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The moon desperately peeks through the trees, eager to gaze and partake in the evening’s events. The night gathers around them, just as eager, kept at bay by the light emanating from the flames that warms them so; four shadows dance on the barks of two nearby trees as a result of the flickering light, particularly on the tree behind them that stands in the direction of where they have come from, and the tree in front of them that stands toward the path they are headed — both granting them a partial cover from the moon’s gaze. Just as night had settled in, so had boredom. Without the thrill of bloodshed, forced fornication and the heat of battle, they felt like fish out of water.

One particularly bored pillager, the ring leader, darts his eyes among his peers as they chew on their cooked fish. His ears dedicated themselves to the crackling fire and the loud chewing — truly a dull night. As his ally spits an inedible part onto the dirt road beside them, he realizes that the silence must be broken. He turns on the rock on which he sat upon, setting his sights first on their horse, then on the prison carriage attached to it; he points his stick toward the carriage filled with humble villagers; a cooked fish dangles near the end. It was far enough to be out of their reach, but close enough to be smelled, triggering salivation and a symphony of rumbling stomachs. 

“Oi.” He calls them, but finds no response. “OI!” he calls once more, the loudness of which had startled a few of the villagers, “If any of you can tell a decent story, I will give them my fish.” He said, gently waving the stick around to further permeate the smell into the wind.

The villagers turn to each other, seeking a story to save their lives. The hopeful ones did this, while those scarred beyond salvation found themselves seated, wallowing in the shade of those standing up. Murmurs began to break the silence; a pressured evaluation about whether the story they thought of was good enough became commonplace in the little cage. Perhaps it was the secluded nature of their captivity that allowed for joint efforts, but without a single story that seemed worthy of a single piece of fish, murmurs of cooperation slowly decayed into momentary bursts of anger and frustration.

The Pillager watches with a wide smirk, amused that a single piece of fish could serve as a cause to wage war. If no story came out of this, he would gladly settle for this chaos; the evening breeze sweeps over him, causing the flame to flicker. 

“The fish is getting cold, and I would hate to waste a hot meal.” He added, bringing the stick close to his nose to take an exaggerated sniff of his fish.

His allies, humoring him, began to purposefully chew louder. A big enough bite crunches the cooked exterior of the fish, allowing for the mouthwatering sound of a distant salvation to further lay pressure on the prisoners. The murmurs had turned into screams and pleas. As to what they were pleading for, the cage had split into either pleading for food or for a good story. The Pillager watches, making sure to keep his eyes on them while his jaw slowly drops open. He opens his mouth as wide as possible, slowly bringing the food closer to him.

“Aaaaahhh~.” The sound accompanied the slow hand movement, drawing laughter from his peers who struggled to belch out their amusement while keeping the fish they ate in their respective mouths.

Pleas turn into loud protests, begging for either a second chance or more time. The villagers grip at the metal bars, desperate for a single bite to quell the starvation that attacks them from the inside. The Pillager takes his eyes off of the cage, closing it to take his first bite of the fish—

“I have a story!” The voice came from deep within the cage, silencing the qualms of the captives and stopping their captor from taking his bite.

The man rises, given passage by his fellow captives to make his way to the front of the cage, just barely caressed by the flame’s waning light. The Pillager gazes upon his face, a fairly aging man with a decent beard; his hairs were slowly being decorated with gray strands among the dominant black strands — he recognizes this man as their most recent catch.

“You are the baker, correct?” He asked with a curiously raised brow.

“I am.” He answered, laconically.

“It is fortunate that we found you outside your own village, the bread you were carrying will last us until the next town!” The stick was swung to point towards the sack of bread that sits comfortably beside his rock. Piqued by such a loud declaration for a story, the Pillager leaned onto his knees using both elbows. “Go on, tell your story.” Urged the Pillager.

“A good story is one with its own title,” the Baker holds onto the bars, “have any of you heard of the Demon of Kumitsukawa?” 

The world of man has always found the realms of mysticism to be titillating. Things that are supposedly beyond the comprehensions of the human mind, things that defy human capability. Two things stem from the unknown and the unreachable — fear and curiosity. To speak of demons under the moon’s presence generated both from the prisoners and their captors. They looked to one another, either engrossed by the question or the fact that they knew Kumitsukawa was somewhere in these woods.

