.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
Hajime ran like hell.
The capital blurred past him in that streaks of festival lantern-light and startled yells that mixed with the scent of kushiyaki. Lightning cracked beneath his bare feet, the faintest contact leaving behind blackened streaks in the wood of bridges, the cobblestones of alleyways, the packed dirt of festival roads. His cyan hair stood on end as he vaulted, pivoted, and darted again with an explosion of light at his back.
He didn't care about the crowd, and let the monks curse him later. Right now, he had to vanish; he had to put distance between himself and anyone related to the Gojo who could trace him back to Kaoru and Yoshinobu.
And behind him, unfortunately, still there, somehow always still there—
Tch.
Hajime didn't have to look; he could hear it. The thwack-thwack of wooden sandals, the splash-slap of cursed water being flung across the city with every maddened step.
"Fucking monobrow freak," Hajime hissed, glancing over his shoulder, furious. "Why won't you just die somewhere quietly—"
Musashi, the idiot in question, grinning like a fool and determined as a plague, was still gaining. Despite the weight of two bokken, despite the ridiculous braid that bounced like a rope behind him, despite the clamor and chaos, flinging water with every step that shot him forward like a loosed arrow
What Hajime scorched, Musashi flooded.
"In the name of the way of the bushidō, halt!"
Hajime could feel a vein pulsing in his temple, and he nearly tripped on his own momentum. Is he serious? He's talking about 'bushidō' while sliding across a wet cobblestone street?!
"Leave me alone!" he barked. "Swear to the kami, I'll fry those stupid eyebrows of yours!"
He didn't wait for a response. Instead, he veered sharply into a side alley. Dust rose in a choking wave behind him as he skidded sideways, just as lightning flared under his feet. With a roar of displaced air and a bit of desperation, he leapt, clearing a two-story merchant house in one kick. He landed in a crouch on the tiled roof, only a heartbeat's balance before springing off again, this time across the gaps between the sloped eaves of Kyoto's eastern district. From up here, the smoke of the earlier blast still curled into the sky, and below, the festival now continued in blissful ignorance.
No way in hell was he getting caught. Not tonight, not here, not by someone bearing the stink of Gojo.
For a second, he thought he'd lost him. Finally, alone. He launched himself toward the next rooftop, but mid-flight, his senses screamed.
"Cease your flight, thunder child!"
Hajime's face twisted in horror. The voice came from above. He looked up mid-jump and there, hovering beside him like some goddamn koi-shaped comet, was Musashi. Mid-air. Still smiling. Both bokken raised high, his long braid flipping behind him, and a cascade of cursed water pouring off his shoulders like a personal monsoon.
"Mizukagami!" Musashi brought the twin bokken down with the power of a landslide.
Hajime shrieked. It was undignified. He also didn't care. "What the fuck—" He twisted midair, yanking Nyoi from its strap and funneling lightning through it in an instant. The staff caught the blow—or what he thought was the blow—and instead of an impact, Musashi's image rippled and melted into a crashing splash, scattering across the rooftop.
Too late, Hajime realized, "Shit—"
The real Musashi struck from the left, a whirling strike of both bokken landing square between Hajime's shoulder blades. A blast of water-cursed energy exploded outward, mixed with cursed energy that hit like a hydraulic hammer.
Hajime twisted in the air as his cursed lightning reacted on instinct—a surge of current lashing backward—
Steam exploded in the space between them. Visibility dropped, and some gasps rose from far below. By the time the air cleared, both boys had been launched across the riverbank and slammed to opposing sides of the Kamo River.
Musashi landed on one knee, bruised, knuckles scraped and breathing deeply, water still dripping from his sleeves and steam hissing from the tip of his scorched braid. Across him, Hajime crouched low, nose bleeding faintly, and a single spark danced in his hair. His knuckles went white around Nyoi.
What was that technique? Why did the water eat his lightning?
His eyes narrowed with reluctant recognition. This guy's strong, he thought, tongue flicking out to catch the blood trailing from his upper lip, and found it sharp but not bitter. Then, reluctantly: ...Shit. His gaze flicked across the dark water behind Musashi. The festival was far now, and civilians were safe. And among them, Kaoru and Yoshinobu—far and possibly hidden.
