Drawing one’s breath inward prepares the body for the exertion of force, it is an undoubtedly pertinent practice to properly collect and compose oneself for a task. However, it is when this breath is expelled that the result is produced. The right exhale produces the right result.
“HURGH!” The fish is yanked from the sea.
“HURGH!” The plow is pushed across the soil.
“HURGH!” The enemy is dealt a fatal blow.
Hiroshi stood at the forefront of their formation, watching his neighbors convert their livelihood skills into combat and defense skills. He himself served only as an ashigaru for a brief moment, and could only promise to teach them within that capacity.
“Great work! One last time now.” Called the Baker, restarting their run through the different kata for polearms.
He remembers how he was trained, and what he was trained for. The longer he watched, the longer his smile dripped, realizing that Lord Ataru already ushered in an era in which the layman would no longer have to exchange his sickle for a sword. The late lord took that peace with him, and now, here he was, passing his knowledge onto the next generation, so that they may live to see the generation that succeeds them. By this time, they had gotten used to getting up and allotting an extra hour in the morning for training — a few days was all it took, and they can now be rightly regarded as foot soldiers. The thought of their growing competence, which ultimately translates to the rise in their rate of survival, brought back a glimmer of his bright smile.
“Hiroshi-san!”
The call pulled him by the shoulder, setting his sights on a kind young man that had done him the great service of rushing to him with important news. Reluctantly, the Baker departs from his station and does his own rushing to Chiyo’s. The restaurant would normally be fully packed, but no one would wander into a restaurant this early. The door slides open at Hiroshi’s behest, immediately greeted by four faces that turn to stare at the sudden appearance of sunlight — one of them he remembers to be his good friend, Chiyo. The rest were as familiar to him as a blade of grass in a field. Besides the presence of sunlight, the three new faces lit up almost instantly. And thus, he joins them at the table.
“Messengers from Tachikawa.” He greeted, “Welcome to Somukawa, I am Machida, Hiroshi.” He bows. “You look as though you have been through hell.”
As if the sunken state of their eyes did not tell him enough, the worrisome messenger would regale him with the tale.
Never in their lives would they have expected to fear the sound of horses galloping. But the rhythm of a pursuit would put the fright into any heart that beats. More than that, the shadows did not help either, striking doubt as to whether or not they even had a chance to escape. The trees and the rocks were only big enough to hide one person at a time; they frequently shot their gaze across the dark to try and see where each of them was.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Pursuers fired their guns at creatures they thought to be them. The woods were illuminated each time if for but a second. Their consternation became tangible within these split seconds, but so was their path away from Yasu’s men and out of the woods toward freedom. Carrying heavy cargo made the trip even more treacherous; to move quickly was not an option though survival necessitates it, but to lose their cargo also meant to forfeit their lives by the hand of the flesh-eating demon. This explanation of theirs prompted them to finally reveal what cargo they had in store. Onto the floor, the messengers sprawled out a bundle of guns and written instructions for the foot soldiers that the Baker had been training.
The circumference that Hiroshi’s eyes achieved foretold the worth of the cargo at hand. He might as well be feasting his eyes on jewels.
“Oh… Oh well done. Well done.” Hiroshi looks at them, wide eyes suddenly brought to a shimmer. “The three of you have saved lives by bringing these here, thank you.” The Baker bows low before them, which was reciprocated in a stunned show of kindness.
But it soon dawned upon them. Their heads rose slowly, but their gaze was pointed at each other.
“What is it?” Asked Hiroshi.
“You said… the three of us.”
“Yes, what of it?”
“...There was supposed to be six of us… N-..no one has shown up yet?”
“I am afraid not.” Answered Hiroshi. “You three are the only messengers to have come here in days.” He gestures to them.”Before you, others have come bearing news from as ordered by the… creature… that sent you here. Though,” he clasped his beard, twiddling with the follicles in deep thought, “I have not seen them in a while, mostly out for deliveries…”
Once again, their eyes aligned toward one another, save for the newcomer who could not bring himself to raise his head. Nevertheless, their brows stitched together to weave a string of concern. The Baker caught their unsaid worries, and offered his comforts.
“I am certain they too would have had a difficult time. Rest assured, they will arrive soon.”
A plausible explanation was capable of vanquishing even the worst of fears, at least for the meantime. And thus, their brows unraveled, and a faint smile was detected.
