The sun slanted westward. The clouds grew thicker. The clinic on the south side of the city was shuttered tight. A neighbor said the midwife had just been called out to attend a birth at a wealthy household in town, she wouldn't be back until tomorrow.
Tsugikuni Yoriichi stood beneath the stone steps, the empty bamboo basket on his back swaying gently in the wind. "Tomorrow, then," he murmured. No anxiety showed on his face. Those deep crimson eyes simply gazed quietly at the ground, silently calculating the time.
His wife's due date was within these few days. Though the neighbor's wife had promised to help watch over her, without a midwife, the danger remained.
"Let's go." Shinji stood off to the side. He had already put his bamboo hat back on, shading most of his face. "You can come back early tomorrow."
With no other options, Yoriichi could only nod. He had promised his wife that morning that he would do his best to return before nightfall. Even hurrying back now would be cutting it close. He couldn't afford to wait any longer.
As for Shinji, who had inexplicably begun following him, Yoriichi, just as before, neither questioned it nor dwelled on it. It seemed that as long as he had confirmed the other bore no ill intent, that was enough.
Shinji felt that though he himself was a yōkai, he was, in truth, far more human than this man. At the very least, he had his own ambitions. The young man called Tsugikuni Yoriichi had none. They had already exchanged names earlier.
Now, the two of them walked back along the dirt road leading out of the city. There were even fewer travelers on the road than before, only a few woodcutters carrying firewood hurried past.
The daylight grew dimmer. The trees on either side of the road grew thick and lush. Amid the fading light of the setting sun, a sound suddenly emerged from the rustling wind, sobbing, wailing.
It was an old man. His clothes were ragged, his hair ashen white. He clutched a wooden staff, his entire body curled in the shadow beneath a tree. His face was ashen gray.
One hand pressed tightly against his chest. His lips were purple. His breathing came in desperate, ragged gasps, like a broken bellows. Every exhale was thick with a wet, gurgling rasp, as though his throat were clogged with phlegm.
Yoriichi stopped walking. Those eyes, the eyes that could see through all things in this world, fell upon the old man. His heart. The old man's heartbeat was exceedingly faint. His blood vessels were clogged. Like an oil lamp on the verge of guttering out. Any moment, his breath would cease.
"Young man…" The old man lifted his clouded eyes. His withered fingers stretched tremblingly toward the hem of Yoriichi's trousers. "Please… have mercy… could you… carry this old man for a while?"
Yoriichi crouched down, bringing his gaze level with the old man. "Old sir, where do you need to go?"
"Over… over those three mountains ahead…" The old man pointed toward the northern peaks, his fingers shaking violently. "My son… my son is over there… he's wounded… he's dying… I want to see him… one last time…" As he spoke, tears streamed down his deeply lined face, mingling with the dirt.
He looked utterly pitiful. Three mountains. That was a mountain path of at least 10–15 km. In this old man's physical condition, never mind three mountains, he'd breathe his last before walking even half a km.
Yoriichi did not hesitate. The young man turned around, his back to the old man, and bent down. "Climb on." This was who he was. A man who, to spare his elder brother difficulty, had resolutely abandoned a life of silk and jade and come to a place like this to live as a woodcutter.
A man of profound, innate goodness. Even now, with his wife awaiting childbirth at home, even with nightfall approaching, faced with a dying man's final request, he still could not turn a blind eye.
In his eyes, all lives were equal. All suffering was equal. The old man's eyes lit with desperate joy. The hand that had been clutching his chest loosened. He moved to climb onto Yoriichi's back.
But—
"Wait."
A hand reached across and pressed down on Yoriichi's shoulder. That hand was pale and ice-cold. The crimson-haired young man's movements faltered for just an instant. Shinji stood beside him, his crimson demon eyes glowing faintly beneath the shadow of his bamboo hat. They were fixed upon the old man.
Yoriichi glanced back. "Sir Shinji?"
"No need to carry him." Shinji's voice was as cold and sharp as before. "He's not going anywhere."
"Young man… what are you saying…" The old man shrank back, putting on the look of someone badly startled. "My son is dying… I just want to see him once…"
"I don't know whether your son is dying or not." Shinji's fingers rested on the hilt of the Onikiri at his waist. His thumb quietly nudged the guard open by an inch. "But I do know, you're already dead."
Yoriichi froze. He looked at the old man. In his field of vision, this was a living person. He had a heartbeat. Blood flowed through him. Bones. Muscles. Even the near-failing heart condition was real. No illusion. If this were a demon, no matter how well it disguised itself, it could never hide from these eyes of his.
"He's alive," Yoriichi said, full of confusion. "And he truly is gravely ill."
"Human," Shinji agreed with a nod. "A body of flesh and blood. A heart about to stop. He won't live more than a few days."
"Then why are you stopping me…?"
"Because he has a smell." Shinji bent down, his pale face drawing close to the old man. Violet light swirled within those scarlet pupils. "The smell of rot. And…" His voice dropped. "The smell of a demon."
At that single word, the old man's body went rigid. The clouded, pitiful look in his eyes transformed in a single instant into venomous hatred and terror.
