Hiroshi-san
Tachikawa is the main hive for Homura’s men.
There are more samurai here than Somukawa, and as the days pass, more of them are arriving. It would seem that there is a camp from where they come from, and it was their lord’s order to converge here in the town. Whatever battle Homura was fighting, it must be over. He is sending everything here — men, weapons, horses, and all. To make matters worse, Homura himself will be arriving soon. I am yet to find out as to how many days are left before his arrival, but rest assured he will be here. Your plan proceeds. More needs to be understood about our enemy, and their new weapons. I will keep you informed.
The candle watched Hisashi’s brush freeze inches away from the next page of his letter. It could not understand what impeded him from pressing his brush on the empty piece of paper, given that it chased the shadows of the night away for him to write legibly. Frustration getting the better of him, he sets down his brush. The manner in which he diffused said frustration allowed him to calmly separate the written letter from the empty pages. A quick glance toward the door makes him aware of the impending day that was upon them; he must get this letter to Hiroshi before the day ends.
The Hour of the Dragon
Despite the presence of the Demon of Kumitsukawa in their household, life has been fruitful. As a matter of fact, the myth has become more intertwined with them than originally planned. Seijun basks in the sun’s healthiest glow, making her way through the field to approach the titans of agriculture. Careful was she not to step on any of the crops, taking the path that her father had taught her way before. In no time she reaches them, her presence immediately calling Katashi to a stop in his task.
“Little Seijun! Good morning!” His arms flung wide open, calling her in for a hug.
“Noooo!” She shook her head vehemently, not wanting to get lathered in sweat. “Mama told me to call you for breakfast.”
“Alright alright, we will finish up here and meet you inside, okay? Thank you~.” He blows her a kiss, one that she happily accepts before making her way back.
It was only now that Katashi faced the direction of the dawn that he saw how much sweat he had worked up whilst toiling in the field. His bare skin glistened like fireworks in a festival, and yet he felt less tired than he normally would on a day such as this. The sound of a tool striking the soil brought him out of his funk; the silence of the Demon had nearly made him think he was alone.
“Uhh… My lord..?” Called Katashi, making his way over to him so that he may be heard better.
“...” He continued to work, his back turned away from the Father.
“My lord…? Pardon me…” He calls once more, this time modulating his voice better.
Katashi watches as the Demon turns to answer his call. Like him, the man preferred to work with his torso exposed to the fresh air. By now, he often wondered how a monster like him could disguise himself so well — he even sweats like a human. So perplexed was he that he watched the sweat trickle down his convincingly mortal flesh, passing a smooth mole on his left side all the way down to the scar that marked his lower abdomen from left to right. Even more odious was a second scar that crossed it perpendicularly.
That scar… His thought was curtailed by way of something sharp aimed at him — the Demon’s glare.
“Oh— Breakfast is ready, please have some as a token of our gratitude for your hard work…” He nodded, taking his leave to escape the possibility of getting cut.
Hisashi watches the man walk away. As soon as he was clear of an audience, he ran his hand along his scar. He remembers a time when he would constantly check for scars on his skin after a battle, none have remained except for this one. He had gotten so used to its presence that he practically forgot it was there; this mishap prompted him to pull his clothes back on, albeit loosely to still allow his skin to breathe. He calms himself, regulating his breath after a good and long session, then marches back to the house to join them for breakfast. The smell of Tsuna’s cooking met with him even before he could reach the door, it ushered him inside where he was greeted by both the cook and her daughter. Seijun hands him a towel, greeting him with a pleasant morning by bowing — a gesture he reciprocates silently. Together with her family, the Demon broke bread. While he sat himself in their pond of happiness and love, he remained dry. He simply consumed the delicious meal he was given, once more baffling Katashi that he ate what they ate with little to no rejection; he nudged Tsuna in secret, as if wanting her to note his observations. His wife merely smiled behind her chewing, it had become a regular game for them and she continuously won. The ladies of the family had taken over the duties for the meantime; it was their turn to make a trip to the marketplace. Hisashi watched as the Father held his wife by the cheeks, almost reluctant to let her go. He peppered her in kisses, as he did with his daughter with the hope of casting a protective charm over them with his love. As they left, Katashi sat himself back at the table to feel his leg finally give out for the morning.
“Off they go.” He said, grabbing himself a drink of water. “I do not suppose you have family?”
“...”
