lambenttyto

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Chapter V—Sanguine Oni

The oni girl followed the samurai, staying close at his back as he crouched behind a latticework covered in vines—the entrance to the manor gardens that were alight with activity and music.

Shinjiro glanced behind himself, keeping an eye on the guard walking away in the opposite direction. Wearing a pallid yellow kimono with a katana in his sash, he wasn’t hard to see in the lower light areas such as this. But before long he would turn to and come back this way.

They were exposed.

Touching eyes with Rōkura, he worried that her focus was not as sharp on the task at hand as he wanted it to be. “Come,” he whispered.

She nodded, following close behind as Shinjiro lead her down the walkway to an area of hedges and hung-up lanterns. This area of the gardens was almost deserted, save for a few party goers observing the fountains and the flashing of lightning in the otherwise still night.

The air was cool and the air smelled of rain. The ground was wet, but it didn’t bother Rōkura in the slightest. In fact—there was something comforting about the wetness, like it hung on the edge of a memory packed with nostalgia she couldn’t remember.

Shinjiro turned down an isle paved with flagstones and hemmed in on both sides with tall hedges. It provided good cover. Rōkura ears were thundering with her pulse as she followed, her surrounding the hilt of her katana at her waist.

She gripped it hard—hard enough to make her knuckles stand out in a pallid pink, her sharp and strong nails digging into her palm. She lessened her grip for fear she would accidentally draw her own blood.

They went forward together and slowed at an intersection. Shinjiro strafed into it to use the corner as cover just as two laughing guests—women in white kimonos arm in arm, walked buy, their sandals tapping the steps as they went into the manicured gardens filled with lanterns and statues.

Rōkura lifted her chin to get a look and saw the guests in conversation as they ate from platters where dainty foods and hot wine that looked like sake were served from the manor staff.

Rōkura glanced up toward the second story balcony that wrapped around the house, and she realized no one was upon it—at least on this side of the house. She tapped Shinjiro’s bare arm and he turned his head. His thick hair wasn’t dry yet, and held together in a matted black coif that reached down to his waistline, tied at the back of his neck with a string.

She nudged her chin up, indicating that they could get into the house by way of the balcony above. With narrowing eyes, he surveyed the area and was surprised. So you are paying attention,

With a nod he moved, and she reacted to his steps and got out of his way as he prepared to jump the distance. For a low level fighter, the jump would be impossible, but for Shinjiro, he could just make it if he grabbed onto the ledge with his hands to help foist himself up.

Glanced back over the hedge, he checked to make sure the guard behind wasn’t returning, then he checked to see if the guard on the other end of the garden was facing in their direction. He wasn’t—he was turning down a path on the other side, obscured by the hedge.

“Follow me—“ he began, but Rōkura stayed him by putting a hand on his shoulder as she shook her head.

Rōkura herself thought that she would let Shinjiro lead the way, but she remember how she had told Hans to stay behind for the very reason that she would rely on him too heavily.

Surely it was all right to rely on your party members? Even so, this was her task, and she would lead where she could. She crouched low like a cat, then thrust herself up, jumping off the ground.

Her body lifted into the air like it had when she had launched herself off the sandy bottom of the sea bed near the docks, using her hands to pull herself in. When she came down, she squatted into her landing to quiet her touch down.

There was a thump, but it wasn’t loud, still it made her want to cringe. She was no sneak—her stealth skills as Hans had bemoaned, were nonexistent.

Sneaking in here wasn’t her style. Rōkura wanted to crash through the front doors and confront Fujiwarai on the spot, take what she wanted, and leave. But that, Hans and Shinjiro thought, would be far too messy, and Shinjiro didn’t seem like he was about to—

He landed beside her, his feet touching down far more quietly than hers did.

Without waiting for Shinjiro, Rōkura moved across the veranda and put her body close to the edge of the house. She peeked to over the edge and saw someone standing not ten paces away.

A tall man, lean with squared shoulders. He wore green robes with glitering designs running down the side. His hair fanned out in the back in a tight tail like Shinjiro’s, except it was held up and stuck out in an arc, which drew her eye.

There was something about this man, the way he stood. He was no typical guard. He’s clearly a higher class fighter. Narrowing her eyes, she concentrated and suddenly a ghostly image of him turned and looked straight at her.

Rōkura jerked with wide eyes.

Shinjiro shrugged with a question.

She shook her head, pointed with her thumb, and to her terror, that ghostly image strode up to the corner and turned. When it looked down at her, it dissolved like mist or smoke.

Pushing herself to her feet, she Rōkura put her finger to her lips and jerked her head in the direction she wanted to go, which was farther down the veranda. Above them the roof of the house overhung to a far degree, and in the rafters birds cooed softly, their wings fluttering about while below laughing and clinking ceramics filled the gardens.

