Gasping for air, Ryoma jolted upright in his bed. He opened his eyes, yet they took some time to adjust to the darkness of the room. However, he did feel a weight lift off his chest as well as hear something hit the ground and roll across the room, eventually thudding against the shoji – the sliding, paper door – at the room’s opposite end. He continued to heave harshly for his breath, but slowly began to calm his rather frayed nerves. For all the strife he endured in his dreams, he had, in fact, returned to the world of the living, and that provided him with at least a scarce source of comfort.
Ryoma’s sense of self, albeit with a tortoise’s pace, returned to his consciousness. That was his name, for starters; Ryoma Amami. He was a 23-year-old living in Kyoto. More specifically, he lived in the imperial palace. Yes, the imperial palace was not only where he resided but where he was employed. And by whom? Well, the emperor of course, he reckoned. Then, it all became clear once more.
Emperor Hiro, the ruler of Japan, hand-selected Ryoma for his personal gate security detail due to his exceptional swordsmanship. His position mandated that he oversee the comings and goings of those wishing to speak to his Highness while challenging the miscreants who sought to bring Hiro harm. He accompanied the slightly older guard, Goro, who had worked the gig for nearly a decade, seven more years than Ryoma.
Dozens more memories and understandings flowed forth through his stream of consciousness, but Ryoma fixated on the image of Emperor Hiro. He had sworn his life to the man, and intended to keep said promise. Given the nature of his horrible nightmare, he came upon a cold sweat all of a sudden as he remembered his realization; he more than likely wasn’t the only target of the demonic assault. The oni in his dreams mentioned its own lord, meaning it was a mere servant in a grander design. The so-called ‘lord’ probably had its sights set on the emperor’s being. Ryoma simply couldn’t allow that to transpire.
A soft groan emanated from across the room. Ryoma, in his recovery, failed to remember the thing that had tumbled away from him. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the nocturnal scenery highlighted only faintly by torches outside his window, he could somewhat make out a figure by the door. It was a queer sight, to be sure; Ryoma realized he was staring down an imp. It had pointed ears that if he had to guess portrayed a grayish hue. Its eyes shone through the draping darkness as though it had stolen them from a cat, their amethyst gaze cutting into Ryoma’s soul. The head assumedly held half its body weight as it overshadowed the rest of the figure, all of which stood at around a meter tall. And finally, it possessed a pointed tail. Ryoma wondered if that was what poked into his ear canal.
The two sat staring at one another for what seemed to be an hour at least. Neither were entirely sure of what had happened between them; Ryoma was shocked due to being assaulted in his most defenseless state, and the imp was bemused by the fact that its attempts to possess a human, a helplessly dormant human, had somehow failed despite being a surefire strategy. And so, they stared, bewildered as to what they should do next.
Eventually, Ryoma came to his senses and jumped up from the mattress on the floor. The imp watched paralyzed as its foe found his footing and, more importantly, his katana. It meekly exclaimed. “W-wait, samurai! Please, don’t!” It began crawling backward away from Ryoma who pursued it with an equally creeping pace, either to intimidate it or out of morbid curiosity; to be honest, neither were sure. The imp, now beginning to cry. blubbered, “Please, I’m begging you! Spare my life! I-if you do, I’ll leave this world and never come back, I swear! Just don’t kill me!” Ryoma refused to listen however, and with one fell swoop, severed the demon’s head by its fragile, little neck.
Ryoma sighed in relief that he no longer faced the threat of possession. At least, not from that particular oni. However, he knew his mission hadn’t ended, but rather had just begun.
Firstly, Ryoma thought of Goro. He reckoned that the older gentleman would be the closest to his position, and for that matter, would be able to help him in his quest to aid Emperor Hiro. He only hoped that it wasn’t too late to help him.
Before he looked to be on his way, though, Ryoma thought about what he should carry with him. Moving to the bookshelf on the far wall, he searched in the dark for a certain item. He threw books off the case until finally, he came across the ofuda, a talisman. He remembered the day he received it.
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For his excellency in his position, Emperor Hiro himself gifted Ryoma with the trinket, a white ofuda with a blue string wrapped around it. “It’s a good luck charm,” Hiro once said, “though I’m not sure of its authenticity. A marksman weaved an intricate yarn that he plucked it out of a spewing geyser with one of his arrows and felt it seemed so divine that it belonged in the hands of the emperor. I must admit that it’s done me no favors personally, but perhaps I’m not he who is meant to adorn it.” The emperor chuckled and placed a hand on Ryoma’s shoulder; it was one of the warrior’s fondest memories.
