There were many ways to achieve victory in war. A head-on battle was merely one of them, and to be frank, the least inventive.

Hidden beneath the shadowy veil of night, a group of spiders skittered through a vast, waterlogged field. The water was shallow, but enough to make it thoroughly unpleasant, with green plants poking just above the surface.

"How utterly horrid," the spider grumbled, trying in vain not to get its spindly feet stuck in the mud. Sticky, cold, and entirely beneath its dignity.

Unpleasantness aside, the spider cutter had a job to do—an important one, no less—weeding. Its mandibles chomped at the plants, claws ripping them out with a flourish, while its feet disturbed the field with a somewhat ungraceful plop. And this spider was not alone. An entire spawn of them had been tasked with eradicating this foul infestation. The Spider King himself had issued the decree: the weeds of poverty must be destroyed at all costs. So, the spiders toiled away, ensuring the weeds didn’t go to seed and spread their filthy poverty across the land.

A paper lantern flickered in the distance, glowing like a lone star, bobbing nearer and nearer. Soon, the panicked silhouette of an Oni Farmer stumbled into view. His mouth hung open, his eyes wide with disbelief.

The spiders paused from their industrious work to chirp a hearty, “Good evening!” and offered him a spidery wave for good measure.

The farmer’s disbelief quickly turned to rage, as farmers’ disbelief often does. With a guttural roar, he charged at the spiders, swinging his hoe wildly in a manner most unbecoming.

“Wah!” the spider squeaked, nimbly dodging a blow. The farmer was clearly trying to chase them away! “How incredibly ungrateful!”

The spider swarm was doing this poor chap a favour, weeding his field for free, and this was how he chose to repay them?

“Rahhh!” The farmer swung again, more determined than before.

“What do you think you’re doing, farmer?” one of the spiders chirped indignantly.

“Yeah, we’re just helping you out!” another joined in, a little miffed.

“We’re weeding your field! It’s a public service, you know!” chimed in a third.

Naturally, not understanding a single word of SpiderChirp, the farmer bellowed, “RAHHH!” again and continued his assault, swinging his hoe with reckless abandon.

“There’s clearly something very wrong with this oni,” said one spider, deftly avoiding the hoe.

“Obviously. The grains of poverty have addled his mind,” another spider remarked sagely.

“Absolutely. No other explanation. Why else would he allow an entire field of weeds to grow?”

“That must be it.”

“Ouch!” a spider yelped as the hoe caught its carapace, scratching it.

“Well, that’s quite enough of that! Time for a nap, naughty man! [Throw]!”

With a flick of its claw, the spider lobbed a small ball made of blue petals at the farmer’s head. Upon impact, it exploded into a cloud of fine dust. The farmer let out a single, confused cough before collapsing into the shallow water like a puppet with its strings cut.

“The weeds of poverty are dangerous,” a spider chirped at the now peacefully slumbering farmer. It delicately turned him over to make sure he wouldn’t drown, because, of course, drowning was far too dramatic. “The grains of poverty taint your mind, you know. Best not eat it.” It tucked a plump tomgrape into the farmer’s pocket as a gesture of goodwill.

“Right, then!” the spider said with renewed purpose. “Spider cutters, let’s wrap up this weeding business and move on to the next field!”

…

Meanwhile, another squad of spiders prowled through the shadows. Their target? A warehouse. Not just any warehouse, though—this was a warehouse of poverty.

“It’s got to be this one,” one spider whispered, pointing a spindly leg at the largest structure in town.

“Careful now. We can’t be seen. [ShadowVeil].”

“[ShadowVeil],” the others echoed, vanishing into the murky gloom as they scurried closer.

“Wait a minute... it’s guarded,” another spider said, spotting two dozing sentries by the front.

“Not a problem. Let’s use the spidery entrance. Up the wall we go.” And being spiders, up they went, scampering with ease.

“Here we are! No guards up here,” one of them smiled, satisfied to see the ventilation hatch—fondly known as the ‘spidery entrance’—unguarded and conveniently open. They slipped inside.

But once inside, the scene that met their many eyes was nothing short of an abomination. Mountains of the foul grain littered the warehouse, the very seeds of poverty itself.

“It’s even worse than I imagined,” one spider gagged, thoroughly disgusted.

“They’re forcing the peasants to eat this muck. No wonder they’re all so poor,” another observed with a shudder.

“Well, we’re here to fix that,” the leader of the spider saboteurs declared. From its spidery uniform, it pulled out a scroll, dark as night, and unrolled it with the utmost care.

