Chapter 172: I Want To Go So Badly
Hikaru lowered his gaze to the parchment map unrolled across his arms. The black ink strokes clustered heavily in the rugged mountainous stretch where the western borders of Suruga Province bled into eastern Totomi.
The furthest marked point sat over two hundred li from the Imagawa main castle. The closest was a mere sixty li away. None of these were massive, towering giants like Mount Fuji, which pierced the clouds and dominated the Japanese landscape. Instead, they were inconspicuous miniature volcanoes—hidden geothermal vents scattered like pockmarks across the secluded peaks, constantly hissing with thick, sulfurous steam.
Ordinary humans would never dare approach such treacherous terrain. But for a demon who forged weapons for a living, it was an absolute paradise. Endless natural fire for the furnace, rich, untouched ore veins, and absolute, undisturbed silence. It was the perfect place to hide.
Three marked locations. Three possible leads.
At a normal human's marching pace, reaching the nearest vent would take a full day, making a round trip easily manageable within two. If he activated Thunder Muscle, however, he could cross that distance in less than fifteen minutes.
Yet, he had already covered an immense distance today, sprinting from Kaede Village to Sagami, and finally arriving here in Suruga. He had triggered his Asura Transformation and called upon Raikiri. Thanks to the continuous nourishment of Fear, his Yao Qi remained dense and abundant, leaving him with plenty of stamina in reserve. Still, pushing his demonic body to the absolute limit for a simple errand was completely unnecessary.
Tracking down Totosai was neither a life-or-death battle nor a desperate rescue mission. There was zero reason to burn through his energy by spamming Thunder Muscle at maximum output. Even so, sitting around waiting was a waste of time.
"I will head out now," Hikaru said, rolling up the parchment and rising to his feet.
Across the low table, Imagawa Yoshimoto mirrored his movement. The heavy, layered hem of her Junihitoe dragged softly against the woven tatami mats. The rich folds of deep purple and spun gold fabric rustled like falling leaves as she straightened her posture.
"Then let us depart," she declared.
Hikaru stopped in his tracks. He turned his head, his Crimson Demon Eyes locking onto her. "...You are coming?"
"What are you staring at?" Yoshimoto snapped, though her tone lacked real bite. She smoothly tucked her painted folding fan into her wide sash, raising a pale hand to casually brush a few stray black hairs behind her ear. "I am going with you. It has been far too long since I took a long trip without a massive army breathing down my neck..."
She caught herself mid-sentence. A delicate, forced cough cleared her throat.
"No, what I mean to say is, for your sake, I shall reluctantly act as your guide. The terrain in the western mountains of Suruga is notoriously complex. You are an outsider... an outside demon. You will surely lose your way."
Hikaru stared at her in absolute silence for three full seconds.
She refused to break eye contact. Her bright amber eyes stubbornly met his crimson gaze, her delicate chin tilting upward in a defiant, unyielding posture that practically screamed, 'do not even think about refusing me.'
Unfortunately for her, the soft, slender line of that upturned chin completely ruined the authoritative effect. Bathed in the warm, flickering glow of the oil lamps, the slight opening of her collar revealed the smooth expanse of her fair neck and collarbones, rendering her attempt at intimidation entirely ineffective.
Hikaru saw right through the flimsy excuse. She had no intention of guiding anyone. She simply wanted to shed her heavy burdens, travel light, and breathe the outside air like a normal person. She was so desperate to escape the suffocating walls of her own castle that she was practically going stir-crazy.
Over the past month, the political landscape of Kanto had devolved into absolute chaos. First came the Uesugi Clan's aggressive southern invasion, immediately followed by the Imagawa's retaliatory expedition into Echigo. Then came the devastating surprise assault by the Takeda Red Corps, and finally, the terrifying incursion of the Tono demons.
Through every single crisis, Yoshimoto had been trapped. She was either buried deep within the suffocating protection of a massive army or locked away inside the Tenshukaku, forced to sit in agonizing silence while waiting for battle reports.
It was not that she disliked the idea of traveling with a small, quiet entourage. It was that she simply did not dare.