“Somukawa owes you a debt. Though we do not have much, we will provide what we can. For now, rest.” He nods to them. “We can get you lodging until you are ready to depart. Please accept these tokens of gratitude. ”
While their gracious host lowers his head to the floor, the messengers would lower their heads on the pillows provided with their temporary lodging. The fatigue they felt comforted them; it patted their backs and tucked them in without consequence. The sun beams continue to pester them, but to no avail. Realizing her attempts to be futile, Amaterasu would have to try to wake them tomorrow instead. Her disappointment was no less than palpable when her sunbeams remained nugatory, compared to the sound of his comrades’ devouring of their first meal. He peeks from the slits that are his barely open eyelids. It is serendipitous at best that his vision, as opposed to his nose, allowed him to detect the smell of the food in their room. Regardless, it, alongside the rumble in his stomach, beckoned him to rise.
“Hey.” Greeted one of the messengers. “Time to eat before it gets cold.” He nudges a bowl toward him.
More dazed than worrisome now, he inches closer to feast his eyes on a small feast prepared for them — complete with rice. Without hesitation, he finds his seat and eats to his heart's content. To clear his palette, he downs a bowl of soup. And with the bowl out of the way, he sets his sights on his two fellow messengers staring at him.
“What?” He asked, surprisingly without food still in his mouth.
“Nothing.” Said the messenger, clearing his throat to turn the conversation to the next page. “This is as good a time as any, so I will start.” He places both hands on his lap adjusting to a more movable stance. “My name is Aoto.” He bows, “We figured we have been through enough to warrant each others’ names. This is…”
“Hinata.” The newcomer bows just as his senior did before him, the gap between their age made known by the pitch of their voices.
“Ah… In that case, I am Sota.” His voice was the lowest; the worrisome messenger bows to them both. “How many days has it been?”
“Just one.” Answered Aoto. “We slept through the whole day yesterday.” He points to the newcomer. “This one snored so loud it woke me up.”
With all eyes cast to Hinata, he quickly lowered his head. “S-sorry…”
“Ahh there is nothing to be sorry about. We all needed to wake up at some point.” Aoto said.
“Yes there is.” Sota interjects, vanquishing the smile that Hinata sent to Aoto. “There is something to be sorry about.” The look he sends to Hinata tugs the young man’s eyes back down to the floor, missing the finger that was pointed his way. “You led them to us.”
Sota lunges past the bowls on the floor to wrap his fingers around Hinata’s gracile neck. His years would grant him an advantage over the young man, who finds his back against the floor. Hinata’s shrunken pupils darted across the room, finding Aoto lunging after Sota to pull his aggressor off. The sound of air struggling to claw its way back into Hinata’s throat called Aoto’s hand to crumple into a fist, one that he fails to use as the door to their room slides open. The sight of a kneeling young girl robbed their strength, substituting a singular pulse of confusion.
She bows, “I am sorry to intrude—”
With her forehead close to the floor, she could only see a slender shadow pass by with haste; she needed not lift her head to know who and why they left in such a hurry, but her decision to keep it lowered was to spare the man his dignity.
“I was sent by Hiroshi-sama.” She continued. “Please, follow me.”
Though stunned, the mystery of what awaits their answering the call of the settlement’s gracious host motivated their legs to move without delay. Out into the streets they went, basking in the rejuvenating sunlight that generously showered the people with warmth, whereas in the town, it was scorching heat. Sota’s search for Hinata was replaced by his marveling of the community, but also, his curiosity. Looking at Aoto, he could tell the other messenger also caught a whiff of the peculiarity.
It was nothing out of the ordinary for a village, town or settlement to be as busy as bees, especially in the morning. However,
These bees look like they are scrambling for a deadline. He thought.
The young girl leads the two men to a two-storey house. Having left their footwear at the genkan, they proceed upstairs. In a similar fashion, the young girl pulls the door open to bare Hiroshi accompanied by a number of men seated on the floor in a circle. The Baker turns accordingly, and casts a wide smile toward the young girl.
“Perfect!” He exclaims, “Thank you! Everyone, these are our guests.” He waves a hand to introduce them, his jovial approach effectively hiding his wonder as to where the third messenger had gone.
Wary, though not at all estranged to warm welcomes, they cross the threshold and greet the score of men that accompanied Hiroshi. Their host stood and met them halfway; with him absent from the circle, the two messengers caught a glimpse of what sat in the middle of their huddle.
“I sincerely hope the meal we prepared was to your liking.” Said Hiroshi.
