Chapter 186: The Blade That Cuts the Sky
The sun dipped low against the western horizon, casting long, bruised shadows as heavy storm clouds gathered overhead.
The wooden doors of the southern city clinic were barred tight. A neighboring woman had just informed them that the local midwife had been summoned to a wealthy merchant's estate and would not return until dawn.
Tsugikuni Yoriichi stood at the base of the stone steps. The empty bamboo basket strapped to his back swayed slightly in the cooling evening breeze.
"Tomorrow, then."
Yoriichi murmured the words softly. His face remained a mask of serene composure, betraying no outward anxiety. His deep red eyes simply rested on the dusty ground, silently calculating the hours.
Uta's due date hovered within the next few days. Although the kindly neighbor had promised to look in on her, facing childbirth without a proper midwife carried risks he did not wish to take.
"Let us go."
Kobe Hikaru stood a few paces away. He had already pulled his woven bamboo hat low, casting the upper half of his face into deep shadow. "You just need to leave a bit earlier tomorrow."
Yoriichi nodded. He had promised Uta that morning he would return home before the sun set. The journey back would already be a hurried one; he could afford no further delays.
As for Hikaru, the strange swordsman who had inexplicably decided to follow him, Yoriichi maintained his usual disposition. He asked no probing questions and harbored no undue suspicions. His transparent vision allowed him to see the flow of life; as long as he sensed no malice from the man, he accepted the company.
Watching the red-haired woodcutter, Hikaru mentally noted the irony. Despite possessing a demonic body, Hikaru felt his own pragmatic drive made him more human than the man walking beside him. Yoriichi possessed godlike strength yet harbored zero worldly ambition, content to chop wood and live in isolation.
They had exchanged names earlier. Now, the two men retraced their steps along the winding dirt road leading out of the city.
The thoroughfare had emptied considerably as dusk approached, leaving only a handful of weary woodcutters rushing to beat the dark. The ambient light faded into a murky gray.
Thick, lush foliage lined the path, and as the evening wind rustled through the branches, a sudden, wretched wail cut through the quiet.
An elderly man lay curled in the deepening shadows of an ancient oak. He was dressed in filthy, tattered rags, his thin gray hair matted with sweat and dirt. A gnarled wooden staff rested near his trembling hands. His complexion carried the sickly, ashen hue of a corpse. One withered hand clawed desperately at his chest. His lips were a bruised purple, and his breathing rattled like a broken bellows, each gasp catching in his throat with a wet, grating wheeze.
Yoriichi halted.
Those clear, tranquil eyes—eyes capable of peering through the physical veil of all living things—fixed upon the stranger.
Beneath the skin and bone, Yoriichi saw the failing organ. The old man's heart fluttered weakly, his blood vessels severely constricted. He was a guttering oil lamp, mere moments away from winking out entirely.
"Young man..."
The elder raised cloudy, rheumy eyes. His trembling fingers reached out, weakly brushing against the hem of Yoriichi's hakama. "Have mercy... could you... carry this poor old man for a stretch?"
Yoriichi crouched, bringing his gaze level with the sufferer.
"Old man, where is it you need to go?"
"Cross... cross those three mountains ahead..." The elder pointed a shaking finger toward the northern peaks. "My son... my boy is over there... he was gravely injured... he is dying... I only wish to see him one last time..."
Tears carved muddy tracks down his deeply wrinkled face, painting a portrait of absolute misery.
Three mountains. That equated to at least twenty or thirty miles of treacherous, winding trails. In his current state, the old man would perish before clearing half a mile.
Yoriichi did not hesitate.
The young woodcutter turned his back to the elder and lowered his shoulders. "Come on up."
That was simply his nature. A man who could walk away from a life of immense privilege and power just to spare his brother's feelings, choosing instead to live in the remote mountains, possessed a soul of boundless compassion.
Even with his pregnant wife waiting alone at home, even with the night rapidly encroaching, he could not turn a blind eye to the final plea of a dying father. In Yoriichi's eyes, all life held equal weight, and all suffering demanded relief.
A flicker of dark joy flashed through the old man's cloudy eyes. The hand clutching his chest relaxed, and he leaned forward to climb onto the broad back offered to him.
Before the elder could make contact, a pale, cold hand clamped down onto Yoriichi's shoulder.
The grip was immovable, causing the red-haired swordsman to pause.
Hikaru stepped out from the periphery. Beneath the shadow of his woven hat, his Crimson Demon Eyes emitted a faint, dangerous luminescence. He stared directly down at the shivering elder.
Yoriichi glanced back. "Mr. Hikaru?"
"There is no need to carry him." Hikaru's voice was flat, carrying the cold, unyielding edge of a drawn blade. "He is not going anywhere."