"You've never seen the kind of demon that isn't a yōkai. You wouldn't know what a demon smells like." Shinji straightened and looked at Yoriichi.
"But in my homeland, there is something called a chāng. Its original meaning, the chāng that aids the tiger. But if there are humans who've been half-devoured by demons, or controlled by a demon through some means, humans who, to save their own lives, or for whatever else, willingly become the demon's dog and help lure other living people into traps, then those, too, can be called a different kind of chāng-demon."
"—?!" The old man's face froze. Yoriichi was stunned. Shinji continued.
"He is human. But he is also the demon's eyes. The demon's bait. A dying old man with a failing heart, not lying at home waiting for death, but keeping watch here at this desolate crossroads, miles from any village. And he wants you to carry him over three mountains. Three mountains, there and back, even at your fastest, that's at least a full day and night." Shinji looked at Yoriichi, his tone as flat as if he were commenting on the weather.
He had, of course, remembered this fragment of the story. Though the so-called "original work" had never specified this old man's identity, it had seemed, perhaps, to be nothing more than coincidence.
But in this merged world, in a reality where gods, buddhas, demons, and monsters truly existed, every change was entirely reasonable. Shinji had remained vigilant all along. And now, his reasoning was seamless, irrefutable.
"He's stalling you. Delaying you. So that tonight, you won't make it back."
Yoriichi's pupils contracted violently. The aura of this young man, always so calm, like still water, shattered in that instant. Stalling me? For what? No matter how kind he was, he had to understand now. He had to think of her. The one waiting at home.
"Uta…" Yoriichi breathed the name. Their target was his wife.
In the next instant, the old man on the ground lunged. No longer that trembling, dying figure. He hurled himself forward like a madman, both hands clamping onto Yoriichi's calf with terrifying strength.
His nails dug into the fabric. "You can't go! YOU CAN'T GO!!" The old man shrieked, white foam spilling from the corner of his mouth. His face twisted into something demonic.
"It promised me! As long as I keep you here… it'll extend my life! Give me a new heart! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! I DON'T WANT TO DIE!!"
Yoriichi looked down at the old man clinging to his leg. His hand rested on his hatchet. But he didn't draw it. Even knowing this was a chāng-demon who had conspired to harm his family.
Even knowing the malice behind it. The world his eyes showed him, told him this was still just a pitiful, human old man. Driven mad by the fear of death. He couldn't bring himself to kill a human.
But in that same moment,
"Step aside."
Shinji's voice fell. And then, a blade of dark light. Onikiri left its sheath. No hesitation. Not a shred of mercy.
Thunk.
The head tumbled to the ground. The headless corpse still convulsed, its hands still locked death-tight around Yoriichi's leg, only loosening after several long seconds. The scent of blood spread through the air.
Shinji flicked the blood from his blade and sheathed it in a single motion. "Let's go," he said. "If you're late getting back, all that'll be left is to collect their bodies."
Yoriichi said nothing. He looked at the corpse on the ground. Within those deep crimson eyes, there was no blame.
Only a dense, heavy gravity. Gently, he pried the dead man's hands away, tender, yet without hesitation. He turned. The steps that had once merged seamlessly with the natural world, vanished. What replaced them was an explosion. Pure, unbridled eruption.
The earth beneath his feet exploded. His entire body shot forward like an arrow loosed from the string, sprinting wildly toward the mountain home where his family waited.
Shinji followed close behind. Thunder detonated beneath his soles. "A chāng-demon. That means the demon behind this is no low-level trash," he murmured into the wind, his voice emerging from beneath the demon mask. "Perfect. I'll use it to test the blade."
Deep within the mountains, the night was black as ink. This place was far too remote, so remote that even the flames of war couldn't reach it. Only a few scattered households dotted the mountain hollow, like orphans forgotten by the world.
Tsugikuni Yoriichi's home was the innermost of them all. It was a crude wooden hut. The roof was thickly thatched. The walls were tamped earth and rubble. Inside, a single oil lamp burned. The wick was trimmed very small; its dim, yellow glow barely illuminated a corner of the tatami.
The woman named Uta was struggling to brace her lower back, her heavy, swollen belly dragging at her as she slowly shifted herself toward the window to close it.
The wind outside was fierce. The shutters banged loudly. The shadows of the trees thrashed like a horde of clawing, shrieking monsters.
"Yoriichi…" Uta murmured her husband's name, her palm gently stroking her high, rounded belly. The sky had long since gone completely dark. By all reason, her husband should have returned long ago.
But for some reason, he hadn't. A formless, nameless panic spread through her chest like wild weeds.
It was then.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A knock suddenly sounded at the door. Very soft. Very polite. It didn't sound like her husband returning, Yoriichi walked without sound. Whenever he came home, he simply pushed the door open and softly called her name from the doorway.
Uta did not go to open it. She did not answer. She only listened carefully.
"Excuse me… is anyone home?" A young man's voice came from outside. It sounded weak and anxious. "I'm a traveling merchant. I've lost my way. I hurt my leg and can't walk anymore… could I trouble you for a drink of water?"
