The Swordsman and his mighty steed carry on with their journey back to the Old Baker’s village, who seems to have fallen asleep on the horse using the sack of bread as a pillow. Temporarily, the Swordsman lifts his head to look up at the sky despite it being obstructed by tree branches, heavily decorated by a full hand of green leaves. With his view of the sky obscured, he could barely tell which hour it was, though he would assume that they already passed the Hour of the Horse — midday.
Simultaneous to him lowering his head, the horse gently nudges him on the shoulder, to which he turns to see a familiar gaze in the stallion’s eyes.
“...You just ate.” He said.
To which the horse replies with a stern exhale through his nostrils.
“You are going to starve the country.”
In place of an exhale, a short and subtle neigh is used as a response.
He sighs, gently petting the horse on the side, “We are almost at the village, I will feed you then. I hope you realize some of your food is mine too.”
The horse gives his gratitude by means of a positive-sounding exhale.
Inadvertently, the chatter beckoned the Old Baker’s eyes to open. He felt his body regain feeling from his limbs down to the tips of his fingers and toes. Light enters his eyes in the form of sunbeams filtered by the leaves. It would take a while before he would realize that the constant motion was due to him being on a moving horse, and that the mysterious stranger walking beside him was the swordsman from earlier — supposedly the fabled Demon of Kumitsukawa. The Old Baker lets out a subtle yawn that alerts his travel party of his being awake.
“Good morning… my lord.” Greeted the Baker, quick to add a respectful end to his salutation once reminded of the status of his savior as a sworn samurai in comparison to himself.
However, no such reciprocation would be heard from him.
“...My lord, would you like to take my place? You have been walking since before dawn, you must be tired.” He continued, offering the man’s horse back to him. But the Old Baker was at a loss. Whatever kindness he offers seems to meet an impenetrable wall, prompting a short moment of silence to dwell among several possible prompts. “Are… are you really the Demon of Kumitsukawa?” He pauses for a response, which he did not receive. “Last night’s heroics have me thinking otherwise.”
“Demons cannot be heroes.” The Demon cuts through his delusion.
“With all due respect, my lord, demons do not save lives, but you saved us.”
“...”
“You must allow me to extend my gratitude. I do not have much, so I must place myself in your service until my debt is repaid.”
“There is no debt to be owed here.” Again, the Demon refuses.
“A life is no small thing, and you have saved several. I suppose you may not see life this way, not yet. When you get to my age, you—”
“I did not kill those men to save lives. I killed them because they needed to be killed.” He interjects with venom-laced words.
“Needed…?” Inquired the Baker, but the inquiry was moot. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord, but although that may have been your objective,” he continues, “ it does not change the fact that you saved us.” The Baker refutes, “Your kind heart confutes you.” He follows with a kind chuckle, soft enough to dispel the illusion that he was mocking his savior.
Without any reaction from the Demon, his chuckle naturally fades into silence. The rein is tugged to lead them onto a dirt road that departs from the initial path. It leads inward into the forest, where the gap in between the trees is wider and the road itself is better kept. What joyous expression the Old Baker held degraded into a stern look.
“Please do not mistake my humor for a lack of gratitude. I truly am grateful, but I must tell you that my village—”
“—Would not take kindly to a demon?” He presumes, “I will bring you to the village, but I am not delivering you to your doorstep.”
“No, my village is…—”
Kumitsukawa comes into view, particularly the paddy fields just outside the walls that normally teemed with food for generations to come. However, the paddies were not just populated with crops this time as he came to realize with every step taken forward. The Demon, upon getting closer, feasts his eyes upon the harrowing view of a grave atrocity; just as the rice stalks peeks from above the water, so do hands, heads, feet, and fingers.