Good. But if this idiot kept chasing me, and worse, if Seijiro caught up—
"I'll end this before that fool shows up," Hajime chuckled.
On the far end, Musashi stood tall, pointing one bokken at him in dramatic condemnation. "You there, kid!" he bellowed, righteous indignation fully reignited. "You are a menace with a vile tongue! You trampled food stalls, upset the elderly, and you are not wearing shoes! What kind of noble warrior disrespects a battlefield with bare feet?"
Hajime stared at him for a full second. Then twitched. "I'm not a kid!" he exploded, lightning snapping around him, jabbing Nyoi in his direction. "I'm fifteen—probably!"
Musashi's eyebrows twitched, mirroring the other boy's confusion. "Probably?" He gasped, horrified. "Ah, I see, a child raised in war, who does not even know his age, no certainty, no birth scroll! A ten-year-old dressed as a boy soldier, barefoot and wild! What a cruel fate!" He opened his arms like he was preparing to embrace the sky. "Worry not, kid! You may join the Miyamoto Clan. We shall make a man of you! Teach you both sword and sandal."
"Sword and—what?!"
"Young lightning soul," Musashi intoned, with the righteous light of a man who had never once recognized when he was being insulted. "As the clan head, allow me to present you a poem as a welcome gift."
Hajime's voice reached a new pitch. "I swear, yelling koi, if you start—"
But it was too late. Musashi inhaled with all the spiritual seriousness of a mountain monk and began:
"Beneath cloud and spark,
A barefoot bolt seeks honor,
The koi weeps wet, ouch—"
Hajime had launched a pebble at his face, looking like he was going to vomit lightning. Musashi staggered backward with a theatrical groan, and his entire face lit up. "Ah. I see. Behold!" he shouted to the heavens, "I, Musashi Miyamoto of the Flowing Blades, shall defend the honor of my shishō—wait, wait! Lightning boy, why are you running!"
There was a pause.
Because Hajime had already turned and bolted, Nyoi tucked under his arm and murder in his eyes. He had stopped listening three sentences ago. More lightning surged under his heels, and in a heartbeat, he launched forward again, faster this time, pushing toward the wooded fringe that curled around the Kamo River. The forest thinned in the distance, promising cover and, more importantly, distance from Kaoru. More importantly than that, distance from this demented sword-nerd with the poetry problem.
He gritted his teeth. Behind him, he could already hear the splash-sprint rhythm: step—splash—step—splash— as if the bastard had a river in his soles.
"Oh come on!" Hajime snarled backward over his shoulder, genuinely pissed. "How are you so fast!?"
Musashi was right there again, bounding along the treeline. "Flowing Water Speed Step," he announced proudly. "A technique passed down through no generations because I just invented it!"
"You lunatic!" Hajime snarled, leaping over a fallen log.
But the said lunatic had already raised both his bokken again. Cursed water condensed unnaturally fast along the wood, a sheath around the twin wooden blades, and Musashi shouted the name as loud as ever. "Suiyōsen!"
The diagonal slash came from below, upwards, a rising arc meant that it ignited cursed water in its wake. Predictable if he shouts the names like that, Hajime thought, the corners of his lips twitching, sliding into a crouch just under the arc of the swing. Too predictable.
His left hand braced against the ground, right hand snapping Nyoi forward to meet the incoming strike, but not head-on. Instead of bracing to absorb the full arc, Hajime let the staff spin, sliding along the grain of Musashi's bokken at an angle. His cursed lightning sparked down its length in a thin whip of current, not aimed at Musashi, but at the water blooming under their feet.
The water conducted. The flashback traveled up.
The older boy recoiled, springing back with a backflip that left a ring of steam rising from where his feet landed, slash thrown off just enough for Hajime to pivot, twisting under his arm and jamming the butt of Nyoi into Musashi's exposed ribs. A jolt snapped through his bones like thunder.