The oni girl was already on edge, but since she was in a rush, she moved clumsily, her protruding sword hitting the leg of a small table and chairs as she turned. Shinjiro reacted to the noise, his critical thoughts clear in his eyes.

They didn’t have a lot of time.

She went to the sliding door of lacquered wooden scaffolds and washi paper and pulled it open just enough to get a view of the inside. Seeing no one, she slid it up and went in, turned on the ball of her foot as Shinjiro made it inside too, and then she shut it.

Just as the slider clicked closed, the sound of a man walking outside neared them, his shadow coming over the washi paper, his hand on his sword and his billowing robes making him seem more voluminous than he was.

Rōkura heart almost stopped as she held her breath.

The man stopped, turned to the door, paused for a moment as she sucked in more air, holding it in her longs. He’s going to come inside!

The figure turned, leaned over the railing to look down at the guests. The way he moved with his almost leisurely attitude, it was clear to her now that her suspicions of him not being a guard were true.

Shinjiro was quiet as he turned his head silently to look at her. The man outside didn’t move, he stood there, watching—listening. The samurai knew him for who he was. Shinjiro could make him out simply by his silhouette.

It was Kenshi Yatamonu.

Shinjiro ground his teeth, his muscled tightening and his jaw muscles flexing. Another one of Administrator Fujiwarai’s dogs who seemed to be everywhere that things went wrong. And he’s an expert blade master—possibly better than Ken-sama.

Glancing toward Rōkura, Shinjiro shook his head in warning.

She took in a deep breath to calm her frayed nerves, then swallowed. Rōkura felt as though she stood so still, held her breath so tightly, she might hear the drop of her own sweat from her body.

The man moved, repositioning himself. As he moved, knives or apprehension cut their way through Rōkura as she looked on with wide eyes, and yet, the man outside only moved to comfort himself.

Glancing about, she saw that there were other sliding doors—the shoji, that is—to their left, right, and behind them near the stairs. Rōkura narrowed her eyes. If she was to search the house for documents concerning the events at the summit, she should be methodical and being at the highest level.

She jerked her head and Shinjiro’s eyes widened. Rōkura didn’t wait for his response, whatever it could have been. She moved for the polished cherry wood stairs lead up to the highest level of the manor.

Just as she put her weight down on the first step, it creaked so loudly she cringed with a flinch of surprise and horror as she turned to glance at the shoji where the silhouette was.

It was across the room, and the man outside didn’t move., still, she breathed for a moment before continuing on. With each step up, Rōkura tried to put her weight onto the wooden bannister to keep from pushing down too forcefully onto the steps.

But why had it creaked like that, and so loudly? Steps were never that loud. Inwardly she groaned. You’re trying to get me killed, but I won’t allow you to be my end. Shaking her head, she continued on, realizing her Persistent Bad Luck just took on an anthropomorphic quality she had not been intending.

It was an enemy—one that would follow her everywhere.

While following Rōkura up the steps, Shinjiro kept as quiet as he could, realizing the only reason why Kenshi hadn’t heard her on that first step was because of the noise of the party outside.

Below them one of the shoji sliders opened. “Rōkura!” he hissed quietly. “Go.”

She moved with increased speed, her bare feet tapping against the steps as she went up at a fast clip. Shinjiro was surprised none of the other steps made a sound like the first. It was a very odd thing.

Rōkura glanced about antechamber with more shoji sliders. There was wall furniture darkly lacquered, with paintings on the walls on ornamental vases and plants. The furniture was exquisite and the lighting from the hanging lanterns soft and inviting.

Administrator Fujiwarai lived in an opulent manor. Something about it told Rōkura that this place was more like a castle, and in fact should have been called a castle. What was that feeling? Something from her previous life perhaps?

Shaking it off, she turned to look at Shinjiro as they both stood up, breathing fast and heavy as voices from downstairs sounded softly. It was a man and a woman. “We made it,” she said.

He nodded firmly. “I do not sense anyone up here.”

“It’s quiet.”

“We must be careful, still,” he said. “We do not know who might be on this level. That man—“

“Who was he?”

“His name is Kenshi Yatamonu,” Shinjiro said as she sidled up to the shoji on their right. With a soft click the door parted as he peeked out. “It’s clear.”

When they were both in the room and he closed the door, he said, “Kenshi is a master swordsman. Very dangerous.”

“How do you know him?”

“I do not know him personally—like I did not know Ken-sama personally. I know ‘of them,’ yes.”

Rōkura nodded. That was why Shinjiro seemed to know Ken-sama by name, and yet that mad swordsman with the huge katana and jagged teeth had frowned when hearing his name.

“Now,” Shinjiro said, “we are searching for documents.”

Rōkura shrugged. “But… what does that even mean?”

