Chapter Text
Akaza knew something was wrong on his mountain the moment his screen door rattled on its track. The winter sky was clear and no wind whistled through the thick wall of pines that surrounded his property. The earth beneath his feet was silent and still, but something was off. Something was definitely off.
Taking off at a run, he cracked the ice on the dirt under his heels, leaving tracks across a vegetable patch that had been left to rot after its former owner’s passing. He sprung up into the nearest tree, leaping from branch to branch in an attempt to move more quickly. The air around him shifted again. In the distance, a boulder cracked, and the skeleton branch of an ancient tree crashed to the ground.
He paused, pressing his hand against the trunk that held him and closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he sensed a tremor of demonic activity to the southeast. He was supposed to be the only demon on the mountain—his master had commanded him alone to investigate claims of the blue spider lily in the region—but he couldn’t ignore the signs.
Ire kicked up in the pit of his stomach and propelled him forward. He couldn’t stand someone else intruding on his task, nor the thought that his master might have sent them to assist him. True, it was taking some time, but it was winter. Lilies didn’t bloom in winter.
Cursing under his breath, he hit the ground with a thud, using his hands to propel his legs into a sprint. He followed the telling pulse of energy down a path caked with ice. It shattered like a broken window, jabbing Akaza in the heel. He hardly felt a thing.
If his senses were correct—which they always were—his competitor had stopped at the abandoned shrine on the southeast slope he had inspected four nights ago. That was to say, they couldn’t have been there long. Akaza would have picked up their scent on the rotting wood and caught the lingering halo of their aura in the shadows. Whoever this was, it was a newcomer, and not a very powerful one.
Some newly-made fodder trying to garner favor and rise in the ranks, perhaps. He couldn’t risk having an annoyance like that around. If they were fighting so openly on a silent night, they clearly didn’t understand discretion.
Akaza had bided his time with such patience sinking into his surroundings and going undetected. Whether they were commanded here or not, they were out of line, and he needed to dispose of them before they destroyed what he had worked for.
Veering off the path to save time, Akaza raced through underbrush towards the nexus of activity, which came into sharper relief with every stride. A high voice hissed, and something heavy and thick wrapped around the crumbling wood. It was a ri or so off, but his senses were sharp. He felt it pulse and the way it flinched as another, stronger power cut through the night and set the forest ablaze.
It was so hot, so intense, he expected to see flames licking at the trees in the distance. Instead a bright light cut through the branches and bathed the forest in rays of vibrant orange. That must be dawn, Akaza thought as his hands flew to his face to shield his white skin. But, no, daybreak was several hours off. The moon hung high over the mountain. This was something else. Neither fire nor sun, but a brilliant rush of power that washed over him and sparked his whole body to life.
That hadn’t come from the demon; there was a slayer there, too, and a strong one. This wasn’t just a pest to be handled, but a real challenge to be met, and Akaza was ready.
He scrambled up a boulder, then flew down the mountain slope at breakneck speed. The light between the trees smoldered and swelled, until even the black sky above had turned a hazy shade of orange. Power like that wasn’t something you happened upon in the woods at night. Power like that didn’t squander itself on filth.
Akaza would greet it with his own indomitable will. He would give it a fight worth its brilliance, and, when he had its wielder pinned beneath him, he would draw them close. Power like that shouldn’t be stamped out on a lonely winter night. It should be allowed to flourish, to burgeon and spread. It should shine forever.
He sprang down another field of boulders, then wove through the pines looming over the dilapidated roof of the old shrine. He broke through the treeline as the serpentine demon pulled back one of its heads to strike. As Akaza had guessed, it was some low ranking minion wearing the skin of Yamata no Orochi, who had likely slinked into the shrine hoping to feast on townsfolk who ventured here to pay their respects.
Akaza couldn’t have cared less about the creature. Despite its stately appearance, it meant nothing to him. He cared about the slayer, who was still mostly hidden by the serpent’s thick body and flailing heads. He jumped onto one of its tails, then lifted himself onto the roof. The demon’s main head drew back. Its toothy maw snapped, and its teeth flashed in the slayer’s bright glow. Akaza wrinkled his nose, and a new irritation sparked in his chest.
Those teeth didn’t deserve to bask in that intensity. They didn’t deserve him.
Conviction took hold, and Akaza drew back his fist. When the head crested the gold tip of the omune, he drove his knuckles through it, knocking it clean off. As it tumbled to the ground, its other heads whipped around to face him, but he cut them off a single sharp kick.