The brutal reality of her situation dictated her every move. Uesugi Kenshin possessed the overwhelming, divine power of Bishamonten. Takeda Shingen was constantly flanked by her monstrous Four Heavenly Kings. Imagawa Yoshimoto, however, had absolutely nothing of the sort.
She lacked a Divine Tool Reincarnation. She wielded no heaven-defying power from gods or buddhas. She did not even possess personal guards capable of withstanding the supernatural horrors that plagued the modern battlefield. The very second she stepped outside the main castle gates with only a handful of men, she would become a walking target.
The Uesugi Clan's Divine Tool Princess Warriors possessed the terrifying capability to sever a commanding general's head from the dead center of a vast, fortified army. The generals of the Takeda Red Corps, who were themselves Hime-mushas born as incarnations of divine tools, could effortlessly abduct an enemy commander mid-battle. Yamagata Masakage had already proven this terrifying tactic, leaving Hojo Ujiyasu as the humiliated victim.
Because of these supernatural threats, Yoshimoto was forced to imprison herself within her own military camps or behind thick stone walls. She was the absolute ruler of a province, yet she possessed less personal freedom than a common peasant. Anyone would find such an existence suffocating.
But tonight was different.
Standing right beside her was an Oni Samurai who fought like a literal god of war. He was a monster capable of butchering high-level demons, physically crushing Divine Tool Princess Warriors, and even forcing Uesugi Kenshin, the living avatar of Bishamonten, to her knees in defeat.
A brief mountain journey of a few dozen li, entirely contained within her own sovereign borders—what possible danger could threaten her with him around?
Hikaru processed the logic in silence. There was truly no valid reason to refuse her request, nor any practical need to do so. While his feelings for her did not run as deep as his bond with Kikyo, he would be lying to himself if he claimed total indifference toward the stunning, long-haired beauty who ruled Suruga Province.
In this blood-soaked Sengoku era, handling life as a demon came with certain unavoidable instincts. Even though his transmigrated soul retained the rational perception of a human, the inherent greed of his demonic nature was a constant, thrumming presence in his blood. It was only his human consciousness that kept that dark avarice chained, preventing him from forcing his will upon others.
Yet, there was absolutely nothing wrong with simply letting nature take its course.
He had always operated under the strict belief that absolute honesty was an essential quality for survival. If he desired something, he acknowledged it. If he did not, he discarded it. In the chaotic meat-grinder of the Sengoku period, wasting time on convoluted emotional games was pointless. Letting nature take its course did not guarantee any physical intimacy; simply having a beautiful woman walking beside him was a pleasant enough distraction.
As for any potential threats lurking in the dark, sheer, overwhelming violence would solve them. Besides, this excursion was a simple tracking mission, not a declaration of war. The distance was relatively short, easily completed within two or three days. The entire route snaked through Suruga, Totomi, and Mikawa—lands entirely controlled by the Imagawa Clan.
Even if a sudden disaster erupted, his monstrous speed guaranteed he could carry her back to the castle in under an hour.
He gave a slow, affirming nod.
Yoshimoto's amber eyes instantly lit up with a brilliant, undisguised spark of joy. It lasted for only a fraction of a second before she snapped her folding fan open, hiding the lower half of her face behind the painted silk.
"Of course," she said, her voice muffled but distinctly smug. "This is my territory, after all. I can go wherever I please. I am simply choosing to travel the same path as you."
She snapped the fan shut. "Wait here while I change my attire."
She maintained her tough, haughty facade flawlessly. However, the moment she spun around and marched toward the inner hall, her pace betrayed her excitement. She practically sprinted, hiking the heavy skirts of her Junihitoe shamelessly high. The fabric bunched around her thighs, fully exposing her wooden geta and pristine white tabi socks as her rapid footsteps thumped a frantic, eager rhythm against the wooden floorboards.
Hikaru stood in the quiet room, operating under the logical assumption that 'leading the way' implied a stealthy departure. Two people slipping over the castle walls under the cover of darkness. Traveling light, moving fast, and maintaining a strictly low profile.
They were, after all, sneaking out in the dead of night to hunt down a reclusive demon swordsmith, not beginning a grand, ceremonial inspection of the provinces.