Musashi skidded backward. "Excellent reflexes!" he called without losing momentum, as he spun once on his heel, pivoting into another stance. The river wind tossed his braid behind him as he raised both bokken overhead, and suddenly there were three—
"Mizukagami!" he shouted.
In an instant, his image tripled, three copies of him, water glistening at their feet, each dripping with cursed energy as they charged in perfect synchronicity. Cursed reflections. Again. Which one was—
Hajime cursed under his breath, Nyoi spinning to guard his right. Lightning arced from his feet to his fingers, nerves sparking. "Oh, not this again—!"
As the trio closed in, lightning flared around him like armor, Nyoi drawn close to his chest. One step forward, two back. His eyes darted. All carried bokken, all traced the same path through the soaked ground. And each footfall swallowed Hajime's residual lightning, muting the static.
His senses sharpened—focus—Kaoru's training burned into his instincts. Cursed perception spiked, and his pupils dilated, picking up every droplet, every tremor in the earth—
There.
All three Musashi raised their bokken, but one—only one of them—moved half a step faster and had the faint flicker of breath misting before his lips.
He charged the ground with cursed energy, a current that snaked through the earth—rushing forward—and then he twisted his body sideways, slipping past the false clones. He rammed Nyoi forward, lightning surging through the shaft.
The tip of Nyoi struck true directly between the brows of the real Musashi. For an instant, there was no reaction, and Hajime grinned like a man possessed. Musashi countered instinctively, cursed water flooding from his pores, wrapping his skin in a second, rippling layer like armor. Lightning met water. Steam exploded in a blast between them, then the two water clones—programmed to finish their arc—slammed into his back anyway.
"What—"
The bokken struck both shoulders, sending him staggering. The treeline detonated into mist, and the two boys were blasted apart, smoke curling around them as they tumbled across the riverbank.
Hajime staggered back, vision blurred, skidding through the earth. He pushed himself upright, Nyoi gripped tight in his hand, blood trailed from his nose down to his chin, and his hair smoked faintly. Across the river, Musashi stood slowly, one hand raised to his scalp. Blood trickled down the side of his face, a cut along the scalp-line, dripping in rivulets down his cheek and under his chin. He touched it.
Their breathing was ragged. Their hair stuck to their faces in wet clumps. Cursed energy still rippled around them like heat off summer stones.
Hajime looked at him. Musashi looked back. Too much power, too little sense. They grinned wider than they had any right to.
"Impressive," Musashi said, eyes sparkling. "Your reflexes are extraordinary."
"Yeah?" Hajime panted, lightning twitching at his fingertips as he wiped the blood at his lips with the back of his wrist and spat the taste of iron into the grass. "I've fought worse."
He had. Something in his chest… thrummed. Not fear, not panic, just anticipation. When was the last time he'd felt this alive, since Kaoru had let him off the leash long enough to breathe? Not since… not since Akiteru Gojo.
The crowd across the river had long since retreated. Only the rising mist, the scent of burned ozone, and the rhythmic drum of distant festival bells remained. Distantly, Hajime could hear the sound of another explosion from across the festival. And yet—
Screw Kaoru, screw the Kamo, the marriage, the politics. This—this—was living.
Lightning danced across his hair as he twirled Nyoi once, resting it on his shoulder like a spear about to be thrown. "Oi," he called, voice low and vibrating with anticipation. "Musashi, was it?"
The other boy snapped to attention. "Ossu!" he declared. "Musashi of the Miyamoto clan! Ward of Ukita-dono, disciple of my noble shishō Seijiro Gojo! And your name, o' God of Lightning?"
Hajime's grin turned feral, stance cocked sideways with casual ferocity. "Hajime Kashimo," he said. "The one who's gonna bury you, your stupid eyebrows, and your loud-ass shishō in the same hole."
Musashi blinked, then beamed. "So fierce, so noble. I can feel it already! Our rivalry shall be legendary!"
Hajime twitched. "You're not right in the head."
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
The further she walked, the fainter the lights became.