The Old Baker continues:

“Legend has it that a demon lived in Kumistukawa, one hiding in the flesh of a samurai. He came to the village as a boy, left by a farmer who knew what he was. The lord of the land, who took pity on him, clothed the demon child and hid him away from the villagers. But the boy grew, and as he did, he was introduced to one of man’s most basic natures — violence. The boy became a danger to the people, and unleashed his mischief when he was at his strongest — when Tsukuyomi reigned in the heavens. The lord hoped to put his talents of violence to good use, and allowed the demon to serve him as a kosho. He was sent to school to train, to refine his skills, and hopefully, better his philosophies. However, this was a mistake; wielding a sword and a title of samurai, the demon wreaked havoc on the people of Kumitsukawa more efficiently.” The Baker’s hands reached out through the cage and emulated the proper way to hold a katana.

“The lord thought that his samurai’s actions were rightful, that the crimes he was accused of committing had an infallible and honorable reason. Having been the boy’s adopted father, it is what he wanted to believe despite having been told otherwise by his concubines, his guards, and whoever else. The samurai would catch onto the whispers of his lord’s concubine and accuse them of infidelity by conjuring a false story — it spread like a disease. With this story in place, the samurai seeks retribution on his liege lord’s behalf and beheads the concubine despite her pleas of innocence. It is said that he kept her head either as a trophy or his meal for the evening.” The imaginary katana in his hands would be used to slice into the air in a swift downward motion to display the execution.

“After watching his concubine’s head roll on the floor, the lord had finally thought otherwise. That night, he had called for his samurai to come to his chambers so that they may discuss his actions and misdeeds. Two samurai patrolling the castle heard a scream and ran for the lord’s room in haste, only to find his head being devoured; they heard bones breaking and flesh being torn apart. The lord’s body lay on the floor with blood gushing from an open neck, having met a similar fate to that of his lover. The guards said that when they found the samurai, he no longer looked human — long sharp teeth and nails, eyes that served as windows to hell itself. He had the appetite of a man who had not eaten for a year; the lord’s head was nearly cleansed of its flesh.” The Old Baker then proceeded to hold an imaginary head in his hands, placing himself in the shoes of the story’s monster.

“To avenge their lord, they engaged the samurai in battle! But a sword did nothing against its skin, there was but one way to truly purge the evil from this world— “ His finger pointed across all of them, toward the burning fire.

Their eyes follow and stare deep into the flames; their imagination brings them to see the titular character in the momentary flickers of light. In the ungodly hours of the evening, the eyes begin to play tricks on the beholder — tricks which may or may not cross into the plane of reality.

“One of the two had pinned him down with their blade while the other fetched a torch to coat the demon in flames. It took everything they had to set him on fire, and the demon let out an unholy cry that made them feel as if they were the ones turning into ash. They truly believed that they had rid the world of one more evil. However, days later, the smell of fire and brimstone filled the air when night fell; it had been spotted wandering the streets and the forests of Kumitsukawa. And soon, the neighboring villages and towns began to see him too — a samurai of black and gold armor or a dark robe, hungry for the flesh of men. The very same teeth, the very same nails, the very same eyes. It walks the roads when the moon sits highest, its blade remains bloody and wanting. It is believed that by burning his body, the demon was actually freed from its mortal form, and now roams the land as a demonic spirit.” His eyes stare off into the distance, as if having seen something moving in the darkness — he pauses.

Following the Old Baker’s eyes, everyone else had thrown their gaze out into the wilderness. Almost frantically, they searched for a shadow, something that moves, something that looks back at them, something that may pounce.

He continues:

“Since then, that spirit had been given the title: Demon of Kumitsukawa. It is said that the demon is drawn most to fellow samurai or the lords they serve, as they are reminders of the final hours he had in his mortal form, but others say that he sinks his teeth in whomever is most unfortunate to cross him – whoever seems like they have enough meat to quench his hunger.” The Old Baker’s voice finds itself shrinking in volume as the legend comes to its conclusion.

He had not noticed how loud he was speaking. Only now was he able to recognize that the entire forest eagerly listened to the evening’s entertainment. Even the villagers had seized from their quarrels, leading the Old Baker to assume that their hunger had been satiated by the tall tale. The only exception to this worldly pause would be the band of pillagers, whose fishes have been reduced to nothing but bone. With the legend finished, the flame crackles once more, and the winds blow once again to act as a melody for the trees to dance to. Saliva flushes each of their mouths as sights now set themselves upon the piece of fish in the hands of their captor.

