Chapter 51: A Sulking Priestess and a Cursed Comb
Sunlight spilled through the canopy of the forest, dappling the ground in a shifting pattern of blinding specks. The mountain path leading to the shrine was unnervingly quiet, the silence broken only by the faint, sizzling hiss of burning hair and the terrified, ragged breaths of Yura of the Hair.
Kikyo's Sacred Arrow was embedded in the dirt just three inches from the demoness's foot, its fletching still quivering. The white glow of its spiritual power, brighter than the sunbeams piercing the leaves, had burned a small, smoldering pit into the earth.
With the immediate threat neutralized, Hikaru finally released the pressure holding Yura down. He rose to his feet, brushing the dust from the hem of his robes with slow, deliberate movements. His composure was absolute, as if he hadn't just spent the last several moments pinning a demoness to the ground beneath him.
Yura of the Hair, however, didn't dare to move a muscle. Her slitted, golden pupils were locked on the shrine maiden standing a short distance away, her entire body trembling.
Kikyo slowly lowered the hand holding her bow. In her white robes and red hakama, she stood as still and unyielding as a mountain against the gentle breeze. Her eyes were not on the defeated demon, but fixed solely on Hikaru.
Her gaze was placid, almost unnervingly so.
But…
"Can you get up?" she asked.
Her voice was just as indifferent, betraying no discernible emotion.
Hikaru flexed his wrist, working out a minor cramp. "I'm not hurt. It's just that this hair is a bit clinging."
"Clinging," Kikyo repeated, the single word devoid of warmth. Her gaze drifted down to Hikaru's chest, where a few strands of severed black hair still clung to the fabric of his robes.
"It is indeed clingy," she said, her voice a fraction tighter. "It clings very tightly."
Hikaru's hand stilled. He finally understood.
The priestess was displeased.
Though her face remained a mask of serene neutrality and her dark eyes were as placid as an ancient well, a heavy, oppressive atmosphere had gathered around her. A evident chill settled over the clearing.
Fortunately, the moment the realization dawned, Hikaru felt no sense of panic. His emotional intelligence wasn't so poor that he couldn't grasp the undercurrents of Kikyo's mood. If there was a misunderstanding, a simple explanation should suffice.
"It was a tactical necessity," Hikaru explained calmly. "She can manipulate her hair to absorb demonic energy. Only by engaging in close-quarters combat could I cut off her means of escape. What happened just now was to—"
"To subdue the enemy," Kikyo interrupted, her tone excessively, unnaturally calm. "I know."
"Then you…"
"I just think," she said, turning her profile to him. Her gaze left him, falling instead on the distant, hazy mountains. "You should change your clothes."
She paused, then added a single, final word.
"Dirty."
It was a crisp, sharp sound, like the crunch of ice underfoot.
Hikaru wisely shut his mouth. At this point, any further explanation would sound like a flimsy excuse, and to make excuses was to admit guilt.
He turned his head, his attention falling back to Yura of the Hair on the ground. The demoness who manipulated hair was still slumped in the dirt, her dark red bodysuit even more disheveled from their struggle. The neckline was pulled wide, revealing a large expanse of snow-white skin. Paired with her frightened, delicate face, she did indeed cut a somewhat pitiful figure.
But neither the human nor the undead oni present were buying the act.
"Stop pretending," Hikaru said, his voice flat. He bent down to retrieve Muramasa from the ground and leveled the blade's tip until it was inches from her nose. "Reveal your true form."
Yura of the Hair bit her lip, her eyes darting nervously between him and Kikyo. "I don't understand what you're saying… I am a demon. This is what I look like…"
"Still pretending?" A cold smile touched Hikaru's lips. "When I was pinning you down just now, I felt it."
Yura's face flushed a brilliant crimson, and she instinctively covered her chest. "You… you pervert!"
"..." Hikaru's expression tightened. She was still pretending.
He could feel the spiritual pressure from Kikyo's direction drop another several degrees. A genuine chill traced its way down his spine, and he hurriedly clarified, "I felt the source of your demonic energy."
He let the words hang in the air for a moment. "A comb, wasn't it?"
The color drained from Yura's face, her expression freezing solid. That was her fatal weakness. She was a tsukumogami, a demon born from an inanimate object. The comb was her true body, her very lifeline. If it were destroyed, her existence would be scattered to the winds.
"You… how did you know…?" she stammered.
"Blood," Hikaru stated, gesturing to the faint crimson mist that had yet to fully dissipate in the air. "My blood mist seeped into your hair long ago. That comb of yours is now thoroughly coated in my scent."
