The sky above the desolate mountain was no longer blue; it had turned into a canvas of swirling grey and sickly green. As Moko's 'Himata Kuhutsu' sliced through the pressurized atmosphere, it felt to Hamaguchi as if a miniature sun, cold and crystalline, was descending upon him. The brilliance emitting from the magical cube was so intense that it bleached the very colors of the world, leaving only a blinding, haunting white. Hamaguchi, or rather the entity that had usurped his flesh, knew with a primal, terrifying instinct that the mere touch of this light would mean the absolute erasure of his soul.
Paralyzed by a fear that transcended physical pain, the 'Khankoza' Kimon within Hamaguchi's body shrieked. It desperately clawed at the reserves of forbidden energy dwelling within the boy's marrow. A strange, putrid blue aura began to seep from Hamaguchi's pores, coalescing in his palms. He struggled to manipulate the very molecules of the air, trying to weave an invisible, dense barricade of wind and shadow against the oncoming doom. The pressure was so immense that the ground beneath his feet began to crack and splinter.
Moko stood on the scorched earth, his silhouette outlined by the ethereal glow of the cubes. He was motionless, like a statue carved from ancient ice. His long tresses whipped violently in the unnatural gale, stinging his face, but his expression remained unchanged. Behind those eyes lay a smirk of cold, calculated derision. Moko understood a truth that Hamaguchi had forgotten: 'Himata Kuhutsu' was not just a spell; it was a phenomenon. It was a cataclysmic weight capable of rearranging the molecular structure of anything it touched.
Moko's voice finally rose, cutting through the roar of the wind like a sharpened blade, "Oh, Khanguchi! Your struggle is almost poetic. Your winds are certainly wreaking havoc on the scenery, but is that the extent of a Kimon's power? Faster! Increase the speed! Show me the desperation of a beast trying to escape its cage!"
Khanguchi, his face distorted into a feral mask of rage, growled, "You dare mock me? You, a mere human, dare to look down upon the majesty of a Kimon? I will tear the soul from your body and feed it to the void!" With a guttural roar, he unleashed a massive surge of atmospheric pressure. The shockwave was so powerful that ancient cedar trees, centuries old, groaned and shattered like dry twigs. Dust, splinters, and dead leaves swallowed the light, plunging the battlefield into a murky, suffocating gloom.
But in the next heartbeat, a spectacle unfolded that defied all logic. That monstrous blast of wind, which could have flattened a village, could not budge Moko's cube by even a single fraction of an inch. Instead, a divine eruption of violet and golden hues burst forth from the center of the 'Himata'. When that light—sharper and more radiant than a thousand diamonds—finally touched Khanguchi, the Kimon didn't even have the luxury of a final scream. In an instant, the demonic energy was neutralized, and Hamaguchi's possessed form disintegrated into fine, silver ash, scattering into the uncaring void.
Moko lowered his hand, the blue glow of his sword fading into a dull hum. He spoke in a low, hollow tone that carried no victory, only a heavy burden. "Sayonara, Khanguchi. You were my brother once, but in this world, a 'Kimon' is a plague. And for a plague, there is no cure but absolute termination."
Where the cube had made contact, a colossal crater nearly fifty feet deep and stretching half a kilometer wide remained. The mountain peak had been reshaped, leaving behind a silent, smoking graveyard of memories.
****
Back in the neon-lit heart of the city, far from the silent mountains, the atmosphere in Sima's room was thick with a different kind of tension. The echoes of the phone call still vibrated in the air.
Sima's mother stood by the door, her face a mask of bewilderment. "A robber? Sima, honey, are you sure you didn't mishear him?"
Sima was leaning against her desk, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her palms were clammy, and her phone felt like a hot coal in her hand. "Yes, Mom! It wasn't a mistake. The voice... it was cold, almost metallic. He said he was coming for us. He told me to 'prepare the house'. Mom, my heart feels like it's going to burst through my chest!"
Her mother walked over and placed a warm hand on Sima's shoulder, forcing a chuckle. "Oh, you silly girl! It's exam season. Everyone is stressed. Surely it was just Toko or one of your other friends playing a tasteless prank. There's nothing to be afraid of in this neighborhood. Now, take a deep breath and go back to your math problems."