“Quite the story.” The Pillager commended, twisting the stick in his hands. He himself knew that the story exceeded his expectation — the fish was rightfully theirs. “Are your stories as good as your bread?” Asked the Pillager, lifting his head once more with the same curious brow as before.

“I have told the story, a decent story. I am owed the fish you offered.” Replied the Old Baker, allowing the former’s question to fall upon deaf ears.

“Mmm, a decent story without a doubt. Truly worthy of a place in the theater along with yourself.” The Pillager proceeds to mimic the actions that the Baker had performed so as to concretize the story before their very eyes.

“Then why withhold what was promised?”

“Because while many may pay to see and hear your little tale, I will not be among them. These stories about creatures born from light and darkness, sorcery, gods—” 

“You do not believe they are among us?”

“I know they are among us, but they are not above us.” He rose from his seat, leaving the warmth of the fire to venture close to the cage. His allies, who seem to have grown a tolerance for what was to come next, had put on another set of fish to cook.

At this distance, the aroma of the fish in the Pillager’s hand was thicker than ever before. The gravity of this torture worsened, considering that to a starving body, the quality of taste, smell, sound, and even the sight of food increases beyond imagination. Hands that reached for the fish met only disappointment that their limbs were not a few inches longer.

“Do you believe that it is they who rule when man has proven to be greater? They hide in the trees, the rivers— behind the stories you tell children.” He brings the stick ever so close to the child that fearlessly peaks from between the many legs in the cage. “Man does not hide. We do not shy away from what we are.”

The child reaches with all her might, but continues to find her fingers grasping at the evening’s sighs. Meeting the evil man’s gaze, her eyes slowly accumulate tears. She could not fathom why the man would not stop the grumbling in her tummy. The Pillager moves his hands further outward, to which all the hands reaching for the fish follow; a few finding no hope and allowing their arms to hang instead.

“The gods have their reasons to live separate from those they have created, but you are mistaken if you believe them to be hiding.” Protested the Old Baker.

“They are hiding because they are cowards. Not a single one has risen against me! What kind of a god would allow their creation to spit and shed blood before their very feet while cursing them in the same breath?” Rebutted the Pillager. “They are said to be capable of bringing life, and taking it; laying waste to villages, towns, cities — hundreds and thousands of people at their mercy. Here I stand, having done all of that within my lifetime using my own two hands.” He pats the katana tucked into his belt, recognizing the irony of his words. “Oh this? I had to kill the man who had this with my bare hands. I gained power, and used it against all of you.”

“Ill-gotten power.” Added the Old Baker.

“Power is power. Even false power can make a man kneel, just look to your government.” He smirked.

 After much anticipation, he finally brings the stick to him and dips his hands into the fish’s side, grabbing a considerably large amount of meat to place upon his tongue and chew thereafter.

The proximity at which he stood allowed for the villagers to watch the steam that was once trapped inside the fish’s body leave and join the air. They could hear every crunch as a result of every chew, how the bite’s pressure crushed the cooked skin and how the meat is squished by the tongue and moistened by the saliva; the audience groans with much disdain while he moans in delight, the children burst into tears. As the Old Baker’s eyes linger on the cruel man, he could not fathom how one could grow with such an amount of hate and evil for his own kind. All his years of living, and only now has he seen a physical manifestation of true and inhumane evil. 

“You are a monster.” He spits the word to sour the taste of the food he selfishly consumed.

The Pillager chuckles with a mouthful, “I am a man who lives in the real world. The fools in their palaces, the Shogun and the Emperor, do not know what true power is. Out here, the weak are meat, and the strong eat.” He waves his free hand to refer to his comrades who wave in return to ensure that their presence would not be forgotten. The Pillager’s eyes widen in realization, stalled by his next bite; he speaks with his mouth full, muffling his words slightly as he makes a conscious effort to be heard and understood. “Perhaps this demon you speak of felt the same way.” He chuckles proudly, turning on his heel to return to his seat.