He slowly curled his hand into a fist. "All it would take is a single thought—"
The implication was clear.
"—and my ghost fire will ignite upon your true form."
"Don't!" Yura shrieked, all pretense and theatrics vanishing in an instant.
Her body began to turn translucent, wavering like a melting candle. Countless strands of black hair whipped back from the ground, retracting from her form and burrowing into a nearby thicket of bushes. A moment later, a sharp clatter echoed from within the foliage.
A red comb fell onto the dirt. It had an antique, almost sinister design, its long teeth looking more like fangs.
That was the true form of Yura of the Hair.
Hikaru bent down and picked it up. As his fingers closed around it, the comb's teeth chattered against his palm as if begging for mercy.
[Comb of the Hair]
[Quality: Demonic Artifact]
[Current Favorability: -30 (Hostility, Fear, Humiliation)]
[Evaluation: A comb once used to groom the hair of the dead. It gained consciousness after absorbing an excess of resentment. It is currently very afraid of you, yet also hates you with a passion.]
Hikaru raised an eyebrow. Still at -30 favorability… In a way, that was a proof of a truly deep-seated grudge.
But it didn't matter.
He idly fiddled with the red comb. It felt warm and smooth to the touch, like fine jade, but with an underlying texture that was faintly reminiscent of bone.
"Is this your true form?" he asked.
The comb itself didn't speak, but a tiny, carved skull on its spine opened its mouth, and from it issued the muffled, sobbing voice of Yura.
"Let me go… You're squeezing too hard… it's going to break…"
"..." Hikaru paused. Why did that sound so strange?
"You have it?" Kikyo's voice cut through his thoughts. She had walked over, but stopped a careful three steps away, maintaining her distance. Her gaze fell on the comb in Hikaru's hand, her brow furrowing slightly. "Is that the demon?"
"Mm," Hikaru grunted, holding the comb out to her. "Do you want to take a look?"
Kikyo took half a step back as if he had offered her something foul.
"No need," she said curtly.
"Dirty."
That word again.
Hikaru felt a wave of helplessness. He gave up and tucked the comb into the folds of his robes, securing it in his bosom.
"Let's go," he said, deciding to change the subject. "This thing is useful to keep. Maybe I can use it to comb my hair in the future."
Kikyo shot him a look. It was an incredibly complex expression, the kind one might reserve for a hopeless, irredeemable pervert.
"That is a comb for the dead," she reminded him, her voice laced with ice.
"I am a dead person," Hikaru replied, completely unfazed. He readjusted the massive Hiraikotsu on his back and strode forward. "Let's hurry. We need to get this boomerang back to its owner."
Kikyo remained rooted to the spot, watching his back as he walked away.
That gray-robed figure, carrying a giant bone boomerang, with a demoness-turned-comb tucked in his bosom and the bloodthirsty demon blade Muramasa at his waist… No matter how you looked at him, he didn't resemble a respectable person in the slightest.
But…
She looked down at her own hands. When she had drawn her bow just now, her fingers had felt unusually tense. It was because her heart had been in disarray.
Was it because that demoness had been pressed so close to him?
Or was it because… he hadn't immediately pushed her away?
"Hoo—" Kikyo let out a soft, controlled breath, forcefully suppressing the messy thoughts. She was a priestess. Her heart needed to be as calm and clear as a mirror.
"Wait," she called out, her voice regaining its composure. She followed after him, her pace a little faster than usual. She moved past Hikaru, taking the lead on the path.
Her back was ramrod straight, her long, black hair swinging with each determined step.
Hikaru watched her go, thinking for a moment. 'Is she still angry?'
He quickened his pace to catch up, falling into step beside her.
"Kikyo."
"..."
"Your arrow just now was truly accurate."
"..."
"Really. If it weren't for your arrow's intimidation, that comb spirit would have definitely escaped."
"..."
"Are you angry?" he finally asked.
Kikyo stopped walking. She turned her head, her coolly beautiful face showing no trace of anger. Only a deep, glacial calmness.
"No," she said. "I was just thinking."
"Thinking about what?"
Kikyo's gaze dropped to the spot on his chest where the comb was hidden. "When you use that thing to comb your hair in the future," she stated, her voice perfectly level.
"Remember to stay far away from me."
Having said her piece, she turned and continued walking, her white top and red hakama swaying gracefully with her stride.
[Shikon no Tama: Naohi tells you, 'She is jealous.']
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