“I thought I was still dreaming when I took my first bite.” Aoto chuckled, extracting a chuckle from Hiroshi in return.
“Good, good. I am afraid, however, that I must ask you for another favor.” He immediately raised his hands humbly. “Worry not, you will not run nor carry anything. At least… perhaps not yet.” Hiroshi steps aside to unveil the mikoshi in a ruinous state as left by the samurai under Homura’s leadership. “As you can see, the festival is tomorrow and this must be ready by then. The others have already begun reconstructing it, but we could use the help. You will be compensated, I promise.”
“A festival?” asked Sota, “What festival?”
“Ah, you see,” Hiroshi instinctively lowered his voice, which single-handedly pulled the two men closer to him, “the province celebrates a festival dedicated to the Demon of Kumitsukawa every year. Tomorrow will be the third annual celebration.”
“A celebration? For him?” Despite the outrage in his voice, Sota replicated Hiroshi’s volume.
“It used to be to ward him off, but the Demon liberated this settlement not long ago,” he casts his gaze to the same score of men, meticulous in their approach to rebuilding the mikoshi, “and they would like to do right by him to gain his favor and protection against the real evils of the world.”
“Is that why all your decorations outside are black and gold?” Aoto inserted himself to fill for the silence left by Sota.
“Mm,” hummed Hiroshi in approval, remembering the banners, lanterns, and clothes that he saw as he passed by this morning, “the colors of the Demon’s armor. The people have found their trust in him. They even gave him his own emblem and prepared masks to look like the Demon himself.”
“The orange lilies.” Said Aoto, recalling a number of sashimono decorated with them throughout Somukawa.
“Yes, very astute, Aoto-san.”
“So the mikoshi is…—”
“They will parade the Demon around the settlement to ward off evil spirits, yes.” Hiroshi nods, his head seemingly assisted by pride in this endeavor. “Which is why I must ask for your help. Everyone else is far too busy with their own preparations, and the more hands we have on this, the faster we will finish.”
“As long as I get another bowl of rice.” Aoto smiled.
“Consider it yours.” Hiroshi returns the smile, turning to Sota next to inquire the same question without ever having to move his lips.
Just as always, he was taken by the wrist and led astray from the path he set his sights on. Left with no other choice, Sota nodded.
“Splendid! Follow me.”
One pair of feet dragged heavy along the floor compared to the other, but both found their way to the circle, and both pairs of hands worked tirelessly. The sun would soon reach its peak, and then begin its decline; what was once a rejuvenating yellow glow was now a soothing and sentimental orange. Sota was the first to find his way back downstairs and out the front door, unable to stand another second in the room. And yet, in all his hurry, he found himself without anywhere to go. Thusly, with his legs in a standstill, his eyes wandered instead. Black and gold dominated the settlement in almost everything, along with the mon of orange lilies; they might as well dye the grass black and the road gold. A pat on the back sets him free from his thoughts.
“In a hurry?” Aoto came into view.
“What gave it away?” Sota’s sarcastic tone was met with a huff of amusement from the other.
“Names are as far as I go, Sota. I will not ask for your life story,” Aoto shrugged, “but do as all a favor and play nice with these people.”
“Sure.”
Aoto relinquishes his touch, and proceeds on foot. It would seem that he knew exactly where he wanted to go. “Hiroshi-san will be gathering everyone for dinner later, I will see you then.”
Sota watches Aoto vanish into the busy crowd with envy, how he wishes he too had somewhere to be. He was lost, a recurring problem for him despite him being a messenger; they supposedly always had somewhere to go, and knew how to get there without failure. And yet, here he stood, lost in thought. Habitually, when lost, one seeks something familiar by which to steady themselves after whirling in a dark abyss.
A place?
A taste?
A smell?
A face?
Where the hell did Hinata go? Sota thought. The settlement could almost fit in the palm of his hand, to lose a familiar face here would be no less than ludicrous.
At long last, his sole lifted from the ground and the first step away was taken. The houses and businesses passed him by as fast as the people did — at a snail’s pace. His slow approach befits the investigative nature of his stroll. His stare into the incoming alley was prolonged by a gracile silhouette, one that bestowed upon him a feeling of familiarity that he longed for. But so long was this stare that he came into contact with a fisherman; their collision released the fish he freshly caught, thankfully onto dry land. Despite his nigh lack of compassion for these people, his respect for a man trying to make ends meet was more than relatable. Thus, his knee bent accordingly, and his hands came to smell like fish as he picked them up one at a time.