Kaoru's footsteps echoed against the cobblestone path, her geta clicking in maddening rhythm, too tight, too stiff, too loud. She carried herself with every inch of courtly grace expected of a capital noblewoman: back straight, chin dipped, kimono sleeves drawn in over her hands, the painted corners of her lips curved in serenity. The illusion still held; she had not been recognized. Not yet.
But inside, every muscle burned with the need to act.
The narrow road between wooden homes twisted ahead in a curve of darkness. No festival music reached this far, no laughter, just the hush of a city on the edge of war that knew better than to celebrate.
Good. The further she got from the crowd, the fewer the eyes.
If things went wrong here—and they very might—at least no one she cared about would be caught in the crossfire. Because behind her, that man kept walking. Three paces behind, exactly, the distance of a gentleman escort. Or a hunter. Or a jailer.
Kaoru cast a quick glance over her shoulder. That cursed humming was still there, of course.
The feathers in his hair bobbed with every step, and his oversized ōdachi, laughable really, shifted lazily on his back. There was no tension in his frame, only ease and confidence, like he had already written the end of their little stroll and was merely waiting for the last act. She did not know who he was, had never seen his face at court or among the sorcerers of the capital, but she was sure he was a high-level sorcerer; the cursed energy dripping from him was too distinct, too composed to belong to a stray. But he sure acted like one.
When he caught her peeking again, he chuckled, voice low and smooth, with the careless ease of a drunk at a poetry contest. "Eyes front, little blossom. Hands where I can see them, unless you plan to put them somewhere more fun." He flashed her a grin that had probably gotten him out of ten duels and into twice as many futons. "I'm not picky, but y'know, I'd rather not take risks until we reach Fushimi Castle."
Kaoru's pulse hitched. Fushimi Castle. Right. Where else would a loyalist sorcerer drag a wayward noblewoman he half-suspected of being a clan head in disguise? Absolutely not. Like hell she'd walk willingly into the den of the Toyotomi loyalists; that would be less a death sentence and more a public execution.
"Please… As I told you, I'm just Rei," she said again, her voice lilting, soft, the practiced tremble of a woman frightened and desperate. "I don't know anything about… clans or… Zenin. My son is lost, he was with me at the festival, and I have to find him before the lanterns go dark—"
"Sure, sure," Keiji said, still smiling. "Once we sort out your family tree and your ties to the Zenin clan, we'll see about your son. If I'm wrong—" he patted his chest, "—I'll fall to my knees and weep for your forgiveness. Maybe over sake. I'm told I apologize best with my shirt half-off."
Kaoru smiled, beautiful, painted lips curved in a charming crescent. Perfectly noble, even as she could feel the twitch in her left brow. Smug charming bastard, all muscle and zero restraint. Doesn't miss a thing, does he?
He was dangerous, that much she knew, but not because he was fast, though he likely was. Not because he was strong, though he reeked of it. No. He was dangerous because he hadn't acted, hadn't drawn that ridiculous sword, hadn't raised his cursed energy. He hadn't called her Zenin-dono, and still, he had known, or at least suspected, of her identity, and in her position, suspicion was fatal. She couldn't let him bring her anywhere, not without exposing herself and, worse, exposing Hajime and Yoshinobu.
The path narrowed further. Here, the city showed its wear: cracked stone, crooked porches, the lingering smell of ash in old beams. A perfect place: she could act, she didn't have her katana with her, but who said she was unarmed?
Kaoru inhaled slowly. Her gait didn't change as she continued walking like a noble's daughter, composed, breath soft, lashes low. Then: "Forgive me," she said, turning her head slightly, "I never caught your name, my lord?"
Behind her, a pause before the inevitable boast. "Keiji," he replied, arms folded over his chest, too perfectly fitted to his ridiculous sakura-embroidered haori, looking like a street performer who thought himself divine. "Keiji Maeda, of the Maeda clan. Unreasonably loved by many and regretted by more."
He'd given his name freely. An idiot, or just confident enough not to care. Either way, Kaoru filed it away. A Maeda, then. No wonder he'd been freely skulking around the capital. "Such a bold name," she offered gently, hiding the venom behind her tongue. "It suits you."