With his back turned, only the Old Baker could bear witness as a black projectile soars across the air, over the live flame and into one of pillagers’ necks. The crackle of the flame partnered with the crunch of the fish’s exterior had masked the projectile’s piercing of the air until it was too late; the arrow met its destination. The unfortunate man drops his own fish, desperately bringing his hands up to his neck to feel blood cascade down onto his chest. He finds the arrow wedged in his neck and it dawns upon him that he was beyond saving. Now comes the struggle for air against a ruined larynx and an influx of blood that further blocks the passageway. He looks to his allies, to his superior, who had realized his demise much later than he did, before dropping onto his knees and furthering the arrow into himself by falling on top of it. To their luck, he falls on top of the bonfire as well, suffocating the flame and eliminating the warmth and the light they enjoyed. Engulfed by the shadows, their horse suddenly rises on its hind legs in a fit of fear, bellowing out its cry and dashing away into the night. To their surprise, the wagon had not been attached to it at all, allowing the horse to run free. Simultaneously, they discard their meals and quickly reach for their respective weapons — totaling two katanas and a bow and arrow — and so it begins. 

Under the blanket of the darkness, shadows begin to move out of their stationary places. Even worse, they begin to take the shape of creatures that stared directly at them. They turn around with much haste to defend themselves from either the wind, or nothing at all. The villagers in the cage were keen to move away from the metal bars, hoping that the object that curtails their freedom will grant them protection; the parents among them embrace their children to shield them from what would come to follow.

A step behind the camp crushes a few leaves on the ground, prompting the archer among them to fire an arrow that meets the trunk of a distant tree instead of a torso.

“Shit!” He muttered in a panic. Realizing he missed, he loads another arrow into the bow while attempting to steady his hands — he takes aim again. 

The leaves above them rustle, prompting their gaze to shift upwards toward the branches. Fearing an attack from above, those with katanas quickly hold them overhead in such a way that any downward blade will enter a stalemate rather than find its kill. The archer continues to shake, the small partitions between the leaves starting to look like eyes with a wicked glow to them. They stare right through him, they know that he is afraid — more afraid than he has ever been in his life.

“Boss… what do we do…?” Asks the archer, shifting from one shadow to the other — one set of eyes to the next. 

He receives no answer from their ring leader, who steadily traced the branches with his own eyes while keeping a firm hold on his katana. 

Suddenly, their attention is redirected elsewhere. From a distance, along the dirt path that ran ahead of them, a series of footsteps came rushing forward in fours. The Pillager smirks, finding the prior attempts of misdirection to have been laughable after revealing themselves by means of a galloping horse. His form relaxes, nonchalantly repositioning himself closer to the dirt path, he steps past the tree in front of them to seek the approaching horseman in the distance.

“Kill him.” He ordered, to which the archer took as a command toward him.

The path that the horseman treads remains under the blanket of darkness, conveniently concealing the horseman despite leaving the horse’s legs in plain view. The archer takes his position beside the same tree to hide his attack, but finds difficulty in aiming for the rider; a shot to the horse’s torso would only spook the animal — he always aims for the kill. Finding no light to illuminate his main target, he begins to pull on the bowstring with an estimation of where the rider would be. The archer takes a form that allows for a proper aim rather than that which calls for a quick shot. A deep exhale is taken, with the inhale allowing him to properly pull the bow. His sight is aligned onto his estimation of the rider’s head and—

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

PHOO!

The arrow is fired, vanishing in the shadows to meet the horseman by means of a well-calculated and well-timed shot.

The horse changes course, spooked by the arrow that flew towards it — it dashes into the woods.

The archer exhales immediately after having launched his arrow, waiting for the horseman to fall dead onto the road.

A figure emerges from behind the tree instead, with one step outward into the archer’s line of sight.

The figure draws his katana simultaneous to his step to launch an upward cut that severs the hand that holds the bow in one swift motion.

The archer could do nothing but panic as he bears witness to the stranger’s emergence and to his forearm being cut in half despite having taken a large step back — the draw was too quick. He falls onto the ground a few seconds behind his severed hand along with the bow that was held in it.

“GUH— AAGHHHHHH! GAAAAAGHHHH!” He exclaimed with all of his might as both a protest to the approaching swordsman, and as a reaction to the loss of his hand. His screams were the only thing that alerted his fellow comrades of the quick events that had taken place — they too were waiting for the horseman to drop dead on the road.

The archer continues to shout, intensely looking at the swordsman despite being unable to find his eyes beneath the shadow of his circular straw hat. However, his screams intensify upon noticing one horrendous detail — long and razor sharp teeth , glimmering from the moonlight. It struck him harder than any projectile ever could — a realization.

