Gyakkyou: Prologue - Chapter 5 {Polished}

This is going in the list of fics I am picking up again

Here's the full list of live fics that will begin updating as of tomorrow:

• Refrain

• The Golden Wyrm

• Arcane Disorder

• Gyakkyou

• Of Blood and Duty

Updates would commence in the order above.

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Prologue

“Great Sage, I believe I am with child.”

Kuzunoha beheld the maid who made such a ludicrous claim. For a moment, she was amused: Surely, this must be some manner of jest.

Alas, the old witch’s mirth did die an early death, for when her mind's eye opened, she saw; indeed, this girl was with child. 

Impossible, Kuzunoha thought to herself. The crone might have been ancient, but her kind were not the sort to go senile with age. “When your master last took you,” she asked the maid, “did I not feed you the ashes of the Root of Yomi?”

“Yes, you did, Great Sage.” 

Kuzunoha nodded. “Surely then, you must have since lain with another besides the imperial son? How else can you be with child?”

“I wouldn’t dare!” the girl exclaimed, falling to her knees in a dogeza as she paled at the insinuation; Had she indeed lain with another, the clan would have the girl’s head on a pike before nightfall, that much was certain. Kuzunoha could scarcely imagine anyone foolish enough to take such a risk for rewards as worthless as the pleasures of the flesh. Alas, she could not truly claim this with any certainty. One does not go through life without encountering some manner of profound stupidity.

The old witch’s eyes remained narrowed in suspicion; If the girl spoke the truth and had indeed not dishonoured the imperial son, how then was she pregnant? Yomi only ever grew where death persisted. It had no love for the living, nor would it stand to see more life be brought into existence. Yet, having consumed the ashes of such an insidious plant, this one conceives? How?

An intriguing conundrum, indeed.

“Follow me,” Kuzunoha instructed as she turned to return to her hut. It was spring; cherry blossoms painted the fields with fleeting clouds of pink and white, their petals drifting like snowflakes upon the streams and hills. Kuzunoha’s abode stood quietly amidst the bloom, and from its serene courtyard, the fragrance of fresh blooms mingled with the scent of burning incense.

Entering the hut, the old witch deposited the basket of herbs she had been gathering from her garden by the door before turning her attention to a cupboard at the back of the room. “What do you call yourself, child?” Kuzunoha asked, rummaging through the vials of elixir she had stored.

“Sato Nozomi, Great Sage.”

“...Good name. Hopefully, it serves you well.” 

The witch pinched the neck of a slender, glass vial, lifting it from the cupboard as she squinted. Grey eyes struggled to discern the label on the bottle in the dim light of the room. Eventually, Kuzunoha handed the vial over to the girl. 

“Drink this,” she ordered.

The maid meekly accepted the elixir offered. With a hesitant expression, she uncorked the container before quickly ingesting the murky liquid within. 

For a long moment, nothing happened. Yet, just as it seemed the medicine was ineffective, the maid, Nozomi, bowled over and began screaming in pain. Baffled, Kuzunoha watched as the poison fought to relieve the girl of the burdens of motherhood, yet the infant within resisted twice as furiously, purging itself and its mother of the essence seeking to end it. 

Nozomi vomited moments later, expelling the valuable elixir Kuzunoha had fed her. 

“...What happened, Great Sage?” Nozomi asked as she struggled to regain her breath.

The old witch met the maid’s confused gaze. Perhaps the girl had indeed been truthful, as only one of prime Tenshi lineage could display such dominion over the arcane. Yet, even still, it was unheard of for a fetus barely developed to be capable of instinctively resisting poisons of this calibre. 

It was at that moment that Kuzunoha remembered the child’s mother was a lowly Kuroji maid. If his father was indeed Ryū Shirō Hōshi then this child was a mixblood. 

Hanpa-mono. 

A creature to be despised from birth, regardless of how well-endowed it might be.

A dull sadness filled Kuzunoha’s heart. Distraught, she regarded the maid whom she now realised was condemned to an unfair demise by no fault of her own. If she were to keep her head, Nozomi could not be allowed to carry the child for much longer. Yet, aborting the fetus was shaping up to be an endeavour that would just as likely end her. Any poison strong enough to overwhelm the fetus would have long killed the mother before its effects even started to show on the child. 

Perhaps, the maid was more perceptive than Kuzunoha gave her credit for. Perhaps, the old crone wasn’t as adept at hiding her emotions as she would like to believe. One would never know. Regardless, Nozomi seemed to sense the hopelessness of her situation and, without hesitation, fell to the old witch’s feet in supplication. 

“Great Sage!” she begged, tears streaming down her face. “Save me!”

***

It was in broad daylight, with the afternoon sun beating down on the prosperous people of Fujisawa, that Kuzunoha fled the Asahina clan compound with Nozomi in tow. Their escape was an utterly uneventful affair, for it was believed the old witch was merely running an errand for the daimyō as she was wont to do. 

Later, men would be sent to retrieve the absent pair. They would never be found, eventually presumed dead, and ultimately forgotten.

A month after their escape, however, Kuzunoha and Nozomi had finally fled the populated centre of Kiyo Prefecture and settled in the secluded heart of the Hinokuni mountains, a refuge the old witch had discovered on her journeys centuries ago. 

Nozomi was put to bed on a wintry night the following year. Alas, her son’s arrival into the world was marked by ill omens—a moonless night, howling beasts and the scent of death carried upon the winds. 