Then—stumble.
"Ah—!" She pitched forward with a soft, startled gasp, dropping to her knees delicately. Her geta skidded forward, her palms kissed the dirt beneath her. A lady undone, kimono pooling at her knees, feet bare, and skin flushed with practiced shame.
He fell for it, like every other man who saw pink silk and painted lips and forgot to check for teeth. Being underestimated was the most monstrous advantage she could have.
"Whoa there. Again?" Keiji said behind her, and she could hear the stupid concern in his voice, his smile no doubt still half-curled in mockery. "At this point, I might just carry you. Shoulder-over-the-back; you strike me as a shoulder-over-the-back kind of woman."
He closed the distance, crouching behind her to help. Too close. As he leaned toward her—
Kaoru struck. Her hands, still pressed to the ground beneath her kimono sleeve, flickered with cursed energy. No shikigami, no, that would blow her cover in a second, and this had to be quick and clean. From the shadow beneath her palms, her cursed technique bloomed.
Max Elephant Totality: Ittō Ryōran. Partial summoning, only the katana.
A katana of compressed water drawn up in a single breathless motion into her waiting hand. In a flash, she grabbed it and spun with the speed of a dancer, one knee driving down, one hand flaring out with the summoned blade, and the katana of water sliced up from low to high, straight across Keiji's chest.
The man's eyes widened as he stumbled back, but not far enough. The blade bit deep, too shallow to kill, but deep enough humble in bloodloss. His festive robes parted like paper under the water blade as blood splattered down the front over the embroidery and on the ground beneath him.
Kaoru landed back in a crouch a good five paces away, barefoot, trailing blood from where the geta had cut her ankle. She breathed hard, fingers still curled around the water-blade, trembling faintly. It had cost her more than she expected; Ittō Ryōran always did, even at his partial manifestation. But she'd only need one or two strikes, maybe three, if the man was more stubborn than clever.
Keiji staggered, dropping to one knee, one hand pressing to the gash, blood seeping through his fingers. The other hand flew to the hilt of his ōdachi, though he didn't draw it yet. "Ahh," he exhaled, shaky, then laughed, soft and breathless. "Psychotic little blossom," he wheezed. "Now that was not a noblewoman's stumble. If I weren't bleeding, I'd be in love."
Then, he winked. Gods, he actually winked.
Kaoru resisted the urge to summon a second blade just for that. Her gaze flicked to the slow, pulsing spill of blood from his chest, her grip on the katana tightening. She'd expected more resistance. Maybe the muscles were all show, or maybe he was bluffing—no. He moved like someone used to pain, used to fighting. There was strength under the grin, and she didn't trust grins, especially not ones still standing after taking a cursed blade to the ribs.
Without warning, Keiji rose and drew his ōdachi. He tilted his head back, blinking through blood, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "Now I'm really curious, little blossom. Where the hell did that come from?" The ōdachi came free in one long hiss of steel, too long for the alleyway, too broad for grace, but he handled it with the casual ease of a drunk swordsman used to picking fights.
The blade's tip kissed the dirt. The thing was longer than Kaoru was tall. Impractical, ridiculous. But she'd seen absurd things kill before.
"I should mention," he said, lifting the blade to rest it across his shoulders. He didn't even bother raising a proper guard. "I don't plan on getting beaten just because you're pretty. I'm not into that."
The pink fabric of her kimono tore at the calf as she lunged into a low stance, shoulder turning, elbow pulled high beside her head. Her water-pressure blade hissed, while Keiji's absurd odaichi rested on his shoulder. Kaoru's toes curled on the stone. Barefoot feels better, she admitted. Damn, Hajime and his obsession with running around like a feral dog. Maybe he had a point.
She rushed forward with a speed only jujutsu sorcerers knew, cutting a straight line through the street. The blade of water came down in a slash sharp enough to split the wind—
—but Keiji spun in response, wide and showy, as ever. The odachi drew a full arc around him, the tip dragging stone and dirt as it carved a perfect circle around him. Kaoru's blade met his with a screech and a hiss, steam burst from the contact point, and her pressure-water katana slid sideways, unable to bite.
