Chapter 173: Kikyo in Kaede Village
The procession carved its way through the rugged mountain paths of western Suruga.
Torches flared against the suffocating dark, weaving two long, serpentine trails of orange-red light that illuminated the treacherous incline. The synchronized footfalls of forty ashigaru thudded against the packed earth in perfect unison, accompanied by the rhythmic, metallic clinking of iron armor plates echoing deep into the valley below.
Kobe Hikaru remained at the absolute vanguard.
His gray robes flickered in and out of the dancing firelight, the pale lengths of his long hair swaying against his back. At his waist, the scabbard of Muramasa shifted slightly with the steady cadence of his stride.
He never once looked back at the procession trailing behind him.
But his hands were never idle.
Beside the dirt path sat a jagged bluestone, roughly half the height of a grown man. As he walked past, his palm flattened against the stone's rough surface. A faint pulse of demonic power seeped from his skin into the rock, and his footsteps paused for a fraction of a second.
"...Hmm, nice texture."
He muttered the assessment to himself, his tone entirely flat, and resumed his march.
[Bluestone: Favorability +1]
A dozen steps later, the gnarled roots of an old cedar tree encroached upon the road, boasting a natural hollow in its thick trunk. Hikaru reached his hand into the dark crevice, his fingers brushing against the aged wood.
"Not bad. Quite warm."
[Old Cedar Tree: Favorability +1]
A few paces further, he reached into his robes and extracted the folded map Imagawa Yoshimoto had entrusted to him. He snapped it open, scanned the ink lines, folded it back into a neat square, snapped it open a second time, folded it again, and then repeated the entire process a third time.
With each unfurling of the parchment, a quiet whisper escaped his lips.
"...The route is correct."
"...Don't wrinkle."
"...The paper quality is alright."
[Hand-drawn Map: Favorability +1]
Naturally, this bizarre sequence of events did not go unnoticed. A small figure trudging beside Yoshimoto's ornate palanquin watched the entire spectacle unfold.
It was a girl, barely ten years old.
She was incredibly short, her head only reaching the waist of the marching ashigaru. She wore a plain gray kosode kimono buried beneath a dark brown haori. The garments were comically oversized, the sleeves rolled up twice just to free her tiny fingers.
Her face was delicate, though not particularly striking, her round cheeks still clinging to soft baby fat. Yet, resting upon the bridge of her nose was an object entirely alien to this blood-soaked era.
Glasses.
Round wooden frames holding lenses crafted from flawlessly polished crystal. Such items were practically mythical in the Sengoku Period, existing only as exorbitant luxury goods smuggled in by the Nanban merchants from across the seas.
Wearing these anachronistic spectacles, she blinked her slightly dull brown eyes. Her short legs pumped quickly to keep pace with the swaying palanquin.
Matsudaira Motoyasu.
The daughter of the Matsudaira Clan's head in Mikawa. At ten years old, she had been shipped to Suruga as a political hostage following Mikawa's submission to the Imagawa Clan.
Though bearing the title of a hostage, her actual treatment was far from cruel. Yoshimoto looked after the girl quite well, affording her a standard of living that eclipsed the children of ordinary retainers. Her only true deprivation was freedom; she was strictly forbidden from leaving the castle grounds.
For this particular expedition, however, Yoshimoto had made a rare exception and brought her along.
Motoyasu stared unblinkingly at the gray-robed figure ahead, watching him converse with a rock. Behind her crystal lenses, her pupils swam with deep confusion.
"Lord Yoshimoto."
She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, leaning close to the narrow gap in the palanquin's silk curtain. "That person in front... has he been talking to random things by the roadside this entire time?"
Yoshimoto's voice drifted from the darkened interior, her tone languid and soft, carrying the slight huskiness of someone freshly roused from sleep.
"Talking to stones."
"Talking to trees as well."
"Just now, he even talked to the map."
Motoyasu pushed the wooden bridge of her glasses higher up her nose, her voice dropping even quieter. "...What a strange person."
She paused, her brow furrowing as she corrected herself.
"Strange demon?"
She chewed on her bottom lip, shaking her head. Demons were inherently supposed to be strange, right? So, being strange actually counted as normal for a monster. Which meant a normal demon would technically be abnormal. Therefore, him acting like a lunatic was actually perfectly standard behavior?
The logic looped three times through her ten-year-old brain, leaving her thoroughly dizzy.
A soft, amused hum vibrated from behind the silk curtain.
"Motoyasu."
There was a distinct trace—just a fleeting, unmaskable trace—of absolute pride coloring Yoshimoto's voice. "That is not called being strange."
"What is it called, then?"
The lacquered tip of a folding fan poked through the gap in the curtains, pointing directly at the gray back marching ahead.
"He said it himself. He calls it, 'Having known the greatness of the universe, yet still pitying the green of the grass and trees.' I deeply agree with that sentiment."
Yoshimoto's volume remained low, but her enunciation was razor-sharp.
"An existence capable of slaughtering great demons, confronting the God of War, and taking the Hyakki for his own use, yet still willing to crouch down in the dirt and converse with a stone—such an existence is truly remarkable."