“Save my son, Great Sage!” the young mother begged as she and her child fought Yomi’s call. Perhaps, the old witch should have ignored the plea and saved the woman instead. Perhaps, Nozomi’s death was a destined one that would have come all the same. One would never know. Regardless, the Kuroji woman passed away that night, leaving behind a beautiful, blue-eyed babe with a head of black hair. 

Hanpa-mono.

A mongrel.

The boy had faced adversity of the kind that would destroy most, yet triumphed. It seemed fitting, then, the name the old witch bestowed him…

***

“Gyakkyou!” cried Kuzunoha in admonishment. 

Her charge scrambled away from the ritual circle, giggling as he made off with an iridescent feather. Another ritual was disrupted; that was the third one this month. Each passing day saw the child grow ever more boisterous. It’s been seven years now, and Gyakkyou was still growing tall, strong, and lean as Tenshi boys his age ought to. Alas, Kuzunoha knew things could not continue as they had. She had greater obligations to the realm, which she had neglected due to her parenting. Yet, she couldn’t just abandon her son to his fate; his life was unfair enough as it was. 

For another year and a half, the witch raised the boy according to the ways of ancient shamans. Gyakkyou was taught the arcane arts, old and obscure knowledge that rotted the soul as much as it enlightened the mind. Hence, on his ninth nameday, the child found himself facing a test of great importance. 

“Time is running out, Gyakkyou,” the old witch warned as the boy scrambled to draw seals on a sheet of tanned rabbit hide with the blood dripping from his left index finger. The talisman was meant to be one that repelled lesser malevolent spirits and yokai. A warding charm.

From where Kuzunoha stood, she could already tell he had made a series of mistakes that had doomed the endeavour. Still, she let him finish before informing him of his failure, to drive home the consequences of his mistakes.

It took seven more days before the child finally succeeded. 

On his ninth nameday, the witch had him summon his own mask. The squirming, cloth-like creature clung to his face before melting into his skin. When his eyes finally blinked open, the hues of blue in them were nowhere to be found. Instead, his gaze displayed a midnight black like that of any pureblooded Kuroji. 

It was then, and only then, that she took him down from the mountains and escorted him to a nearby settlement. There, she entrusted him with the kindly village elder before saying her goodbyes.

“Do not forget to give the mask its due,” Kuzunoha warned. “Ittan-momen is a petty yokai; it will try to kill you if you forget to feed it.”

“Baa-chan,” the boy groaned, distraught, waving away the witch’s exhortations. “Can I not follow you?” 

“Gyakkyou,” Kuzunoha cooed in response, “you know you cannot.”

For a long moment, she simply held the pouting child. Then, as the time to withdraw neared, she gave him her parting words.

"Never rock the boat. Have no ambition. Lurk… The world has no love for your kind, child. Never forget that."

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Chapter One: Naivety

Childhood’s bright gleam,

Too radiant to see the shadows,

Unaware of the dark.

Two years later.

“Wake up, beanpole.”

Gyakkyou blinked away the haze in his vision, his breath still heavy with sleep. The morning light filtered through the pall walls of his thatched home, creating a soft glow that danced across the room. The light cast a shadow over his face, a tall, looming silhouette that made him scowl even before his eyes fully focused.

Only one person could stand over him like that and ruin his peace before the day even started.

“Get off me, Whiskers,” Gyakkyou grumbled, his voice raspy with sleep. His scowl deepened as Ishimaru’s face came into view, the older boy’s familiar, whiskered grin already spreading across his features.

Ishimaru’s eyes narrowed, a glint of mischief dancing in their depths. “What did you call me?” he asked, his tone dropping to that dangerous low that meant trouble was brewing. It was a voice Gyakkyou knew all too well, but he was undeterred by the implied threat

Raising his chin defiantly, Gyakkyou prepared to repeat the nickname that so often got him into trouble. “Whisk—gah! Stop!” The words dissolved into a high-pitched yelp as Ishimaru’s fingers found their mark, tickling mercilessly at his sides.

Gyakkyou scrambled away, his laughter echoing through the small room as he fought to escape. “Growing bold, are we?” Ishimaru taunted as he lunged after the younger boy. “This will teach you to disrespect your elders!”

Gyakkyou darted around the room, laughing and dodging, trying to put as much distance between himself and Ishimaru as possible. Just as he was about to make a dash for the door, he spotted Takumi, the eldest of the trio, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“You two cannot go a day without making a fuss, can you?” Takumi asked, his face a mask of exasperation. Gyakkyou ignored the scolding as he darted behind the older boy; a futile attempt given Gyakkyou was a mere head shorter than his supposed saviour, despite being nine years his junior. 

“Maru started it!” Gyakkyou accused, peeking around Takumi’s broad shoulders. 

“No, I didn’t!” Ishimaru shot back

Takumi merely shook his head, already done with their antics for the morning. He turned to leave the room, his voice calm but commanding. “Gyakkyou, dress up and meet us outside. Breakfast is ready.”

With the sanctity of the room restored in Ishimaru’s absence, Gyakkyou could finally turn his attention to his appearance. The garment he chose to wear that morning was the same one he wore yesterday: a rough cotton kimono. Though plain, the dress bore the faint stains of earth and the scent of pine.

Gyakkyou emerged from the room he shared with Ishimaru to the smell of steaming rice and miso soup. As he approached the shokudō where breakfast was being hosted, he saw their grandmother, her frail hands moving deftly despite her age, as she poured tea into small, earthen cups. Her back was slightly hunched, but her eyes, sharp and knowing, caught Gyakkyou’s as he entered the room. A gentle smile creased her weathered face, and she motioned for him to sit beside her.

“Come, Gyakkyou,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “We mustn’t let the food grow cold.”