“NO! NOOO! GET AWAY! GET AWAY FROM MEEE! NOOOOO!” He protested to no avail. The mental command of scurrying backwards to escape was negated by the fear that froze him in place.

The Swordsman reverses his grip on his katana and plunges it into the man’s chest cavity, right into the heart. The abrupt entrance of a cold blade in the chest effectively stops the screams, but it is the pulling of the blade from the chest that sends the archer’s damned soul from his body. The blood soaking the tip of his blade flies off upon its extraction from the chest cavity, and the Swordsman turns to face the last two standing of their band of bandits.

“Boss….?” Asked the other pillager. He made sure not to take his eyes off of the stranger so as to avoid being taken by surprise.

“We take him at the same time.” He replies by doing the same, though for a very different purpose. The same light continues to barely shine upon their attacker — he can  see the monstrous teeth as well, the very same that had pulled flesh from bone as per the Old Baker’s story. His stare is one of skepticism and deep analysis.

The Swordsman takes a step over their dead archer, now approaching them to seal their fate.

“Now!” Shouted the Pillager, giving his ally the signal to spring into action. Yet while his ally sprints forth, he stands his ground.

The charging butcher puts on an expression that would impart the ferocity of a rabid beast. To empower his strikes further, he lets out a succession of powerful cries and grunts to match. He takes a firm forward step and enacts a downward slash, but the Swordsman blocks it using a well-placed blade over his head. He angles it diagonally to redirect the attack away from him. Still holding his katana overhead, the Swordsman proceeds to use its current height to perform the same attack of a downward slash, prompting the opponent to enact the same defense used against him. The Swordsman’s blade slides neatly against theirs, but instead of being fully redirected away, he pulls his blade toward himself — enabling him to place his blade beneath his opponent’s defense. Before the opponent can reposition himself or his weapon, the Swordsman drives his katana using both hands into the unguarded section of his body and skewers him just below the stomach. He pushes the sword all the way through the back, bestowing upon his enemy the real view of a demonic face up close. The twist of the weapon while lodged in the flesh relieves his enemy of any traces of resolve that was left in him — he drops his katana in defeat.

Much to the Swordsman’s surprise, hurried footsteps approach from behind the man he has skewered. Recognizing this cowardly maneuver among bandits, he places his foot upon the butcher’s stomach and pushes him away to pull his katana free and prompt the oncoming attacker to adjust with little time. As he maneuvers away, he watches a dull katana cleave the man’s head in two. The blade stops its downward motion upon reaching the jaw, the eyes that once exhibited fear were now empty and lifeless. The body is kicked off of the blade, falling onto the grass to reveal the last man standing.

The Swordsman has come to meet the Pillager who had lost the fear that once made his heart pump faster than any arrow could fly. He watches him move, circling him — analyzing him further. He moves with his opponent, maintaining the distance that separates them; their tracks mark a perfectly proportioned circle in the leaves and the soil beneath them.

“Allow me to guess… the Demon of Kumitsukawa?” Asked the Pillager, quite amused. “I suppose we are still in your forest.”

The lack of an answer had resulted in a deep and insulting chuckle that emanates from the bottom of his diaphragm.

“It is you! A real demon!” He exclaimed, though his last remark was clearly laced with the tone of sarcasm. He raises his weapon, pointing his sword at the demon. “You are wise, to have your storyteller be captured so that you could track us down! You must have been on our tail since we passed your little village. You thought I would not notice you moving about in the shadows? Following our trail? How long have you been watching, hmm?”

But there is no reply from the Demon. Rather, he continues to move around the extinguished bonfire. Beneath his hat, his eyes follow the outline of his enemy’s body whilst the latter spoke. The muscles exposed on the Pillager’s forearm from merely gripping his weapon indicated that strength was a close ally of his. The dullness of his blade only attested to this finding. The Demon would then conclude that strength may be his answer to every battle. In which case strength would be his weakness. 

“It is not polite to remain silent when a question is asked.” The boastful Pillager twirls his weapon, going as far as taking his eyes off of his opponent to inspect it in the moonlight. 

The Demon stops in his tracks, cleans his blade with the cloth of his robe, and returns his weapon into the scabbard. The Pillager would stop as well, but would not sheath his sword.

“I know that you are no demon.” Said the Pillager, almost spitting his words.