As he crossed the room and went to a cabinet against the wall with little drawers and a penning stand, he said, “Anything. References of the summit, plans. I don’t know.”

Behind the penning desk that sat on the tatami mats was a little alcove with an idle inside and flanked by candles. On the wall hung a paper with calligraphy in black and red and purple.

“That,” Shinjiro said, as he noticed her eyeing the idle, “is a reflection of the god Hokorash.”

“Hokorash?!” she asked quickly.

“Keep your voice down.”

Rōkura ground her teeth, the pain in her palms caused by her tight fists and sharp nails like nothing more than a mild annoyance as he face heated. “Hokorash… is the god I was sacrificed to.”

Shinjiro looked up from the papers he was reading and clinched. “You… you really were killed?”

Rōkura nodded.

Shinjiro let out a breath. He hadn’t believed her before back at the Four Candles, but her reaction—it was so visceral, palpable even that he had to take a step back and reconsider what she had told him.

But that, he would have to leave for another time. For now, Shinjiro wished to find some form of evidence concerning what had happened at the summit. There was blood when he went, but the bodies had been removed.

The “sacrifices” that Rōkura told him about were evident. He was simply hard pressed to believe exactly what she had said—that she had been killed with her parents on that night.

He looked up at her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded firmly, her fists still clenched. “These men—all of them—were involved. Even Fujiwarai.”

“Wait,” Shinjiro said. “We do not know that.”

“Look!” she hissed. “They worship the same god.

“That does not mean these men were the ones on that summit. You cannot kill people with so little evidence,  Rōkura-kun.”

She noticed the “kun” honorific that put her in a lesser station than himself. It seemed, in this matter, he took the lead from her, forcing her to accept his views. “Tch!”

“You must be patient.”

“I do not want to be patient.”

“There is nothing here,” he said absently as he put the papers back.

Standing back up, he met her eyes. “We are here now. Do we not have something to accomplish for your master?”

“My master…” she intoned quietly. “He is a deity.”

“Hai,” Shinjiro said with a nod, agreeing with her, but she could tell he only agreed with her to keep the peace. He didn’t believe Ogai-sama was a god, and he didn’t believe that she had been killed on that summit. “Come,” he said, and he went into the other room.

Following, Rōkura practically smoldered behind him as he led the way, glancing about this way and that. She sighed heavily.

“Patience,” he said again, worrying that her anger might make her do something stupid. To pacify her, he added, “We will find what we are looking for, and I am certain you will have your revenge, with the certainty that the people you inflict harm upon deserve what you give them. That is what you want—yes?”

The oni couldn’t argue with that. Rōkura nodded. “All right.”

Together, the oni and the samurai meandered through various chambers searching for any signs of proof, and though there were little things, such as idles, uniforms and black cloaks identical to those worn at the summit, they could not find any other evidence of what they sought.

Rōkura frustration and impatience was unbearable. She threw her arms down in frustration. “Tch!”

“We can search downstairs,” suggested Shinjiro.

“How?” asked Rōkura. The manor is full of guests.

They were inside a chamber overlooking the sea. There was a small table and incense tapers still smoking into the air. One a wooden dummy rack on the wall rested a set of immaculate armor and a katana sword.

“I’m certain that we can—“

Rōkura turned, saw a shoji divider they hadn’t tried yet. It was positioned at the center point of the room where the line of tatami mats cut the space directly at the halfway point.

Cold air from the sea blew into the chamber as Shinjiro peeked out onto the veranda. This was the very same veranda that Kenshin walked so leisurely. “He may come back.” Shinjiro said.

“Wait,” she said. “There is a door here.” She approached it, took hold of the clasp and opened it, revealing a narrow corridor lit with lanterns high above.

Shinjiro’s face changed, his features softened and his eyes widened as he glanced at Rōkura. Then a smile touched his lips. “Good,” he said with a nod.

Wasting no time, Rōkura went down the corridor with Shinjiro coming up behind her. He shut the sliding shoji behind him with a click as she glanced about, feeling a sense of awe by the enclosed corridor. Despite its narrow spacing, the rafters above were very high. Hanging on long chains, lanterns provided a soft lighting. In the walls, little recesses with scrolls containing calligraphy she Rōkura couldn’t read, rested. Among them, little statues were present, some of them recognizable to her as images of Hokorash.

“This…” Shinjiro said quietly behind her. “I feel we are very close to something.”

Nodding, and her heart beating fast with anticipation, Rōkura nodded. Her hands were cold and clammy and when her eyes landed on the narrow set of wooden steps leading to a loft area above, she reacted as if she had been rewarded with a big meal. She increased her speed and her feet tapped against he steps as she made her way up.

There was sitting pillow and a small shrine before her of the god Hokorash, and on either side of the small statue, were other likenesses of gods she didn’t recognize. The candles were half-melted slags of ponderous wax drippings that had piled high over months of use, like calcified stalagmites.