"Young master... what are you saying..." The old man shrank back, pulling his neck into his shoulders like a terrified tortoise. "My son is dying... I just want to see him..."
"Whether your son is dead or alive, I do not care."
Hikaru rested his fingers lightly against the hilt of the Onikiri at his waist. With a subtle flick of his thumb, he pushed the tsuba up, exposing an inch of gleaming steel.
"But I do know that you are already dead."
Yoriichi frowned slightly, genuine confusion rippling across his usually placid features. He looked at the old man again.
In his transparent vision, this was undeniably a living human being. The blood flowed, the muscles twitched, and the impending heart failure was a biological reality, not a demonic illusion. If this were a demon, no matter how skilled its blood demon art, it could never hide its true nature from his eyes.
"He is a living person." Yoriichi stated calmly. "And he is indeed gravely ill."
"He is human." Hikaru nodded, conceding the point without breaking his stare. "A mortal shell with a failing heart. He will not survive the week."
"Then why did you stop me, sir..."
"Because of the stench clinging to him."
Hikaru leaned forward. His pale face drew closer to the elder, the purple light swirling within his scarlet irises intensifying. "The reek of rotting meat, and..."
"The scent of a demon."
The moment that word hung in the air, the old man's frail body went entirely rigid.
The cloudy, pitiful misery in his eyes vanished, instantly replaced by a sharp, venomous malice.
"You have likely never encountered a human who serves a demon, so you do not recognize the smell." Hikaru straightened his posture, shifting his gaze to Yoriichi. "In my homeland, we call this kind of creature a Chang."
"Originally, a Chang was the ghost of a person eaten by a tiger, cursed to act as an accomplice to lure other victims to the beast."
"But if a human is half-devoured by a demon, or controlled by one, and willingly chooses to become that monster's dog—luring innocent people into traps just to buy a few more days of miserable life—they become a different breed of Chang."
The old man remained frozen. Yoriichi listened, his mind processing the grim reality.
Hikaru continued.
"He is human, yes. But he is also the demon's eyes. The demon's bait."
"An old man whose heart is giving out does not drag himself to a desolate crossroad to wait for death. He came here to keep watch."
"And he specifically asked you to carry him over three mountains."
"Traversing three mountains, even at your pace, would take an entire day and night."
Hikaru's tone remained as casual as if he were discussing the evening weather.
Hikaru knew the plot. While the original history never explicitly detailed the identity of the creature that ruined Yoriichi's life, in this chaotic, merged reality of gods and monsters, every tragedy had a mechanism. His pragmatic deduction fit the puzzle pieces together perfectly.
"He is stalling for time."
"To anchor you here."
"So that tonight... you cannot return home."
Yoriichi's pupils constricted violently.
For the first time, the aura of the man who breathed as calmly as the wind itself shattered into absolute disarray.
Hold him back?
For what?
Despite his inherent gentleness, the horrific truth slammed into him. He thought of the secluded cabin. He thought of the woman waiting by the hearth.
"Uta..."
The name slipped past Yoriichi's lips like a desperate prayer.
Their target was his wife.
In the very next instant, the dying elder lunged.
Shedding his frail, trembling facade, he threw himself forward like a rabid dog, his gnarled hands clamping around Yoriichi's calves with unnatural, hysterical strength. His filthy fingernails dug deeply into the thick fabric of the hakama.
"You cannot leave! You cannot leave!!"
The old man shrieked, thick white foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth. His face contorted into a mask of pure, selfish terror. "It promised me! As long as I keep you here... it will extend my life! It will give me a new heart! I do not want to die! I do not want to die!!"
Yoriichi looked down at the pathetic figure anchoring him to the dirt.
His hand drifted toward the hilt of his woodcutter's hatchet, but his fingers froze.
Even knowing this was a Chang orchestrating the slaughter of his family, the transparent world still showed him a pitiful, terrified human driven mad by the fear of death. His blade was meant for monsters, not men. He could not bring himself to strike.
But Hikaru suffered no such moral paralysis.
"Step aside."
The cold command sliced through the air, followed immediately by a streak of obsidian light.
A flash of steel.
Onikiri cleared its scabbard.
There was zero hesitation. Zero pity.
A single, flawless arc of steel flashed in the fading light. The old man's head severed from his neck, tumbling into the dirt.
The headless corpse convulsed violently, its hands remaining locked in a death grip around Yoriichi's legs for several agonizing seconds before the muscles finally went slack.
The sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood saturated the evening breeze.
Hikaru snapped his wrist, flicking the crimson droplets from the dark steel before sliding Onikiri back into its sheath.
"Let us go."