“Knowing is beyond you.” In the wake of his broken silence, his unholy breath permeates the air. The sound of his voice alone could topple a shrine, the syllables could bring a priest onto their knees, and the message within would strip them of their faith. 

Hence, the heavens saw fit to draw their cloudy curtains and watch safely from behind them.

Despite the words coming from him, his mouth did not move. It would be here that the Pillager laughs his loudest, finding his own mockery to be true — the stranger seems to be wearing a menpō to fool his victims of a demonic face.

“And I thought I would be talking to myself!” He shouted to the heavens above. “What are you, hmm? That mask, a beautiful sword— You are either a thief or… a samurai. But a samurai without his armor wandering this far? With the country in disarray, you should be guarding your village, yet here you are.” He smirked, tauntingly. “You are neither demon nor samurai… you are a disgrace!” He turns to the Old Baker, wherever he is inside the cage. “Do you see now, old man?” the Pillager continues, “Not even your demon is real! Just a simple ronin. These stories hide the truth and distort reality to keep us from realizing what we are — what truly lies ahead of us! And you think me a fool? Ha! And you—“ he returns his gaze upon the Demon, “If any of that story was true, then you are nothing but a murderer — no different from me. Then again, I would expect nothing less from a samurai.” He chuckles insultingly.

The Demon was ready to silence this sinner for all of eternity, but his hand would be stayed by a familiar sound — CHI, CHI, CHI! The sound had come from a lone bird, a sparrow to be precise — a lone pair of wings fluttered in the air. To conceal his concern, he sought to keep his head stationary while his eyes roamed to search for their spectator. The bird must have perched itself beyond his line of sight, but one thing was for sure, the Pillager’s lack of a reaction told him that the chirping was heard by him alone.

“You are a fool.” Replied the Demon, who now rested his hand on where the sword meets the scabbard.

“Your lectures mean nothing to me, ronin. But what you did to your master shows that you are fit for this world, that you are strong. Join us, fight with us! Have no fear! Do not be afraid of what you truly are.” 

“ Fools will die for any cause, no matter how small.” Refuted the Demon.

The Pillager chuckles, “Still acting high and mighty! Listen to me, embrace your dishonor! You have fallen into the real world. Down here, there is only man, the blood he spills, the bodies he takes, and the power — the true power — that he acquires from doing so.”

Again, he would be treated with silence, prompting him to continue,

“I suppose having been a samurai, you knew these things already. Do you know why your kind is feared and loved? It is because of your talents in battle — the violence you are capable of. The legends came to rise after you and your brothers have cut thousands of people into pieces — the honorable murderers of the country. How many innocent people have you killed? How many limbs have you taken to see if your sword remains in its sharpest? How many wives have you coveted from their husbands, hmm?” He laughed hysterically, spitting beside his own foot afterwards.

The leaves applaud the Demon’s steadiness.

“What do you say, hmm? Forego these lies. For too long, you have lived under a code that makes you a servant. Now you are free. It is time for a new purpose, one that does not split your soul in half.” Once more, he attempts to recruit him.

The Demon of Kumitsukawa would share no more words; he grits his teeth behind sealed lips, just as he brushed his right thumb over his nails. He adjusts his footing for the battle. The Pillager would take note of this, and let out an audible sigh.

“It truly is a shame, I wanted to believe that you were a demon, that I would be proven wrong this time.” A shrug discards whatever hopes he had for such a dream, and the first step would be taken.

The Demon watches his opponent charge at him with a great thirst for blood, enough to launch leaves backwards with every step he takes. He would be shrouded in the shadow of the Pillager who opted to strike him down with the weight of a mountain. A quick step inward into his opponent’s personal space allows him to narrowly dodge the attack; he steps further and takes the opportunity to drive his elbow to the back of his opponent’s head, launching the bastard forward while using the momentum of his elbow strike to distance himself further by going the opposite direction. He watches his opponent gather himself, visibly touching the back of his head where the strike had landed perfectly — a smile was sent back his way, imparting an indication of joy. The Demon expected nothing less from a cold-blooded killer whose thrill comes from last breaths. 

