"Mmmm... so this is what it feels like to have power," Arikuni thought, his mind reeling from the sudden expansion of his senses.
He felt a massive weight unfurl from his spine, large, powerful wings, feathered in shades of obsidian-red, bone-white, and earthy brown, stretching toward the ceiling. His hands had thickened, his fingernails curved into dark, sharp talons.
But the most jarring transformation was his face. His skin had turned a deep, bruised crimson, and his nose had elongated into a sharp, predatory point. To any onlooker, he would appear to be wearing a snarling mask, yet this was no wood or lacquer; it was his own living flesh.
"Such a wonderful feeling this is," he murmured, his voice now carrying a strange, hollow resonance.
He walked toward the table at the far end of the room, where his katana rested. As he gripped the hilt, his heart hammered with a new, lethal anticipation. The blade, which used to feel like a heavy burden on his hip, was now as light as a willow branch.
Rattlllle!
The steel vibrated under his grip as if it were singing. He swung the blade upward in a sudden, violent thrust. The velocity was so immense that the air in the room shattered, the sheer pressure causing the wooden beams to groan and the silk screens to ripple.
"This is what I needed," he thought, a dark smile pulling at his crimson lips. "With a body like this, who in the Capital can challenge me—?"
"Arikuni-dono? The hour of dining has arrived."
The soft, feminine voice of Omai echoed from the other side of the shoji screen, breaking his trance. At the sound of her voice, his body reacted instinctively to his will. The wings folded and dissolved into his back; the crimson skin paled; the predatory nose receded. His unnatural features vanished, leaving only the usually calm, poised man he always had been.
"Mmmmmm... I wonder," a cruel idea sparked in Arikuni's mind.
"Come in," he called, his voice drifting like smoke through the darkened room.
The shoji screen slid open. Omai remained in a humble kneel, using her knees to crawl forward onto the tatami before bowing deeply, her forehead touching the floor.
"At your service, Young Master," Omai whispered, her forehead still pressed against the cool tatami.
Arikuni looked down at her, his dark ambition swirling. Since he was a small lad, he had watched his brother, Sukemichi, collect mistresses like silk fans. He had craved that same absolute possession, and with his newfound power, he believed he finally had the right to take what he wanted.
But as he reached out, the air between them seemed to crackle. The predatory instincts of his Tengu flared into life.
Fortune is a fickle thing. In that moment of predatory focus, Arikuni discovered something that soured the lust he had hoarded for years.
Ritsuryō is a rigid system of laws and spiritual taboos that governed clans. There is a fundamental difference between a regular person with spiritual energy and a spiritual practitioner, one that is usually invisible to the naked eye.
Once a person engages in Kōkan, their being undergoes rudimentary changes to align with their affinity. This change manifests as a Spark, a small flicker of light located at the exact centre of the forehead.
In normal circumstances, a practitioner's Spark is hidden, only becoming visible for a fraction of a second during the life-or-death intensity of a battle. But to Arikuni's enhanced vision, the secret was laid bare.
The air in the room felt heavy, charged with static pressure that only Arikuni could sense. His newfound Tengu metamorphosis sharpened his spiritual awareness to an unimaginable degree.
"Omai... you wouldn't lie to me, would you?" Arikuni asked. His voice was low, vibrating with a controlled resonance.
"I would never do such a thing, Young Master," she replied, her forehead still pressed to the floor. "I serve only the Master."
"Why is he asking me this?" Omai's internal thoughts raced, her pulse quickening. "He called me here out of nowhere... is something wrong?"
"Mmm... well then, prove it," Arikuni whispered, leaning closer until he could smell the faint scent of ozone clinging to her.
"What—?"
"Are you a spy, Omai?"
"No! How could I b—?"
"Then how is it," Arikuni cut her off, his eyes glowing with a faint, demonic light, "that you can use Reiryoku?"
The moment the secret was out, the facade of the helpless servant shattered. Omai didn't waste a second on excuses or pleas.
BOOM!
The sound was a deafening roar of thunder, contained within the four walls of the private chamber. The floorboards splintered as a blinding flash of blue-white light erupted from Omai's frame.
"Tch. You're messing up my mission," she hissed. Her voice was a sharp, cold and lethal whisper.
Before Arikuni could even bring his hands up to defend himself, Omai's arm moved like a bolt of lightning. Her hand punched straight through Arikuni's chest, her fingers pulsing with raw electrical current. Blood splattered across the white silk of his robes, the liquid sizzling against the heat of her technique.
Arikuni gasped, the taste of copper filling his mouth.
"Omai... how could you..."
His voice trailed off into a wet rattle. His strength failed him, and his head fell forward, hanging limp against her shoulder.
"Huuuuu..."
Omai exhaled sharply, as she prepared to rip her blood-slicked hand from Arikuni's chest. She had felt the impact, seen the blood, and heard the rattle of a dying man. But as she pulled back, the sensation of flesh and bone began to ripple.
Arikuni's body wiggled like heat rising off a desert road. The crimson stains on his silk robes turned into dry autumn leaves, and his entire form shimmered before vanishing into thin air.
"So, this is who you have always been, eh, Omai?"
The boomed from the shadows directly behind her, Omai froze, the lightning still crackling around her fingertips, but she was a heartbeat too slow.
Clamp!
A massive, powerful hand thick with dark fur clamped around her throat from behind. He hoisted her off the ground with terrifying ease. Omai's feet dangled in the air, her toes scraping uselessly against the tatami.