Sima pouted, her brow furrowing as she looked at the dark screen of her phone. Who would play a joke that feels so... real? Just then, the sharp, rhythmic chime of the doorbell rang through the hallway. Ding-dong.
"Who could it be at this hour?" Sima's mother muttered, smoothing her apron as she went to the foyer. As she pulled the heavy wooden door open, she stopped mid-sentence. Standing on the threshold was a teenager who looked like he had walked out of a high-end fashion magazine. His skin was as fair as fresh cream, his hair a deep, rich auburn that caught the hallway light. But it was his eyes—khaki-colored and filled with an ancient mystery—that caught the attention.
Sima rushed to the door, her heart skipping a beat. "Toko?"
It was indeed Toko, her childhood best friend. Seeing his familiar, smug face instantly dragged Sima's consciousness back to the dusty, sun-drenched hallways of their middle school days.
------
The year was 2024. Sima was a restless eighth-grader, and Toko was the thorn in her side that she couldn't help but like. They were inseparable, usually sitting side-by-side near the window. But on that particular Tuesday, during an grueling double-period of Mathematics, Toko had strategically retreated to the very back of the room. The air was heavy with the scent of chalk and the rhythmic scratching of thirty pens against paper. Mr. Sato, the strictest teacher in the prefecture, stood at the board, his back turned, writing complex algebraic formulas.
From the shadows of the back bench, Toko began his assault. "Hey... Penguin. Pssst... Hey, Penguin!"
Sima gritted her teeth, ignoring the nickname. She tried to focus on the 'X' and 'Y' variables, but her face was slowly turning a shade of crimson that rivaled a ripe tomato. Suddenly, she felt a sharp tug on her ponytail. She whipped around, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "What is your problem, Toko? I'm trying to work!"
Toko leaned forward, a mischievous, lopsided grin dancing on his lips. "Mathematics is boring, Sima. Let's make a wager. A 'Pen Fight'. Right here, right now."
"Are you insane?" Sima hissed, glancing nervously at Mr. Sato's broad shoulders. "If he catches us, he'll make us stand in the hallway holding water buckets until our arms fall off!"
"High risk, high reward," Toko whispered, his eyes gleaming. "Look, if you manage to knock my pen off the desk, I'll treat you to the premium Japanese sushi set and a steaming bowl of spicy miso ramen. I'll even throw in your favorite fatty tuna nigiri. My treat, no questions asked."
At the mention of her favorite delicacies, Sima's resolve crumbled like a dry cookie. Her eyes sparkled with greed. "The premium set? With the gold-leaf garnish?"
"The whole works," Toko promised. "So, are you in or are you a coward?"
Sima didn't hesitate. She grabbed her heavy-duty fountain pen, her fingers trembling with excitement. Kima, sitting at the desk to their left, watched the transaction with horror. She began fluttering her hands frantically, like a bird trying to warn of a forest fire. "Sima, stop! Don't do it! Sato-sensei will execute us!"
But the sirens' call of free sushi was too loud. Sima and Toko were locked in a mental battlefield. Toko made the opening move, a calculated flick that sent his pen gliding across the smooth wood. Sima's pen skidded to the very edge, its cap hanging precariously over the abyss, but it didn't fall. Sima breathed a sigh of relief. The sushi was still within reach.
She took a deep breath, calculated the trajectory, and delivered a sharp, determined flick. But her pen moved with the agonizing slowness of a snail on a cold day, barely nudging Toko's. Toko stifled a laugh, his shoulders shaking. "That was pathetic. No ramen for you, Sima. Prepare your wallet, because you're buying me lunch."
Toko then adjusted his grip and delivered a strike of such immense power and precision that Sima's pen didn't just slide—it took flight. It soared through the air, bypassing her cheek in a blur of black plastic, and headed straight for the front of the room. At that exact moment, Mr. Sato turned around to explain a variable. The pen, propelled by Toko's competitive spirit, flew with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile and lodged itself directly into the teacher's right nostril.
The silence that followed was so absolute you could hear the dust motes hitting the floor. Mr. Sato stood frozen, the pen dangling from his nose like a bizarre prosthetic. Toko and Sima's eyes met, their faces turning pale. The 'Pen Fight' had just turned into a declaration of war.