There was a tome there on the wooden mantle at the foot of the little statue, as well as a black-bladed knife with an undulating blade. Rōkura glanced at Shinjiro, who shared her gesture.

The samurai took up the tome, revealing a small black-ivory box with silver filigree underneath. Jerkily, they looked at each other again. Rōkura’s heart increased its tempo and she reached down, lifted the lid.

Inside, the red crystal lay.

“This is… this is what Ogai-sama wants me to obtain for him.” She reached down.

“Wait!” Shinjiro interrupted. “What if the crystal is enchanted.”

Blinking, she looked at him. “Do you know how to check?”

The samurai shrugged and Rōkura’s face fell into a sardonic expression. He sniffed with bemusement. “Do not look at me with that long face, oni.” He glanced back down at the stone. It glinted darkly in the lowlight of the loft chamber. Reaching forward, he said, “Let me see if I can sense anything.”

A long moment passed.

“Well?”

He sighed. “Nothing. I can’t sense anything.”

“Then it’s just as well,” she said, reaching down as she stuck out a single finger. She touched the crystal with her nail, resting it there with a tiny clink that sounded like she had tapped a glass vase. “Not dead yet…”

“I didn’t say it would kill you.”

Rōkura chortled, thinking this was easier than she thought it would be. “We will take the book as well?”

Shinjiro nodded as he opened up the drawers, looking for something to put the items into. He found a leather satchel. “This will do. Here—put the crystal into the bag.”

“Well put the book in first.”

“I am.”

“Not like that, you have to untie it first.”

“I am. Here—hold this.”

Rōkura sighed.

“There. Now give me the crystal.”

While the two fussed over the bag, the tome and the crystal, Fujiwarai was downstairs entertaining his guests. He had many visitors from Momori Kazō—al the best families, the richest, and not a few visitors from the Capital, including other worshipers of Hokorash.

Raising his ceramic of hot wine, he made a toast to the good health of his visitors and intended to—

A subtle magical thrum passed by his ear, and at that very moment Fujiwarai was aware of an intruder inside the the manor. Someone has touched my focusing crystal!

He stood at the surprise of his guests. “I am sorry,” he said. “An urgent matter calls me to attend. Please,” he gestured to the wine and the food. “enjoy yourself.” The Administrator stood up straight, clasping his hands together through his voluminous black sleeves.

His lizard man—thought of as a frightening curiosity by his guests—came up to him immediately. “Is… everything well, my lord?” The words came out like a wet rasp, airy and snorting.

“No,” he said plainly as he strode from the room. “Come. There are intruders in the house.”

Oku thumped across the tatami mats behind him.

While Fujiwarai summoned the other members of his elite guard, Rōkura and Shinjiro finished investigating the shrine. It had taken some time, since besides the tome and the crystal, there were little troves of gold coins, jewels and all manner of little trinkets and magical devices.

“Most of this is worth a fortune,” Shinjiro said.

“Shouldn’t we take it, then?”

He looked at her aghast. “I don’t know,” he said. “Are you a thief, Rōkura—a common criminal?” Coming in here and stealing these things—evidences against the Administrator, was one thing—and in the case the the crystal, tolerable—but to simply rob the man was low.

Blinking, she wasn’t expecting him to ask that question, and so pointedly. But it seemed to Rōkura that stealing from a criminal wasn’t something one should concern herself with very much. I feel no remorse, but…

She let it rest. Rōkura didn’t want to offend Shinjiro, who had come all this way to help her. Or did he come to find out the truth?

“We should go,” he said.

There was a knock down at the end of the corridor and they both flinches, their heads swiveling in the direction of the shoji, which was obscured by Kenshi standing in the corridor.

Eyes widening, the samurai and the oni both realized they had been caught. Shinjiro glanced about, looking for ways to escape. Rōkura gripped the hilt of her katana at her side, ready to fling herself at this man—at this killer.

The samurai looked at her with a sudden realization and horror dawning on him. She means to stay and fight? “Rōkura—no.”

Narrowing her eyes, Rōkura barely heard Shinjiro as she flicked up her thumb, her katana clicking metallically from its encasement within her scabbard.

Kenshi glanced up at the pink oni and the samurai beside her and was surprised—both that they had managed to get in here without his knowing, but also that the samurai was a Himo man. He could tell as much by the way he carried himself.

And the girl…

She’s’ the one from the summit. How she managed to survive Fujiwarai’s blade, I do not know. I must find out. “How is it…” he said slowly, “that you”—he pointed a lazy hand up at her—“are still alive?”

Shinjiro glanced toward Rōkura, another piece of the mystery clicking into place for him, but he had little time to think of that, as his eyes were drawn to the open shoji behind Kenshi, as Fujiwarai sauntered into the corridor flanked by his pet.