“I am sorry… I did not mean to—” Katashi assumed that if he did, they must have been buried in the ruins of Kumitsukawa. “I was only trying to make conversation.” He explained sincerely. “I am grateful to have you here. We all are. The past few days have been lovely. My wife and my daughter feel much safer with you around.”
“But you do not.” Replied Hisashi.
“I do.” He quickly corrected it. “I cannot begin to express how safe I feel considering what goes on in town. But you must understand that having someone of your… kind… in my home is not exactly a normal part of someone’s life. Especially for a farmer like me.”
“Hm.” Hisashi huffed, crossing his arms.
“You have done more for us than that spineless town headman ever has.”
“Tell me about this headman.” Hisashi’s command must have come as a surprise, seeing as how Katashi was momentarily stunned.
“Makoto.” Katashi started, “A sorry excuse for a leader, even more so for a man. He wasted the faith Lord Ataru had placed in him when he chose him to become the town headman. Ever since Lord Ataru died, and then,” he hesitantly gestured to the Demon sitting across from him, “the town has not been doing well. It made all of us wonder if he was ever doing anything good at all. Hell, we could run the town much better together without him.” He circled the table with his finger. “And then Homura’s men came, and we all made the mistake of thinking he was going to put his foot down.” Katashi shook his head.
“Where is he?”
Katashi shrugged. “Locked inside his castle for all I know, the one Lord Ataru did not want to use. I never understood why he chose to settle in Kumitsukawa instead of, well, here in the town.” He raised both hands up to shoulder level. “Again, I mean no offense… Just a curiosity. If you were the shugo, would you not want to station yourself in the town rather than a small village tucked in the woods?”
“He does not leave?” Hisashi redirects the conversation back onto the relevant path.
“He will not leave. If I did what he did, I would never walk these streets with my head held high ever again.” Katashi leaned back, patiently awaiting for a response. Though seeing as how deep in thought the Demon was, he busied himself by analyzing the myth that sat across from him. “Whatever it is you are planning, it would interest you to know that rumors have started to spread.”
Hisashi’s head rears itself from the depth of his pondering.
“Some of my friends told the samurai about the empty grave.” His bottom lip pushed up. “They were with me when I buried you and they came back to transfer you to the cemetery…” Katashi pulled himself from his relaxed position, leaning into the table. “An empty grave will spook the town, but word has gotten out that the samurai who stayed behind in Kumitsukawa never returned — I assume that was you.”
The steadiness in the Demon’s eyes granted the Father a mirror reflecting back to him an answer that proves his assumption.
“There is talk around town that a curse is upon them —your curse. The samurai will be waiting.”
The Demon rose from his seat. “They will not wait long.”
The Hour of the Dog was fast approaching.
It was almost as if Amaterasu thought to hurriedly hide away and spare herself of what was to come, leaving Tsukuyomi to bear witness in her place. Like Kumitsukawa, the local temple — structured in the style of a pagoda— became the town’s castle, and all five storeys bask in the bluish hue of serene moonlight.
At the headman’s request, samurai presence has intensified at night. More than the abundance of shadows, it is what lurks within them that he feared. He may not leave his castle, but the walls stood no chance against the spoken word. The only difference was that none dared speak of it now, terrified that it may call him. Deciding it was best to distract himself, Makoto leans forward to reach an empty piece of paper, placing it adjacent to a letter he received this morning. His analytical gaze waltz over every word, but stumble along the way as the contents of the letter become clear to him. He retraces his steps, even going as far as having to mouth the written words to assure himself that he read them correctly — he must reply at once, lest the town suffer. After skimming through the written message, the Headman quickly shifts his weight to the right to reach over and grab his brush. His index finger barely grazed the brush’s handle before he cast his gaze toward the door. The attention he visits upon the door would have otherwise left the paper envious. Makoto retracts his right hand and instead reaches for the brush with his left. His fingers curl around the brush awkwardly, but no more awkward than how it would look in his right hand. The brush is brought to hover above the paper as he briefly contemplates on the matter at hand. He then lowers the brush, meticulously guiding it across the material to translate his thought into a reply; his message would be more challenging to read in comparison to the one he received, but for an entirely different reason.