“[DarkScroll: Disintegrate],” the leader chirped solemnly.

The scroll burst into purple flames, casting an eerie glow over the spider’s smug face for the briefest of moments. The purple light faded, and so did the mountains of grain. In their place was nothing but dust, the illusion of powerty shattered.

“There,” the leader chirped with great satisfaction, “now the peasants will finally see the grain for what it really is. Flavourles dust. Rubbish!”

The other spiders nodded in agreement.

“Right, off we go! If we’re quick, we can reach the next town by dawn.”

And just like that, the spider saboteurs vanished through the spidery hatch, scurrying off into the night. Unseen, unnoticed, but oh so pleased with themselves.

…

The spider scouts scurried along the gravelly road, their mission straightforward: locate fields for the spider cutters and towns for the spider saboteurs. Speed was key, and to achieve it, they relied on their trusty spidery magic—ShadowStep. With every invocation, their spindly forms dissolved into shadows, slipping into the Shadow Realm. They’d take a single step but reappear leagues away, as though the distance had never existed.

Upon re-emerging, the spiders glanced around. Alas, no fields, no cities—just wilderness and disappointment.

“[ShadowStep],” they muttered again, vanishing into shadows once more. Another leap through shadowy dimention.

When they reappeared, they found themselves face to face with a large group of Oni—perhaps a dozen. The spiders were in luck! They could finally ask for directions.

The spider scout leader waved cheerily at the Oni. “Good evening, travellers! We’re looking for a town. Is it far from here?” it chirped politely.

The friendly inquiry was met with fiery glares and an all-too-familiar air of hostility.

“Huh? No, wait, let me explain…” the spider began, sensing the growing tension. “We mean no… no, no—hey!—harm!” But before it could finish, something rather rude was hurled in its direction.

Clearly, these Oni were not in the mood for pleasantries.

…

The Oni Scouts had their own business to attend to. Their task was simple enough: keep the roads clear of bandits and monsters. They weren’t expected to clear out a bandit camp or subjugate a monster nest—just scout it out and report back. And that’s why they were patrolling this very road.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The night had been quiet so far, peaceful even, to the point of monotony. The only sounds were the rhythmic footsteps and the soft rustling of their paper lanterns. Then, quite unexpectedly, the flame in the lead scout's lantern flickered and dimmed. There was still plenty of oil, so that wasn’t the issue. A strange chill swept over the group—no wind, just ominous cold.

“Hold,” the Oni scout leader barked, raising his arm. His instincts were screaming that something was amiss.

Without warning, a cloud of darkness—darker than the night itself—appeared right in the middle of the road, smothering what little light remained. From the shadows, one by one, nightmarish figures emerged. Spiders—massive, evolved, and entirely too large for comfort. And dressed in... clothes?

The Oni Scouts, battle-hardened though they were, couldn’t help but tense up. Monsters, they were used to. But monsters emerging in such a supernatural manner? That was new.

The largest of the spiders scuttled forward, flailing a vicious claw as if trying to intimidate them. It didn’t exactly work, but it was unsettling all the same.

Then, the spider let out the most grating, ear-splitting screech. Another attempt at intimidation, no doubt. The scout leader held firm, but his less-experienced comrades weren’t as composed. One of them, desperate, reached into his pouch, pulling out a fistful of grains—his food ration.

“Yokai, begone!” he cried, flinging the grains at the monstrous spiders.

The scout leader rolled his eyes. Throwing sacred grains to ward off evil spirits was an old superstition, one that had no place on a battlefield. Yokai weren’t real. They were bedtime stories for children.

Yet, to everyone’s astonishment, the spider recoiled with an unpleasant hiss, backing away from the thrown grain.

“It… it worked?” the scout leader stammered, genuinely surprised.

“Of course it did!” the scout exclaimed triumphantly. “Begone!” He hurled another handful of grains with renewed vigour.

Before long, the rest of the scouts followed suit, tossing their rations at the spiders like seasoned Yokai slayers. To their shock and delight, the sacred grains worked wonders. The spiders dissolved back into shadows, vanquished. The lanterns flickered back to life, burning brighter than ever, casting a warm glow over the now-relieved Oni Scouts.

They erupted in cheers, clapping the grain-throwing scout on the back, congratulating him on his quick thinking. Even the Oni scout leader joined in, patting the lad’s shoulder with genuine gratitude. After all, the best battles are won without fighting.