Rōkura swallowed when her eyes landed on the scaly-looking beast man behind the older one who came up on Kenshi’s back. Disgusting.

“You may not leave,” the older man said, and something about his voice run in Rōkura’s ears.

Was he…

He’s the man who stabbed me in the heart!

A hot flash of hate sliced across Rōkura , sending waves of heat into her face and neck. “Tch!”

“Easy, Rōkura,” Shinjiro whispered.

“Do not tell me to take it easy!” she hissed through her teeth. She pointed a threatening finger. “You killed me!”

The older man, with narrow eyes and grey streaks on the sides of his long hair that hung to his shoulders, smiled with a beard that grew only from the bottom of his chin. “That you say I ‘killed you,’ is an aberration most interesting.”

She growled. “I’m going to kill you.” And with those words she smacked her katana’s guard with her thumb hard enough to make it fling from her scabbard, whereupon she caught it with her other hand, flourished it, and stood in a guard stance looking down at them.

“Rōkura,” Shinjiro said out of the side of his mouth, “I’m sensing the aura of a fourth?”

 “Nani?!” she asked, surprised. “How many lapdogs does he have?”

“I do not know.”

“Enough to end you here and now,” Fujiwarai said. “Come. Put down your weapons and give up.” A smile came to his face, one hiding disdain and a hidden malice. “I may let you live if you put up little fuss. I do have a party to get back to and guests to entertain.”

Kenshi, very slowly, pulled his sword free. It wasn’t a katana at all, but a weapon much like one, with a gleaming curved blade, but heavier. He was quiet, his dark eyes and knitted eyebrows intense and direct.

“I’m going to kill you all,” Rōkura said, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over her as she said those words. Fujiwarai’s eyes opened a little wider, so slightly, she barely noticed.

The Administrator was surprised by her declaration that she would kill him and every one of his men, especially since she was so far outmatched by every one of his men, including himself. The little fool.

Licking his scaled lips, Oku thought that he would be eating fresh meat tonight, and an oni—how tasty she looks. This time I will have her.

There was no way to fight through them, that much Shinjiro knew. But these walls… Bamboo and mud, painted and filled with washi paper with thick wooden beams for the main supports and a stone base.

Very traditional.

Very brittle.

“Rōkura!” he cried, jumping from the top of the stairs. He cried out with his samurai ability. “THOUSAND-BLADE STRIKE!”

In a flurry of flashing steal, he cut his way through the bamboo and mud, leaving a massive gaping hole in the wall. He continued his strikes, cutting through the walls until he burst into the next chamber.

“WHAT!” Rōkura shrieked, just as Kenshi rushed up the stairs, his curved blade raised for a powerful strike in front of his ripped and powerful arms.

Heart lurching into her mouth, the oni sidestepped his attack at the last moment and he cut through the stairs with a crash and and explosion of wooden splinters that shout forth in all directions.

Rōkura nearly lost her balance. “UhhWAAHHhh!” She jumped from the loft, rolled across the ruin that was the floor, crashing through the chunks of debris that had been the wall and ran after Shinjiro.

When Shinjiro came out into the next room, he ran toward the shoji and put his shoulder into it. He crushed through the washi paper and the wooden scaffolding holding the squares in place and stamped about noisily over the tatami mats with a heavy grunt.

Glancing up, he spotted the stairs they had come up earlier.

“Shinnnjii-roooo!” Rōkura cried.

“In here—hurry!”

Back inside the secret corridor where his focusing crystal was kept, Kenshi stood up straight amidst the ruble. “Do not destroy the house!” Fujiwarai growled. “This manor has belonged to my family for five generations.”

“I was attempting to end this fight before it began,” Kenshi said, his voice low, stable and very calm.

“After them!”

Oku snarled as he shouldered through the corridor ahead. “I will”—he snored wetly—“catch them!”

“You will not be the one to take them on,” Kenshi said, his tone, an order, a challenge, and a threat, said in the most level of monotones.

“Hahaha! We will see!”

“Enough!” snapped Fujiwarai. “Catch them—kill them. I don’t care how you do it.” He glanced about, heat rising to his face. “Where is Ryuunosuke?—come here, girl!”

Thumping fast and yet light, sounded upon the tiles above. They were quick and traversed the roof from one end of the corridor to the other in no time. “Here,” she said, her mere whisper traveling to him despite the roof between them.

Fujiwarai smiled with satisfaction.

“Never far behind.” Turning, the Administrator went out of the corridor the way he had come, his path taking him to the general guard who would sound the alarm and bring more blades to bare down upon these intruders!

And that girl! How is she still alive? I stabbed her in the heart myself—with my own blade! This must something of the gods’ doing—but which one?

He increased his gait.