“I am sorry, I thought I saw someone I knew.” Said Sota.
“Ahh that is not a problem, it happens to the best of us.” Replied the fisherman. “Do not worry, whoever you are looking for will be easier to see in a little while.”
“Why is that?”
The fisherman stops to point upwards and around, to the lanterns that slowly came to life, all in the colors of the vengeful demon that brought him here — black and gold. Regardless, the streets were brighter, with light seeping into every nook and cranny of Somukawa. With the light provided, the rest of the fish could be easily seen, and easily returned to the basket. It would come to a surprise to Sota that the fisherman carried two.
“You look like you are about to offer me help.” Said the fisherman.
“Ahh…” The eloquence and the form of Sota’s response fails him, “well, you look like you need it.”
“Ha!” Huffed the fisherman. “Might as well, I am going to need to reserve my strength to help my wife with the preparations for the festival.” He taps on the lid of one of the baskets. “Take this one, much lighter.”
Sota held his breath, wanting to speak out against being looked down upon — he did just carry a bundle of firearms on foot from Tachikawa, while being chased down by murderers. But he keeps quiet, not wanting to spark an argument with the lean-bodied man. Simultaneously, the baskets were hoisted up, and onward they sauntered, and Sota followed the fisherman’s lead.
“I do not know everyone in Somukawa, but I know you are not from here.” He turns his head to his companion.
“Is that a problem?” Asked Sota, looking right back at him.
“No, I just consider it a relief that there are still nice people outside the province.” The fisherman shrugs. “I suppose all this” he nods around, “must be strange to you.”
The fisherman waited for a response, but received only silence. Little did Sota know that this was as much a response as any.
“Not a believer?”
“No.”
“Of the Demon?”
“Of anything.”
The two men stop abruptly as children quickly cut through them, chasing one another whilst adorning their best demon masks and colored hats. As soon as they pass, their journey continues.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“I do not suppose you are open to discussing why.”
“I will need my breath to carry this basket.”
The fisherman chuckled, “It is smart to keep that sentiment to yourself then. To us, the Demon is as real as the fish in these baskets. I would even say there are as many evil spirits out there as there are fish in these baskets. And that is below the fact that he saved us.” The fisherman pauses, seizing both his lips and his legs, having reached their destination. “I would not be here burdening you with my fish if it were not for him.”
“And I would not have ran from Tachikawa to Somukawa if it were not for him.” He puts the basket down, simultaneously to the fisherman. Sota took a brief moment to scan the house. The presence of fish hung out to dry alongside large earthen pots decorated it as a typical fisherman’s house indeed.
“Ah haha,” he raises his little finger, “now that is fate.” Having finally arrived home, the fisherman dug his hand into his pocket to retrieve a piece of white cloth that he uses to wipe his forehead with. “I appreciate the help and the small talk, truly. But for now, this is farewell.”
“Where did you get that?” Sota could not have been faster in asking the question as soon as the fisherman concluded his sentence.
“Pardon me?”
“The hachimaki” Sota pointed to it, “where did you get it?”
“Oh this? My wife got it for me.” The fisherman spreads the hachimaki to display the words that were written on its front — steady and strong. “She thought it might bring me luck, steady and strong hands to make for a good fisherman.” While happy to show the hachimaki, the fisherman reads the other’s stitched brows differently. “...Is something wrong…?”
“...No…” Sota shrugged, smiling. “I just wished I had one since mine is blank.” He points to his own hachimaki, dirty after a day’s work, but still as white as snow. “This is farewell.”
Sota could not wait any longer, but could not risk being found out. He levels his speed to a brisk walk out of sight before sprinting down the road. The black and the gold blurred into streams of light that led him directly to the restaurant where they were received. He cared not for the number of eyes that he attracted, making a beeline for the counter to see an old woman standing behind it.
“Hiroshi-san. I need to speak with him.”
“Young man, you will apologize to the people who have patiently lined up for their food.” Said Chiyo.
“Food? Wh— This is not about food. This is urgent.”
Sota’s shoulders perked up upon the presence of a firm hand, and a familiar voice.
“Excuse my friend, he has had a long day.” Said Aoto.
Sota turned immediately, and took him by the shoulders. “Aoto, where is Hiroshi-san?”
“I have not seen him yet, why?”
“I know where they are.”
“Who?”
“What do you mean who?” His grip on Aoto’s shoulders tensed, his nails pricking him like needles. “The old man and the rest!”
“What old man?”