He had, quite clearly, severely underestimated Yoshimoto's personal definition of 'going out.'
Barely eight minutes later, the massive, iron-reinforced main gates of the Tenshukaku groaned as they were hauled wide open. A blazing sea of torches instantly ignited, lining the path from the inner gatehouse all the way down to the main artery of the Castle Town. The roaring flames banished the darkness, illuminating the cobblestone streets as brightly as the midday sun.
The first to march through the gates were two perfectly synchronized rows of Ashigaru.
Twenty men formed each column, clad in uniform, light gray lacquered armor. The proud crest of the Imagawa Clan—a striking red background framed in brilliant gold—was boldly branded across every breastplate. Short swords hung securely at their waists, while their hands gripped long, polished spears. The razor-sharp iron leads caught the leaping firelight, flashing with deadly uniformity. They marched in perfect lockstep, the overlapping plates of their armor clinking in a rhythmic, metallic cadence.
Forty heavily armed men. Two impenetrable rows.
Immediately trailing the infantry came the mounted samurai. Six elite riders.
While the coats of their warhorses varied in color, their muscular builds were identical, bred for explosive speed and endurance. The samurai mounted atop them were encased in full, heavy sets of Tosei Gusoku armor. Tall Imagawa Clan bannerets were securely fastened to their shoulder plates, the fabric snapping and swaying aggressively in the cool night wind. The vanguard samurai, a battle-hardened man in his early thirties with a jaw like carved granite, kept his hand resting casually on the hilt of the katana at his waist. His sharp eyes swept the shadows beyond the castle gates before he raised a gauntleted hand, signaling the rear guard to advance.
And finally, emerging from the depths of the keep—a Palanquin.
It was not one of the absurdly massive, ostentatious ox-carts favored by the pampered court nobles of the capital. Instead, it was the highly functional, reinforced Palanquin used strictly by Sengoku daimyo during territorial transits. Its frame was constructed from thick, black-lacquered wood, the roof draped in layers of heavy, deep purple silk. Thick, silken tassels carefully embroidered with complex Pine and Crane patterns hung from all four corners, swaying with heavy grace.
Eight massive palanquin bearers hoisted the wooden carrying poles onto their shoulders. These were towering, thick-necked men clad only in simple straw sandals and tight leg wraps. They carried no armor and bore no weapons, but the terrifying thickness of their corded muscles made it abundantly clear that any one of them could casually hurl a stone mortar across a courtyard.
The heavy front curtain of the palanquin was pinned halfway up. Yoshimoto sat perfectly centered within the velvet-lined interior.
She had indeed changed her wardrobe. A sleek, deep blue kimono had replaced the suffocating bulk of her Junihitoe—which, by her incredibly skewed aristocratic standards, technically counted as 'traveling light.' The sleeves of the blue garment were bound tight against her arms, and the thick sash around her waist was pulled taut. She was undeniably far more agile now than she had been while dragging twelve layers of silk across the floor.
The hem of the blue kimono stopped sharply at her knees, exposing her slender calves and her feet, neatly wrapped in pristine white tabi socks, resting elegantly against the plush floor cushions. Her signature pine and crane folding fan remained tucked securely into her sash. Her long, flowing black hair had been pulled back and tied into a simple, practical ponytail, leaving only a few soft, stray strands to frame her face.
Stripped of the massive, obscuring layers of her formal robes, the true frailty of her sixteen-year-old frame was suddenly obvious. She possessed narrow, sloping shoulders and an incredibly thin waist. She was not particularly tall, and viewed from this angle, she looked almost painfully delicate.
Yet, the collar of the deep blue fabric remained slightly open, baring the smooth, pale expanse of her neck and the sharp cut of her collarbones. The tight binding of her upper sash pushed the curves of her chest upward, creating a surprisingly full silhouette against the dark fabric. In the dim, swaying glow of the small paper lantern hanging inside the palanquin, soft shadows pooled in the overlapping folds of her robes, highlighting her quiet beauty.
She sat perfectly upright, her hands resting gracefully over the folding fan on her lap, her facial expression locked into a mask of absolute, icy composure. It was the flawless, textbook posture of a provincial lord beginning a grand progress.