Motoyasu blinked slowly.
"...Is that really how it is?"
"Of course."
Yoshimoto's tone brooked no argument, brimming with a blind confidence she likely couldn't justify if pressed.
Motoyasu did not argue. She couldn't, even if she wanted to.
She simply pushed her glasses up again, swallowing the one sentence she desperately wanted to say aloud.
—The 'filter' in your heart is simply too thick.
But she was a hostage. And the most vital survival skill of any hostage was knowing exactly when to keep one's mouth shut.
So, she clamped her jaw tight and focused on moving her short legs, deciding to simply enjoy the rare privilege of breathing fresh mountain air.
Inside the dim confines of the palanquin, Yoshimoto lowered her folding fan and leaned back against the plush silk cushions.
The collar of her deep blue kosode kimono hung slightly open, the elegant curves of her collarbones faintly illuminated by the swaying glow of the exterior lanterns. The tight bind of her sash emphasized the rise and fall of her chest, her half-reclining posture casting deep shadows across the fabric.
She wasn't looking at Motoyasu.
Her gaze was locked entirely on the gray back visible through the narrow slit in the curtains. The back of the man leading fifty armed soldiers through the dark. The back that never once turned to check on her.
Yoshimoto knew exactly when her absolute fixation on this Oni Samurai had begun.
It was that night.
A Thunder Beast had entrenched itself below the main castle, drowning the entire fortress in an apocalyptic thunderstorm. She had been huddled in the Tenshukaku, suffocating beneath the terrified prayers of her city and her own gnawing helplessness.
Then, a gray figure had plummeted from the heavens, his blade cleaving the very lightning in half with a single, devastating strike.
She had later enshrined that very blade at the highest pinnacle of the Tenshukaku.
The man himself had vanished into the rain.
Later, driven by an obsessive need to find him, she hadn't hesitated to plunge her clan back into a bloody war with the Hojo Clan. She had chased his shadow across battlefields until she finally secured her wish, binding him to her side with a contract.
Then came the Uesugi Clan's southern invasion.
The Hojo were besieged. The entirety of Kanto shook under the threat. In response, she mobilized five thousand men for a daring maritime expedition to Echigo. But the brilliant strategy hadn't been hers. It was a masterstroke proposed by the Oni Samurai on the exact day their agreement was signed.
A grand military strategy, drafted by a Yokai.
She vividly remembered him sitting in the grand hall of her Main Palace. He had arranged maps and sculpted a sand table, calmly detailing a strategic envelopment that made the greatest military minds of their era look like children playing with wooden swords.
"The Uesugi Clan has committed all their forces here; their rear in Echigo is completely empty. The Imagawa Clan possesses ships. We sail north from Suruga along the inland sea, bypass Sado entirely, and land directly on the undefended coast of Echigo."
The words were burned into her memory.
Not because the tactical maneuver was flawless. But because the man delivering it—an undead monster who had literally crawled out of a rotting pile of corpses only months prior—had looked at her with eyes completely devoid of contempt. There was no manipulation in his gaze. No predatory intent.
Only an unwavering, absolute equality.
He treated her as a true collaborator. A sovereign worthy of holding the weight of his grand design.
Not a fragile girl needing a shield.
Not a foolish Daimyo to be puppeteered.
But a partner. Someone who possessed the intellect to understand his vision and the power to execute it.
That feeling...
Yoshimoto refused to label it with a word as trivial as 'like.' It felt too frivolous, too childish for a woman of her station.
She only admitted to it being a deep goodwill. An astronomically high level of favorability.
A favorability so blindingly high that watching him whisper sweet nothings to a damp rock somehow felt deeply philosophical. So high that she could unironically quote 'Having seen the vastness of the universe, yet still pitying the green of the grass' to justify a demon flirting with a tree.
A filter was indeed a terrifying thing.
She knew her perception was hopelessly skewed. She knew it, and she didn't care in the slightest.
Yoshimoto rested her folding fan against her chest and let her eyelids flutter shut. The palanquin swayed with a gentle, rocking rhythm over the uneven dirt. The crunch of the ashigaru's straw sandals and the heavy clinking of their armor merged into a strangely comforting lullaby.
She hadn't slept this peacefully in months.
Because he was walking ahead of her. That sense of absolute security, at least, was entirely real.
Halfway through the Hour of the Rat, the procession finally ground to a halt upon a flattened plateau carved into the mountainside.
The leading samurai barked orders, organizing the ashigaru to establish a temporary camp. It was a crude setup—merely a ring of roaring bonfires built in the clearing, the pack horses tethered to sturdy pines, and a rotating perimeter guard established.
The late autumn air in the high mountains was brutally unforgiving. The cold dew settled heavily over everything, making the treacherous paths too slick to safely handle in the dark.
Moisture condensed rapidly on the tall grass, catching the orange firelight in thousands of glittering, icy pinpricks. The temperature plummeted so drastically that every exhale plumed into thick clouds of white mist.
The ashigaru huddled close to the crackling flames, wrapping their woven straw raincoats tightly around their shivering bodies.
The palanquin was grounded in the absolute center of the encampment, shielded by two concentric rings of bonfires and a wall of armed men.
