誰だ推測
From the thick shadows of the trees that grew chokingly close to one another on the steadily sloping rise of the large hill, he watched the group of five trekking up the mountain. It was amusing to see how relatively unguarded they were as they hiked up at a steady pace, to see how confidently they carried themselves in the surety that they could handle any danger thrown at them.
They had no idea what was coming for them.
The forests surrounding the mountain, growing thicker and lusher the further out from the city one got, was large and bountiful. The trees were taller than usual, the brush bigger, the animals more private and aggressive to strangers encroaching on their territory. Maybe it was because of the group of Hengen living on this small mountain that had affected their surroundings, powerful as they were.
Their presence here made everything about this forest more than it already was.
The group had strayed from the well-worn path that led up to their destination. It wasn't because they had gotten lost in the wild density of the forest. It was done to deter the unwanted attention of any that might have been following them from where they came from.
He watched as the man who brought up the rear of the group expertly hid their tracks; fixing the broken branches to make them look like animals had trampled past, trudging over their footsteps in the grass to raise the blades up so as to look like no one walked by, using the dung of some animal and wiping it across the bottoms of the barks of trees to hide their scents.
They were fully in their human form, dressed simply in washed-out jeans, t-shirts, and jackets. Each wore a baseball cap, and the shadows from the hoods of the caps hid their faces. They had no travelling packs on their packs, and though they couldn't be seen, he knew that they carried hidden weapons.
Even without any weapons, each individual of the group would prove to be an exceptionally skilled fighter. Their kind were fierce and merciless in the heat of battle. They had endured far worse conditions to achieve the status of Clan warriors he knew them to be, from the tattoos on their necks and their high, proud foreheads that he had already spied.
His eyes glowed a fierce shade of red that he didn't think to, nor want to, hide. His nature had been suppressed for long enough. He didn't want to sink back beneath the layers of civility and control he had been kept under ever again, all these long years. His first experience of freed had only been an hour, if that, and even after that the times he was let out were tempered, watched, controlled – by that fucking Mask.
This, this, was his first true taste of what freedom could be.
Now, for the first time in his life, he could see clearly, even with the red tinge in his sight, the haze of vengeful lust that shrouded him as he foxed on the quickly moving group of travellers. For the first time in his life, he knew exactly what he wanted in this moment, his desire unclouded by the cluttering thoughts of concern over others – and it was within his grasp.
It was right there for the taking.
As he kept a close on the group's progress, his thoughts idly drifted to the girl with strange white hair and a beauty that lay in the soul that shone through her eyes. He remembered her frail body, lying on that hospital bed, broken from a fight with a lowly Shimo Oni.
He remembered looking into the girl's eyes through Shin, seeing the faint traces of something there, something not quite sane, lurking beneath a thin veil that managed to keep it at bay, an aberration born from a deep-seated hatred, a darkness that lived in the quietest depths.
He knew it was there, just like he knew the same was in him. He knew it was there, because it called to him. Whether it was born from hatred like his was, or if it was its own brand of chaos...it didn't really make a difference.
They were the same. Not quite, but enough for him to take notice of her.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. The tips of his elongated canines pressed into his lower lip, sharp enough to draw blood. He wondered how he would show her his gratitude, for if it wasn't for her, the Amanojaku wouldn't have gotten hold of that fucking Mask. Perhaps he would put her out of her weak misery, release her from being stuck in a body that could hardly function without shaking. He couldn't imagine it being a good life, waiting for the next sign of failure.
Killing her would be a mercy on her. He could make it fun, for him.
His brows furrowed, something confused twitching in his chest when he thought of that; when he imagined the girl's blood coating his hands and dripping down his fingers as he held her lifeless body. The manic smile on his face dipped. He wasn't sure what this odd hesitation was, but he didn't bother to think more on it.
Maybe he wouldn't kill her. Maybe he'd keep her alive, perhaps toy with that fragile little heart of hers. Draw out that chaos and see what she was really made of.
The thought returned the smirk to his face, dark imaginings twisting his mind.
He remained utterly unmoving as he sat in a crouch atop a sturdy branch that comfortably held his weight, close-fitting black clothes blending in perfectly with the shadows bending towards him. He had been watching the small band of Hengen for several hours now, right from the moment he realized, as he passed by them on the busy Sapporo streets, what they were and where they were going.
It had been harder than he initially thought, to keep himself restrained, to not attack them the second he laid eyes on them, but he managed it. Despite their being excellent woodsmen, capable of covering their tracks so that it looked like they were never there, he hadn't had a problem following them.
They weren't in their territory. They were in his. They were fair game; they deserved everything they got.
He longed for their screams of pain, to see the beautiful spray of their blood bathing the ground before him, to feel that unparalleled power that came with taking a life. That power that he had, together with Shin, who refused to let it consume him, them, as it should.
