Chương 12: Book 1: Chapter 5 - Teeth [Part 3]

Do not vomit, he instructed himself. Do not make a sound. Their leader raised one hand and everyone froze at the edge of the hollow. The old samurai spoke softly without turning his head.

"Quiet. Do not let them notice us." The yōma continued feeding.

"If they come, keep them at spear's length. Do not cut close unless you have no choice. We keep them from closing." He swallowed, and for the first time Shimon heard the age in the man. Kuroda shook his head.

"I thought I would never have to fight these again." No one laughed, and Shimon looked at Sōbei who was definitely not smiling. The young man from a different time noticed that the absence transformed his face. Without the expression, he looked older, harder, and more dangerous, and also more afraid. His eyes had fixed on the yōma's mouths and did not leave them. The Kume brothers stood side by side. Tarō's lips were pressed into a flat line and Jirō's face had lost all color.

The younger brother's spear trembled very slightly at the point. Shimon did not blame either of them for their fear for he was quite petrified himself. His fear had gone beyond shaking and into a strange purity. He could see everything too clearly now as his body started to make a decision. A black beetle crawling over moss, a strip of intestine looped around a dead man's belt, and the way one yōma's shoulder seemed to stretch farther than it should each time it leaned down to bite.

All noted with a quality that only the biochip in his brain could provide. [HOSTILE PRESENCE DETECTED] Count: 3 Classification: Unknown Movement Pattern: Non-human / Partially human Threat Level: Potentially Severe Warning: Interfacing with the ambient unknown signal has increased further. Shimon did not need his advanced biochip to see that the threat posed was decidedly severe. The scholarly man lowered his bow.

Shimon saw it because he happened to be beside him, and to him the motion was small, and also quite wrong for some odd reason. Iori set the tip against the ground, and shifted his hand toward the sword at his hip. Kuroda Genzō saw it too.

"No," the old samurai whispered sharply.

"We need spears better to deal with the likes of these and a bow useless at this range after the first arrow. Go back. Take one from the coolies' bundle. Quietly." The veteran pointed back without fully turning, his left arm extending toward the path behind them. Iori drew his sword and for a fraction of a second, Shimon thought the elegant young samurai was simply disobeying out of pride. Then his blade came down on Kuroda Genzō's arm, at the soft point near elbow where the armor did not quite cover.

And, it cut deep. Not cleanly through, but deep enough to open him, causing blood to splash across Iori's face. Kuroda screamed, but it was not loud for long. The old man bit it back through sheer will, but the first part of it had already been loosed. The three yōma stopped feeding, turning their heads toward the group Sakurai Iori turned his face toward them. Blood ran down his cheek and across his mouth as he smiled. His tongue came out too far as he licked at the vitae.

It slid over his lips, long and dark and glistening, not the tongue of a human man at all. It curled at the end as if tasting the air. It turned him into a monster.

"Come," Sakurai Iori cried, and his voice too was raspy.

"Come and feed, my brothers!" The forest exploded as the yōma roared. They dropped whatever they were eating in their hands. One unfolded to its full height, taller than any man, its blurry outline dragging up through the air. Another slammed both hands into the ground and launched forward with impossible force. The third opened its mouth and the teeth flashed white in the gloom. The party shattered into motion. Kuroda Genzō fell back, one hand clamped over his opened arm, his spear still in the other.

Blood poured between his fingers. The Kume brothers swung their spear points toward the charging yōma. Mizuno Sōbei drew his sword with a curse that contained no friendliness at all. Three yōma and whatever Sakurai Iori had become against the Kume brothers, Mizuno Sōbei, wounded Kuroda Genzō, and himself. The scholar thing was smiling. Mizuno Sōbei moved first, his sword coming out smoothly. Fear and adrenaline had stripped away the courtly coating and left the killer beneath it, clean and ready.

"You two hold them!" Sōbei snapped at the brothers.

"Spears! Buy us time. Ayanokouji, with me. We kill this thing!" Sakurai Iori laughed as the yōma crashed toward them even as the chip decided at that moment to distract. [SCANNING] 3 Unknown Entities advancing. [SCANNING] Unknown Carrier Signal spike detected. [SCANNING] Connection attempt— Connection failed. Connection attempt— Connection established. Something touched Shimon's mind. Something older and the sensation was like an eye opening in the dark behind his thoughts.

It was not a light thing, and it caused the young man to grab his head with pain, dropping his spear. Mizuno Sōbei met Sakurai Iori with steel. Their swords clashed once, twice. The sound rang through the hollow, bright and human amid the wet animal thunder of the yōma. Iori moved beautifully, but not like a human warrior. There was an impossible looseness to him, as though his joints had forgotten their limits. The young man thought to pick up the spear from the ground, but there simply was not enough time.