The words came clearly in his mind, borne from a serious concern and the urgency of the matter; how he wished his hand could keep up. With his slowed writing, Makoto had to almost enunciate the words repeatedly into completion. Things would have otherwise gone smoothly, had it not been for the other words that began to pervade into his mind. This intrusion compels him to stop, lifting the brush from the surface to focus all his attention on this peculiarity. Makoto finds that these words did not come from inside, but outside — outside his room. Bewitched by this trail, the Headman rises from his seat and quickly slides the door open to his balcony, feasting his eyes on the blaze that rages in the distance — visible from the third floor of the castle. The black smoke rises high into the evening, the thickness of which clenches his chest tightly, freezing him in place. While there is difficulty in discerning what was truly happening, he fears for one of the town’s storehouses. Peering directly downward toward the street, he finds that the voices were coming from a group of samurai all along. Despite his efforts to call their attention, the samurai gave him none as they raced toward the fire. Makoto dashes out of his room in a hurry, but not without swiping his tanto and securing it to his belt. Past his door, he sets his sights on the ladder that leads downstairs. But his haste makes waste upon colliding with one of the samurai that patrolled his castle corridor.
“What is going on?!” Asked Makoto.
“There is nothing to worry about. One of the storehouses caught on fire.”
“Nothing to worry about?! Did you not hear what you just said?!”
The samurai merely raises his brow at this remark of the Headman’s.
“Who did it?! Was it him?”
“That is what we are about to find out.”
“We have to stop him, before he kills someone!”
Makoto proves steadfast, taking the first step forward to see to the burning storehouse. If only the samurai had not placed a hand in protest to this poor plan, stopping him in his tracks.
“Who is this we you speak of?” Asked the samurai.
“What is this? We have to hurry!” Makoto’s attempts to push on, but was met with more resistance. “Get out of my way!”
“Go back to your room, Headman. You will let us handle this.”
The samurai lifts the oppressive hand and places it on his own chest, a gesture that does not escape Makoto. Driven by a fury, he pushes the samurai off with his forearm while simultaneously unsheathing the tanto from his belt. On the weapon’s way up, it is skillfully intercepted. And the space he created would be taken advantage of as Makoto finds himself with his own arm twisted against his back, his cheek against the wall, and his own blade pressed against his neck.
“Forgetting your place again, are we? If you want to be one of us so badly, then you should have no problem losing your life.” The samurai presses the blade even deeper, enough for the Headman to begin to cling to the wall. “So, are you one of us?”
With his whimper the only response he musters, the samurai finally relinquishes his hold and returns his tanto in exchange for his dignity — or at least what was left of it. The Headman sees himself back into his room. Defeated, he marches to his table and turns it on itself. Papers scatter, ink stains the mats — the ensemble at hand completing his personal battlefield. Still left with an ounce of rage, he cocks his hand back and throws his tanto into the corner. The blade could not sing, but it shines upon making contact with another blade; the sparks illuminate the corner of the room for but a brief moment to reveal THE DEMON OF KUMITSUKAWA, lowering his sword back into the scabbard after having successfully deflected the projectile. Makoto knew the legends well, and there was no mistaking it. Robes as black as death, the cursed blade that split soul from flesh, sharp teeth to devour what remains, and the straw hat that spared his victims the horror of his face just long enough for him to kill them. The unholy sighting scared his roots into growing, firmly planting themselves into the ground for dear life. He watches silently as the Demon approaches the lantern on his bedside, igniting it with the fires of hell. With the Demon now facing him, his toes curl back to avoid the shadow cast by the light behind him.
“Ma-ko-to.” The Demon’s words command the Headman to crumble to his knees.
Escape was futile, and so, he collapses into a bow before his punishment and succumbs to the very shadow he hoped to avoid. The path before him only grows darker, the Demon’s fingers curl and clench his hair in his fist. In this proximity, Makoto could not help but wrinkle his nose; it reeked of fire and ash, as if the vengeful warrior had just crawled out of hell.
“I failed, my lord… I know that.” Makoto spoke first, hoping to stay his execution and do something right for once. “You have come to reap my soul… I am no one to protest the will of the gods.”
“Neither do the gods protest my will.” The heat from his words scorch the top of Makoto’s head, providing a taste of eternal damnation.
“So take me, my lord…” he said through quivering lips, “...do what you must, but please… kill them all.” Makoto, unsure of when his next blink would be his last, continued. “I… I was powerless to protect my town… but you can do it. Their souls are as ripe as mine. I c-can even give you names.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
It was then that Makoto’s hair was finally released, but not without being imparted with the heat of the Demon’s presence.
