Chương 10: Book 1: Chapter 5 - Teeth [Part 1]

"There is nothing outside of yourself that can ever enable you to get better, stronger, richer, quicker, or smarter. Everything is within. Everything exists. Seek nothing outside of yourself." - Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings. The rope marking the boundary hung behind them, a thin line that provided scant protection. The young Shimon Ayanokouji stepped over the boundary in a rare display of uncharacteristic bravery.

The others crossed after him, muttering complaints softly as they entered the shadow beneath the trees. Behind them, the shrine functionary remained on the village side of the rope with his head bowed and his lips moving soundlessly. Master Hieda stood imperiously near his traveling chair, smiling with the faint patience of a man who had paid other people to be endangered on his behalf. Two dark-skinned coolies came with the hired men.

They were broad-backed fellows with weathered faces, carrying bundles wrapped in oilcloth, extra rope, empty sacks, and several spare spears tied together in a clattering bundle. Neither looked happy about the arrangement. One kept touching the charm at his neck, and the other had a hollow, dead stare of a condemned man. Shimon somehow understood and sympathized with them completely. The forest closed around the little party within thirty paces. It was not the dramatic darkness of night, not yet.

There was daylight overhead, filtering through the trees, but it was slowly losing its fight with the ever-thickening canopy. Cedar trunks rose straight and dark, and gnarled oak branches twisted above and through them. Ferns, bamboo grass, brambles, and damp undergrowth pressed close to the narrow path that was treacherous with old roots. The smell from the boundary had not gone away. Rot, damp earth, animal musk, and a wrong sweetness remained in the air.

This place was not quite truly wild, for this forest had until recently been worked and cultivated by men. Shimon could see it now: a half-collapsed stack of cut wood, stones arranged around an old burn pit, a path pressed into the ground by generations of feet. Mizuno Sōbei cleared his throat with the pleasant delicacy of a man beginning a poem recital rather than a monster hunt. His smile was still present, though smaller now.

"Well," Sōbei began softly, "since Master Hieda has entrusted us with this inquiry, perhaps someone ought to arrange our humble steps. I have led men before. I would be honored to—""No," Kuroda Genzō stated simply. The other man's smile did not move.

"Master Kuroda?" The older samurai stopped walking. That was all he had to do, and everyone else stopped. His weathered face turned slowly toward Sōbei, one hand resting loosely on his spear shaft.

"You talk too much," Genzō grunted as if that was all the explanation that was required. The Kume brothers exchanged a glance. Jirō looked as if he was about to laugh. Tarō elbowed him in the ribs before he could make that fatal choice. The man who was too smooth with his words bowed with an almost exquisite courtesy.

"A fair criticism. Though sometimes speech clarifies and prevents confusion."

"You speak too much of unnecessary things," Genzō replied.

"Men who have fought yōma know this. Men who smile at trees and shadows do not." That killed the smile by a fraction. Sakurai Iori watched them both with calm, scholarly interest, though his hand remained near his bow. Shimon said nothing because silence remained his most reliable cultural strategy. Kuroda Genzō turned his eyes over them one by one.

"You want to live?" he asked of them. No one decided to answer that rhetorical question, and the group's silence seemed to satisfy him more than any answer would have.

"Then listen. No loud talking. No songs. No jokes. No calling out unless you see something important. Sakurai and Mizuno, bows ready. Do not waste arrows at shadows. Kume brothers, spears front. Keep the points where your eyes are looking, not at the ground like tired farmers. Ayanokouji, spear behind them. If they stop, you stop. If they move, you move. Do not rush ahead to be brave. Do not let inaction take you, or I will deal with you myself," he ordered before looking at the coolies.

"You two stay in the middle until I say otherwise. Drop the bundles only if you prefer meeting your ancestors empty-handed." One of the coolies swallowed audibly. The old veteran looked back at the hired men.

"We move at one pace. Slow enough that no man needs to hurry. Fast enough that we do not linger. Watch the front, sides, and rear. Watch everywhere. The yōma crawl, leap, hide, and sometimes wear shapes that make fools step closer." Shimon's hands tightened around his spear. Sometimes wear shapes, he thought. Why did the old man have a gift for almost poetic, terrifying statements?

"Questions?" Genzō asked. Sōbei's smile returned, but it was not as warm as before.

"None, honored leader." The word landed with a faintly sharpened edge, but Genzō ignored it and began walking. With the matter settled, the group took on a formation. The Kume brothers went first, the pair of them no longer bouncing like enthused children. Their spears were forward now, shoulders stiff with repressed tension. Jirō whispered something to Tarō. Tarō shook his head once, sharply, and the younger brother shut his mouth. The scholarly man moved behind and to the left with his bow unstrung no longer.

The motion by which he had readied it had been smooth and practiced. Hard times, it seemed, had not stolen a certain measure of skill from him. Mizuno Sōbei took the right with his own bow, his expression polite and unreadable. As for Shimon, he walked near the center, his trusty spear held in both hands. Behind him came Kuroda Genzō, which should have been reassuring and was, in a way. It also meant that Shimon could feel the old man's judgment between his shoulder blades.

The coolies walked between them all, bundles swaying. The forest made sounds, and at first, there were too many of them. Leaves dripped water; distant birds and insects called as branches scraped and rustled together overhead. The spare spears knocked faintly against one another until Genzō glanced back and one porter shoved a cloth between them with trembling fingers. Shimon tried not to look nervous, but internally, he failed utterly.

Thankfully, however, his outward face had seemed to have settled into a numb blankness that some might mistake for cool restraint. Inside, he was a bunch of tightly strung nerves as every root became a snake, and every patch of deeper shadow hid a monster. I want to go home. The thought came so suddenly that it hurt. Not back to the village. Not back to the cave. Home, his actual home, the small Tokyo apartment.