But as the cheer subsided, the scout leader frowned, deep in thought. “Yokai…” he muttered under his breath. He’d seen it with his own eyes, yet he couldn’t believe it. Yokai weren’t meant to exist. And now he’d have to report this bizarre encounter to the local Daimyo. What was he supposed to say? ‘Vanquished by food rations’ wasn’t exactly the stuff of legends.

And then another, more pressing matter came to mind.

“… But, lads,” he said, glancing down at the scattered grains covering the road, “what are we going to do about our night lunch?”

The scouts all looked at the ground in dismay. Their celebratory grain-flinging had left them without a single morsel.

…

The warm rays of the sun tickled the Oni Farmer’s eyelashes, coaxing him awake. A broad smile stretched across his face—it was rare to feel so well-rested. Not a single trace of stress lingered in his bones. But then, slowly, he realised something wasn’t quite right. For starters, he was outside. Then he realised he had slept on a pile of dirt. And finally, it all came flooding back...

“No...” He shook his head. “Surely I’ve had too much Sake and dreamt up this nightmare.” He stumbled to his feet, looking out at his fields.

“…”

Stress surged through him, wrapping tightly around his chest. His bones ached with dread. “Gone! All gone!” His voice cracked. The once lush fields now lay barren. “How will I feed my family?!” He clutched his head in despair. Then, another grim realisation hit. “No! The fields belong to the Daimyo... How will I pay my land tax?” His knees buckled as if ready to give way. “Wait… no… think.” He rubbed his temples. “It was monsters. Yes! It wasn’t my fault!” Surely, in such situations, it was the Daimyo’s responsibility to protect the peasants from monsters. But still, a cold dread settled in his stomach. “I’ll be punished...”

He didn’t even want to lift his head, defeated before the day had even begun. With heavy steps, he dragged himself back to his minka, his family home, barely managing to slide open the paper partition as he entered.

“I’m back...” he muttered, sadness thick in his voice.

“Wel... welcome... back,” came his wife’s sorrowful reply.

He looked up and noticed fresh tears glistening in her eyes. A sinking feeling filled his chest.

“What happened?” he asked, dread settling deep within.

She wordlessly brought forward a familiar clay pot, its presence already sending a chill down his spine. Slowly, she opened the lid.

Inside, where there should’ve been grain... was only dust.

“!!!”

Tears pooled in his wife’s eyes once more as she shrugged helplessly. “It’s... it’s the same in the storeroom... all dust,” she said, wiping her face.

The Oni Farmer was distraught, but he pulled his wife into a hug. “How... how could this happen?” He needed answers.

The youngest of their twelve children, ever bold, piped up. “It was the Yokai!”

“The... the Yokai?” The Oni Farmer’s eyes widened as fragments of his nightmare returned to him.

“Yes! I saw it last night! It was rummaging through the cupboards. I wanted to cry for help but... I was too afraid!” the child explained, more excited than frightened. “Then it threw something at me, and I fell asleep!”

“!!!” The Oni Farmer knew of the culprit. “A big spider... with claws for hands, four intelligent eyes, and a terrifying face you can’t forget?”

The child frowned, thinking for a moment before replying, “Hmm... Yes, but it had a cute face!”

The Oni Farmer didn’t quite agree on the “cute” part. But as that question of the Yokai lingered, another pressing concern gnawed at him—what would they eat if all the grain had turned to dust?

It was then he felt something poking from his pocket. Reaching inside, he pulled out a large, unusually blue fruit.

“???”

“Dear, what is it?” his wife asked, curiosity and concern mingling in her voice.

“I... I’ve no idea,” the Oni Farmer confessed, staring at the mysterious fruit.

Their youngest child, ever curious, leaned in to take a sniff. “It smells delicious! I’m hungry. Can we eat it?”

The Oni Farmer turned the fruit over in his hands, his mind a tangled web of thoughts. Was it a blessing? Or perhaps a curse? But with nothing else to eat, it seemed better than starvation.

“Let’s try it,” he finally decided, cutting a tiny slice with a knife and popping it into his mouth.

A wave of joy filled his senses. The fruit was unbelievably delicious, but as he waited—his family staring at him intently—he realised something peculiar. Not only was the fruit delicious, but it was extremely filling. His hunger, despite only taking a tiny bite, had all but disappeared. It was strange, but he felt... satisfied.

“Well... this is something special,” he mused, slicing the rest of the fruit into thirteen pieces, enough for the whole family.

They ate together, their worries momentarily forgotten as the crisis of breakfast was averted. But the looming question of lunch, and dinner for that matter, still weighed heavily on the Oni Farmer’s mind.