Gyakkyou nodded, his usual energy tempered in the presence of the elderly woman. He settled on a woven mat, tucking his legs neatly beneath him as he accepted the bowl she handed him. Across the table, Takumi sat with his pregnant wife, Sakura, their heads bowed in a quick prayer of thanks.

Ishimaru, on the other hand, was already halfway through his meal, shovelling rice into his mouth with a speed that made Gyakkyou stifle a laugh. The glutton caught his eye, narrowing his gaze as if daring Gyakkyou to express disapproval. Knowing it would be futile, Gyakkyou simply ignored him, offered his own prayers, and then turned his attention to his meal.

They ate in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the gentle clatter of utensils against bowls and the occasional slurp of soup. When they finished, the boys went together to the shrine by the entrance, offering rice and salt to the kami of the forest before setting out with bows and quivers slung over their shoulders, bamboo spears in hand, and large knives tucked into their belts.

Outside, the village was beginning to stir. Thin tendrils of smoke rose from the rooftops as fires were lit, and in the peaks above, the first call of the mountain birds echoed. The streets were still barren as only a few had emerged from their huts.

Snapping back to the present, Gyakkyou hurried after his brothers as he fastened the strap of his quiver, which hung awkwardly from his slender frame. On his left shoulder was a short bow, one Takumi had fashioned for him from the wood of a sakaki tree merely a year ago.

The trio set off on a winding path that led them into the dense woods that bordered the village. The great mountains loomed above them, their peaks shrouded in mist. Today, like many days before, Gyakkyou would learn from his brothers by watching, by doing.

They reached a small clearing where the forest floor was thick with moss. Gyakkyou knelt, examining tracks left by a deer that had passed through not long before, whilst his brothers looked on. Alas, they were not hunting docile game today. Tomorrow would be Ishimaru’s fifteenth nameday, meaning a coming-of-age celebration would be held by the village to congratulate him. And as tradition would have it, for a boy to transition into manhood, he must be fed a serving of Kuma no kotsudama—stewed bear testicles. 

Normally, Ishimaru’s father would have been present to supervise the hunt as was tradition. But given they were all orphans, they had to make do with Takuma’s supervision alone. Thankfully, their older brother was rather competent. 

As the morning wore on, the sun climbed higher, and the mist began to lift from the mountains, revealing the rugged beauty of the peaks. They searched for hours, until finally, they caught sight of it—a lone boar, its coat a rich brown, its shoulders stocky like the limbs of a tree.

The beast could likely kill a man with a single swing of its massive paws. 

Takuma motioned for Ishimaru to ready his bow whilst Gyakkyou watched silently. The boy’s hands shook slightly as he nocked an arrow, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He drew the bowstring back, just as their older brother had taught them, focusing on the bear, feeling the tension in his muscles, the stillness in the air.

“Breathe,” Gyakkyou whispered from behind.

Ishimaru exhaled slowly and released the arrow. It flew true, striking the boar cleanly through the eye. The animal stumbled, then fell, its life ebbing away as the forest returned to its quiet hum. For all his faults, the glutton had always been the best shot of them all. None in the village could even come close to rivalling him

“You have done well, Ishimaru,” Takuma commended, his pride glaringly obvious. “Today, you have proven yourself a man.”

Gyakkyou giggled as he smacked the blushing fool in the back of the head. A mistake, perhaps, given how quickly Ishimaru’s embarrassment turned into ire. 

Regardless, today was a wonderful day, and nothing could ever possibly change that.

***

The screams were horrid.

“Gyakkyou. Ishimaru. Both of you, stay here,” Takuma ordered even as he never took his eyes off the carnage unfolding in their home below. Gyakkyou turned wet, confused eyes to his older brother.

Why was the village on fire? Why were there strange men chasing people through the streets? No one seemed to have the answers to Gyakkyou’s questions. It frightened him terribly.

“I am coming with you,” Ishimaru hissed, nocking an arrow as he made to race down the mountain towards the village. Takuma, however, preempted him, blocking his path. 

“No!” the oldest said. “I cannot let you throw your life away like this.” 

“Why can you and not me?” Ishimaru snarled in response. Tears were now streaming down his face. Fear. Anger. Rage.

“You are too young, Maru! Let me go get Baa-chan and Sakura. I will be back as soon as I can. You watch over our brother.”

“I am going with you!”

“No, you are too—”

“You said it yourself! I am a man now! Look!” Ishimaru took the raw testicles from his pouch and stuffed them in his mouth, swallowing in a single gulp. “See! Now, let me pass!”

“I cannot—”

“Please!” Ishimaru was sobbing now. The two stared at each other for a long moment before Takuma gave a small, pained nod. 

“Fine!” he said before turning his unrelenting gaze to Gyakkyou. “Stay here! Don’t you dare move! We will be back soon.”

Gyakkyou waited. And waited. And waited. Until the sun rose and began to set again. He never moved from his post lest he drew Takuma’s ire. 

Alas, it seemed all for nought.

His brothers never returned.

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Chapter Two: Forging Hate

With adversity, 

Pain will always trail behind,

Ever intertwined.

Two days.

It felt longer.

Gyakkyou’s legs ached, the muscles frayed from hunger and exhaustion, but still, they moved. They had to. His breath came in shallow gasps, raw and ragged in the back of his throat, past lips parched from thirst. He hadn’t eaten since the night before the world ended, since his brothers had left him behind with promises they couldn’t keep. He hadn’t cried yet, not fully. The tears came in bursts, then retreated as quickly as they’d formed, leaving him hollow.