He adjusted his hat. "If you delay any longer, you will only be returning to collect their corpses."
Yoriichi did not utter a single word.
He cast a brief glance at the severed head. There was no judgment or blame in his deep red eyes, only a deep, crushing solemnity.
He reached down and gently pried the dead hands away from his ankles, his movements respectful yet entirely devoid of hesitation.
Then, he turned toward the northern peaks.
The serene, unhurried gait that usually blended smoothly with nature vanished.
In its place was pure, unadulterated kinetic fury.
The compacted dirt beneath his straw sandals exploded outward in a shower of dust and gravel. Yoriichi shot forward like an arrow loosed from a greatbow, tearing through the winding mountain trails toward his home.
Hikaru surged after him.
Violet arcs of lightning crackled around his boots as he engaged his own movement techniques.
'To employ a Chang as a scout... the demon orchestrating this is no mindless beast.'Hikaru whispered into the rushing wind, his voice muffled behind his mask.'Perfect. A worthy whetstone for my blade.'
Deep within the mountain range, the night settled like a suffocating blanket of ink.
The region was so isolated that even the distant fires of the Sengoku wars failed to illuminate its skies. Only a handful of humble dwellings dotted the valley, resembling forgotten orphans huddled against the vast wilderness.
Tsugikuni Yoriichi's cabin sat at the very edge of this sparse settlement.
It was a modest structure, built of rammed earth, river stones, and a thick thatched roof.
Inside, a single oil lamp waged a losing battle against the gloom.
The wick had been trimmed low to conserve fuel, casting a dim, sickly yellow glow that barely reached the edges of the woven tatami mats.
Uta braced one hand against the rough wooden wall, her other arm cradling the heavy, protruding curve of her belly. She moved with slow, agonizing care, shuffling across the floorboards to secure the window shutters.
The wind howled fiercely through the valley.
The wooden frames rattled in protest, and the shadows of the swaying pines stretched across the floor like skeletal claws reaching for her ankles.
"Yoriichi..."
Uta whispered, her palm gently stroking her unborn child.
The sun had set hours ago. By all logic, her husband should have been sitting by the hearth, warming his hands.
Yet the cabin remained empty.
An inexplicable, icy dread took root in her chest, spreading like noxious weeds.
Just then.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A series of knocks echoed from the front door.
The rhythm was light, almost overly polite. It was entirely wrong. Yoriichi walked with the silent grace of falling snow; he never knocked. He would simply slide the door open and call her name softly from the entryway.
Uta froze. She did not approach the door. She did not answer.
She merely held her breath, listening to the howling wind.
"Excuse me... is anyone home?"
A young man's voice drifted through the wooden slats. It sounded frail, laced with pain and exhaustion. "I am a traveling merchant. I lost my way in the dark and took a bad fall. My leg is injured... I cannot walk much further. Could I trouble you for a cup of water?"
Uta leaned her back against the wall, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The mountain folk were naturally hospitable, but Yoriichi's gentle warnings echoed in her mind. Usually, the neighboring women would be here to keep her company, but the late hour had forced them back to their own families.
Alone and heavily pregnant, she knew she had to be cautious.
"I am sorry."
She called out, forcing her voice to remain steady. "My husband will be returning at any moment. It is not convenient to receive guests..."
The pathetic whimpering outside ceased instantly.
And then.
A low, wet, and utterly malicious chuckle seeped through the cracks in the doorboards.
"Husband? You mean that red-haired freak?"
"I do not know what that bastard is, but his scent makes my skin crawl. However..."
The voice warped, shedding its frail disguise. It deepened into a guttural, greedy rasp that sounded like rusted iron grinding against bone.
"He is not coming back! That old piece of meat I left on the road will stall him until he rots!"
"I have at least two days to play with you!"
Uta's pupils dilated in sheer terror. She instinctively scrambled backward, but her shifted center of gravity betrayed her. Her heel caught the edge of the tatami mat, and she collapsed heavily onto the floor.
The very next second.
A deafening crash shook the cabin as the thick timber door was reduced to flying splinters by an overwhelming, monstrous force.
Wood chips rained down, and a freezing gale, carrying the putrid stench of coagulated blood and rotting earth, flooded the small room.
A massive silhouette filled the ruined doorway.
It possessed the rough outline of a man, but it was entirely devoid of humanity. The creature stood well over two meters tall, its swollen musculature stretching its sickly, bluish-gray skin to the tearing point. Its jaw unhinged, the mouth splitting all the way to its pointed ears to reveal rows of jagged, interlocking fangs.
It wore the tattered, blood-stained remnants of a samurai's armor and gripped a rusted, broken katana in its massive fist.
It was a demon.