He sighed, knowing he would have to petition the Daimyo for emergency rations. And surely, he’d be punished for the state of the fields. Still, he was the Oni Farmer—an eternal optimist. No matter how grim things looked, he always found a way. There was no doubt in his mind that a good Kami was watching over him and his family: after all, he’d miraculously survived the Yokai encounter and now had this edible blessing to push him forward.

With a quiet word of thanks to the unseen forces that protected him, the Oni Farmer gathered his courage. It was time to face the Oni Daimyo.

…

The Oni Daimyo, one of many lords overseeing the cities of the Oni Shogunate, yanked furiously at his horn as if it were the source of all his problems. His eyes blazed murderously at the growing pile of reports on his desk. Today was not a good day. He paced in front of the table, barking at no one in particular.

“Hundreds of farmers! All begging for forgiveness!” His fist came down with a thud on the table. “Their fields destroyed by... Yokai! Yokai of all things!” He shook his head in disbelief. Yokai. Monsters from myths, for crying out loud. He would’ve laughed if the reports weren’t confirmed by his scouts. But, alas, they were.

Two urgent tasks now stared him in the face: dispatch the Oni Samurai to protect the remaining farmers and fields, and issue emergency rations and seeds. Simple. Except for one problem.

“I HAVE NO SAMURAI TO SEND!” His voice echoed off the walls as he glared at the ceiling as if it could help. “The Shogun’s taken them to fight the Centauri!”

He ran his hands over his face, fingers scraping his horn. “And what rations? What seeds?!” He punched the table again, splintering the surface. “All turned to dust! Sabotaged by some accursed magic!” He growled, pacing once more. “It’s the Tiefling Conclave! I know it! Their dark schemes have cursed us!”

There was nothing. No food. No seeds. No soldiers. His mind buzzed with the looming threat of revolt. What would he do when the starving peasants turned to rioting? He had no Samurai left to keep order.

“RAHHH!!!” His rage boiled over again, and with one final strike, he snapped the table clean in half. He took a long, heaving breath, forcing himself to calm down. The broken wood scattered beneath his feet.

“I... can’t do this alone,” he muttered, as much to himself as to the universe. “I’ll have to beg another Daimyo for help…” His teeth clenched at the thought. “He’ll help me. He has to help me. Why else did I marry my daughter to him?” He sank to the floor, fishing out a roll of parchment and a brush from the debris of his desk. He would write a letter—an urgent one.

Just as he began, the doors burst open, slamming against the walls with an echo. An Oni official stumbled into the room, his face pale with panic. He hadn’t even bothered to knock—an oversight that normally would have earned him a trip to the dungeons. But the Daimyo’s eyes narrowed on the parchment the official waved wildly in the air.

“Honourable Daimyo, an urgent letter!” The official’s hands shook as he held it out. The ribbon bore the unmistakable seal of urgency, along with a crest the Daimyo knew all too well.

It came from the very Daimyo to whom he had married his daughter.

“Give it to me!” he snapped, yanking the letter from the official’s hand and tearing it open with impatience. His eyes darted over the words.

===Letter Start===

Honoured Father-in-Law,

I write to you with a heavy heart, my dear friend. A calamity of unprecedented proportions has befallen my domain, a catastrophe that defies explanation. It is as if the very earth itself has turned against us.

Our sacred grain fields, the lifeblood of our people, have been ravaged by a mysterious force. Not the blight of disease nor the wrath of the elements, but something more sinister, something that whispers of arcane origins.

To make matters worse, the grain we had stored in our granaries, our safeguard against such times, has been mysteriously transformed into dust. A blight upon our supplies, a cruel twist of fate that leaves us on the brink of famine.

I fear the foul hand of the Tiefling Conclave may be at work, their dark magic twisted against our innocent people. But this is merely speculation, a shadow lurking in the corners of my mind.

My father-in-law, I beseech you, not as one Daimyo to another, but as a son to his father. Send aid, swiftly and with all your might. Our people are starving, our lands are desolate, and our future hangs by a thread.

Let us stand together against this darkness, united by blood and by the bonds of friendship.

Your devoted son-in-law

===Letter End===

“...” The Oni Daimyo’s grip tightened around the letter, his knuckles white. “RAHHH!!!” His rage erupted once more as he crumpled the letter in his hand, tossing it aside like trash. His fingers tugged harder at his horn, this time genuinely trying to tear it from his head.

If things kept going this way, there would be only one option left. He would have to commit... Sudoku—a mathematical ritual known for bringing a swift and honourable end to one’s life.