The village looked smaller now, like something far away, distorted through cloying smoke. It was just a smudge of black and grey at the base of the mountain, but as Gyakkyou stumbled closer, it became a clearer, uglier picture.

The fire had done its job.

Ash blanketed the ground, swirling in the faint breeze like ghostly snow. Houses were now little more than charred skeletons, jagged and twisted. Blackened beams jutted out of the ground like broken bones, and the air was thick with the scent of burnt wood, scorched flesh, and something else—something sickly sweet, rotting, clinging to the back of his throat. His stomach churned at the smell, but there was nothing left in him to vomit.

He stood at the edge of the village, staring at what remained. No screams, no shouts, no one. Just the crackling whisper of embers and the occasional thud of something collapsing under its own weight. It was worse than he’d imagined. Worse than he’d feared.

He didn’t want to see more, but his legs kept moving.

The first body he saw was barely recognisable as human. A heap of flesh and bone, twisted into a grotesque form, its skin blackened and peeling like old parchment. Gyakkyou stepped around it, careful not to look too closely, but his eyes kept darting back. He couldn’t stop. He had to know if he recognised them, if they had been someone he knew. Someone he’d spoken to. Laughed with. It was impossible to tell.

Further in, the bodies were clearer, less burned. He saw a man—he couldn’t remember his name, but he remembered his face. He had helped Gyakkyou catch fish once, down by the river. Now, his chest was open, ribs broken and exposed, guts spilling out onto the ground like a macabre offering to a kami who knew no mercy. Gyakkyou’s feet dragged him onward, past the carnage, his breath catching in his throat. Each step forward peeled back another layer of the horror he hadn’t been ready to face.

The village had been a home—his home. Now it was a graveyard.

He found his way to what remained of his family’s hut. Or rather, what he thought was his family’s. The roof had caved in, leaving a jagged frame of wood and thatch. The walls, where they stood, were charred, blackened with streaks of ash. Gyakkyou stepped into the alien space. His feet sank into the debris, ash puffing into the air with each step.

And then he saw them.

Takuma and Ishimaru piled atop one another at the entrance, a single spear skewering them both to the ground. Takuma’s legs and arms had been crudely chopped off and tossed carelessly aside. Ishimaru had four burnt arrow shafts sticking out of his face. 

Their grandmother’s body lay crumpled further back near what had once been the hearth, her small, frail frame burnt beyond recognition. Gyakkyou knelt, his fingers trembling as they hovered over what was left of her. Her arms were twisted awkwardly, her skin cracked and flaking like old bark. Her face… he couldn’t even find her face.

Beside her, Sakura, or what was left of her, was slumped in a corner. Her clothes had been torn, her belly—once rounded with child—was ripped open, dark blood staining the dirt floor beneath her. Her head lolled to one side, mouth agape, eyes wide and empty.

For a moment, there was nothing. No sound. No movement. Just the raw, overwhelming pain. Gyakkyou sat there, staring at their broken bodies, his mind struggling to make sense of it all. They were gone. All of them. His brothers, his grandmother, his sister-in-law, his unborn niece or nephew.

Gone.

His chest ached, a deep, hollow pain that seemed to spread through every part of him, but still, no tears came. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms, drawing thin lines of blood. He wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come. Instead, his body moved on its own, stiffly, mechanically. He stumbled across the room to the tsubo hidden beneath a floorboard in the corner, tearing open the paper lid with shaking hands. He forced a handful of stale rice into his mouth, chewing slowly, his throat raw and tight.

The food, bland and tasteless, was the first thing to touch his lips in many hours. It did nothing to fill the void inside him, but it gave him enough strength to do what needed to be done.

He found a hoe near the wreckage of the house, the handle scorched but still intact. Gyakkyou began digging, his body moving without conscious thought. The ground was hard, unyielding, but he worked anyway, sweat mixing with the grime and ash on his skin. He dug shallow graves, one for each of them, careful and deliberate, as if it mattered. As if anything mattered anymore.

By the time he had finished, the sun had sunk low in the sky, casting long shadows over the ruined village. Gyakkyou walked off to find water but stumbled upon a corpse at the fringes of the village

The body was slumped near the tree line. The clothes… It wasn’t someone from the village.

Gyakkyou approached slowly, warily. The man lay face down in the dirt, his strange garments tattered and bloodstained. He nudged the body with the toe of his sandal, flipping it over. The man’s face was pale, slack, his eyes open and glassy. A deep wound cleaved the back of his skull, splitting it nearly in two. Blood had pooled beneath him, staining the earth dark red.

And his hair—it was red.

Not red, as in blood-soaked. Red as in a striking, unfamiliar red mane with rust-coloured strands. It was matted with blood and dirt, but unmistakable. Gyakkyou crouched beside the body, his fingers brushing the man’s face. This one hadn’t belonged here. He wasn’t one of them.

A marauder.

The hair… Red hair.

Akaoni.

Gyakkyou’s heart pounded in his chest, a cold rage stirring deep inside him. His fingers curled into the man’s blood-soaked tunic, gripping it tight. A wrathful sob racked his chest as he screamed a silent, whiny cry. As if demanding answers from the corpse. There were none.

Minutes passed, and the sky grew overcast. Soon, a light rain began to fall. Gyakkyou released the body and stood, his eyes burning, not just with tears, but with something darker. 

Hate.

Loathing.

In that moment, forged in Gyakkyou’s soul was a great abhorrence for a certain red-haired people. 

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Chapter Three: Finding Purpose

Blood-soaked fields of red, 

Silent cries beneath cold skies, 

Ashes drift like snow.