He wanted his bed, his refrigerator, his shower, which had the luxury of hot water that he had always taken for granted. Mochi. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The image of his cat struck with almost physical force. Her darling white fur and cute yellow eyes that always seemed to look at him with feline disapproval. The quarter-final. Shimon missed a step, and the coolie in front of him flinched at the sudden scuff of his sandal.

The young man quickly steadied himself before Genzō could hiss at him. Today. Today was the quarter-final. Not tomorrow anymore. Time here had marched on with obscene indifference. Back home, Team Hachiman would be preparing. Hana would have already sent three messages on their server and one private threat. The organizers would be calling and eventually someone would be asking where Kintsugi was and if he was even still alive. They would need a replacement. But, could they even find one at this stage?

If they could not, maybe they would forfeit. Maybe all of it, months of work, sponsor obligations, training, the sacrifice, and the impossible win yesterday, would collapse because Shimon Ayanokouji had touched a stupid magic book. Misplaced guilt rose hot and useless within.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in English. The scholar glanced back, but Shimon looked down at the forest floor and pretended that he had said nothing. The chip stirred at the edge of his vision as if summoned by shame. [PASSIVE MONITORING ACTIVE] Cognitive Load: Elevated Stress Levels: Increasing Motor Performance: Within Enhanced Parameters Recommendation: Reduce cognitive distraction during hostile search activity.

"Thanks," the young man breathed. Their leader's voice came at him.

"Quiet!" Shimon shut his mouth in reflex, but the thought had already opened a door. He brooded for the next few steps on the life he could not return before he forced his attention forward.

"Analyze displacement event," he ordered silently in the halls of his own mind.

"Review all logs from archive entry to battlefield arrival. Identify mechanism. Identify possible return vectors." The blue interface opened. [ANALYSIS REQUEST RECEIVED] Subject: Displacement Event Data Sources: Sensory Logs, Neural Interface State, Environmental Transition Record, Archive Link Metadata, Unknown Carrier Signal Residue Processing... Shimon walked solemnly while the chip in his brain worked at the problem for him.

The forest path dipped through a shallow hollow where old water had collected beneath the leaves. The Kume brothers slowed together, Jirō's spear lifted and pointed toward a cluster of strange hanging vines, but nothing moved. Tarō glanced back, and Genzō nodded once for them to continue. The panel updated in his inner vision.

[ERROR] Transition Record: Discontinuous Spatial Data: Unknown/Corrupted Temporal Reference: Unstable Archive Link Metadata: Lost External Network: Unavailable Known Physical Mechanism: None Identified Unknown Carrier Signal: Present During Event / Present Now Protocol Compatibility: None Causal Model: Failed Shimon stared at the words, his gut running cold.

"Run deeper analysis," he ordered silently. [ERROR] Causal Model: Failed Insufficient Data.

"Then hypothesize." [ERROR] Hypothesis Generation Exceeds Current Model Reliability. Known mechanism: None. Possible categories: Neural hallucination: Rejected by ongoing multisensory physical consistency. Simulation: Rejected by lack of external feed and unfiltered nociception. Unknown physical relocation: Insufficient model. Metaphysical displacement: Insufficient model. Death/post-biological state: Insufficient model. Unknown Carrier Signal causation: Unconfirmed. Still present now and at the displacement event.

Correlation, unknown.

"Death/post-biological state" was not a conclusion that the young Shimon wished to entertain. But one line mattered— present now. The signal had been there during the event. The signal was still here. His chip was not dead. It was monitoring him, and it was adapting to the strange context it had found itself. If I don't die, he thought, I might still go home, was the pathetic thought he thought, but he held onto it with both hands. Ahead, the forest seemed to grow thicker and more oppressive.

The path narrowed until the Kume brothers had to move almost single file. Genzō adjusted them with small gestures: Tarō ahead, Jirō half a step behind and to the left, weapons angled to cover each other. Mizuno and Iori in tighter formation, bows ready, though branches made the weapons awkward. Looking at the bows, Shimon's mind, being determined to make a full meal of terror, supplied a new concern: arrows. He could dodge an arrow. That was not bragging.

His enhanced reflexes meant that at times he could react faster than conscious thought. If he saw the archer release, then perhaps he could move. Perhaps, even slice it out of the air. But even he could not react to an arrow loosed from a blind spot. And then there were, of course, guns. A memory surfaced from social media, because, of course, his brain chose now to remember short-form video content. Some enthusiast channel had fired an old musket into ballistic gel.

A brown cloud of smoke, a flame at the muzzle, then the heavy lead ball tearing a channel through clear gel. Shimon felt cold under the armor. He could not dodge that if he did not see it coming. Maybe not even if he did. His reflexes were miraculous only by the standards of nature, and sometimes there was no arguing with physics. But maybe, just maybe, if his chip could analyze intent and probability, he might just be able to deflect one bullet if he was lucky…

"Environmental audio analysis," he instructed the chip silently.

"Use my actual auditory input." [REQUEST RECEIVED] Audio Pattern Analysis Active. Warning: Hardware does not increase biological hearing acuity. Warning: Dense vegetation, humidity, and soundscape reduce reliability. Monitoring for: Human locomotion / metal-on-metal / large organism movement / vocalization.

"No kidding," Shimon thought. [UNKNOWN CARRIER SIGNAL DETECTED] Signal Strength: Low-Moderate Connection Status: Intermittent Protocol Compatibility: None Warning: Interfacing with the ambient unknown signal has increased. The words slid down his spine like cold rain: "has increased."