“More keep coming as the days go by. But I do know that Homura sent his commander-in-chief to take charge — Tanaka, Yasu. He is a fierce, heartless and uncompromising warrior. He is an old samurai with a scar on his left cheek. The administrator is also here, a puerile horror of a man — Kaneko, Isamu. There is something about him… the winds turn sour in his wake, a scatterbrain if nothing else. Two of his commissioners are present, but I have not learned their names.” Makoto steadied himself, realizing his promise of names was severely lacking. “I have… not… learned the names of the captains and lieutenants either… b-but the commissioners would know! Would they not? Or… would his retainers? Their retainers?” With his face to the floor, he is free to silently curse the infernal command structure of Homura’s army.
“What of Homura?”
“Nowhere to be found. I have not received word from him, it was Yasu-sama that told me he was going to come by to collect our taxes personally. But I know that I was deceived.” He clenched his fist. “I do not know when he will be here.”
“...”
“...Hello…?”
The lack of a response urged him, against all rationality, to sneak a peek. Gently turning his head, Makoto saw a brighter path ahead of him. It was then that he finally lifted his head to find that he was alone. Even more surprising was the fact that he was still breathing. He took the opportunity to revel in this, filling his lungs to their limit with both the fresh air that came in through his open balcony, and the remnants of the demoniacal musk of hellfire and brimstone. Luckily for Hisashi, this was masked by the smoke emanating from the flames that grilled meat to perfection. On the other side of town, he sat himself in a yakitori-ya to review his newly acquired information whilst waiting to be served his order, flicking away at the nail of his thumb. Had it not been for the weight of the situation, Hisashi might have found amusement in the fact that the name’s Makoto provided were more than familiar; he heard them just before his life was drained from his body and poured into the street a few days ago.
Fate certainly had a twisted sense of humor.
“Isamu-sama!”
Hisashi’s ears perk up. He turns his head ever so slightly to peek outside the window of the tavern, spotting two silhouettes that stopped to turn and welcome the third that called to them.
“Yasu-sama has asked to meet, he believes the attack on the storehouse was no accident.” Continued the silhouette.
“There is a bird on that tree.” Isamu points accordingly, having the two men turn their attention to the bird that did in fact perch on the tree. While they both found this attention to detail to be fascinating — most especially the visual and mental prowess it took to spot a bird in the shade at night — the newly-arrived commissioner had to spare his amazement.
“...Isamu-sama…? Did you hear me…?” He asked, careful not to trip on his own words with the tone it carried.
“He wants to meet?” Asked Isamu.
“Yes… because of the accident.”
“Sigh. Come, we eat first.” Isamu turned on his heel, pulling the two into the establishment. “Before you say another word, there is a leaf stuck in your hair.” He added.
It is there that Hisashi properly puts a face to the name of the ikusa bugyo — a face that could earn him his very own place in hell with the sharpness of his nose and his brows alone. Most notably, Hisashi takes note of the raggedy cloak that drapes over the warrior and his armor. Try as he might, Hisashi was unable to steal a glimpse of what it is that he hides beneath. Following the unprincipled ones in their walk toward the counter, Hisashi observes how the patrons lean away to spare themselves of his attention. It is then rather unfortunate that a poor fellow’s shoulder is perched on by Isamu’s wicked hand. The surrounding chatter, combined with the distance, kept Hisashi safe. However, it also keeps him from eavesdropping on the interaction between the Administrator and what looks to be a hikyaku —a Messenger. From head to toe, Hisashi’s gaze traces his figure and his features slowly like dew trickling down a tree trunk. The cloth wrapped around his head, the lone loincloth he sported, and the gyosho bako backpack resting beside him confirmed it; he must have just arrived this morning, possibly preparing for his run for tomorrow’s deliveries. Relief settled in his stomach, in lieu of food, upon realizing he could finally get his message to Hiroshi. Unfortunately for Hisashi, fate continues to amuse the gods at his expense; he watches the Messenger practically get dragged out by Isamu and his two subordinates.
The Messenger’s bare skin painfully skids against the dirt. Swift as he was, he had his hands beneath him already with the intent to push himself up. And yet, as he looks yonder through their legs where a glimpse of freedom lies, it lies out of his reach. It stands to reason that his attempt would have been pointless to say the least.
“I asked you for one thing, Riku.” Said Isamu, raising his finger to further specify; he believed it to be necessary, speaking to someone like him. “Can you tell me what that is?”
“...” Riku deliberately bit his tongue.