The pass, a scar gouged between stone shoulders, wept a sky-grief of incessant drizzle. It coiled, this path, like a slumbering serpent, its scales slick with the ochre mud that clung to the ashigaru’s waraji and stole the spirit from their tread. Kurosawa Mitsuharu, at the column’s weary head, absorbed the vista – the interlocking spurs of the peaks ahead, a fortress of shadow and mist 

His uncle, the Daimyō, had sent him on this miserable mission to chase the remnants of an Akaoni rebel force: a cursed people who had managed to evade his soldiers at every turn, retreating further into the mountains where their intimate knowledge of the terrain made them impossible to root out.

"Taishō, the men grow weary," remarked Shiro, Mitsuharu's favoured retainer, whose loyalty was an ancient tree rooted deep in Kurosawa soil. His voice, worn smooth as a river stone, came as he drew his mount closer. "Perhaps we should make camp soon."

Mitsuharu’s gloved hand, resting on the saya of his tachi, did not stir. "The scent is on the wind, Shiro. Faint, but there.  I will not slink back to the capital with empty hands for my uncle to scorn." Rest. Respite. Forgetfulness. His uncle’s face, a mask of polite disdain, flickered behind his eyes. To return without completing this task was to offer his neck to that subtle blade.

Shiro’s gaze drifted upwards, to where the clouds bled into a seamless grey. "The yama-no-kami are jealous guardians, Mitsuharu-sama. These Akaoni have made their pacts with stone and shadow. They know these lands far better than we do."

"And for that very reason, we offer them no respite," Mitsuharu retorted, a raw edge abrading his tone. "If they spill into those peaks proper, the chase is lost. To halt is to cede the initiative. The Daimyō would show no mercy were they to slip my grasp again.”

The mention of his uncle was a stone in Mitsuharu’s gut. Deliberate. This banishment from the capital, this pursuit through mire and misery, was a punishment thinly veiled as duty. A chain to keep him leashed, far from the court's heart. His ambitions, it seemed, had cast too long a shadow for the Daimyō's comfort. This backwater assignment was its bitter fruit.

A frustrated breath escaped him, misting in the damp air. “Why, Shiro,” Mitsuharu finally murmured, his voice low and rough as the terrain, “must we be the hounds set upon these rats in their wilderness?”

The retainer’s reply was oblique, as always. "Duty, Taishō-sama?"

"Duty?" Mitsuharu’s lip curled, a fleeting sneer. "What duty is this? I should be in the capital, where decisions of consequence are forged, not scrabbling after bedraggled insurgents like a common bandit hunter. This is… beneath me."

Shiro nodded, a slow, sagely movement, as though these words were old companions. "Indeed, Taishō. Such a task ill-befits one of your station. There is no glory in chasing vermin through the wilds. Yet, the heavens oft find their amusement in our strivings. What is a man to do but endure, and perhaps, find his own meaning in the mud?"

Silence descended, broken only by the squelch of hooves and the weary trudge of men. Then, Shiro spoke again, his voice a subtle current pulling Mitsuharu from his brooding. “I fear we will not catch them before the mountains swallow them whole, my lord.”

As if the words had summoned him, a rider materialised from the grey veil ahead, a frantic brushstroke against the canvas of rain. A young bushi, his armour streaked with mud, his face a mask of urgency. He offered a curt bow, words tumbling out. "Taishō! A village… or what remains of one. Razed. The rebels’ work, it bears their stench."

Mitsuharu straightened, the earlier ennui falling away like a shed skin. His eyes, the colour of winter stone, narrowed. "Show me."

The place had been a village. Now, it was a wound in the earth, weeping smoke and the scent of things best left unnamed. Charred timbers, like the bones of some great beast, clawed at the sky. The rain could not wash away the greasy soot, nor the cloying sweetness of burnt flesh that clung to the back of the throat. This was the face of the Akaoni Dō—their Way. A way of negation.

As Mitsuharu and his vanguard entered, the silence was broken only by the drip of water from ruined eaves and the soft, obscene suck of their boots in the mire. Bodies lay strewn like discarded dolls – some grotesquely baked by flame, others left to the slow consumption of decay, their faces frozen in the rictus of their final terror.

"Animals," Shiro breathed, his hand, gnarled and scarred, falling instinctively to the hilt of his katana. "They will answer for this obscenity."

"Indeed," Mitsuharu affirmed, his voice devoid of warmth. "But first, they must be found."

A commotion near the edge of the charnel ground drew his attention. A samurai returned, dragging a leaner figure by the arm. The child—for he was little more—was caked in a paste of ash and dirt, his young face a mask of gaunt pallor. He could not have seen more than sixteen summers, if that.

"We found him amongst the dead, Taishō," the samurai reported, his voice rough. "Burying them."

Mitsuharu dismounted, his boots sinking into the sodden ash. He approached the boy, who, despite the grime and the looming presence of the Taishō, did not flinch. His eyes, though, were hollowed pits of red-rimmed grief. Mitsuharu’s lips thinned. "Speak. What transpired here?"

The boy’s voice, when it came, was a rasp, yet eerily steady. "They came in the dark. They killed… everyone. Burned it all. My brothers… my family…" His voice caught, then steadied again. "Gone."

Mitsuharu regarded him, a long, measuring look. No artifice there, only a desolation that mirrored the ruined landscape. "You are fortunate to have drawn breath this morn."

The boy’s filthy hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I hid. In the fields," he replied, answering the unspoken. His gaze met Mitsuharu’s, and for the first time, a spark flickered in their depths. "I do not feel fortune, my lord."

A beat of silence. "...Your name, boy?"