Uta braced herself against the wall and hesitated. Mountain folk were simple and honest. But her husband's parting instructions still echoed in her ears.
Originally, the neighbor was supposed to be here helping to look after her, but night had fallen, and the neighbor had to go back to care for her own children. Alone now, she needed to be cautious.
"I'm sorry." She spoke through the door, her voice struggling to stay steady. "My husband will be back any moment. It's… not very convenient right now…"
The voice outside stopped. Then—
"Heh heh." A low, viscous, malicious chuckle oozed through the cracks in the door. "Husband? That red-haired guy? I don't know who the hell he is, but he's always given me a real dangerous feeling… Still—"
The voice had changed. No longer weak. Now it was glutted with greed and cruelty, like iron scraping against bone. "He won't be coming back. That old bastard will drag him to death. At least, two days."
Uta's pupils contracted violently. She recoiled on instinct, but her heavy body made her stumble. She collapsed backward onto the tatami.
BOOM!
In the next second, the next instant, a thunderous crash split the air. The flimsy wooden door was blasted apart by a tremendous force. Splinters flew. A freezing wind, thick with the stench of rot and blood, poured into the room.
In the doorway stood a "person." Or rather, what had once been a person. It had the outline of a human, but its form was anything but. Its body had swollen to over two meters tall.
Its skin was a sickly, ashen blue. Its mouth had split open to the roots of its ears, revealing a tangle of jagged fangs. It wore a set of tattered samurai armor.
In its hand, it clutched a broken blade still dripping with blood. This was, a demon. Once human. Still human, in shape. But a demon among humans, defiled. Corrupted.
"A pregnant woman…" The demon's clouded, jaundiced eyes fixed dead onto Uta's swollen belly. A long tongue dragged across the corner of its lips. "Two lives in one. The richest nourishment of all."
It took a step into the room.
"And the smell of your blood, it's truly exquisite. I could smell you from so very far away." Its massive bulk pressed into the space, making the very air feel thin and suffocating.
Uta tried to scream, but her throat felt as though it had been seized by an invisible hand. Not a single sound came out. She could only wrap her arms around her belly in despair.
There was nowhere to flee in this tiny, confined space. The demon raised its claws. The distance was so close. It could already smell the aroma of her blood, rich with terror. The blood of this woman… truly smelled so sweet.
At the same moment. several kms away. On the mountain path, running one after the other toward the place Yoriichi called home, Shinji suddenly halted.
His hand closed around the hilt of Onikiri. The evening breeze met him head-on. And he suddenly caught it. A scent, carried on the wind. The stench of a demon, closing in to kill.
I can't make it in time, Shinji thought. By Yoriichi's account, from here to his home, even calculating by the straightest line, was Still at least three km. There were countless obstacles along the way. Even at his full speed, it would take nearly half a minute. Thirty seconds of sprinting. And a woman. A pregnant woman. Facing a demon. Could she last half a minute?
The answer was beyond doubt. The outcome seemed already sealed, destined to follow the original course. If not for Shinji, everything would have been set in stone.
Ahead of him, Yoriichi was still charging forward. That man, always as serene as a buddha, finally seemed to have abandoned all restraint. But since he had decided to help, Shinji had, in truth, already prepared for this.
He had followed Yoriichi through the day without revealing that his home was almost certain to be attacked by a demon. Beyond the fact that he had no way to explain it, it was also because he was confident he could save them. No matter the distance. No matter where. Shinji ran no further. He simply tightened his grip on the Onikiri at his waist.
Shing—
Onikiri left its sheath. And then, toward that direction, several kms away, he brought the blade down in a single slash.
Simultaneously. Still simultaneously. Tsugikuni Yoriichi's home. The demon's claws were less than an inch from Uta's throat. Uta shut her eyes in despair.
I'm going to die… Yoriichi, I'm sorry. Her body trembling, she clutched her belly tight, and could only pray, that the child within her womb might be spared. The demon's cackling laughter filled her ears, wild and obscene.
Amid that cacophony,
BOOM.
…Thunder. It came without warning.
Uta's eyes flew open on reflex. What she saw, was lightning. But not from the sky. It erupted, directly from within the demon's body. In that single instant, time itself seemed to freeze.
In the next second, the demon's movements locked rigid. Within its clouded, jaundiced eyes, the greed had not yet faded. The terror hadn't even had time to surface. Down the exact center of its body, a glowing red line appeared. And then
"—!!!"
The demon didn't even manage a scream. Its entire body, without any visible cause, disintegrated in an instant, bursting into countless burning motes of ash. No, even the ash was annihilated. Dust rose. Dust fell. Yet not a single ripple of disturbance followed.
Uta lifted her head in a daze. Only then did she realize, there was no roof above her anymore. Only the vast, star-filled sky. And, a single, invisible scar stretched across the night. As though the very vault of heaven had been split in two.
It was the clouds. The black clouds above had been severed, as though by some enormous blade. The cut was impossibly clean. Moonlight poured through the rift, illuminating the ruined house.
Before her, where the demon had just stood, there was only a bottomless chasm, still trailing violet arcs of lightning and thin wisps of smoke. The demon? Not even ash remained.