“Have you forgotten, hmm?”
“Isamu-sama, please—”
Riku watches the letters under his care join him in the dirt with his backpack opened and shaken.
“I do not see my package here, Riku. I do not suppose heirlooms have any meaning to you, do they? I do not imagine loincloths to make for good heirlooms after all.”
“If you would let me explain, please, my lord”
Already heavily peeved, Isamu imparts to him an uncharacteristically profound mercy; his hand urges him to proceed, but to do so with haste.
“I am but a humble messenger, not a fighter. I do these deliveries by foot, and the roads are often treacherous. On his knees, Riku throws his hands outward. “I cannot hope to match your skill in combat, my lord! And I cannot outrun horses! I was robbed.”
“You?” Isamu approaches him. “Outrun horses?” He kneels to meet Riku by the dirt. “Oh I thought you could. These legs look like they could even put my horse to shame.”
“Isamu-sama—”
“I even spoke highly of you to my two men here.” He points over his shoulder. “They would have given the same offer as I with a package like that… and then you lose mine.”
Before him, the humble Messenger bends at the waist. “I am deeply sorry, Isamu-sama! I am! I tried my best! There was nothing else I could have done!”
“Oh there is.” Isamu’s hands converge together. Weaving a sign, he summons the unsuspecting evening breeze to unsheathe and carry twelve tantos from beneath his cloak. The sharpness of the short blades cut into the winds that carried them, causing the metal to sing the last tune his victims heard. They spin like a wheel behind him, the tune growing in volume as they speed up. “You should have run faster.”
SHHICCCKKK!!!
Riku finds the shadows of Isamu’s lackeys replaced by the very bodies that produced them. He steals a peek at them, finding two kunai standing atop their napes, one afforded to each man. Isamu’s decision to rise and turn is what prompts Riku to fully lift his head and cast his gaze forth. He spots an ominous figure standing at the mouth of the alley between Isamu’s legs.
“So there is a curse.” Isamu breaks the silence. “We have been looking for you.” The song of his short blades minimize upon his command. “As soon as word of the empty grave reached us, you are all most of my men talk about.” His gaze momentarily drops to his fallen commissioners; he was amazed to say the least that the attack included two projectiles yet the impact sounded like only one. “These two even told me that I was on your list. Do you know what I told them?”
The Demon takes his first step forward. One step was all it took for him to explode into a full sprint.
“I told them you were on mine.” One after the other, Isamu sends his short blades to sic after the myth that preyed on him. Each one either misses its mark or finds the Demon’s katana instead and is deflected away. The Demon closes their distance, performing an initial downward slash to the right to compel Isamu to block; this would be a misdirection as the strike falls short and finds no target. Instead, Hisashi rotates his hands by the wrists, combining his left sidestep with an actual diagonal slash aimed for his opponent’s exposed side. Much to Hisashi’s surprise, Isamu proves swift, catching this strike with his own katana fresh from the scabbard. Pushing away, Isamu brings his katana overhead for a downward slash, one that Hisashi guides away from him by resting his sword on his back. Simultaneously, Hisashi performs another sidestep to the right and delivers a swift blade kick to the ribs. As if tracing the crescent moon, he brings down his katana for another strike, one Isamu had barely enough time for. Instead of redirecting, he was left with no choice but to meet the Demon for a stalemate.
“You are every bit as fierce as they say.” Isamu’s intrigue got the better of him as he spoke, even trying to peek beneath the Demon’s hat to catch a glimpse of what a hellish creature truly looks like up close. “Now let me show you how fierce I am.” Supporting his katana with his left forearm, he weaves another hand sign. But Hisashi pays this no mind, seeking to end this fight right away by continuing to go on the offensive. Hisashi relentlessly applies pressure leading to one stalemate after another. However, the excessive use of pressure blinds him to the flying tanto that wedges itself into his waist. Finding his opening, Isamu throws the Demon off by driving his own kick into his shoulder.
This space allows Hisashi to pull the tanto from his side, throwing it into the ground. He watches as it rattles on the ground, swirling into the air along with a few particles of dust swept up in the wind. Like a loyal bird, it flies back to its master. It was then that Hisashi heard the song, and was forced to turn his back on his Isamu to dodge and deflect every tanto that had been thrown at him from earlier. They reassemble behind their master, forming the same deadly circle of blades that he once used to scare Riku — now cowering in the corner.