Shinjiro thundered down the stairs, his heels smashing against the wood as he sword swayed with the movement of his arms. When he reached the tatami mats, a woman and a man drinking tea glanced up at him. The woman saw his bare chest and smiled.

“Who are you?” the man asked, glancing between the woman and Shinjiro.

“No one of consequence,” he said, as Rōkura thunder down the stairs behind him.

“Ow!” she said, rubbing the side of her head after crashing down the stairs like a boulder.

“How you can be this clumsy, I don’t know Rōkura.” He glanced up above them where he sensed that fourth aura. “Come!”

He moved to the shoji leading to the outside veranda. He yanked it open to reveal the play one floor below them. There were dragons and witches, and a crowd of people clapping their hands.

Someone gasped and shouted upon seeing Shinjiro.

“Wait for me!” Rōkura called, hear heart pounding in her chest as the shadow of Kenshi appeared above the stairs. He was coming after them, slow, unrushed and utterly at ease.

That scared her more than anything.

Rōkura came up short as she pushed her hand against the veranda railing. More voices ooohed and ahhhed at her appearance. With bright luminescent eyes, she looked at them in confusion.

“They really like me.”

Shinjiro had already cut right, leading the way, but he turned. “They think you are part of the play.”

Something moved to Rōkura’s left.

“Look out!” cried Shinjiro.

The little woman with the straw hat pushed in with a narrow katana, her blade flashing and flicking toward Rōkura’s face. She backed away and tripped over her heels. “Gyaahhh!”

“Ohhhh!” the crowd cried.

Shinjiro rushed forward, his blade whirling as the small woman darted back. The skirl of their swords was loud and caused sparks to fly, and with every entanglement of their blades, the crowd cheered excitedly.

Rōkura made it back to her feet just in time for Kenshi to appear in his voluminous green robes that flinted with silk and sparkling jewels. He picked up his pace and whirled around like a cyclone.

Rōkura’s heart jumped inside her throat. She grabbed Shinjiro by the hem of his shorts and yanked him back.

As he fell against the wood, Kenshi’s sword came down over the veranda, cutting it in half and sending a spray of wood and debris everywhere. The crash that echoed in all directions was loud destructive.

Many members of the audience cried in shock and awe, thinking that the play was designed to be interrupted in this fashion, though some of the members rolled their eyes and made their quiet departed, thinking the others total fools as the fight broke out.

“Come on!” cried Rōkura as she beckoned Shinjiro back. He whirled, following after Rōkura. There was no way they could beat these fighters, and she knew it, now that they had started fighting, she knew it.

Above, Ryuunosuke pattered on her bare feet across the tiles of the third story roof. While Kenshi had destroyed the terrace, she climbed the supports during the confusion and was now ready to drop in on the two intruders. “They won’t get away,” she whispered to her teammates.

“GYeeaaaahhHH!” cried Oku as she crashed through a washi paper shoji slider to cut the oni girl and her samurai companion off. They came up short, their eyes wide and their mouths slack. “GYaahahaha!”

He flourished his pike dangerously.

“Oh no!” cried Rōkura, and instinctually she turned to her left to see if they could jump from the terrace, but Ryuunosuke’s feet slammed into her face with a slap loud enough to smart her ears.

“RŌKURA!” Shinjiro shouted, clawing after her as she rolled across the floorboards. He jumped back, defending against the small woman’s strikes that put small slashes on both his upper forearms.

Cringing down to his knees, he cried out in pain as a grip like steel grabbed him by the neck and lifted him off his feet. The pain that he felt made Shinjiro think his neck was about to snap like a twig.

She had not paused to recover—not while Shinjiro was in trouble. Rōkura screamed, put out her arms and ran, snarling.

The little woman tried to strike Rōkura with her katana, but she put her fingers together and used her nails to deflect the her blade’s edge. As she jumped, she attempted to pierce Kenshi with the tip of her katana, but he pushed Shinjiro away and dodged her blow.

Rōkura landed against Shinjiro and he grunted loudly as they piled into the railing. It cracked and they flailed. As they both struggled for ballane—“Wu-wah-waaah”—Ryuunosuke put out her finger and tapped Rōkura on the back.

The force of her very light push sent the silly oni into the samurai and they both fell off the edge, screaming as they landed into the yard bellow with grunts and cries of pain.

“Whyyy—did you do that?” snarled Oku.

“Because,” Ryuunosuke said with a smile. “It was fun.”

“We are are not supposed to have fun,” Kenshi said calmly.

The little woman put her hand on her hip and tilted her straw hat back. “Suit yourselves.”

Oku snarled a wordless, wet hiss. So gross—I don’t know why the boss keeps this lizardman around.

As Rōkura tried to stand up, she was grabbed by the back of her Mizu leather battledress and lifted to her feet. She glanced to the side, with a gasp, realizing it was Shinjiro.