She landed just past him, breathing fast, spun on bare heels, and saw him. He was grinning, dropping to one knee again, not in weakness. The ring he'd traced with his odachi around him glowed faintly.
"Alright, kami," he muttered. "Let's see what you've got for your blessed one."
A luminous golden mudra, palm-open, five dots spread across the center of the circle. The golden glow rose around him like mist, and a pulse of warmth bloomed. Kaoru's stomach dropped as in front of her, the gash across Keiji's chest closed, rapidly but not completely. It was still raw and oozing, but no longer dangerous. A cut turned nuisance.
He flexed his shoulder and lifted the blade with both hands this time. "Ah! Nindō", he said cheerfully. "I knew it, I'm truly blessed." He finally raised his guard properly, ōdachi braced with one hand on the hilt and the other steadying the flat of the blade. He twirled it once, just to show off. "Sorry, Rei. Looks like the kami aren't ready to let me die tonight." His voice carried a grin. "Lucky bastard, that's me. Though I admit that one was deep. Nindō didn't patch it all the way."
Kaoru circled with a cautious guard. Her feet stung against the cold stone, the grit, the old filth of the alley, but her eyes stayed fixed on him. "You call that a blessing?" she said flatly. "That's just reverse cursed technique."
Keiji's brow rose, amused. "Tenrin Shinpō. The Six Realms of Rebirth." He tapped his temple with a bloodied finger and dragged a circle across his cheek. "That was just one of six. I don't even know which realm I'll get next, but the kami always come through for their blessed one—"
The circle on his skin lit up, faintly, but enough. This time, the symbol inside gleamed like a Golden Eye.
Shit. So he can draw a circle of any size, in any way. Kaoru's blade twitched, and she charged, not willing to let whatever madness that symbol held finish blooming.
"—this one's called Ashuradō."
Her shadow-water katana came up again, arching toward his throat, but Keiji met her, blade to blade, with his full strength behind it. His odachi struck Ittō Ryōran's blade with a sound like thunder, a wave of cursed energy exploded outward, shook the alley, and made the wooden walls creak.
For a moment, Kaoru felt like she'd been hit by a mountain in motion as she barely held on. Then the water buckled; her water katana shattered into exploding steam and scattered droplets of cursed energy. Kaoru was flung back like a paper doll by the force of it, slammed hard against the rotting wooden frame of a storage shed behind her, hard enough to crack the wood. Splinters rained, and something popped in her shoulder.
She hit the ground a second later, half-curled and coughing. One breath. Two. Her fingers flexed, but her blade was gone, her cursed energy scattered in the blast. Kaoru Zenin, on the ground, still in her cherry-pink kimono, barefoot, bloodied, and with one shoulder hanging half-useless.
She blinked at the ground, stunned. What? What the hell was that…? A Black Flash? No, worse...
That wasn't the strength he'd shown earlier; that wasn't the same man who blocked her first strike. The power behind it had doubled; hell, maybe more. She could feel it in the air, the cursed energy radiating off him, its weight and pressure.
Her vision swam as if from across the clearing. Keiji planted the odachi tip-down and leaned casually against the hilt, blood now dry on his kimono, his grin irritatingly undimmed. "See?" he said, voice too damn pleased. "The kami always give me exactly what I need."
Kaoru said nothing; she just looked up, glaring and breathing fast through her teeth, watching the way the symbol on his cheek slowly lost its golden light. The buff expired; the injuries it left behind on her were not so much.
Tch. Bastard's strong. That symbol... First healing, now a damage boost? Six realms of rebirth? No, this is spiritual gambling.
And still he kept talking, kami help her.
"I mean, not always in the way I want," Keiji added. "But still! That hit looked painful. You okay there, little blossom? Didn't mean to hit you that hard."
Feeling one "Little blossom" away to snap, Kaoru scanned the road ahead: no allies, no exits, and no time. She could feel the cursed energy dimming beneath her skin. Damn. She could still win, but not without breaking cover for good, not without something loud. She clenched her hand at her side, ready to form the faintest hand sign of summoning.
