"Fuka," Kashimo's voice cut through the howling wind, as calm as if he were standing on solid ground. "The staff."
Fuka didn't hesitate. She didn't ask why or how. Spinning in the weightless void, she wrenched the erald staff from her back and hurled it toward the pale-haired silhouette with everything she had.
The weapon cut a green streak through the crimson space. Kashimo reached out and caught it.
"Kenjaku." Kashimo gripped the staff, his eyes scanning the swarming, restless spirits in the walls. "I need a barrier. Sothing to keep you and Fuka safe."
Kenjaku arched an eyebrow. He looked at the sea of demons clinging to the at-walls and the bottomless abyss below, running a quick calculation.
"I can do that," he said. "But against a horde this dense, I can only guarantee seven minutes."
Kashimo began funneling a steady electrical charge into the staff. With his other hand, he tightened his grip on the Soul Split Katana. The black blade shimred with a cold, lethal intent in the red light.
"Seven minutes is plenty."
Kenjaku didn't waste any more breath. He brought his hands together, weaving a series of ancient, fluid signs. Cursed energy began to pool around him as he muttered a low, guttural incantation.
"Birth of the foul... stay from my form... Seal."
On the final word, a translucent, spherical barrier snapped into existence, enveloping Kenjaku and the still-shouting Fuka. The shell looked fragile, but it resonated with a heavy, primordial energy.
This was the Seal of Malice, an ancient defensive technique from the Heian era. It had been designed to keep monks alive in lands infested by monsters, though it had eventually evolved into the more specialized Hollow Basket used to counter modern domains. As sorcery beca more offensive, such pure defensive barriers were largely forgotten. Now, only Kenjaku and Tengen rembered the rhythm of the old ways.
Inside the sphere, Fuka's screaming finally stopped. she gasped for air, staring in wide-eyed terror as Kashimo's figure drifted further away.
Outside the barrier, Kashimo continued his descent. Thousands of eyes tracked him, but he kept his own shut, his blade pointed toward the abyss. He waited for the exact mont of impact.
Suddenly, Kashimo moved. He flicked his wrist and sent the erald staff whistling down into the darkness. It trailed a brilliant green line before vanishing into the depths.
A second later, a deafening explosion rocked the domain.
The staff, packed with cursed energy, hit the floor of the abyss like a falling star. Flesh and bone were pulverized in the blast, carving a massive crater into the at-scape. The demons gathered at the bottom were crushed into a fine red slurry before they could even register the threat. A fountain of blood sprayed upward, painting the red void in a darker hue.
Kashimo reappeared in the center of the carnage.
He stood in the middle of the fresh crater, surrounded by twitching muscle and shattered limbs. He held the Soul Split Katana in front of him, the black blade humming with dark energy.
Above him, the spirits on the walls froze for a heartbeat. Then, they surged.
They ca like a tidal wave. A mass of distorted faces, greedy eyes, and reaching claws poured from every direction, descending on the lone figure in white.
Kashimo took a breath. The muscles in his legs coiled as cursed energy flooded his fra, snapping like a live wire.
He moved.
He was a blur of motion, a streak of white lightning cutting into the heart of the horde. His first strike claid three heads. His second, a wide horizontal sweep, cut five demons in half. By the third strike, a dozen more had been reduced to red mist.
Blood splattered across his face, but he didn't blink. The Soul Split Katana beca a flickering shadow in his hand.
It didn't matter if they were legendary demon generals or naless fodder. To him, they were all the sa. He lacked the massive, world-cleaving slashes of Sukuna or the spatial erasures of Gojo, but he was a surgeon with a blade.
Limbs flew. Heads rolled. The monsters that had looked upon him with hunger only seconds ago were now being piled into a mountain of cooling at at his feet.
Suddenly, he stopped.
The arcs of electricity around his body exploded. A blinding blue-white light erupted from his skin, snapping and hissing with the roar of a thousand storms. The intensity was enough to illuminate the entire crimson space for a split second.
The cursed energy pouring out of him was staggering, far beyond what the legends of the original Kashimo Haji had ever suggested. It was a physical weight that forced the surrounding spirits to recoil in fear.
Kashimo looked up, his gaze piercing through the layers of ghost-shadows to the far end of the domain.
There, at the heart of the horde, a massive figure sat upon a throne of raw muscle. He had crimson skin and a terrifying demonic mask. A massive sake gourd hung at his hip, and the cursed energy surrounding him was so thick it had nearly turned into a physical liquid.
Shuten Doji.
Kashimo's lips curled into a slow, jagged smile.
"A bunch of nobodies," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried to every corner of the bloody world.
***
***
***
A/n: 500 power stones = 1 bonus chapter. Don't forget to vote with your power stones!!
For early access to 15 chapters ahead: p@tre~~/Demonic_Fiction (Link is in the synopsis and my profile).
User Comments
0 comments from readers