“How will you ever hope to beat me, Demon? The winds blow in my favor.” Isamu jests. The pace of his approach is slow, ensuring that a sturdy foot is planted before uprooting the other in his advance toward the enemy.
Hisashi casts his focus like a fisherman does his net, and positions his sword in front of him to enact a middle guard in accordance with seigan-no-kamae; this stance grants him access to a wider range of offensive and defensive forms. He would not allow the spinning short blades to go unnoticed, watching them leave Isamu’s person and gravitate around them instead in a slow manner to form something of a sphere perennially in motion. With it in place, they were imprisoned in close proximity to one another; he found no pattern to their spin, much like the wind that carried them. Isamu finds his foremost foot intruding into the Demon’s space, much like the other did with him. Both swing their sword, catching their opponent constantly in a dance of offense and defense. Their own locked blades tease one another, exchanging caresses, sliding up and down each other’s cutting edge. A push elicits another in an endless back and forth of redirecting the other’s weapon safely and opening a window for a counter.
Pushing Isamu off, Hisashi quickly aligns himself and brings his sword down for the perfect diagonal cut, an attack that would have met its mark had it not been for the hostile short blade that sought to protect its master. The Demon deflects the incoming projectile instead, barely being able to dodge the Administrator’s counter-attack launched as a result of this opening. Finally, the two had put some distance between them, as much as the deadly sphere would allow.
I need to keep this battle within the alley, or I risk attracting too much attention. Thought Hisashi, mindful of the sphere’s perennially moving walls; his mirroring of Isamu’s movements spares him from getting shredded. And so, he conjures an idea.
The Demon renders their time apart as short lived, deciding to dash forth to engage his opponent in battle once more. His approach, seemingly filled with bloodlust, was but an illusion; Hisashi seeks to test the bounds of this sphere that locked them in close proximity with erratic and wide movements; a dash to the left, a pivot to the right, a push to the opponent or an evasive roll back, all deliberate and executed successfully.
He moves the entire sphere with him… around him… expanding and shrinking it… He thought whilst continuing to press on and keep Isamu at bay.
His thoughts circle him almost as much as the short blades did, and it is then that Hisashi barely sees the one coming in from his right. Just as before, he swings his blade to deflect it, only to miss — it stopped in mid-air. This left him with only half a second to evade the true projectile; while his face is lucky, his hat is snatched from his head and torn to shreds as it meets the ravenous wall of the sphere. He is stunned, almost long enough to open himself up for a critical strike, and yet Isamu would not press on. Instead, he marvels at his own brilliance, reflected on the Demon’s disconcerted expression. It is then that Hisashi realized Isamu was not moving the sphere as a single unit — he is commanding each and every tanto simultaneously. He sets his sights on the Administrator once more, finding him to be an even more formidable opponent than he originally thought.
“It would seem I need to be much…” Isamu tilts his head ever so slightly. His gaze dropped to the ground, and eventually, so would he to collect what he thought to be a fascinatingly-shaped rock. The same rock was tossed into the air, eaten by his blades as soon as it met his disapproval and reduced to the grains.
Juggling this many tasks would eventually trip a man into failure. Hisashi will need to put Isamu’s mental fortitude to the test. Finally, their eyes meet; the Demon’s gaze is undeviating while the Administrator’s shifts constantly, as if counting the loose strands of hair that fell in the absence of his opponent’s straw hat. This very trait allows him to track Hisashi’s movements as he goes into his charge, along with the kunai he throws unannounced as distractions. The speed of their exchange lifts the dust and dirt beneath them, turning it into a haunting mist while the strength of their clash gives birth to sparks that temporarily reveal their silhouettes. Hisashi’s decision to occasionally combine a thrown kunai into his offensive strikes pressures Isamu into using his short blades more often, more so as a means to defend himself.
A plan is set in motion.
Whilst advancing on Isamu with his sword, a barrage of two or three kunai are thrown into the mix sporadically. Having created an opening borne from a strong punch to the jaw, Hisashi raises his sword high above and plants a firm step forward to have the cutting edge descend toward Isamu’s open neck. The window is wide open, but it is a window well guarded by a tanto from Isamu’s collection. Hisashi secures himself first by kicking Isamu away instead, then using the supposed killing strike to deflect the tanto in its approach, only to miss as it changes trajectory in an instant.
There it is again. He thought, quickly turning around to defend against the expected tanto to his left and simultaneously casting a kunai behind him to guard his former right flank.
SHICCCKKK!!