The crowd of onlookers gasped and cried, and some of them were clearly worried, and yet most of them were utterly fascinating with the goings on in front of them, the very real combat that they had no idea was real—the fools.

“Come on!” Shinjiro said through a grunt as he hugged himself with his sword arm.

Rōkura had lost her sword, but she bent and grasped it by the hilt as Shinjiro hobbled forward, tried to carry her while he was at it. “I’m not hurt!”

“Watch out!”

He turned his shoulders, attempting to face the oncoming threat that the oni isekai had no idea of. Oku landed onto the ground between them, his heavy arms coming down with his pike in hand, which he turned horizontally. It hit them both with a whump into their backs.

Everything shook, her Rōkura ate grass and dirt—literally, as they were in a damp and tramped flower bed. As pain bloomed through her back and chest, Rōkura realized herself being lifted off the ground again.

With powerful force, she was flung along with Shinjiro onto the paving stones in the middle of the garden. She grasped her sword tightly as she fell through the air, her blade tapping and scrapping against the flagstones metallically.

The crowd cried out and clapped. Kenshi watched them for a split second, then turned his gaze to Fujiwarai who stepped out onto the grass among them bellow. He clapped his hands lightly. “I hope you are all enjoying the show. Please—enjoy this most excellent entertainment I have prepared for you.”

The boss was very creative, Ryuunosuke thought, and she liked that, smiling she said, “Can we play with them a little longer before we slit their throats?” Her whisper carried to the others, and to increase their horror, to the two intruders as well.

Shinjiro grunted painfully and Rōkura glanced up, growling. She smelled blood—not her own. It was… Shinjiro’s blood. I want that…

“Yes, go on,” said Fujiwarai calmly. “But do not be long about it.” He turned and glanced up at the broken terrace railing. “They have destroyed far too much already.”

The crowd glanced up at the destruction and laughed stupidly.

“Hmm,” Ryuunosuke hummed musically as she jumped, flipped and landed lightly onto the paving stones. She ran forward and lifted her leg as she glanced down at the oni with malicious contempt while she brought the flat of her foot back down on the top of her head with a smack!

She grunted pitifully and her face fell flat onto the stones.

Kenshi shook his head from on high, bored and unentertained by the gratuitous violence. Had he had his way, he would have spared them not a moment longer.

“Mmm!” Oku noised hungrily. He thumped up to Rōkura and took hold of her left horn. Lifting her head, he put out his forked tongue and tasted her face. “Very nice—soft and tender.”

Ryuunosuke giggled.

Shinjiro grunted loudly as he pushed himself to his hands and knees. Something fell atop him, and he realized the little woman with the katana had landed atop him and was now dancing a jig, thrusting out her hips. Somewhere the strings of a shamisen were plucked, and everyone laughed.

The men shook their heads with contempt and amusement, while the women covered their mouths in mild horror and shock, but yet were also amused.

“Meow!” a cat yowled from behind them, then it jumped atop Rōkura. “Hngh!” she grunted. “Ha—ha—Hans!”

“Awe!” someone cried. “The cat wants to dance too!”

They all watched with amusement, clapping and laughing, while Hans, in his cat form, glanced at them with shrewd slit eyes. He licked his chops.

“Kitty—issss—ready for supperrr,” hissed Oku.

“Then give it to him,” Ryuunosuke said, and she did a backflip off of Shinjiro where she landed with crossed ankles, whereupon she did a courtesy. The crowd clapped and cheered.

“Yes,” said Fujiwarai, smiling toothily behind his lips. Now that the trouble was over, and that these two had been utterly defeated, he strode forward. “The satchel.”

Oku bent and picked it up, sliding it off of Shinjiro’s shoulder.

“N—no!” moaned Rōkura. Her face hurt, her back hurt, and her cheeks felt big—the smell of blood in the air and her hunger enormous.

As Oku reached out to hand Fujiwarai the satchel, the cat suddenly jumped with a quick feline cry and snatched it out of his hand with its teeth.

Fujiwarai’s surprise made him take a step back. “How…”

Everyone in the crowd laughed as Hans scurried back to the other side, where Shinjiro struggled to stay conscious and where Rōkura squinted through her bruised eyes. It was then that he became a man. The crowd cheered excitedly and Fujiwarai’s eyes widened with shock and awe and anger.

Hans smiled maliciously.

Arrogantly.

Sliding the satchel over his shoulder, he said, “Rōkura.”

“Ha—Hans?”

“What is the meaning of this?!” Fujiwarai snapped. “Oku—Ryu! Kill them now.”

Rōkura glanced back and up at Hans, who was looking down at her like a god with superior knowledge and sly intent all over his face. He pushed up his glasses. “Stop playing around, Rōkura.”