He relents from his party and runs forth to find that not a single paddy is spared from the presence of a dead body. The water conceals much of the deceased, but there is no mistaking it. A floating extremity or an exposed head is recognizable beyond the shadow of a doubt. Questions overcame him, but soon enough, the priority made itself known. He sprints through the paddies, through the charred gate, to find Kumitsukawa in ruins. Nothing was spared from the siege, neither wood, stone nor flesh. And to that effect, he leaves no stone unturned to find anyone that may have survived. No haste is spared in looking for any signs of life, the lack of which brought him to desperation — even a wince or a dying breath would do. He visits piles of rubble after piles of rubble, pulling apart mounds of debris with all his might to create a path for survivors. However, despite his efforts, no one came crawling out to meet him. No one called out for his aid. Eventually, he could no longer take the silence — he breaks it with a roar of agony. He finds himself weak in the knees, dropping amongst the dead to grab at the blackened soil. It was something to crush, something to crumple while he recites profanity like prayers — the sun slowly set on him, just as it did on Kumitsukawa.
The Old Baker, now on foot, follows from behind with the horse being led by the rein. He himself is seeing this scenery for the first time, to be surrounded by the bodies of his neighbors and friends — their houses and the streets they roamed have now become their graves. The slow pace in which he walks allows him to take in one detail at a time. True enough, not a single house nor establishment was spared, not even his bakery. He follows the cries to the very center of the village — the market place. He watches the once stoic stranger pour his heart out into hellish wails; he figures that a man of the sword, a warrior, must have seen countless deaths before. Either by his own hand or the hand of others. Yet he watches the Demon collapse upon witnessing the tragic state of Kumitsukawa.
He approaches the other, and places a soft hand of comfort upon him. He expected his hand to pass through, and perhaps become scorched, but instead, his fingers curled around a burdened shoulder.
“What happened....?” The Demon asks, torn between a boiling fury and a chilling mortification.
“I… I do not know...— I never made it this far into the village. I was taken by the paddies, just outside…” Said the Baker. “I was returning from a trip... and when I got to the fields— I was too afraid to go further, I could not take another step— the pillagers found me soon after.” He continues, trembling at his own recount of the events. “We can only hope that by the will of the gods, someone survived.” The Baker, once more, glanced upon the destruction of his village.
“Tch.” The Demon scoffs, a response that the Baker took note of.
“The gods have mercy—”
“MERCY?! The soil is wet with the blood of children and you place your faith in their MERCY?!” His fingers dive further into the ground, feeling the moisture. A demon’s cries in their fullest potency devours the radiance from the morning sky with ease. Beneath the mask, he grits his teeth, standing in the middle of an unexplained massacre. He continues, “None of this is enough to beckon their mercy. It did not then, it will not now.” He lowers his head.
The Baker did not need to see his face, the breath that carried his words was evidence enough of his pain. A pain of such depth was capable of quelling any thought he had as a refutation to his musings. He doubts refutation is an appropriate response to a soul in such a ruinous state as the village. In the silence they shared, the Demon suddenly looks over his shoulder in a quick fashion; he plants a firm hand upon the Baker’s stomach and pushes him out of the way, saving him from the arrows that strike the back of his knee as well as the forearm that remained extended.
The sudden attack spooks the horse, prompting a loud NEIGH! But no urge to run is apparent, at least not without his master’s command.
The Demon pulls his scabbard back to aid in the draw of his sword. He pivots on his foot to deflect two more arrows that sought him out, rendering them moot. Unfortunately, other attempts to move are denied by the arrow that lodged itself behind his knee. The range at which an arrow would be effective, and the landscape of their location, foretold the enemies’ proximity. It may be too late for him — he must save the Old Baker,
“Take the horse! Run!” The Demon commands.
“I can fight! I can help you!” The Baker’s eyes lock on the two arrows sticking out of him.
“RUN!”