“The others!”
“What is all the commotion about?” Hiroshi arrives from the backroom, standing beside Chiyo and dipping his feet into the same puddle of confusion she stepped in. Although, she was much deeper in it than he was.
“Hiroshi, do you know them?”
“Mhm, they are the messengers from this morning.”
“Messengers?” She gasps. “Finally.”
“Come in the back.” He beckons at them with his hand while the other hand pats the clerk’s back. “Not to be disturbed.” He whispers.
Leading the other two men into the back, the bustling kitchen provides them with as much privacy as they needed. Just as before, they huddled in the corner.
“What is it?” Asked Hiroshi.
“I know where the other messengers are. They are here in Somukawa.” Said Sota.
“Are you sure? None of us have seen them.”
“I have no doubts.” Sota turns to Aoto, once again placing a hand on his shoulder. “Do you remember? The old man? His hachimaki? It had writings on it.”
“Steady and strong…” Said Aoto.
Sota squeezed and nodded simultaneously, “Someone here had his hachimaki, a fisherman.”
“Who? Who is this fisherman?” Hiroshi inquires.
“I… I did not get his name, but I can point you to where he lives. I carried his basket of fish home with him, and that was when I saw it. He was using it as his own. There is only one way he could have gotten that hachimaki.”
Hiroshi lifts a reluctant hand. “The accusation you imply is , without a doubt, heavier than the basket you carried, Sota-san.”
“I agree,” Aoto crossed his arms, “he could have bought that from anywhere. Someone could have made it for him.”
“What are the chances that his and the old man’s are not the same? They were headed here, like us, and now that hachimaki is here with us, but not him.” Sota pointed to the ground. “Those words meant something to him, and if there is one thing I learned today, it is that people will hold on to their beliefs until death. That man killed him for it. I do not know why, but he did it.” He turns to Hiroshi. “You have to believe me.”
Aoto could not disprove his own theory, but could not disprove Sota’s either. He turns to Hiroshi, attentive and waiting.
“... Lead the way.”
Hiroshi had taken more than a handful of steps already following the Sota’s lead to the fisherman’s home, but in his mind, he remained stagnant — standing on the precipice, where he could either fall backward into disbelief, or forward into believing madness. While he followed Sota, his men followed him; armed with the very weapons that the samurai used to frighten them into submission, now used to keep submission at bay. Their march through the streets sends ripples across the land, a warning that a powerful force is making its way through to quell a great evil that has come to plague their land
and a call to any of those lurking in the shadows and the trees, behind the blades of grass and beneath the surface of the river, to watch.
These powerful steps come to a stop at Sota’s command upon arriving at the house. All its doors were closed, and not a single light was lit. Firmly planted were their feet to the ground, but more so out of reluctance in taking another step forward. Their whispers grew loud, enough to further shake even Hiroshi’s resolve. In spite of this, it is Hiroshi alone who steps forward; the roles have been flipped instantly with Sota, and Aoto, following him closely from behind. The closer they get, the more evident becomes the proof to Sota’s theory; the walls of the house fail to contain the wails of a man that emanated from within. They grew louder with every passing second, as if to call to the heavens for relief from the torment. Hiroshi only needed to stretch his hand outward for a young boy to come to him and bring him his arquebus.
“Kaito!” Called Hiroshi, quelling the wailing at the base with one fell swoop.
The sound of worried whispers were expected, both messengers would have leaned closer to listen if not for Hiroshi’s silent command to stay put. The front door opens, albeit warily, to behold Kaito.
“Hiroshi? What is it? What is wrong?” Kaito immediately set his sights on the Old Baker, but soon found another familiar face in his periphery. By pushing his gaze farther behind them, Kaito finds a score of men, armed with lanterns and weapons. “...Are we under attack? Let me get dressed.”
“No,” his response, and the haste in which it was delivered, stopped Kaito without delay, “we are not under attack, but there is a problem.”
Their voices faded to nothing as Aoto thought to focus on something else. Not only was Kaito scarcely dressed, he also evidently rushed to put clothes on. This allowed him to see more of the fisherman’s skin, riddled with dots of what he would assume to be sweat, revealing themselves under the exiguous amount of moonlight. The slightest shift in his stance creates folds in his clothes, revealing more to him that initially met the eye; Aoto could have sworn he feasts his eyes on a set of bruises on Kaito’s shoulder — a realization that shocks him back to his senses.
“What are you implying?”
“You already know.” Interjected Sota.