"Gyakkyou."

Mitsuharu gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, then a dismissive wave. "Your duty to your dead is done. Be about your own life."

The boy, Gyakkyou, did not move. A flicker of something unreadable emerged in his stance, then he took a resolute step forward. "Take me, Taishō-sama."

An eyebrow, pure white and finely arched, rose on Mitsuharu’s brow. A ghost of amusement touched his lips. "And why should I permit that?"

"I wish to kill them," the boy stated, the hoarseness gone, his voice now taut as a drawn bowstring. Hatred, pure and undiluted, blazed from his eyes. 

Shiro let out a short, derisive sound. "He is but a child, my lord. Grief-mad. He would not last the day’s march, let alone a battle."

Gyakkyou’s glare shot to Shiro, sharp as a shard of obsidian, but his attention returned, unwavering, to Mitsuharu. "I have nothing left. No one. Let me fight."

Mitsuharu’s fleeting amusement deepened into a flicker of genuine interest. There was a raw, untamed quality to this boy, a core of tempered steel beneath the grime. Perhaps it was the bitter dregs of boredom from this fruitless chase, or the lingering sting of his uncle's disdain, but a thought, sharp and unexpected, took root. He glanced at Shiro, whose weathered face was a mask of disapproval, then back to the boy, Gyakkyou.

A long silence, stretched taut. Then…

"Very well," Mitsuharu found himself saying, the words surprising even him. "You may come. Someone find the boy a spear – something he can manage."

Murmurs of protest rose from his retainers, but Mitsuharu silenced them with a single, upraised hand. "Enough. I will not spurn a blade that offers itself, no matter how small. He has as much right to seek Hachiman’s favour as any man here."

As Mitsuharu swung back into his saddle, he cast a final, appraising glance at the desolate village, then turned his gaze once more to the brooding mountains. "Move out," he commanded, his voice cutting through the rain’s lament. "Those rats will not elude us again."

And with that, the column marched forward, the boy trailing behind, his fate now tied to the will of a Taishō who had far more use for tools than sentiment.

.

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Chapter Four: Little Oni

Little Oni's glare burns,

Red hair sways in mountain winds—

Hatred undying.

The march stretched long, the horizon offering no promise of reprieve. Grit, born of the parched earth and his own sweat, formed a second skin upon Gyakkyou, an abrasive shroud that spoke only of discomfort, of the unnatural stillness that had taken root in the hollow of his chest. He trod a few paces behind the Taishō’s banner, a splash of colour in a muted world, Kurosawa Mitsuharu himself a distant, unmoving peak at the column's head. The Taishō had offered no word since that first, damning acceptance, leaving the boy to his silent trudge amongst the hardened soldiery.

Gyakkyou’s mind was a ravaged village, memories like twisted, charred timbers replaying their horrific tableau. The scent of burnt wood and scorched flesh, the vacant eyes of his kin – these spectres were his constant companions. His hands, raw from the hoe’s handle, clenched into fists, nails biting crescents into his palms. He welcomed the sting, a pinprick of reality in the suffocating numbness. Anger, a black and bitter fire, was the only thing that kept the waters of sorrow from closing over his head.

The ashigaru around him muttered, their voices low and gravelled, of the rebels they hunted—the Akaoni. Vermin who spat upon the Ten'nō’s sacred rule, who sought to taint their obedient kin with the poison of their defiance. Tenshinryuu, they styled themselves—Heaven’s True Path. The soldiers had a different name: Mushika. Insect Beasts. Gyakkyou cared little for names. He yearned only for the silence of their graves.

He had learned to watch, as a cornered weasel watches the hound. The way a soldier’s hand never strayed far from his weapon’s hilt, the ceaseless dance of their eyes across the treeline, the scarred hills. They wore their past wounds like lacquer upon their armour. Gyakkyou, too, began to wear his, though the ill-fitting vestments hung upon him like a sentence.

The passage through the yama was a trial etched in aching limbs and ragged breaths. Days bled into one another since they had left the smoking ruin of his life. The Akaoni offered little more than whispers and shadows, fleeting glimpses that vanished into the crags. Yet, as they drew nearer the next hamlet marked on the Taishō’s map, the very air grew taut, heavy with the foreknowledge of slaughter. Scouts, lean and hungry-eyed, had returned with word: rebels, digging in, fortifying the bones of another plundered village. “Last stand,” Gyakkyou heard one veteran rasp, his voice thick with a grim, almost eager fatalism. “Cornered rats,” another spat, shaking his head, the movement dislodging flakes of dried mud from his hair. “They bite hardest then.”

That night, they made camp on the village’s ravaged fringe. The wind, a mournful breath through the skeletal trees, carried the faint, familiar tang of ash and burnt meat. It was a perfume Gyakkyou now knew intimately. He sat apart, a shadow amongst shadows, just beyond the fire’s flickering tongue, his gaze fixed on the stern-faced men who guarded the Taishō’s tent. They seemed eager for the fight ahead.

In that deep quiet of the night, when the moon hid its face, a scout returned, melting from the darkness like a phantom. Gyakkyou, feigning sleep, watched the man kneel before Mitsuharu. Even from afar, he saw the grim tightening of the Taishō’s jaw, the curt, decisive nod that followed.

Dawn broke the next day, grey and bloodless. A ritual fire was kindled, its smoke coiling towards the indifferent sky. Monks, their voices a guttural drone, began their chants, the beat of their taiko drums a frantic pulse in Gyakkyou’s own veins. Mitsuharu’s voice, when he addressed his men, was sharp as newly whetted steel: “No mercy! These Akaoni curs—cut them down! Break their spirit! Not one soul escapes the reckoning!” A roar, primal and terrifying, ripped from a hundred throats as the army stirred, a beast rousing itself for the kill.