He reached down and tugged out the tanto blade safely tucked in his boot. Its short but sharp blade gleamed wickedly as it caught a stray shaft of bright moonlight filtering in through the branches that shielded him from view.
Without so much as touching the fluttering leaves on the branches enshrouding him, he stood from his crouch and glanced down. The hand wrapped around the handle of the tanto blade had pink incisions in it, remnants of the cuts he'd dealt himself when he had sliced this same blade across the soft, untrained skin of his palm to write out the bloody kanji that would hound him to this day.
起請文
His very own written vow to the gods, carved in blood and memories of pain and horror forever ingrained in his mind, to fulfil the blood debt that had kept him raging for twelve years.
×
The stinging pain from pressing the sharp edge of the knife so hard into his palm is nothing compared to the pain that lances through his chest every time the images of bloody carnage flash through his mind, every time he closes his eyes.
His hands are shaking. His heart pounds so hard in his chest that he's surprised that the man standing before him, watching, makes no comment on it. Blood rushes to his ears as he stands on the grassy knoll, loud and drowning out the chirps of the twittering birds wheeling through the sky above him, the wind blowing through the trees and ruffling his clothes, the faint laughter of children playing in the village far behind them. Nothing else seems to exist in this moment except for Shin and the pain in his heart, in his memories, and in his hand.
His glances to the side when he catches movement, and scowls at Kouta menacingly when he realizes the other boy wants to – to reach out. To stop him.
Kouta presses his lips into a disapproving frown; he knows that no matter what he says, Shin will not change his mind on this.
A harsh, biting voice cuts through before Kouta can make another move, the thought so clearly evident in the open book of his eyes. "Do not interrupt, boy."
"This is madness," Kouta protests, his eyes beseeching as he turns to their elder. "If he goes through with this, we won't be able to help him, even if he lives. My father will have to turn his back on Shin and deny association with him, even if - even if it's ten years from now. Please."
Sharp indigo eyes snap to Kouta, and the young boy quails at the bitterness in the older man's eyes. The harsh lines of the man's face soften a bit at that, but his voice remains no less severe when he says, "Perhaps your father should have thought of that before he allowed those bastards to get away with murdering one of our own because of a piece of paper." He turns to look at Shin, who pays neither of them much attention. "Think about what kind of leader you'd want to be, boy; dictated by words on a paper that others wouldn't hesitate to burn, or one who protects his own."
Anger flashes in Kouta's eyes at the veiled insinuation against his father. "He had no choice; that paper keeps the rest of us alive!"
"Choices are not something that can be taken from a person. The lowliest slave has a choice in whether or not he remains labourer to his master's wishes. He only thinks he does not because he is shackled by chains like family, or fear of pain of death. Now shut up." The man shoots a sharp look at Kouta before sliding back to watch the silent, bent head of Shin's dark hair. "You make one wrong move and distract him, and he'll be dragged down to Yomi-no-kuni instead. Just like his little friend was."
Shin's eyes shoot up to the stern, tall figure of Kobayashi Hiro standing imposingly before him, who doesn't even flinch at the look.
Shin's lips pull back over his teeth. "Don't ever say that in front of me, ever again."
"Shin, please..." Kouta says haltingly, but no more.
Kobayashi stares down at the younger boy with an inscrutable look in his eyes. His dark grey, thick eyebrows rise as he continues to look at the boy, entirely unimpressed.
A flicker of red steals across the blue of Shin's eyes, a quick look into the depth of Shin's soul, bared in all its bruised, virulent hatred. For a moment, Kobayashi realizes that he's staring into the malevolent, bitter eyes of Shin's True Ayakashi.
The depth of the grief Shin and his True Ayakashi share simultaneously keeps Kobayashi quiet, where he would normally put the child in his place for daring to speak to his elder in such a manner.
Finally, Kobayashi nods. Shin glares for a few moments longer before he looks down at the tanto blade in his bleeding palms. Kobayashi watches the fierce determination in Shin's every move, not an ounce of hesitation seen, as he presses down harder on the blade. For a second, he worries that the boy is so lost in his grief that he'll cut into bone, but.
Shin, despite it all, despite how angry he is, is still a child. He'll notice, and he won't do more than is needed.
The cold wind whispering through the trees and ruffling their clothes stings the open, gaping wound of Shin's hand. Blood pools in his palms before overflowing and running down his fingers and over his wrist, staining the sleeve of his dark blue kimono lined in thin white edges. The glinting silver edge of the tanto drips with blood as Shin draws the blade down his palm, marking out the final curve of the kanji that he knows will rule his every thought until the deed is done.
Kobayashi warned him it would. He welcomes it.
"Speak the words I taught you, now," Kobayashi says in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. His indigo eyes glow faintly, making him look vaguely inhuman in the intensity with which he watches the young boy in front of him. "Speak them, and imbue in them all your anger, all your hatred and loathing, your bitterness. Make the words a part of who you are, and who you will grow to be."