Once more, he was charged at, and once again, he watched the Pillager call for strength to aid in his strike. So as to trick his opponent, his left thumb pushes the handguard forward to eject the sword slightly with the right hand taking a firm hold of the handle. When the Pillager had unleashed their downward slash, he would take another step to the side. This time, to counter this evasion, the Pillager would swing their weapon sideward to mow him down by the waist. The Demon proceeds to duck beneath the swing and finds himself emerging in front of his opponent, where no hand nor blade stood in his way. The katana had finally been drawn, and the mere sound of it had sunken the Pillager’s heart beyond salvation. He pulls his katana and drives the pommel into the bridge of his opponent’s nose, breaking it severely. Back into the scabbard goes the katana and a backward step would be taken to distance himself once more; the Pillager stumbles back, covering his nose to feel the extent of the damage. Any adjustment to his expression began to cause him pain, his eyes drowned in water while blood tainted his tongue.

CHI, CHI, CHI! The sparrow chirps again, but more than a handful of wings could be heard settling in this time. 

The Pillager, now unleashing a hearty warcry, charges toward him and tries again. Desperate to catch him, the katana would be swung in every which way. This left but narrow spaces for the Demon to move and evade; he himself knew that he could not keep up evasion as a strategy for long. Nevertheless, he would hold out for as long as possible; he utilizes the nearby trees as cover, prompting the blade to meet the trunk several times rather than his own flesh. He dashes back and forth, to which the Pillager responds by pushing on and swinging his weapon despite hitting everything except his enemy. The distance between every swing and him became shorter by the second. Every lean had brought him closer to nearly getting cut — sawdust and pieces of the trunk had nearly accumulated around the poor tree. Eventually, the Demon performs a vertical draw, pulling his katana in its entirety and catching the incoming attack immediately upon leaving the scabbard.

Bouncing off of this block, the Pillager seeks to take another swing at his opponent’s exposed waist. 

The Demon, now on the offensive, brings the raised katana back down with a mighty force and cuts the Pillager’s blade before it even reaches his waist. By the time the swing was complete, there was no blade present to mow him down. He takes a step to get behind his opponent, simultaneous to a pivot of his heel to rotate inward. Using the momentum of the rotation, he swings his sword once more and cuts the Pillager deep behind his knee, causing him to kneel into the soil and fall defeated.

“ARGH!” Exclaimed the Pillager, finding the sudden feeling of a drain in his leg. The sword had been broken, and immobility applied to the enemy — the battle was over. 

His sword would be sheathed after being cleaned; with the enemy now on the ground, it was easy for him to retrieve the key from the Pillager’s belt. As he walked over to the cage, he was now free to gaze high into the trees to find silhouettes having gathered upon the branches — the sparrows. The key undoes the lock, and the prisoner’s salvation was announced by the creaking of the metal door that swings wide open. And yet, none dared to step out.

Not with him at the door. 

Alas, the Demon steps to the side. “Go,” he tells them, “do not stop, do not stumble. If you do, get up quickly. Keep walking until you are out of the woods. When you find your homes, prepare an offering.” Instructed the Demon, maintaining his head angled downward to conceal his fearsome teeth behind his hat.

Reluctance slowly left them, and they soon poured from the cage. Unsure how else to thank him, they offered subtle bows and whispered gratitude as they passed his way.

Just as the Old Baker would come down from the cage, the Demon distances himself, approaching the dead archer. The Old Baker would take his place beside the cage, assisting his fellow captives down onto the ground. He rushes toward his sack of bread, giving one each to those whose stomachs were unbelievably vocal and to those with children. A warmer sense of gratitude would be extended to him rather than to the hellish creature of myth.

“Ugh—.. ucckk… urrgh…” Groaned the Pillager, gripping onto the tree to act as a support. 

After having gotten himself up, he pushes his back against the tree. The cut that had been made behind his knee was deep enough to render his right leg nearly useless; he was at the mercy of the flesh-eating warrior from hell. Even without the quick movements necessary in battle that rendered them blurry, he could still not clearly see behind the shade of the Demon’s hat.

“You should have been guarding their villages. None of their families would have ended up dead.” He said, laughter and humor used as a way to mitigate the pain.

Immobilized, he could not help but bare witness to the Demon kneeling beside the dead archer of his group. Despite his back turned toward him, the sound of flesh being ripped from bone told him all he needed to know of what was happening.

“Do you know what you lack, hmm? Horns.” Said the Pillager, followed by a laughter that struggles to exit him. 