So, he drew his own sword, the motion but a pale echo of a true warrior. But even then, even without true grace, that did not mean it was not fast. The blade came free from its rest and the Ronin class, the stolen memories, took over. Sōbei cut toward Iori's neck, but the monster-thing leaned back too far, spine bending like a bow. Iori's tongue lashed out, striking at his opponent's face. The gross appendage scratched down from forehead to cheek.

Sōbei stumbled back, screaming, one hand flying to his right eye as blood poured between his fingers. Miraculously, from beside him, Kuroda Genzō's spear shot forward. The old samurai had fallen to one knee, his wounded arm hanging useless and red, but the other still remembered war. The spear point drove into Sakurai Iori's midriff with a brutal, perfect thrust. Iori's laugh broke into a gasp as Kuroda shoved with his whole body, teeth bared, pinning the changed man for half a second.

Then the strength went out of him and he collapsed sideways into the leaves below, blood spreading beneath him. Seeing a chance, Shimon charged, his body moving before cowardice could awaken in full. He stepped in and slashed with a strength and speed that was not of modern age. The blade caught Sakurai Iori from shoulder to ribs, opening him up like a rotten fruit. Something orange flashed across his vision telling him had gained in something… Spirit?

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. It should have been the end of him, but instead, dark fluid spilled out. In the liquid were pulsing threads, pale wormlike strands that recoiled from the air. The once-scholar's human face turned toward Shimon with an expression of almost offended wonder. Then the voice entered his skull. You are not meant to be here!? Shimon froze and the changed thing impaled on the spear smiled wider. Behind him, he heard the Kume brothers meet the yōma.

He turned around slightly to see Jirō thrust first straight and true and the spear went into the lead yōma's chest. The point vanished deep and for half a heartbeat Shimon thought the younger brother had killed it as Jirō even made a sharp, triumphant sound. Then the yōma's long grey hand closed around the spear shaft and pulled itself forward along the wood. Jirō tried to let go, but it was too late. The second yōma came from the side, one arm blurring into a long hooked sweep.

It struck him across the body, striking somewhere where the armor was not. More blood was sprayed onto the hungry forest floor.

"Jirō!" Tarō screamed as his brother fell without answering. He threw his spear at the monster, missing it an arm's length, then drew his sword. Tarō charged with his sharp steel raised high, face twisted into something beyond fear. For one breath he looked like every brave fool in every old story. The brother avenging the brother. The shape of a song before the last verse. A long arm came from below, hitting him in the ribs with a sound like a war club striking wood.

The blow lifted him off his feet and Tarō flew sideways into a tree. His head hit the trunk. He dropped to the roots and did not rise. The yōma turned toward the remaining living. What are you? the voice asked inside Shimon's skull, painful enough to make him drop his spear as he clutched at his head. Sakurai Iori was still impaled, still smiling even now. You are not human. The changed man's hand reached toward Shimon's face. You are not yōma.

Shimon hacked with all of his might and his sword flew on wings of desperation, cutting deep into the Iori thing's neck. They both screamed. Shimon wrenched it free, and cut again and this time the monstrous head dropped sideways, hanging by strands that were not all flesh, and Kuroda's spear tore free from its trunk as the creature collapsed. You will suffice. You have defeated a hostile combatant [yōma]. 47 experience gained. You have gained 1 attribute point in Body.

You have learned Sword [3] You have learned Analysis [12] However, the voice did not stop with its death. Wrong thing. Wrong door. Wrong soul. But, you will suffice.

"Shut up," Shimon gasped. Mizuno Sōbei, half-blind and bleeding, grabbed his shoulder and dragged him back.

"Move!" he cried. The yōma came at them. Two still fully on their feet, but the third still had Jirō's spear lodged in it and moved with a hitching drag. Its bent forward, its mouth opening and closing as it gnawed around the shaft, teeth scraping the hard wood. Mizuno Sōbei set himself on Shimon's right, sword in both hands. His right eye was ruined, or nearly so. Blood had painted half his face and he no longer looked the part of the too friendly man.

Now, he looked like a man with every layer burned away except survival.

"Die well," he rasped.

"I don't think I can follow that advice," Shimon breathed. The first yōma struck and the young man simply moved. The world slowed in the way it did when the chip provided him with clarity. But it did more than slow, for something in this world had empowered him. Before, the world slowed, but always Shimon had moved at a pace within its sluggish time. But now he moved faster within those stretched moments. The grey arm came toward him, long and blurred at the edges, but the line of attack was as clear as day.

He lazily stepped back and to the side. The hand passed where his head had been and struck a sapling behind him hard enough to break it. He cut the arm with a light, double handed strike. The blow itself was testing almost, and his blade bit into grey flesh. Not deep enough, but deeper than he had expected. The yōma made a sound like stones grinding and recoiled from him. And in the here and now, Shimon found within himself a moment of confidence. He could win. He had to win.