A creature born of human tragedy, now entirely corrupted by the blood of its master.
"A pregnant sow..."
The demon's cloudy yellow eyes locked onto Uta's swollen abdomen. A long, purple tongue slithered out, licking the drool from its chin. "One corpse, two lives. The absolute pinnacle of nourishment."
"The aroma of your terror is exquisite. I smelled your sweet blood from miles away."
It took a heavy, thudding step into the room.
The sheer oppressive weight of the monster's aura sucked the oxygen from the room.
Uta opened her mouth to scream, but her throat seized, paralyzed by a primal fear. She could only curl into a tight ball, wrapping her arms protectively over her stomach. In this tiny, enclosed space, there was nowhere to run.
The demon raised its jagged claws.
The distance was too close.
It loomed over her, close enough that she could feel the unnatural heat radiating from its rotting flesh.
At that exact moment.
Several miles away.
Tearing through the treacherous mountain pass, Kobe Hikaru suddenly dug the heels of his boots into the dirt, skidding to a violent halt. His hand snapped to the hilt of Onikiri.
The evening wind whipped past his face, carrying a microscopic trace of a scent.
He smelled it. The distinct, metallic tang of demonic bloodlust cresting toward a kill.
'We will not make it.'
Hikaru calculated coldly.
According to Yoriichi's earlier description, the cabin was still at least seven miles away. Even traveling in a direct, unobstructed line, ignoring the dense forests and rocky ravines, it would take Hikaru nearly thirty seconds of maximum-velocity sprinting to breach the door.
Could a terrified, pregnant woman survive thirty seconds against a starving demon?
The answer was a mathematical certainty.
Without intervention, history would correct itself, forcing Yoriichi down his tragic, destined path.
Ahead of him, Yoriichi continued his desperate sprint, the usually serene demigod finally displaying the reckless panic of a mortal man about to lose his world.
But Hikaru had not intervened merely to watch the tragedy unfold. He had followed Yoriichi all day, anticipating this exact scenario. He had kept his silence because explaining the future was tedious, and more, because he possessed absolute confidence in his ability to alter it.
Distance was irrelevant.
Location was meaningless.
Hikaru abandoned his sprinting stance. He planted his boots firmly into the mountain trail, lowering his center of gravity. His fingers tightened around the braided tsuka of his demonic blade.
Clang.
Onikiri cleared its sheath.
Locking his Crimson Demon Eyes onto the distant, unseen coordinates of the cabin, Kobe Hikaru swung his blade in a single, devastating horizontal arc.
At that precise, overlapping microsecond.
Inside the ruined cabin, the demon's filthy claws hovered less than an inch from Uta's fragile neck.
Uta squeezed her eyes shut, surrendering to the inevitable dark.
'I am going to die... Yoriichi, I am so sorry.'
Her body trembled violently as she curled tighter around her abdomen, praying to whatever gods were listening that her unborn child might somehow be spared.
The demon's guttural, triumphant cackle vibrated against her eardrums.
And then, beneath the cackling.
Rumble.
A sound like tearing silk, followed by the catastrophic roar of arriving thunder.
Uta flinched, her eyes snapping open.
A blinding flash of violet lightning illuminated the cabin. But the bolt had not struck from the heavens. It had detonated directly inside the demon's chest cavity.
For a fraction of a second, time itself seemed to fracture and stall.
The massive demon froze mid-strike.
The sadistic greed in its cloudy yellow eyes remained perfectly preserved, its primitive brain entirely incapable of processing the sudden intrusion of death. It did not even have the time to register panic.
A blinding, incandescent red line materialized down the exact vertical center of its torso.
Before the beast could draw breath to scream, its towering body simply ceased to exist. It instantaneously disintegrated into millions of burning, microscopic cinders.
And then, the sheer kinetic force of the residual energy shattered even those cinders into absolute nothingness.
The ash fell, yet the air remained perfectly still.
Uta knelt on the tatami, her mouth slightly parted in numb shock. She slowly raised her head.
She realized with a jolt that the heavy thatched roof of the cabin was entirely gone. In its place was an unobstructed view of the infinite, starry cosmos.
High above, a massive, invisible fissure had been carved through the night sky, as if a god had taken a scalpel to the heavens.
The dense, suffocating storm clouds had been cleanly bisected. Through that perfect, miles-long laceration, pure, unadulterated moonlight poured down, bathing the ruined cabin in a silver glow.
She looked back to the spot where her executioner had stood a moment ago.
There was no demon.
There was only a bottomless, smoldering trench carved deeply into the earth, emitting faint wisps of smoke and the occasional crackle of purple electricity.
The demon had been erased. Not even its ashes remained to pollute the soil.
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