed again. "It's also carrying gratitude. Very strong gratitude. Young Master Inuyasha… feels gratitude toward this person?"
Myōga. A retainer who had served Tōga in life. Like Tōtōsai, he was one of those Tōga had left behind to support Inuyasha, or rather, to be his protector. Though he was timid as a mouse and would flee at the first sign of danger, when it came to scent and judgment, there were few among yōkai who could surpass him.
The reason he had been hiding on Tōtōsai's person was that, after Tōga's death, he had lost the object of his fealty. With Inuyasha constantly running off to who-knew-where, Myōga had no choice but to take refuge with the old swordsmith, living out a half-life in his shadow. And now, he had caught Inuyasha's scent once more.
From this demon warrior.