Left with no choice, the Old Baker mounts the horse and tugs on the rein to run deeper into the village. The arrows came from behind them, which meant that the main exit had been covered. His eyes omit the horrifying depth of the damage done to Kumitsukawa as he searches for a new exit to save his own life. However, just as he turns a corner, another horse collides with him, knocking him off the saddle and onto the ground. Before he could scurry back onto his feet or away from the attacker, the bladed tip of a yari hovers inches away from his chin.
Meanwhile, at the Market...
The Demon frees his scabbard from his belt to aid in his rise from the puddle of blood that he knelt in. Under such strenuous circumstances, he attempts to mitigate the stress and the pain by breathing; on the count of three, he pulls the arrow that was lodged in his arm. Unfortunately for him, this is the only arrow he pulls out as a band of samurai, armed with spears, bows and arrows, and swords, quickly circled around him.
“Come at me.” He beckons from behind the mask, feeling the fire in his heart, a fire fed by the emblem on their navy blue cuirass — a three-legged crow.
The spirit of the battle takes him, allowing him to maintain what little balance he musters on one leg; he drops the scabbard on the ground to wield his weapon with both hands — a cornered animal is left with no other choice than to fight. The samurai around him understood in an instant that with the scabbard discarded, death is the only escape for either of them. The Demon turns every which way, both to keep them at bay and to spread his awareness — he counts four men, two archers, one swordsman, and one holding a naginata. As soon as he steps forward to engage the enemy in battle, a gunshot echoes throughout the village and a large hole below his rib cage explodes into existence. A single musket ball enters his back, knocking the wind out of him and bringing him down to his knees once more.
“GUH!” His body jerked from the sudden pain, causing his straw hat to fall before he did, leaving him with only his mask.
Whatever strength he conjured for the battle seeps through both his lips and the new hole that blew into existence. The pain was nothing short of excruciating, he could only try and double his effort to rise up as opposed to the previous instance of his being immobilized. Outside his troubled breathing, he hears the marksman approach from behind him — a fifth samurai, more decorated than his companions. He turns to peek over his own shoulder and watches the Marksman hand his arquebus to the nearest man to begin the reloading process. He follows the warrior’s movements and watches him take off his mask and helmet to greet him with a smile.
Because he had difficulty standing up, the Marksman saw fit to kneel on one knee.
“Dressed in a dark robe, a straw hat, wielding a sword, has a demon's face or… mask, and smells of brimstone.” The Marksman enumerates his features after performing a quick once-over, as if to cross off items on a list. “It is you.”
His response came in the form of a scowl, aimed at the samurai that knelt in front of him.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“I never thought I would get a chance to see you, let alone in broad daylight — the Demon of Kumitsukawa.” He says with a smile. “Forgive me, I am Morimoto Daichi, captain under Lord Homura. And these are my men.” He bows his head for a few seconds, once for his apology, and another for his introduction. The rest of his party bows in chorus.
While they bow, he slowly reaches for his katana, sitting a few inches away from his fingers.
In an instant, his hand is impaled to the ground by a wakizashi.
“HRNNNN!! HMMM!!” He shrieks in a muffled manner, feeling the handguard on his knuckles and the cold blade between his bones.
“Tsk tsk tsk—” Daichi clicks his tongue.
Impaled to the ground and immobilized, his strength continued to slip away. Much to his regret, the sound of galloping horses approached. And once they clear the ruins, he finds the Baker in the clutches of another samurai — a sixth man. The Baker looks meets his gaze; if eyes could speak, he would have received an apology of great value.
Daichi rises from his knelt position to meet the Old Baker. Instinctively, his men reaffirm their position so as to watch over the Demon. The Marksman approaches, giving the middle-aged man the same look of analysis that he gave their more lethal catch. He pivots on his foot, returning his gaze to the Demon.
“Is he your father?” Daichi asks the Demon, but turns back to the old man when he receives no response. “What is your name?”.
“Machida Hiroshi.” Answered the Baker, in the same laconic manner as he did the Pillager.
“And who is that?” Daichi lifts his finger, pointing it toward the Demon.
