Kashimo flicked his hand, his brow furrowed in annoyance.
The sound of rushing air ca from behind. He didn't turn back, instead pushing off his lead foot and lunging to the side. The samurai shikigami's blade whistled past his sleeve, biting into the empty air.
Before he could steady his stance, another shadow leapt from behind the spirit.
Kashimo's pupils constricted. It was Hotaru. The shikigami had hurled her like a projectile, and she was flying toward him with a blade held low. The weapon caught the moonlight: it was pitch black, its edge glowing with a sickly, dark crimson.
His mind stalled for a fraction of a second. The Soul Split Katana? Are you kidding ?
His body reacted before his conscious mind could. He twisted his torso, forcing his weight into a sharp, awkward angle in mid-air. The blade hissed past his cheek, shearing away a few strands of his pale hair.
Hotaru missed her mark and landed in a crouch, instantly putting distance between them. They stared at each other across ten paces of forest floor. Her breathing was shallow and quick, but the hand holding the sword was steady. She watched him, her mind racing through the facts.
Kashimo was a monster. His energy output was off the charts. His martial skill was beyond anything she'd seen. Even her sister's space-cutting technique had only cost him a single wrist, which he'd already healed.
She glanced toward the trees. Fuka was struggling to her feet, her hands pressed to her abdon. Her energy was surging as she used a reverse cursed technique to knit her internal organs back together.
Fuka was smiling, though it was a strange, jagged expression.
She knew the truth behind that smile. Since she was a child, Fuka had lived by the blade. Eighteen years of practice, dozens of broken swords, and floors soaked in her own sweat. She had faced the strongest n in the Shogunate's army and left them all in the dirt. She had long ago grown bored with combat because no one could make her feel the weight of her own life.
But Kashimo was different.
That single punch had nearly killed her.
Fuka stood up. There was no hesitation in her movents. She gripped the zanbato, the blade gleaming with a cold, silver light that matched the lingering grin on her face. Then, she charged.
Kashimo watched her approach. He didn't move until the blade was a hair's breadth from his chest. Only then did he lift the erald staff.
With one hand, he swung it in a heavy, horizontal arc.
The sound of the impact was like a bell struck too hard. Fuka felt the vibration travel through her blade and into her bones, numbing her arm. Her grip nearly failed as the zanbato shuddered in her palms. Before she could recover her guard, Kashimo's foot slamd into her stomach.
Fuka was sent flying back once more, her spine cracking against a tree trunk.
Kashimo had already turned his back on her. Hotaru's black blade was inches from his spine when it stopped.
He had hamred a roundhouse kick into her midsection with blinding speed. The impact echoed through the night air, and Hotaru was driven into the dirt like a crushed insect. She didn't even have the chance to brace herself before her back hit the earth, carving a shallow crater into the soil.
The Soul Split Katana flew from her hand.
Kashimo let go of the erald staff, allowing it to drop to the grass. He reached out and caught the black blade as it fell. The mont his fingers closed around the hilt, a cold, repulsive energy crawled up his arm. He ignored it and turned around.
The samurai shikigami was scrambling to its feet. Kashimo stepped forward and swung the black blade.
His muscles surged, his veins bulging with the effort of a strike that seed to split the very air. The sword cut through the shikigami as if it were soft tofu. The spirit's body fell apart in sections, dissolving into shards of cursed energy under the moon.
Kashimo shouldered the black blade and stood still, a faint smile on his face. "I've been looking for sothing like this," he said, his voice light. He looked over at Hotaru, who was still pinned to the ground, gasping for air. "I appreciate the gift."
Hotaru was pale, her lips tight and silent. Kashimo didn't seem to care. He took two slow steps toward her, looking down at the girl.
"Your shikigami is dead," he noted. "Which ans your technique is useless now, right?"
He knew the answer. Unless she was a high-level user of sothing like the Ten Shadows, a shikigami's death was usually a permanent end to the technique. He was just being cruel.
Kashimo tilted his head, looking from the younger sister to the older one. Hotaru was broken on the ground, and Fuka was using her zanbato to pull herself upright. The moonlight hit Fuka's blood-stained face, revealing a look that wasn't despair: it was sothing far more unsettling.
"If you have any more cards to play, use them now," Kashimo said.
Fuka straightened her back, leaning on her sword. She stared at the man in the white robes, at the sparks of electricity dancing around his fra, and at the boredom in his eyes.
He had dismantled them both with nothing but raw strength and energy.
Fuka laughed. He was magnificent.
The thought surprised her, but she didn't fight it. She raised her hands and began to weave a complex sign. She stopped thinking about the consequences, about the danger to her sister, or whether she would be able to stand after the effort was finished. She only wanted to show this man everything she was.
"Domain Expansion..."
Cursed energy flooded the woods, and the very boundaries of space began to warp. The shell of a domain began to manifest behind her like an unfurling scroll.
Opposite her, Kashimo raised his own hand. He ford a sign and began the incantation. This was the Edo period, the New Shadow School's simple domain hadn't been perfected yet. He had no defense against a domain other than the Hollow Wicker Basket.
The barrier expanded, the air vibrating with enough pressure to choke the life out of Hotaru.
Just as the shell was about to close, a sharp sound echoed through the clearing. It was the sound of ice cracking.
Kashimo's eyes narrowed.
The barrier in front of him was shattering. The edges of the domain were being pierced from the outside, falling away in jagged shards of energy that vanished into the wind.
It wasn't his Hollow Wicker Basket that had done it.
Fuka's expansion had been forcibly interrupted.
Kashimo didn't move. He felt the shift in the air, a familiar, impossible resonance.
A figure stepped slowly out of the shadows of the trees. His white hair shifted in the night breeze. His brilliant blue eyes were fixed on Kashimo.
Kashimo's grip on the Soul Split Katana tightened.
The ghost had returned to the battlefield.
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For early access to 10 chapters ahead: p@tre~~/Demonic_Fiction (Link is in the synopsis and my profile).
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