“Sota-san, please.” Hiroshi subdues the worrisome messenger, calming him with his own exhale before turning his attention back to the fisherman. “Kaito—”
“I did not see any messengers,” he told Hiroshi, “and I did not see any old man,” he told Sota, “if I did I would have told you immediately. Chiyo told me we have not received word from the Demon in a while.”
“Then where did you get the hachimaki?” Sota interjected again with an accusatory tone, but no protest would come from Hiroshi as he too was eager to know.
“I told you my wife gave it to me as a gift.”
All three men turned to one another, seemingly barred from furthering their quest to find their truth, realizing that the wails may have been moans; Aoto began to realize that the bruises were love bites, and the drops of sweat that plagued the fisherman was a result of… hard work.
“Is that her?” Sota, on the other hand, would not allow himself to be denied by what may be a facade of the truth. He casts his gaze yonder, peering through the small crack in the door between which Kaito stood. “Oi, come here, we have questions for you to answer.”
The ill-mannered approach of the worrisome messenger brought the fisherman’s brows into a stern formation, but a fist would not fly just yet out of respect to Hiroshi.
“Apologize, now.” Demanded Kaito.
“Bring her here, and I will apologize after she answers my question.”
The continuation of Sota’s arrogance urged Kaito’s steady and strong hands to grip him by neck, but Sota does not easily succumb to this show of strength and retaliates without delay by pushing the fisherman against the wall of his own home. Aoto was quick to once again act as the intervenor to this violent altercation, but this only meant that Hiroshi is left to stand to gaze at Kaito’s wife in the distance. He caught her eyes, or maybe she caught his. They had each other locked in a stalemate, and he could not decipher as to why it was so delicate — so fraught, like bubbles from a boiling pot of rice that reached for the rim, on the verge of spilling to the floor.
“Nanami-san?” Hiroshi searched deep in his mind for her name. He inches closer, an action that the woman mirrors. There was a subtle unfamiliarity in the way she moved, not so much because this is his first time seeing Nanami, but rather in the sense that something seemed odd.
Though still ways away from the door, it took but one step to bring her within a range that favored the Old Baker’s eyes. She stood warily on both feet, as one would if their home were to be approached in the dead of night whilst enjoying an evening of intercourse.
But what caught the Old Baker’s attention was that she stands on webbed feet.
Hiroshi was quick to aim his gun and openfire on Nanami. The parted door framed the shot perfectly, allowing him to hit her in the shoulder before she scuttled away.
“NO!” Empowered by the sense of urgency, Kaito pushes both Aoto and Sota away from him to quickly close the door and grab the gun’s muzzle to raise it to the sky. His fist would have met Hiroshi’s jaw had it not been for the two messengers that held his arm back. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“Surround the house and hold your fire!” Ordered Hiroshi, relinquishing his firearm to Kaito. With the shot having been fired, it was practically useless — a lesson he learned from Hisashi’s letters to him.
The orders were followed without delay. A firing squad surrounds the house, eyes and gun barrels heavily trained on the windows and doors, all of which were thankfully closed. However, it's the woman’s silhouette that they need to watch out for now.
“Let him go.” Another order from Hiroshi, relayed to the two messengers that saved him from a beating.
“That might be a mistake, Hiroshi-san.” Aoto’s words came jagged as he continued to keep Kaito at bay.
“He is a friend.”
Kaito swings the firearm at Hiroshi, yet another attempt rendered moot with Sota stepping in to catch the butt of the gun. He yanks the gun from Kaito’s grip with Aoto swooping in to restrict both the fisherman’s hands. Hiroshi himself bent back to dodge, but his age would have kept him from successfully evading the attack; his gratitude was expressed when Sota met his gaze.
“Kaito, you have to listen to me.” Hiroshi stood behind Sota. Though he recognizes Kaito as a friend, mutual sentiments were out of the question, at least for the moment. “Your wife has bewitched you, she is not who she says she is.”
“THE ONLY LIAR HERE IS YOU! I TRUSTED YOU—”
“Trust me now, my friend. Your wife has not returned to you. Something else took her place.”
“SHE IS MY WIFE!!!” Kaito would waste all his breath, as one should for the truth. “YOU WILL NOT TAKE HER FROM ME!!! NOT AGAIN!”
“... I am sorry…”
Aoto understood his role in all of this and dragged the screaming fisherman away with relatively ease. It would take a long while for both Sota and Hiroshi to rinse their ears of Kaito’s cries, but that was the least of their worries tonight. Sota returns the gun to Hiroshi who immediately begins the tedious reloading process.