Hiroshi looks to his ally. Though his straw hat was removed, the mask still covered half of his face; his mind remains unknowing of a certain answer, “I… do not know who he is.”
Daichi breaks into a smirk, erupting into a sudden motion of gripping Hiroshi by the jaw. His men remain calm, never once breaking away from their current task of who watches whom.
“Nnng!” Hiroshi groaned. “Is this how a samurai proves his worth? By hurting an old man?” He stares with the sharpness of a dagger despite wincing in pain.
“Does this hurt?” The Marksman applies more pressure, his own nails beginning to create marks upon The Baker’s skin.
A samurai approaches, stepping over the Demon to return Daichi’s arquebus to him. In a quick turn of events, the downed Demon pulls the wakizashi from his hand and stabs the samurai’s foot to root him to the ground; resourceful is he to transfer the arrow from his leg to the impaled samurai to weaken him further. The Demon pushes himself upward to grab a hold of the samurai’s waist and pull him down to use his body as cover for the arrow that was fired at him in an attempt to quell his retaliation. He grabs onto the samurai’s wakizashi from his belt and shoves it upon the exposed region of his face — just above the eye socket. The blade clears the man’s head, lifting his helmet slightly and killing him instantly. He takes the dead samurai’s katana next and quickly gets up onto one knee whilst entering a seigan-no-kamae stance; a middle guard proves useful amidst being surrounded by enemies of various weapons. The commotion prompts the sixth samurai to hold Hiroshi so as to keep him in place. Simultaneously, Daichi kicks the arquebus away from the Demon’s reach and rolls to the ground to grab it. Mirroring the Demon, he aims the fully loaded arquebus toward him in a stalemate. The rest of the men inch closer, surrounding the two of them in a small space. Despite the death of his comrade, Daichi could not help but smile upon witnessing the ferocity of a demon before his very eyes. Even on the brink of death, even as he was surrounded, he managed to kill one of his men and hold him in a stalemate. For a split second, his steady breathing hitches.
“Put down the sword, Demon. Hell is no match against the power I hold in my hands, especially not in your state.”
“Hell awaits.”
Their eyes lock into a battle. To both warriors, the world began to quiet. The spirits inch closer to watch as the battle unfolds before them. The Demon lunges forth, only to have a blade pierce him from behind the moment he moves.
“NO!” Hiroshi cries, struggling to relinquish himself from the grasp of his captor to no avail.
The cold blade inside his body extinguished what little fire was left in his heart. It brushes against his organs each time he breathes; there is no way to muster strength, not again. And just as he felt it enter, so too did he feet it exit.
“Tsk tsk tsk — a shame. Your legend precedes you, Demon.” Daichi briefly gazes upon his man’s polearm, wet with blood. “However, not as much as you hoped.”
“Daichi-sama, have you reached a decision?” The samurai with the naginata chimes in. “Shall we collect the bounty?”
“Ah,” his eyes lit up, recalling the troubling matter he had been pondering on. “Are you aware that there is a bounty on your head? Silly is it not? To place a bounty on the head of a myth?” And so once again, he kneels before him. “A higher price is being offered if you were captured alive, but orders were to kill everyone in Kumitsukawa.” He points the pistol onto the Demon’s head.
“Coward!” Shouted Hiroshi. “A real samurai would use his sword!”
“Stuck in the past? I suppose both of you are.” Daichi smiled. “But you understand our ways more than a young man like me, right? It would be… disgraceful… not to use this gift.”
The Baker, casting his gaze outward, finds that all of them were equipped with the same mysterious weapon.
“You see, Lord Homura has been chosen by a powerful daimyo as an ally.” Daichi explains, “And as a token of this partnership, he gave us this. Underestimating it is unwise. Just look around you.”
“...Nng...Why?” The Demon asks, “This village… is under Lord Homura’s fief..”