The captives, now free, had begun their walk to freedom, yet their captor’s laughter continued to haunt them. They covered their ears, almost convinced that a faster pace of walking was necessary. The Old Baker, on the other hand, remains standing beside his sack of bread, watching the two converse. The Demon turns around, holding the head of the Pillager’s archer by the hair. The pattern of the tear around the neck revealed that it was uprooted in beast-like fashion, while the missing organs and the scarcity of skin revealed the Demon’s beast-like appetite.

“You are not the first,” says the Demon, “and you will not be the last. Your mouth seals your fate.” The Demon spoke whilst grooming the head to be placed on the rock.

“Great minds tend to find the same wisdom.” Replied the Pillager, shrugging in his arrogance.

“Fools that drink from the same poisoned river die of the same causes.” He countered.

“And you are that cause? I was beaten, not by some demon, but by a man who thinks too highly of himself.” He casts his finger outward toward him. “You are no demon, you bleed like the rest of us. You are of flesh and bone like the rest of us!”

“Demons are not born.” The Demon rises, “We are made.” He sheathes his wakizashi, leaving the beheaded archer on the rock as a warning. Turning away, he calls for his horse with a mighty whistle. Within seconds, the hearty steed comes galloping to his aid, standing on the dirt road to await for a command. He grabs the sack of bread from the Old Baker who was seemingly still in shock.

“I will take you back to Kumitsukawa. Get on the horse.” Said the Swordsman.

“Are we leaving him like this?” Asked the Old Baker.

“Someone will come along.”

Aided by the mysterious man, the Old Baker mounts the house with the sack of bread seated in front of him — the only thing left of his belongings after having been taken. The Demon holds his horse’s rein and walks on foot; together, the two would take the road back towards the village of Kumitsukawa.

The Pillager patiently waited until both of them had vanished into the darkness. As soon as they were out of sight, he shifts his weight onto his left leg and begins to limp his way toward the dirt road. The path ahead of him was long, but to him, nothing would get in the way of true power. Being alone in the dark, injured and without a weapon, everything was rendered as a danger to him. Even the night’s breeze felt like an unholy breath on the back of his neck, and the rustling of the leaves like whispers and schemes for his demise. 

CHI, CHI, CHI! The noise came from behind him; he stopped in his tracks to turn and feast his eyes on a shadowy road. 

The branches began to sway.

The leaves began to move.

The leaves began to move toward him.

The leaves that moved toward him took a more familiar form of sparrows, darkened by the night’s shade. An entire swarm began to spiral toward him, unleashing their ominous song in a chaotic arrangement — CHICHICHICHICHICHICHICHICHI! The Pillager ducks to avoid the swarm, attempting to run further to beat the flock. However, the wrong placement of weight triggers a sharp pain behind his knee, causing him to stumble upon the dirt road with a loud grunt.

Just as mysteriously as the flock of sparrows had arrived, they vanished, leaving behind residual fluttering of wings and ringing ears as a result of their cries. As he attempts to push himself up, a series of footsteps tread through the fallen leaves, prompting him to stop and remain still. Only now did he notice how strongly his heart had been beating.  He struggled to find a way to calm himself, for his wretched heartbeat masked even the footsteps.

“Where are you?” He would ask, frantically looking around. “Back for more? Finally come to finish me off?!” He slams his fist into the road, granting himself a momentary spark of strength.

The bushes behind him began to rustle, prompting him to use said momentary spark of strength to place his feet below him. But alas, another sharp pain shot throughout his leg. The strength he had mustered would vanish just as quickly, causing him to stumble again and fall onto the road.

“Oogh! Damned leg!” He cursed.

The bushes rustled once more, and through them came a snarl. The snout pushes through, and soon, the whole body. What seemed to be a wolf had made its way onto the dirt road behind him, its eyes looking to his direction, glowing in the darkness. The silhouette and the snarl confirmed what animal it is, yet it was somehow different. The Pillager runs his eyes over it, finding it to be too slender and too big to be an ordinary wolf; the snarl was also peculiar. He remained still, cold sweat running down his forehead.

The predator had set its eyes on the prey — men are not the only hunters. The snarl had died down, simmering into a silence. Before he could blink, the yōkai had pounced on him, covering a wide distance within a single leap, and dug its teeth deep into his flesh.

“NO! NOOO! GAAAAARRRGHHHHHH!!!” Cried the Pillager, unable to escape the jaws of his predator.

His cries would be rivaled by the sound of his flesh being torn apart, pulled from his bones before they snapped under the pressure of a strong bite. Within seconds, there was only the latter.