“Do you know how to use one of these?” Asked Hiroshi, pouring a bag of gunpowder into the barrel, followed by a small metal ball before ramming the contents further with a ramrod.
“Aim and pull the trigger…?” Sota answered from his recollection of being shot at on his way here, and with how Hiroshi himself used it just moments ago.
The Old Baker nodded, unable to find an error in his answer. As such, with the gun ready, he hands it to Sota. “Your friends need you.”
Hiroshi realized that he brought enough men to subdue a killer, but not enough to kill a yōkai. With all his men surrounding the house, he would need an extra hand in entering it. Just as Hiroshi rammed the powder and the ball down into the barrel, so too did he ram any protests from Sota with success. His defeat was indicated by his sigh, but his shoulders rose not long after, and so he mimics the manner in which the samurai pointed their guns at him. Hiroshi would not remain unarmed for long, receiving his naginata from the same young boy that gave him his gun.
“You only get one shot.” Said Hiroshi, something he needed Sota to understand in its entirety.
Finding their footing, the door was opened and the two men filled in the gap by entering quickly and closing the door once again thereafter. An eerie silence fills the house, but they both knew that this was the calm before the storm. Sota finds the interior to be just as typical, the walls decorated with Kaito’s equipment, empty racks for fish drying in the corner, and more sealed pots. A gut-churning thought crossed his mind, one he scorns himself for even thinking of and fears to communicate as breaking the silence might bring the monster down upon them. Sota takes the lead once more, and approaches the pots with caution. Though Hiroshi had no clue where he was going, he follows suit. Sota’s approach was slow, careful not to upset this unholy balance of cat and mouse, meticulous in checking every corner with the barrel of his gun first. Upon reaching the pots, it was Hiroshi who steps forth, believing the other to be too valuable a warrior to hold his firearm with but a single hand. Hence, the Old Baker uses the butt of his polearm to push the lid away.
“WEEEEEEERRGGHHHHHH!!!”
The two men turn away from the pot in a heartbeat to look behind them, called by an unholy shriek of an angered Umi Nyobo that dashes at them with a knife. The creature leaps at Hiroshi with a fury he keeps at bay by lifting his naginata upward. The pots were pushed onto their side, rolling to give way to the struggle that prohibited Sota from pulling the trigger. Nanami clawed, bit, and swung at nothing but the air as a result of Hiroshi’s naginata steady on her collar. With what little light seeped in through the paper windows, Hiroshi was beholden to her features. Nanami had rows of sharp teeth resembling jagged shards of glass that she bared with like a feral creature, which also loosened her clothing enough to show that her skin had been replaced with scales. In fact, she was as slippery as the salmon they hung to dry outside, an asset she found useful; Nanami shifts her weight to create an imbalance that temporarily allows her to slide low on the naginata and come into range with her knife and cut Hiroshi’s left forearm open.
“ARCKK!”
Adrenaline pours out of him along with the blood, and he rolls to the side to further lower her onto his foot which he uses to propel her into one of the pots that cracks under the pressure of her body. But even with that much force, she gets back up quickly and scurries toward him. She dashes unpredictably, like a fly around rotten food, but Hiroshi reels her in with what seems to be a harmless flourish. He strikes her across the cheek with the butt of his weapon and goes in for the stab, but is easily deflected by a mere knife wielded by a strong monster. With his weapon shifted sideways, leaps at Nanami to pin her against the wall.
“SOTA-SAN! NOW!”
For Sota, the moonlight that seeped into the house acted as a spotlight that centered on the monster. He hears nothing else but his own breathing, and the seconds that passed him by passed by at a snail’s pace; he watches Hiroshi deliver a lasting knee to her gut that kept her in place whilst he leaps to safety to give way for the shot. In a decisive moment, Sota pulls the trigger and sends the ball flying.
If only Kaito had not burst through the door and pushed Sota in the nick of time to save his wife.
“STAY AWAY FROM HER!” He exclaimed, in as much a feral rage as his betrothed.
With Nanami freed, Hiroshi returns to his duty of subduing, and possibly killing her. Stunned by the sudden entrance of her dear husband, Hiroshi found an opening to once again stab at her with his naginata’s blade end. The knife was swatted away, and she was forced to hold onto the blade at the end of Hiroshi’s pole to keep it from entering her skin. Once again, he has her cornered, pressed against the corner while she clutches his blade; it grinds against her webbed hands, cutting into the flesh that stretched between her index fingers and her thumb. Her cry was irresistible to Kaito, who could have stopped Hiroshi if not for Sota who swung the arquebus at his head. Free of an intervening party, Sota rushes to Hiroshi’s aid and drives the fallen knife into the side of her head.