“It is, but rotten crops must be removed before new ones can be planted.” Daichi smiles. “Sadly, the soil itself has been deemed… unfavorable. You have your lord to thank for that. What was his name…? Ah… Ataru.”
“Filth like you have no right to speak his name!!” Hiroshi cries out fiercely, prompting the sixth samurai to tighten his grasp and constrict his neck.
“You think him honorable, old man?” Daichi lifts his head to clear his own shoulder, continuing to perch the firearm on the Demon’s forehead. “About two months ago, Lord Homura gave him an order to send all the samurai and the ashigaru left in the Kaga province to aid us in the expansion of territory — our territory.” He shrugged. “Without reinforcements, they burned our banners, and strangled us with its smoke.”
“The man is blind!” Spat Hiroshi, “What reason does he have to wage war? Lord Ataru understood what none of you fools could not! He gave us lives! Homes! Futures! Had Lord Homura stayed in Kumitsukawa, he would have known that all of Kaga has been at peace!” The Baker pays the toll of running his mouth with a stiff knee sent to the back.
“It is at peace because Lord Homura is fending off enemies at our borders!” Daichi counters fiercely before turning back to the Demon. “All this Ataru gave you was his weakness, turned the warriors of Kumitsukawa into farmers and errand boys. You were a samurai — once. Tell me, was that honorable of a lord?”
With what little strength, the Demon pushes his head further on the gun that is being pressed on him, propping himself up with his knuckles. “I will kill you.”
“Hmm— Your ferocity made me doubt if you were even from Kumitsukawa, but now I am assured. You have drunk the same water he did.” Daichi pulls the trigger and empties his shot into the Demon’s eye. Blood and flesh erupt and streak across Homura’s kamon as displayed on their cuirass, the rest straining the soil thereafter. The Demon of Kumitsukawa falls lifeless into the dirt, and silence befalls them. Collectively, the samurai relieve themselves of their helmets to feast their unobstructed gaze at the sight of a lifetime — a dead legend. They bow so as to honor a fallen warrior. Daichi, on the other hand, was quietly elated. Not only has he vanquished a cursed thorn on their side, but he was in possession of a weapon capable of killing gods. With as much care as a gardener employs to tend to his flowers, the Captain tucks his pistol onto his person.
“MONSTERS!” Erupted Hiroshi, continuing to protest his captor’s restraints.
His captor suddenly lets go, striking Hiroshi with the wooden end of his yari to send the Baker tumbling forward. Tripping over the body of the Demon, Hiroshi falls onto the ground. He scurries back hoping to distance himself from them, but the samurai leave their latest victim behind and enclose him in their circle of intimidation.
“Daichi-sama, this one is a baker. I found a sack of bread on his horse.”
“Orders are orders, the old man dies.” Replies Daichi without ever breaking away from looking Hiroshi in the eyes.
“With him around, we would not need to hunt too much. He could bake for us, maybe even cook. We can kill him before we reach the town.”
The rest of his men murmur their agreement, nodding and quietly pleading.
For a moment, Daichi would reconsider. He was getting tired of sleeping with a stomach that was barely full. It aches in the middle of the night, and he is left to salivate without a single thing to quench neither thirst nor hunger.
“Get him on the horse, we are late enough as it is.” Daichi agrees, much to the relief of his own men who shared in his grief.
“What about the other horse?”
“Bring it. The others would be hungry, I bet they have emptied the settlement’s supply of food already.”
Hiroshi was allowed a moment to breathe given their conversation. He did not know whether to be thankful that his life was spared or reluctant that his life is now in their cruel hands. He watches them lower their weapons; they turn to leave, and the shadow of his captor is cast upon him while he struggles to stand. Hiroshi turns to kneel and pushes himself up with his hands, but before he could completely rise up, the shadow becomes headless and blood splatters onto his back.
The samurai’s head drops with a thump and rolls to the Baker’s feet, the body dropping along with his weapon.