Towards the smouldering village, they marched. Smoke, black and greasy, clawed at the sky from what remained of thatched roofs. Gyakkyou saw them then—corpses, strung from rafters like obscene wind chimes. The soldiers surged forward towards the enemy hiding behind a line of wooden spikes. Within moments, their war cries became a discordant symphony with the clang of steel, the shriek of the dying.

A scream tore from Gyakkyou’s own throat, raw and unbidden, as he plunged into the fray. His slight frame, an impediment in the long marches, now a boon, allowing him to squirm through a gap in the crude barricade. His yari, an extension of his hate, found its mark, sinking deep into the gut of a red-haired rebel. Warm blood, thick as slurry, erupted over his face, a grotesque baptism. It did not sicken him; it fanned the embers of his madness.

He dropped, snatching a katana from the dirt where it had clattered from the dead man’s grip. The form was crude, instinctual, a desperate mimicry of the soldiers. He swung, a wild, downward chop at the thigh of another Akaoni. The blade met bone with a snap; the cheap steel fractured. With a snarl, Gyakkyou lunged, driving the jagged shard of the broken sword into the eye of another man.

The world dissolved into a red-tinged blur. He was entangled with the third corpse he’d made, then trampled, men thundering over him, their waraji grinding his shield of flesh into the mud. Blood, filth, and the sting of sweat blinded him. A crushing weight on his arm—PAIN! White-hot, lancing.

“Fool! Get up!” a voice, rough as a boar’s hide, snarled. A hand, strong as ironwood, hauled him to his feet. A tanto, its hilt simple, wrapped in bamboo, was thrust into his good hand. He was spun back towards the swirling chaos. “Fight! The Taishō watches! Bleed for him, and you might yet live!”

Half-blind, his left arm a burning agony, Gyakkyou staggered towards a shifting blur crowned with a shock of crimson. The Taishō… he cared not for the Taishō’s gaze, nor for any reward. Salvation? Perhaps it lay only in the embrace of the soil, beside his slaughtered kin. Yet, the voice had struck a desperate chord. Fight! He would fight until his heart burst, until his lungs refused air.

His blade found flesh, sinking into the unprotected back of another Akaoni. The man screamed, a flailing arm catching Gyakkyou across the face. He tasted his own blood, metallic and warm. Pain. Ever more pain. It did not stop him. With a sound that was more animal than human, he twisted the tanto, ripping it sideways, disembowelling his foe. The stench of offal and voided bowels assaulted his nostrils. Still, he turned, eyes streaming, searching for another red-haired devil.

And then he saw him: a figure in finer armour, a gleaming naginata whirling in a deadly arc, holding back a knot of Mitsuharu’s men. His face, visible behind the snarling visage of an oni menpō, was a mask of strained fury. Without thought, instinct overriding the fire in his arm, Gyakkyou ran, launching himself forward. His blade flashed. The rebel leader’s head snapped up, the whites of his eyes stark behind the mask’s grimace. Terror. A fleeting shadow in their depths. The naginata shaft rose, a desperate, belated defence. Too late.

Gyakkyou’s tanto bit deep into the juncture of the neck and shoulder. Blood, hot and slick, sprayed across his face. He wrenched the blade free and stabbed again. And again. And again. A frenzied, mindless rhythm. Strength fled him, but rage, a bottomless well, fuelled his arm until it too faltered, leaving him panting, trembling.

He looked up, his vision slowly clearing, into the impassive gaze of an unfamiliar samurai. The din of battle had receded, replaced by the moans of the wounded and the harsh cries of pursuing soldiers. A wall of men had formed a silent circle around him, their eyes fixed upon him with a strange, unsettling intensity.

“The blade,” the samurai said, his voice flat. Gyakkyou looked down at the bloody tanto clutched in his fist, then wordlessly surrendered it. Exhaustion threatened to drag him under. He watched, detached, as the samurai knelt, and with practiced, brutal efficiency, sawed at the rebel leader’s neck. Grasping the head by its crimson hair—helmet, mask, and all—the samurai appraised it for a moment before tossing it, with casual indifference, into Gyakkyou’s lap. “Well done, boy,” he grunted, wiping his own blade before sheathing it. “Present it to the Taishō. He will see you rewarded.”

Gyakkyou stared at the grisly trophy, its dead eyes seeming to gaze back at him. The samurai strode away. The men around him began to murmur, then shout, words of congratulation, of savage approval. Ichiban yari, they hailed him. First spear. Kimetsu no Yaiba, another voice cried. The Demon-Slaying Blade.

Victory? Was this its face? Then why did the cavern in his soul remain so vast, so empty? The blood that stained his hands had not washed away the agony. His hate, that terrible, consuming fire, still burned. Undying.

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Chapter Five: Little Samurai

Blood-stained in the rain,

Heads bow to the crimson earth,

A warrior's birth.

He stood before a field of corpses, the mud soft and yielding beneath his worn waraji. A slow, cold rain wept from a sky the colour of lead, pattering against the ravaged earth, whispering through the mist where the ashigaru shifted like uneasy spirits. The world was a canvas of grey, the horizon swallowed by the sagging clouds. In his trembling hand, the severed head of the Akaoni chieftain rested, a weight heavy as a millstone, dense with an unspoken gravity. Why he still clutched it, why it had been thrust upon him, remained a fractured thought in the ruin of his mind. Its eyes, wide and vacant, discomfited him more than the whole bloody theatre of slaughter. The menpō, a demon’s snarl frozen in iron, still clung to the face; the kabuto, though battered, remained. Beneath them, the features were but a suggestion, a thing. It mattered not. The man was dead, and Gyakkyou had killed him.

