Sunlight filtered through the canopy, scattering dappled light across the forest floor. The woods were quiet except for the occasional bird call and the steady whistle of a blade cutting through the air.
Kashimo sat on a mossy rock, one leg propped up and the other dangling, with the erald staff resting across his knees. He watched the figure in front of him with a lazy, detached gaze.
"Keep your stance steady," he said, his voice level. "Control your breathing. Don't rush it."
Fuka held the Soul Split Katana with both hands, locked in the middle of a heavy swing. The black blade was significantly heavier than the zanbato she was used to, and with every strike, the muscles in her forearms trembled. Sweat rolled down her cheeks and dripped onto the dirt, leaving small, dark spots in the dust.
"Why," she gritted her teeth, the blade stalling for a fraction of a second, "do I still have to practice the basics?"
Kashimo didn't answer imdiately. He stood up, letting out a small, sharp hiss of breath through his teeth. He walked over to her and looked down at her flushed face.
"Mastery isn't about variety. It's about precision," he said flatly. "Do you actually think your foundation is solid?"
Fuka opened her mouth to argue, but the words wouldn't co.
"Grip it tighter."
Kashimo flicked his wrist, the erald staff darting forward.
Snap.
The tip of the staff caught the back of Fuka's hand with a sharp crack. Kashimo pulled the weapon back and sat back down on the rock. Sunlight hit his shoulders, making his pale hair glow.
"As a sorcerer," he said in his usual drawl, "you can never allow your weapon to leave your hand in a fight."
Fuka looked down at her hand. A red mark was already blooming on her skin, burning with a sharp heat. She didn't complain. She simply adjusted her grip on the Soul Split Katana, holding it tighter than before.
"Understood."
Her voice was stronger this ti. Kashimo said nothing more. The birds called out again and then went silent. The only sound left was the whistle of the blade. Once, twice, the rhythm slowly finding its center.
Half an hour passed.
The sun moved across the trees, illuminating Fuka's focused face. Sweat soaked the hair at her temples. No one spoke. The silence of the forest was broken only by the steady, repetitive beat of the black blade cutting the air.
***
Practice ended.
Fuka dropped the katana and collapsed backward, lying flat on the grass. She didn't care about the dirt. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air, sweat stinging her eyes. Kashimo looked down at her and tilted his head.
"Finished already?"
Fuka rolled her eyes, though she was breathing too hard to manage a retort. After a few heartbeats, she finally caught her breath.
"You," she rasped, "are incredibly annoying."
Kashimo didn't take the bait. He unclipped a worn leather water skin from his belt and leaned down to hand it to her.
"Rest for a mont," he said. "I'm taking you to see soone."
Fuka didn't hesitate. She grabbed the water skin and tilted her head back, gulping down the cool liquid. It spilled from the corners of her mouth and soaked her collar, but she didn't care. She drank until the fire in her throat finally dimd. She wiped her mouth and looked up at him.
"Who are we seeing?"
Kashimo's face remained blank. "An old scher who's been around for six hundred years."
He knew exactly where Kenjaku was hiding. He was near Kyoto. It would take so effort to track him down, but they were already close. Traveling at the speed of a sorcerer ant they had made good ti.
***
Outskirts of Kyoto.
Kenjaku stood in a clearing, his eyes fixed on the trees ahead. A figure was slowly erging from the shadows. It was a mass of thick, foul cursed energy, a twisted shape that seed to warp the light around it. Two hollow sockets stared back at him, watching, waiting.
A slow smile spread across Kenjaku's face. It was a look of deep, curious amusent.
Ibaraki Doji.
The na had lived in legend for centuries. He was the most loyal general of Shuten Doji and one of the most vicious demon commanders of the Heian period. The stories said he was a human castaway, abandoned as an infant and raised as a beast before fully transforming into a monster. He and his master had terrorized Kyoto for years, leaving the capital in a state of constant, bloody turmoil.
The longer a legend is told, the deeper the fear becos. And that fear had finally given the legend a physical form.
Kenjaku knew all of this. But he also rembered one specific detail very clearly.
In the Heian era, Shuten Doji and his two generals, Ibaraki and Hoshiguma, had been slaughtered. Ryon Sukuna had seen to that himself.
And yet…
Kenjaku looked at the figure standing before him, feeling the resonance of that terrifying, familiar energy. His smile tightened for a split second.
"So," he whispered to the forest. "What exactly is the situation here?"
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A/n: Thx for the support guys. New ps goal 500 power stones = 1 bonus chapter. Don't forget to vote with your power stones!!
For early access to 10 chapters ahead: p@tre~~/Demonic_Fiction (Link is in the synopsis and my profile).
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