He was right—she knew it. This was… the only way! But… No! I can’t—all these people. I’ll kill them all! Hot tears stung her eyes as her throat closed up. “I can’t—Hans, I can’t!”

“You can’t—ssss—whaaat?” said Oku, his tongue undulating out of his mouth.

“Then…” Hans said, trailing off as if he were about to reveal a trick to the audience. He lifted two fingers and leaned forward, lifting one of his polished shoes off the ground for balance as he artfully tapped Rōkura on the forehead.

Everything dissolved into a swirl of red blood and blackness. Rōkura’s hurts were gone. She was standing, and it was cold as she hugged herself for warmth, her whole body exposed, naked.

Again…

“Where…” she began, but she trailed off as she glanced about. “Where am I?”

Her voices echoed in the black space far and wide.

Squinting with her terrible vision, she saw light appear in the distance. It came closer—closer still. It was… a place, flying toward her at incredible speed. Rōkura stood on the black floor surrounded by nothing but darkness as a scene—like form a play, unfolded before her.

It was…

An oni man with blood red skin and eyes.

It was her father!

And there was her mother, her skin pink and her horns thicker, shorter than her fathers. They held a child between them—that child with the skin of them both; a hot pink. The baby whales, and Rōkura sniffed.

She reached out, but could not touch the people in her vision.

Suddenly it changed.

A young oni girl played among the grass, running and laughing with her parents. They were all finely dressed, wearing crowns of gold on their foreheads with incrusted gems.

Royalty.

But…

“That’s… us!”

“That’s right,” Hans’ voice said, echoing all around her.

Rōkura whirled. “Hans? Hans?!”

The little girl—Rōkura—fell in the grass and toppled over on her face. As Hans didn’t answer, she turned and watched her younger self begin to cry.

“There, there,” her father said, taking her up in his arms as her mother came to take hold of her hands. “Don’t cry, my sweet child.”

“It hurts,” she whined, her tears falling down her face.

“But we are here,” her mother said. “We’ll make it feel better, Rōkura—whenever you should fall.”

“You promise?”

Her chubby cheeks were wet with tears, but she had stopped crying now. “We promise,” her father said.

“Forever?”

“We will always be here for you—both of us.”

“Now…” Hans voice said, echoing all around her. “Know.” He said the word with a heavy air, as if it were a command.

Rōkura blinked.

“Ma… Masako!” She laughed as tears fell from her eyes. “I know my mother’s name! I KNOW MY MOTHER’S NAME!”

“Yes,” Hans said. “And your father’s name?”

“I… It’s… Sujin.” It didn’t quite feel real on her lips. She said it again. “Sujin.”

“Indeed,” said Hans, his voice calming. “Those are their names. Those are the names of your parents, Rōkura.”

Heart soaring like a leaf on the wind, Rōkura’s face lit up and a feeling she swore she would never forget, came over her. With delight, she jumped into the air and laughed.

But her joy was short lived, for it withered like the dead leaves of a plant devoid of water in the desert as the voices of unknown men filled the black space, the images of herself with her parents still flickering before her.

“Now…” a man’s voice said. “I will deliver the royal family to you. But you must take them away from here.”

“Do not worry,” another voice said, deep and businesslike. There was a malicious air about it. “They will die on another world.”

“No…” Rōkura’s voice said, sounding like it came from somewhere else, but she knew it had come out of her own lips, tremulous and full of sorrow and desperation. “No—please—don’t take them from me!” She searched the blackness for help. “Hans? Hans?!”

“Then we have an a accord,” the first voice said greedily. “I know just the man to deliver them to you. He’s trusted. They won’t suspect a thing.”

“Who?” asked Rōkura. “Who is he speaking of?!”

She could hardly see for the tears welling up in her eyes.

“Those men,” said Hans. “They took your parents from you, Rōkura!” Eyes widening, Rōkura glanced up into the blackness, surprised at the vitriolic intonation. “Those men stole your life away, Rōkura—killed your parents—killed you—for their evil intentions and their wicked games.”

She sobbed, holding herself with her arms. “Take me away.” She cried some more. “Hans—take it away.”

The blackness dissolved, the edges of the wet tendrils red and hot like blood, wiped and washed away through hot tears.

“I SAID KILL THEM!” Fujiwarai growled.

“All right,” complained Ryu. She moved forward with her sharp katana. “Don’t worry, I’ll be the one to—“

“Go on,” Hans breathed.

Rōkura looked up at him through blurry eyes. His smile was that of a cat—sly and full of malicious cunning, his intent on murder.

Anger roiled inside of Rōkura and she ground her teeth, clawed the paving stones and hissed through her teeth. With wild eyes and a nose for blood, Rōkura lifted her hand and put it between her teeth. He’s right—they all need to die!

The oni bit down hard, drawing a copious amount of blood that spurted into her mouth and down her throat.