The boy turned the head over and over, feeling the chilling heft of it. Blood, now stiffening in the damp chill, had soaked his tattered kimono, its iron tang a cloying perfume mingling with the pervasive stench of death. Boyhood had been flayed from him, leaving… nothing. He felt like nothing. The men, their faces blurred by rain and his own daze, called him names that held no meaning. Perhaps they did. Alas, the words rang hollow in his ears, as empty as the eyes of the dead man in his lap.

“What is it you wait for?” The voice, low and steady as the ceaseless rain, belonged to the samurai they called Dōri. Gyakkyou knew him not by name, but by the brutal economy of his actions, by the way he had pressed this gruesome burden into his hands. Present it to the Taishō. Claim your reward. You have done well.

It didn’t feel like he had. Felt like nothing.

"I don’t know," Gyakkyou rasped, the words catching in his throat. “What am I to do… What am I to feel…”

The samurai, Dōri, crouched, bringing his dark, unreadable eyes level with Gyakkyou’s. A flicker of something—not pity, perhaps understanding, or merely acknowledgement—passed through their depths. “You are to feel nothing,” Dōri stated, his voice devoid of inflexion. “You did what was necessary. There is nought else.”

Gyakkyou offered no reply. He stared at the head, rain dripping from his matted hair, a chill seeping into his very marrow. A desperate yearning to comprehend why the pain still gnawed, why the fire in his breast refused to be quenched, found no solace in those vacant eyes. No answers were forthcoming from the dead, nor from the weeping sky.

Dōri rose, his armour creaking softly, rain tapping softly on the metal. He regarded Gyakkyou with the calm indifference of one observing a storm, certain of its eventual passing. “Come,” he said, the single word an undeniable command. “The rites begin.”

Legs stiff as frozen wood, Gyakkyou followed, the head still clutched in his good hand. At the chosen site, a grim symmetry unfolded. Rows of severed heads, each placed with methodical care upon a square of white cloth, their features twisted into the final, immutable expressions of death.

"Place it with the rest facing west," Dōri said, “where the setting sun might burn through these clouds and sear their passage.” Gyakkyou did as told. The ceremony, Kubi Jikken Dōri had called it, was conducted in a heavy, almost reverent silence. Warriors paying homage to the vanquished. It made little sense to Gyakkyou, this honouring of beasts who had rent his world asunder.

Samurai stood in formation, their kabuto removed, the rain darkening their topknots, streaking their grim faces. Gyakkyou’s gaze drifted, inevitably, to the Taishō. Kurosawa Mitsuharu sat astride his warhorse, a figure of gleaming, dark lacquer and steel, his presence dominating the desolate field. Gyakkyou felt the man’s eyes upon him, sharp, calculating, as if weighing some unseen substance in the air between them. Then, the Taishō’s voice, cutting through the rain’s soft lament. “Step forth, boy.”

A breath hitched in Gyakkyou’s chest. He hesitated, then moved, the mud sucking greedily at his sandals. Reaching the Taishō, he stood, small and soiled, unsure of what was expected. Kurosawa Mitsuharu leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. For a long, drawn-out moment, silence reigned, broken only by the whisper of the rain. At last, the general gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, as if some internal calculus had resolved itself. “You have done well,” Mitsuharu pronounced, his voice measured, carrying the weight of command. “You have earned your appellations. Ichiban Yari. Kimetsu no Yaiba. But know this: a warrior’s path is not paved with a single victory.”

Gyakkyou stood motionless, the words washing over him, alien and distant. He scarce understood their import, nor the solemn ritual unfolding around him. It was as if he watched himself from some far, detached vantage, a puppet moved by unseen strings. The Taishō’s eyes flickered to Dōri, who stood a little apart, still as a weathered stone Jizō. An unspoken understanding passed between them, brief and absolute. Mitsuharu’s gaze returned to Gyakkyou.

“The monks say they perceive a certain… quality in you,” the Taishō said, a subtle shift in his tone, a tempering of the steel. “They say you bear Hachiman’s favour. I do not lend their words much credence. Regardless, you have shown a gift. And gifts, untempered by guidance, can consume even a deity whole.” 

He paused, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Dōri,” Mitsuharu declared, his voice firm once more. “This boy is now under your charge. Train him. Instil in him the discipline of the bushi. He is no longer a peasant brat. From this day, he walks the path of the samurai.”

A ripple of surprise, quickly suppressed, passed through the assembled ranks. Dōri, his face an impassive mask, merely inclined his head in assent. Gyakkyou looked up at the Taishō, confusion warring with a nascent flicker of fear. Bushido. The way of the samurai… this was no boon he had sought, no destiny he had craved. Yet, here it was, laid upon him like a yoke. Could he dare refuse? Did he even possess the will to try?

A firm hand settled on his shoulder. Dōri. The gesture was simple, unadorned, yet it anchored him, a sudden stillness in the dizzying whirl of fate. The stoic samurai said nothing, merely guiding Gyakkyou back into the silent ranks.

The Kubi Jikken continued its solemn course. The rain fell, a steady, cleansing dirge. The severed heads stared blankly towards the west. The warriors bowed, a quiet reverence for the dead, for the inescapable cycle that bound them all. Gyakkyou stood at Dōri’s side, the rain cold upon his skin, the unasked-for title settling over him, heavy and irrevocable. 

Samurai.