Grabbing the ofuda, Ryoma ran back to the door, slid it nearly off-kilter, and dashed out into the spring yet somehow still crisp night. The first thing he noticed was a certain lack of light. Of course, various torches dotted the railings of the wall surrounding the perimeter of the premises (which he noticed were eerily unguarded at the moment) as well as the steps leading to the porch resting at the bottom of the palace. What was missing, Ryoma realized, was the presence of the moon. He glanced up to the sky and was met merely with the slightest twinkling of a handful of stars. The largest performer had opted not to grace the stage that night. Not even a sliver, a mere crescent, graced them, leaving only a chilling emptiness down on Earth.
Although the sense of sight was dulled in the darkness, Ryoma could still hear a faint snickering in the distance. Across the courtyard, he traced the semi-laughter back to the door leading into Goro’s lodging. Paling at the realization that he’d heard a similar voice in his nightmare, Ryoma immediately began running to save his friend. Sure enough, as he closed the distance, he could begin to make out another imp amongst the shadows as it slid open his colleague’s shoji.
“Goro!” Ryoma yelled. Unfortunately, he remembered how heavy of a sleeper Goro proved to be. He knew him to be quite difficult to rouse, but he’d heard that once, as a joke or perhaps more of an old initiation practice, some of the senior guards from the upper palace dunked freezing river water on him while he slumbered and he didn’t so much as shiver. It seemed ever so unlikely that the samurai’s screams would do the trick. Nonetheless, he persisted in his efforts to save his friend.
Ryoma reached the shoji and nearly tore through the screen in his haste. In the near obliqueness, he could just barely make out the imp holding Goro’s head up to its chest with its pointed tail aimed at the sleeping man’s ear. Ryoma, now less in a state of confusion and more engulfed in something akin to furious anger at the gall of such a repugnant creature, didn’t hesitate to rear his katana back as though it were a javelin and toss it across the room. It landed clear into the imp’s skull, between those damned purple eyes, and the monster fell backward, releasing Goro’s head as it died.
Goro, perhaps from half-hearing the pleas of his partner, awoke from the slight bump to his noggin and sat up in confusion. After adjusting himself to the peculiar situation, he asked, “Ryoma? What are you doing in my room at this late hour?” He then soured, his expression becoming stern within a second, and he asked, “Did something happen?” Without waiting to see Ryoma nod, he found himself reaching for his own weapon. Ryoma said, “Demons have invaded the palace, Goro. We need to protect everyone. We need to protect the emperor!”
A stunning silence blanketed the conversation. Ryoma wasn’t sure if he got his point across to his companion or not. Eventually, Goro asked, “Demons? Ryoma, are you trying to pull a practical joke on me? You wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me we need to fight demons?” He then chuckled and continued, “Come now, Ryoma, you can do better than that.”
Ryoma lacked the patience to convince Goro with words and instead grabbed him by the shoulders, twisting him around and showing him the corpse of the oni. Goro gasped and clutched his katana harder. “By the gods,” he exclaimed, “it must really be a demon! You were right, Ryoma!” Swiftly, he arose, shaking off the shock. He grabbed the younger man’s sword from the demon’s head and returned it to its owner. “All right,” he said, “let’s head into the courtyard.”
Ryoma returned to the outdoors with Goro closely in tow. The duo inspected the door, noticing a small crevasse between the two closed gates. “That’s how they’re getting in.” Goro said. And sure enough, as if on cue, an imp passed through the opening, giggling all the while. Then another followed by a third, all in on the twisted joke. “Depending on how long that gate has been defective,” Ryoma said, “there’s no telling how many of those bastards have crept through here already.” He gulped and continued, “If they’ve already reached Emperor Hiro…” but couldn’t bring himself to finish the awful thought.
Goro unsheathed his blade and said, “Go, Ryoma. If they have invaded the palace by now, the guards may need your help protecting everyone inside. I’ll deal with securing the gate.” Ryoma asked, “Can you handle them by yourself, Goro?” As he asked this, two more imps had already entered the courtyard. Goro gulped out of fear, but somehow still said, “I have to. Now, go!” Ryoma didn’t waste another moment. “Thank you, Goro.” He said, and sprinted his way across the yard and up the stairs to the palace entrance.