Nanami’s eyes grew wide with the realization of her defeat, a stern, sharp, and cold realization that creeps further into her head inch by inch. Her irises locked onto Hiroshi, steadying themselves despite quaking in either fear or pain. A long and final squelch fills the now silent room, and Nanami’s irises roll into the back of her head, leaving Hiroshi with what he could have sworn to be a glimpse at her humanity. But no protest was heard from him — her hands finally let go of naginata’s blade and the curtains were pulled on her gallery of teeth. Sota followed suit, and with nothing to hold her up, Nanami collapsed to the ground in a thud, one that awakened Kaito from his slumber. The husband’s screams for his departed wife alerted the men outside — it was over, and their guns slowly fell to their sides. More than that, their eyes fell to the ground as well, their hearts rang to his inability to accept his wife’s passing, to his pleas to whichever god was present to return his wife to him. But all of this was nigh inconsequential to the fact that every word was made more melancholic with the tears that wet his lips.
Hiroshi leaned his weapon on the wall and knelt before Kaito who took Nanami’s body into his hands. He could not meet his gaze, seeing as how the latter buried himself in her neck. Regardless, he offers her a token of his regret, and offers him a token of his condolences in a single bow.
“Kaito, Nanami did not come back to you. Look at what she had become, she killed those men. This is not her.”
“....This is her, Hiroshi.” His tears had flowed into his mouth, softening his tongue and the words it flung. “She is my Nanami.”
Hiroshi was stifled, both by a dark realization, but also with the depth of Kaito’s affection; it was a complete opposite of Sota who looked only with disdain as the fisherman cradled the monster’s lifeless corpse. He could have melted him with the stare had Aoto not rushed in clumsily, holding onto a bruised cheek.
“What happened? I— Oh…” His finger rose to point behind Hiroshi. “No…”
Sota and Hiroshi turned to find Hinata’s head, surrounded by the shards of the broken pot as a result of the skirmish from earlier. Despite having gone missing just a few hours ago, he was already reduced to a jawless head with eyes as white as the fish they hung outside — he was their freshest catch. Some of Hiroshi’s men came pouring into the home, and at his command, had both Kaito and Nanami removed from the premises. Cleared of any obstructions, Hiroshi instructs the house to be searched while he locates the first pot they had opened. In doing so, Sota’s hunch is reluctantly satisfied upon seeing the old man’s head in a far worse state than Hinata.
“Shit…” He cursed quietly, dropping to his knees. He once peered into those eyes and felt disdain. But now, he peers into an empty socket and finds sorrow.
“Hiroshi-sama,” a voice called from behind them, a man approaches with several folded papers in hand, “we found this stashed away.” He hands them to the Old Baker, who went through them one after the other. Relief came to him as soon as he saw the handwriting, recognizing them to be Hisashi’s.
“Did you find anything else?” Asked Aoto.
“We found guns, lots of them.”
A deep breath of relief was expelled from Aoto’s lungs. The rest of them may not have survived, but their journey here was not in vain. Not at all.
“It is odd that all her victims seem to be messengers.” The man continued, pondering.
“She targeted us because we were not from here.” Sota did not allow him to ponder any longer than he needed to. “No one would know we went missing.”
“And with her husband away at sea, she could do it all here, in her own home.” Added Aoto.
Sota finally pulls his head back up after sulking in pity, and turns to Aoto, “We got lucky.”
“Oh god…”
Their discussion was put on hold upon hearing Hiroshi’s quiet exclamation.
“This was sent this morning.” Said the Baker, his eyes sprinting to the end of the letter.
“What is it?” Asked Aoto.
But his query was left unanswered with Hiroshi reaching for his naginata to help him rise to his knees. Even then, the messengers waited for a response, but the old baker had every man pulling out of the house without delay — dawn was just around the corner. Sota grabbed the letters in his stead, searching for the one that seemingly had Hiroshi running for the door.
“Well? What the hell is it?” Aoto reiterated.
Sota understood as soon as he reached the last syllable of the last word. His soul sunk deep, cradling itself in the dark that overshadowed any semblance of hope he had in him.“...We are too late…”