Despite the shaking of his hands, Shin speaks in a clear and unwavering voice. His cobalt blue eyes melt into crimson red as Shin allows the words to wash over him, to overcome him, to become the truest part of him alongside his True Ayakashi.
He glances down at the ground, to where it's believed Yomi-no-kuni, the realm of the dead, resides beneath the feet of the living. Fat drops of his blood plop to the ground and soak into the grassy earth, becoming one with it. As he speaks, he focuses his gaze on the name carved into the handle of the tanto blade, entirely unaware of the double-edged quality that creeps into the words he utters.
"With my voice I speak these words of fulfilling this oath. With my heart I swear to carry out this mission, with my blood and soul I vow to see it to the end. Izanami-no-Mikoto, grant me the power to become the death I seek to bring upon my enemies. Izanami-no-Mikoto, grant me your blessing to deliver you the souls your husband helped bring to this world. Izanami-no-Mikoto, give me the prayer I give you to become my true namesake and do what needs to be done."
×
He pressed the flat of the blade against his lips, a promise to keep the vow he'd made twelve years ago, his eyes tracking the progress of the group.
The night was eerie, silent and still as he watched them for moments longer, the chill of the night coating his body like a second layer of skin. He didn't mind it; he felt it only on a barely surface level. It kept his mind sharp and alert.
Night birds, awake from their nocturnal sleep, flew through the air and between the trees, skimming the grass and brush as they hunted for food. He could see the faint blue trails some of them left behind as the winged Ayakashi fly; Onmoraki prowling the forest for dead bodies to feast on. Animals that were awake during the day grunted and snuffled in their sleep as those that slept in the day and woke at night slunk around the forest for food, for fun, for curiosity, for adventure.
His eyes flicked over to watch a snake with a long body coil itself around the branch of a tree as it waited for prey to wander obliviously below it. Its scaly reptilian skin gleamed an inky black that allowed it to blend well into its dark, leafy surroundings. He could hear the high-pitched scream of a bat flapping its wings through the still air as it hunted in the night, searching for any creature small enough to be caught by the bat, but still big enough to satiate.
He tensed the muscles in his calves and thighs, the tips of his fingers splayed out on the rough bark of the tree, holding himself steady in that position for a moment longer. With a single, silent leap into the air, he burst out from the trees, releasing his wings in a relieving breath.
He beat them through the air, once, buoyant and relishing in the joy of letting his wings out, before he angled himself and shot through the air, diving straight for the group of five like a deadly arrow intent on revenge. The wind whistled a high-pitched tune in his ears as it blew into his clothes and through the multitude of feathers that made up his wings.
They didn't even realize he was coming until he rammed the tanto between the shoulder blades of one at the back, right through the man's heart, hot blood immediately spurting and dripping around his clenched fist on the hilt of the blade.
A savage glee broke through him as the warmth coated his hand. He could feel the blade slice through taunt muscles in the man's back, through soft tissue that yielded. He sent in a sliver of his consciousness down into the blade and grinned wickedly when he felt the tip piercing the man's beating heart. Excitement and power made the blood rush to his head and the pace of his own beating heart quicken.
The man didn't have time to make a sound, not even a gasp of pain.
He could tell the exact moment the man died. He could feel it, in the way a final sigh eased out of him, in the way his body sagged into dead weight, knees buckling when there was nothing left to hold him standing straight and tall. He could feel it in the abrupt flickering, the on instantly slipping into off, the intoxicating knowledge of feeling the man's soul leave his body, watching it happen as he yanked his blade out.
More, the darkness in him licked at the edges of his mind, taunting, wanting, starving. It whispered, I want more.
He threw the man aside like the trash he was. His blood slowly spread out on the leaf-littered, mud-splattered ground as the dead body collapsed. It looked black, his blood, under the harsh glare of the cold moon.
It was at the sound of the soulless body hitting the ground with a heavy thud that the remaining four companions spun on their heels to see what was happening, caught entirely off-guard.
For a moment, all was still, held captive in a stunned silence. They could only stare at him, at the blood-red of his eyes, the sharp-toothed grin, the pale skin, and the blood of their clansmen sluggishly dripping down the length of his arm. None of them moved – perhaps they knew what they faced wasn't entirely something they recognized.
He stood over the dead body, having withdrawn his wings back in as soon as he touched down. He watched them for a moment, watched to see what they would do. Would they run, knowing, seeing what they faced? Would they try to hide? Or would they try to fight?
He raised his bloodied hand and flipped the tanto blade so that he held it by two fingers at its sharp tip. They twitched, bodies tensing, ready for a fight.
He had a maniacal, crooked smirk splitting his face in half as he tilted his head to the side and simply looked at the men before him, creatures whose cry was said to make the night dreadful.
They didn't scare him.
He only smiled at them, and said, "And where do you think you are going?"