Sōbei attacked the second yōma before it could flank them. His sword cut a vicious line across its shoulder. A shallow line opened, dark fluid welling. The yōma turned toward him, mouth widening, and Sōbei retreated quickly, keeping his blade between them. For a few heartbeats, they fought bravely with some semblance of teamwork, covering for each other when they could. Shimon cut when openings appeared. He gave ground one step at a time, sword held forward, every breath burning.

His enhanced reflexes did not make him a master. He saw death arriving and stepped away from it just in time. Mizuno did worse, but not badly by any measure, giving a good account of himself. Half-blind, face torn, he still fought with horrifying discipline. He cut at wrists. He shifted away from bites. He used short, efficient movements of a warrior trained from a young age. Then the third yōma moved on his blind side—the one with a dead man's spear still buried in its flesh. Shimon saw it, of course, he saw it.

But seeing was not the same as being able to stop it, and seeing the shape of the future does not always give you power over it. Two monsters were already pressing him hard, their claws and fangs forcing his attention from one killing angle to the next. Fighting more than one opponent was not merely twice as difficult, but exponentially more difficult. Still, he opened his mouth to warn him.

Too late as a monstrous arm swept in from Mizuno's ruined side and punched through his abdomen through a section of damaged or poorly maintained armor. A grey hand emerged from his back holding red ropes of him. Mizuno Sōbei's mouth opened soundlessly as his sword dropped point-first into the mud. Shimon did not mean to scream, but the sound tore out of him, high and ragged nonetheless. The yōma turned toward the sound, three pair of monstrous eyes fixing on him with animal hunger.

Now, his sword shook in his hands, his earlier confidence wiped away as he lost focus. He unconsciously retreated, his foot slipping on something. Shimon recovered, barely. Just. The yōma advanced, the wounded third one dragging Jirō's spear through the mud. Where was Kuroda? he thought as he risked the smallest glance at what he had tripped over. He saw the old samurai lay on his side, eyes half-open, one hand near the charm at his armor and vital blood had soaked the ground beneath him.

He was dead, or close enough that no command or salvation would come. Shimon was very much alone now. The yōma lunged and the young man backed away, sword held out with both hands. The point wavered but remained between them as new focus found him. One monster swiped, and he jerked back barely far enough for the claws to pass in front of his armored chest. The other came low. He slashed at it and felt the blade shatter teeth as its mouth snapped shut around empty air. His heel struck something.

He tripped and a dead body rolled slightly under him. Shimon almost fell backward over the dead man, but one again, his reflexes and enhanced coordination saved him. The yōma loomed before him, their mouths opening wide as two of them pounced within the circle of his sword, the third following behind.

"HELP ME!" he screamed at the universe. It was then that the eye behind his thoughts opened fully. Do you wish for power? What? Do you wish for power? YES! Then we shall give it to you. Stupidly, he found his hands returning his sword to its sheathe in surrender. And surrender it did, but not in the way that he thought. For a moment, he felt a great buildup of power in the scabbard before the world became a line. No, not one line. Several as he felt his body repeat the motion faster than it had any right to.

Seven more times the thing in his brain noted and registered. Thin, bright, impossible cuts appeared in the air before him. For an instant, the yōma were still looming, mouths open, arms raised. Then both came apart. They split cleanly from shoulder to hip, each half sliding away from the other with a wet delay. Their bodies fell in four heavy pieces around Shimon, striking the leaves and dead men with dull, final sounds as dark fluid spilled across the forest floor.

The third yōma, the one dragging the spear, lifted its head and the final seventh and eighth lines passed through it. Its head came free first. Then the rest of it collapsed around the spear shaft like wet cloth dropped from a pole. The voice whispered into his ear, Yae Ikazuchi—the eightfold lightning draw. Silence rushed back into the hollow. Not the natural silence. The silence after a scream stops. Shimon just lay on his back, unable to move. The forest above him blurred. Branches. Grey sky.

Crows wheeling, startled from their feast. His breath came in small, broken pieces. His body had begun shaking so violently that his armor rattled against itself. You have defeated hostile combatants [yōma]. 167 experience gained. Congratulations, You have advanced to the next level. You have been assigned advancement points: 3 Attribute Points and 1 Skill point. You have gained 1 attribute point in Body. You have gained 1 attribute point in Mind.

His vision smeared with tears of relief as he placed all of the attribute points into Body and the skill point into Swords. Then, something moved above him. Stupidly, at first he thought it was a mask, perhaps hanging from the branches. Then it lowered into view and became an eye. A single enormous eye, dark at the center and ringed in pale gold, watched him from above the world. Around it, the air bent like heat over summer asphalt. The eye blinked and the voice entered him without sound.

We hold the debt for the thread of your life. The favor that binds the soul. The eye lowered closer. You are ours now. Shimon's last thought before the dark took him was not noble. It was not about vengeance, power, destiny, or the strange horror that had just saved him. It was of Mochi sitting by the apartment door, waiting for a key that might never turn. Then the forest vanished.