Hisashi stumbles but remains standing, plunged into the full darkness brought upon him by the tanto that passed right before his eyes to claim his vision; it was the very same tanto that evaded his killing strike by changing its trajectory. Immediately, he swings his sword outward to keep them all away in his vulnerable state. Try as he did, he was at the mercy of the short blades that feed on his flesh like piranhas. His resolve to stand was severely weakened, urging the Demon to support himself with his sword, his left hand, and his strongest knee. Fed but unsatisfied, the blades heed the call of their master; they leave the shredded warrior to join Isamu in their inactive state behind him.
“I must… commend you.” Isamu’s words were minced by the slice of his breathing. “You almost took… my head…but for as long as… I can see you… you will lose.” Looking at him now, victory was clearly in sight.
The hand sign is woven, and a singular tanto obeys the deathly will of Isamu. The sharpness of his blade paralleled the clarity of its song as it cut through the air. Eyes slowly roll shut while following the tanto’s lethal melody to the long-awaited end.
CLING!!
Isamu peels his eyes open, bearing witness to a sight most unsettling.
The Demon of Kumitsukawa stands with a clenched fist in one hand, and a sword in the other; one tanto out of twelve wedged into the wall. A gust of wind runs past Isamu, one Hisashi feels quite well with his clothes severely tattered; it tells him how the Administrator’s eyes were widened by disbelief. In an instant, the motionless warrior erupts into a sprint with immense momentum, one Isamu seeks to quell. Their songs abruptly ended with each tanto deflected elsewhere, the sound of which had Isamu gritting his teeth. With all eleven shunned by the Demon, he had but no choice but to send them chasing after him. But with the Demon closing in, he realizes that evasion was the best strategy.
“CKK!” Isamu’s strength left him as soon as he lifted his heel, the bruises his opponent planted sequentially erupt and radiate pain.
With the Administrator still, the Demon skids to a stop and swings his left fist. Bracing for a punch was useless with the incoming fist opening up and scattering dust into his face instead. Following the momentum of his swing, Hisashi steps out of the way in the nick of time to evade the barrage of short blades that chase after him. Driven by desperation, the momentum they carry renderd Isamu’s armor as purposeless. Eleven of his most loyal companions wedge themselves into his chest in quick succession, throwing him onto his back. It quickly dawns upon Isamu that the only thing he could move at this point are his eyes. And yet, all effort was afforded to the endeavor of keeping them open, afraid that the next time he closes them would be his last. A hand on his cheek forcefully turns him to the side. Rather than a beautiful view of the night sky, he faces the nightmarish image of a demon.
“Do you still see me?” Hisashi feels Isamu’s mouth tremble in his grasp. He tightens the grip, and casts his bloodied leer for his opponent to meet. “Gaze now into the darkness. I have consumed you.”
Hisashi watches the life drain from those troublesome eyes of his, and with it gone, he finally takes a much needed breath.
“Hikyaku,” Hisashi called, “come here.”
The hairs on Riku’s body stood instantly, thinking that the shadows had hidden him quite well. Worrying about this was now useless. He rises to his feet and obeys the vengeful swordsman’s command. His reluctance shows in the calculated steps he takes forward; all that stands between his freedom and him was obedience, and perhaps a bit of caution. Standing above them, Riku feasts his eyes on a malicious monster…
…and his killer.
His attention is taken away by a folded piece of paper with droplets of blood that was raised up to him.
“To Somukawa.” The Demon commands, “Find a man named Hiroshi. Your reward awaits.”
Shouldering through his fears, Riku stores the item safely into his backpack. Instinct would tell him to make wise of his legs and sprint away to Somukawa, but something kept his heel on the ground. Instead, Riku tucks his extremities into his person and bows.
“Thank you, my lord.” With the itch having been scratched, Riku took to the road and ran.
As soon as Hisashi could no longer hear any footsteps, it was his turn to muster up strength and rise from his knelt position. The grip that held Isamu’s jaw was transferred to his topknot, lifting the corpse off of its back and into a knelt position. The same hand travels down to the nape to feel for the flesh and the bone before joining his right hand on the handle of his sword. To properly orient himself for his task, Hisashi rolls his shoulders once to loosen the tenseness that plagued them. He watches his breath fly high as a result, along with a bird colored in the evening’s eeriness that journey’s away from the roof it was perched on.
His breath enters.
His breath leaves.
And a head rolls thereafter.