Motoyasu had curled herself into a tight ball on a woven straw mat directly beside the palanquin's wooden wheels. She had cocooned herself in her oversized haori, burying her face in the fabric. Her round-rimmed glasses sat carefully folded on her knees. Without the bulky frames, her face looked painfully small and fragile.
She was already dead to the world. Her breathing was a soft, steady rhythm, a stray grain of rice from their meager dinner still stubbornly clinging to the corner of her mouth.
Inside the silk curtains, Yoshimoto was wide awake.
The dark blue kosode kimono offered zero protection against the biting mountain chill. She had wrapped the palanquin's single, pathetically thin blanket tightly around her shoulders, pulling her knees to her chest. She hugged her folding fan against her collarbone, resting her trembling chin on her kneecaps.
She absolutely refused to let her retainers see their Lord shivering like a wet stray.
But the cold was agonizing. For the pampered ruler of Suruga Province, this was an entirely unmatched misery. It was her first time ever spending a night exposed to the wild.
Then, the soft crunch of footsteps approached the palanquin.
They were incredibly light. Almost entirely soundless.
A calloused hand reached out, lifting a corner of the heavy silk curtain.
Hikaru squatted just outside the palanquin's entrance. In the ambient gloom, his Crimson Demon Eyes glowed with a faint, predatory luminescence.
He took one look at her huddled form. He didn't need to ask.
While Hikaru was far from a traditionally 'gentle' soul, he was a man hopelessly conditioned by a favorability system. He was practically hardwired to exploit any available opportunity to grind affection points.
Whether the target was a human or a rusty sword, the principle remained the same. Habit had long since become instinct.
Yoshimoto did not speak.
She kept her chin glued to her knees, the thin blanket pulled up so high it swallowed half her face. But the sheer, aristocratic stubbornness radiating from her exposed eyes screamed a clear message: I am not cold.
Hikaru felt the phantom urge to laugh, but his deadpan expression didn't shift a millimeter. He simply remained silent, extending his right hand into the palanquin and spreading his fingers wide.
A sphere of flame ignited in the center of his palm.
Firefly Will-o'-the-Wisp.
A ghostly, emerald-green fire bloomed to life. It was perfectly spherical, just large enough to fill a man's grip, radiating a surprisingly gentle, soothing warmth.
The spectral flame lacked the searing heat of a normal fire; it couldn't burn flesh or ignite the silk cushions. But it was more than enough to violently banish the damp, bone-aching chill of the mountain dew.
The emerald orb hovered silently over his palm. Its soft luminescence washed over the interior of the palanquin, painting the shadows in warm, inviting tones.
Yoshimoto's gaze locked onto the floating fire. The ghostly green light reflected beautifully in her amber pupils, casting an ethereal glow across her pale cheeks. By all rights, a normal human should have recoiled in terror at the sight of demonic magic. Yet, bathing in that eerie light, she felt absolutely no fear.
Still, she refused to voice her relief. Instead, she merely shifted her weight, the thin blanket rustling softly against the tatami mat.
Inch by inch, entirely without a word, she slid closer to the lifted curtain.
Closer to the ghost fire.
Closer to his hand.
The frayed edge of her blanket finally brushed against his knuckles.
Slowly, Yoshimoto's slender fingers slipped out from beneath the wool. She reached out, her fingertips lightly ghosting over the back of the hand that cradled the emerald flame.
The touch was impossibly light.
Her skin was soft and freezing cold. She flinched for a fraction of a second as her fingers made contact with his unnaturally cool, demonic flesh—but she didn't pull away. She simply let her hand rest there.
Hovering directly over the back of his hand.
She didn't grip him. They weren't holding hands. Her fingers merely suspended themselves a millimeter above his skin, soaking in the radiant warmth of the spell without fully committing to the contact.
The ghost fire flickered steadily between them, the emerald glow fighting against the encroaching dark, carving out a tiny, intimate sanctuary completely isolated from the freezing mountain night.
The corner of Yoshimoto's mouth twitched, fighting a losing battle against a smile.
"...It's okay."
Her voice was a stubborn whisper. "Actually, you really don't have to do this. I'm not that cold."
Hikaru: "..."
He didn't bother replying to the blatant lie. He simply remained frozen in his crouch, acting as a living hearth, feeding demonic energy into the flame to keep it burning steady.
He waited patiently. Minutes bled away until the tension finally melted from Yoshimoto's shoulders. Her breathing deepened into a slow, rhythmic cadence, and the slight pressure of her hovering fingers relaxed completely, finally resting fully against his skin.
She had fallen asleep.
Her fingers remained draped softly over the back of his hand.
Hikaru watched her peaceful face for two silent seconds. He subtly dialed up the temperature of the ghost fire, tweaking the demonic energy until the orb stabilized, anchoring it in the air beside her like a permanent, floating lantern.
Carefully, so as not to wake her, he slipped his hand out from beneath hers and gently lowered the heavy silk curtain, sealing the warmth inside.
He turned his back to the palanquin and walked quietly toward the perimeter.
He had a night watch to finish.
And a 'conquest' to see through to the end.
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