Taking notice of this, Daichi quickly turns his head to find the Demon of Kumitsukawa standing on both feet, and a beheaded member of his team halfway to the ground. The hole in his eye nearly vanished, but its lingering presence — the hanging bloody sinews and dark abyss where his eye should be found — confirms that the bullet surely hit its mark. Yet here he stood, having just sent a member of Daichi’s squad into the afterlife in one fell swoop.
Realizing that he did not reload his gun, Daichi draws his blade to defend himself.
The Demon firmly plants his foot with a massive step towards the Marksman, enacting a downward slash that drives his katana right in the middle of his head all the way down to the neck. A ferocious glare is sent his way, though he knew that Daichi was long dead by then. He pulls his blade from Daichi’s neck and clears the blood from the metal with a swing.
The enemy prepares to retaliate; their archer quickly nocks an arrow into his bow. As soon as he takes aim, the bow is swatted away by the swing of the yari’s wooden end. Pulling the weapon back, the bladed end cuts across the archer’s exposed face — Hiroshi steps to the side to bash his shoulder into the archer’s chest, sending him to the ground. The Old Baker repositions the spear in his hand, ready for the next strike. Just then, his ally runs past him without the slightest hint of hesitation. The Demon dives into action, narrowly dodging the swing of an enemy’s katana as he enters a roll. Coming out of his roll, he weaves a one-handed sign with his left hand. From the black smoke that puffs in his empty palm, a kunai appears. He grips it tight, driving it down to stake his enemy’s foot to the ground and weaken their resolve. He swats his opponent’s sword arm away with the swing of his own sword and separates the top half of his head from the bottom half with a horizontal slash.
To prevent the second archer from attacking his newly risen ally, Hiroshi provides a distraction by throwing his spear to pierce their neck. The archer misses his shot and drops to his knee, exposing his nape to the Demon who decapitates him with one swift downward motion. The last man charges without relent, attempting to perform a powerful attack by holding his sword overhead, leaving his entire body exposed. Concealing his next attack, the Demon pivots his foot to turn and drive his katana into the samurai’s neck just as he delivers his powerful strike. The downward force his opponent utilizes only aids in his demise as it brings him lower on the Demon’s sword; skewered, he never even got to land his hit.
The Demon pushes his last kill off while simultaneously pulling his blade from their throat. Like the deceased, he hits the floor, barely catching himself on his hands so as to not dirty his face any further. With the battle over, he could now take deep and long breaths to recuperate from an extensive set of moves. He lets go of his katana and pounds his chest repeatedly, hoping that this would clear his airways and smoothen the breathing process, but to no avail. He relieves himself of his mask and takes a long and rejuvenating inhale to fully inflate his lungs; he looks up to the sky to view a blank gray canvas and to stop himself from shaking, brought about by the rush of battle. He has never jumped into battle seconds after resurrection before.
Hiroshi treads closer in shock; a dead man has risen to take vengeance upon his killers. And all this had transpired before his very eyes. However, it would be the spectacle of the Demon with his mask off that truly shook him to his core. He inches closer with caution, analyzing the other’s face beyond the blood, hair, dirt, and the bullet wound.
Each step brought him closer to realizing the truth. While those from beyond the Kaga province knew the legend by its title — The Demon of Kumitsukawa — the locals of the province, particularly those from the village, knew it by the demon’s real name. As time went on, the moniker’s popularity grew and the identity of the demon was lost, but not to the few that mattered.
He stares in complete incredulity.
Demon of Kumitsukawa really was—
“...Hisashi….?” Called the Baker, his tone ridden with fright.
From looking at the sky, his gaze falls upon he who calls; he has not heard that name in three years. The gaze and their interlocked nature distracted him from the fact that no matter how deeply he breathed, he could not seem to get enough air. He falls onto his back, spectating the clouds while they slowly pass him by. The ground has never felt this comfortable before, and in its comfort, he slowly drifts to slumber.