Hikaru stood motionless by the towering castle gates. He stared blankly at the massive, heavily armed procession assembled before him, utterly devoid of words.
Forty spearmen. Six heavy cavalry. Eight monstrous bearers. One luxury palanquin.
Factoring in the dozens of night guards currently leaning over the stone battlements to gawk at the spectacle, the entire military district had been thoroughly roused. Down in the sprawling castle town, sleepy commoners jolted awake by the rhythmic marching peeked nervously through the wooden slats of their windows. Hushed, confused whispers rippled through the dark alleys—where in the world was the Lord going? In the dead of night, with an army at her back?
Hikaru's face remained a mask of deadpan apathy. He had left his terrifying oni mask behind, leaving his striking features fully exposed. Under the dancing, orange glare of the torches, his Crimson Demon Eyes glowed with an almost radioactive intensity.
He desperately wanted to open his mouth and ask her a very simple question: Are we going to find a blacksmith, or are we marching to war?
But in the end, his jaw remained shut. He swallowed the sarcastic remark.
He stayed silent because, beneath the absurdity of the situation, he understood the grim reality of her life. Given the endless string of assassination attempts and supernatural assaults she had endured, Yoshimoto literally could not leave the safety of her walls without a small army.
This ridiculous procession was not born from arrogance or a desire to show off her wealth. It was born from pure, unadulterated terror. Bringing forty heavily armed Ashigaru on a midnight stroll was not a flex of power. She was genuinely, deeply terrified of being murdered in the dark.
This teenage girl, burdened with the title of Lord, desperately hid her crippling paranoia behind layers of rigid pomp and military ceremony. The more steel she surrounded herself with, the grander the visual spectacle, the slightly less terrified she felt in her own heart.
This was not aristocratic extravagance. This was a desperate bid for a sense of security. A sense of security that was horrifyingly scarce for a mortal ruling in a world of gods and demons. In all likelihood, the fifty-odd men standing before him represented the absolute bare minimum number of guards her retainers would allow her to leave with.
Once that depressing realization clicked into place, Hikaru's overwhelming urge to sigh in exasperation completely evaporated.
He stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the gravel as he approached the palanquin. Through the narrow gap beneath the pinned curtain, Yoshimoto watched him intently, her fingers gripping the bamboo edges of her fan tight enough to turn her knuckles white.
A distinct flicker of guilt danced in her amber eyes—she was clearly self-aware enough to know this military display was comically exaggerated for a stealth mission. But beneath that guilt lay a deep, trembling apprehension. She was silently, inexplicably baring her cowardice to him, waiting for his judgment.
Hikaru held her gaze for a moment. He offered no judgment, no mockery, and no complaints. After all, he was not in any particular rush.
"Let us go," he said quietly.
Those were the only words he offered before he pivoted on his heel and strode straight toward the absolute front of the massive procession. He did not stop until he had bypassed the vanguard samurai and positioned himself several paces ahead of the leading row of Ashigaru.
His loose gray robes whipped and fluttered in the turbulent heat of the torches. His long, pale hair cascaded down his back like liquid moonlight, and the dark, deadly scabbard of Muramasa swayed with a rhythmic, predatory grace at his hip. He walked entirely alone at the very head of the fifty-man column.
He was their vanguard. He was their guide. He would simply treat this ridiculous parade as an escort mission for a very high-paying employer.
Deep inside the velvet-lined palanquin, Yoshimoto stared through the gap in the curtain, her amber eyes locked onto the solitary, gray-clad figure marching fearlessly into the dark.
For a long moment, she was completely stunned by the gesture. Slowly, her tense shoulders dropped. She lowered the folding fan from her face, completely failing to suppress the soft, genuine smile that curled the corners of her lips.
"Depart," she commanded, her voice ringing out with sudden, unwavering authority.
As the heavy wooden poles lifted and the rhythmic march of the army began, Yoshimoto leaned back against her cushions. Never in her entire life had she felt a moment of such absolute, unshakable peace. That deep sense of safety did not come from the forty spears surrounding her, nor the six armored samurai guarding her flanks.
It came entirely from the lone Kishin walking at the very front, carving a path through the dark.
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