Maybe she should just cast her Domain. Maybe she could be fast enough not to attract too much attention from other loyalists. She did know his name after all; it could work.
Keiji took a few easy steps forward, blade swinging loosely in his hand, casual as a man out for an evening walk. The way his colorful haori was still bloodied made him look half-mad, half-invincible. "Want to see what happens when I pull Ashuradō three times in a row?" he said brightly, voice practically cheerful. "Oh, you have to see what happens, the kami love when I get loud."
He crouched like a predator in front of her, still grinning more show than necessity, dipping two fingers into the still-warm blood across his chest. Kaoru's gaze twitched to his hand.
No—
He lifted his hand to his opposite cheek, already beginning to trace another circle.
"But that's very rare, of course," he mused. "So? Want to see if I'm that lucky?"
"Oh no, you don't," Kaoru growled, pushing herself upright on unsteady feet. Pain screamed through her shoulder, and the cursed energy she'd been suppressing was beginning to slip from her control, but she didn't care.
She really did not know what had happened when he pulled three Ashuradō in a row, which, considering how lucky he claimed to be, could have happened. So, she lunged for him. Something slipped from her sleeve. The comb. The camellia comb she had stupidly bought before the festival, delicate and entirely unfit for battle.
She caught it in her good hand mid-motion, infusing her cured energy in it and reversed the grip, then used it like a dagger, aiming for Keiji's face. The comb sliced fast through the air, narrowly missing his eye and catching the edge of his cheekbone in a thin red line that bloomed across his skin, preventing him from completing the blood circle on his cheek. The summoning faltered.
He blinked, having to twist back and abandoning the ritual mark mid-stroke. "That—!" he gasped, instinctively clutching the side of his face in horror. "Careful with my pretty face. You think the kami can fix everything?"
That was all the opening she needed. Kaoru turned and ran, barefoot and half-crippled, as the comb clattered behind her, forgotten on the road. She shoved her shoulder against the pain, forced the joint into motion, teeth gritted. She needed more distance. A few more steps. Just a few more and—
"Oi, oi, little blossom," Keiji called with irritating good cheer, "Is this how you treat all your admirers, or am I just special?"
Oh shut up shut up shut up, she cursed, ducking down a side street, only to—
He was already there.
Kaoru skidded to a halt as Keiji blocked the way ahead, ōdachi lowered casually across his shoulders like an umbrella. A new circle traced in blood glowed faintly on the flat of his blade: a skeletal, hollow-bellied figure.
"Gakidō," he said with exaggerated reverence. "Time to move faster."
He spun again, dragging the ōdachi wide in a second full circle on the ground around him, humming to himself as the summoning took shape, the cursed energy rolling off him in smug waves like a man worshiping his own divine luck.
"Let's see what comes next, shall we? One of us is going to get very lucky—"
Kaoru's options were collapsing like the walls of a burning temple, and the only way out was to stand and fight. Her hands flew together in the hand sign for her Mi'eisō, her domain expansion.
Enough. She'd end this here. She was this close, already halfway to casting her Domain.
But—
A sudden movement from the corner of her eye: a blur of cursed energy, violent, tearing out of the dark alley beside at lethal speed like the spear of an angry kami. Lanterns shattered. Wooden walls peeled apart like thin paper. The earth trembled, as if the laws of the world had turned inside out for one heartbeat.
A crimson flash.
Keiji noticed it too, mouth parting slightly in alarm. "What in the—" He took a step back to evade the line of fire, instinctively raising his blade in front of him, one arm braced across his chest—
Kaoru's head whipped toward the blast that came crashing down on her, eyes wide before her mind could catch up. That cursed energy, obnoxiously massive, incandescent with arrogance and crimson... Too fast, she realized. You absolute lunatic of a man, how am I supposed to—
She didn't have time to say it. She had half a second to act: her hands moved, not to finish the domain but to complete a different hand sign.
And that's when the blast and the red light engulfed her.