Bits of scaly flesh and ash rained down around him, but he fought his way through the cloud. He slid down the eaves and jumped off, landing in a squat with one hand extended and his shoulders squared to face his newer, more worthy opponent.
The other man’s red eyes flicked from Akaza’s face to the cloud of ash, before rolling back into his head. He crumbled to his knees, but the light around him didn’t waver. How was that possible? His head dipped forward, but he continued to glow. His shoulders trembled and his chest heaved, but his spirit fought on. Akaza had never seen anything like him.
He waited for the man to get back up, but he never did. His sword slipped from his hand, and his body tipped forward to join it. When he hit the ground, Akaza spotted a fang jutting out of his upper back. The bone crumbled. A faint breeze carried off its black remains, leaving behind a gash about the size of Akaza’s fist.
Blood blossomed on the man’s torn uniform, leaving it sticky and darker than black. Curse that filthy demon for hitting him with a coward’s blow. To the back, no less! He couldn’t die like this, not to the remains of a demon that had already been vanquished. He deserved better than that—he deserved Akaza!
Huffing under his breath, Akaza approached the man and knelt by his side. He swept back his yellow hair and listened to his pulse. His heart wavered, but his glow did not. If he acted now, there was still a chance.
He hoisted the man over his shoulder and rushed back into the woods, not fully sure where he intended to carry him. He yielded to his feet, letting them take the lead.
If he turned him now, he would live forever, but Akaza took no pleasure in turning others against their will.
He could take him to his master, who would shower him with praise for capturing this high-ranking slayer, but part of him, a part buried deep inside him, didn’t want to share. It might be treacherous, but this time he had to be selfish.
“What’s your name, hm?” He murmured as he jostled the man up his shoulder and sprung through the trees.
“Rengoku Kyojuro,” the man gasped between halted breaths after a stilted pause.
“Kyojuro.” He committed the name to memory. It suited him, he decided. He gave his waist a firm squeeze as he mused, “I’ve never seen anyone like you, Kyojuro. Become a demon with me?”
Instead of responding, the man shuddered, then went limp against his arm. His sticky blood rolled down Akaza’s wrist, burning hot like his aura. He wanted to stop and lap it up, but he had something else he had to do. If Kyojuro wouldn’t turn yet, he had to live until he would.
Akaza broke through the trees and staggered into town. The streets were blessedly dark, and Akaza knew where he had to go. He couldn’t let this man die to a lower ranking demon. Regardless of what his master might say, regardless of what the other Upper Moons might think, he had to live. He had to keep burning.
Whipping around an empty storefront, Akaza ducked into an alley he’d haunted before, stopping at a small sign he’d noted on his wanderings. He eased the man off his shoulder and placed him face first on the step. He wanted one last look at his face, but he contented himself with touching his hair instead. It curled like smoldering flames around Akaza’s palm, licking his cool flesh, and making his heart dance.
He looked from the man to the door and made up his mind. Rapping once on the frame, he took a step back and waited until an oil lamp inside kicked on. When a shadow darkened the screen, Akaza pivoted on his heels and took off, slipping down a second, narrower alley, and stopping to listen.
The door slid open, and the old doctor let out a grunt that lingered in the air. He dragged Kyojuro inside, and Akaza slid down the wall to settle in the dirt. He lapped at the trail on his wrist. The blood had mostly dried, but the man’s smoky taste still lingered.
Usually Kyojuro preferred to follow orders, but he didn’t like to feel useless. Despite the small town doctor’s many warnings to lay in his bed, he kept sitting up to listen for signs of the kakushi or to wait for the strange man who had carried him here to return.
The moment he had come to, he had urged his caretaker to let him journey to the Butterfly Mansion where he could be treated more thoroughly by someone who knew how to handle his injuries. The old man hadn’t listened, checking his temperature instead and coaxing him back to bed.
His official diagnosis was puncture wound by fallen tree branch, a torn shoulder, and blood loss.
The day had passed without any trace of demonic magic manifesting in his wound—thankfully!—and by nightfall he accepted the tray of rice and miso soup the doctor’s wife brought him and politely thanked her for taking the time to look after him.
By day three, however, ennui set in. His mission might be over, but he had failed to report to the master. If Kaname had tried to visit, he hadn’t made it through the thick glass window. He was stuck with no new task to complete—nothing for his mind to cling to except the memory of a cool hand pressed against his red hot wound.
When he thought back to the hand, his mind called up a face as pale as the moon and an arm strong enough to support his weight. One moment he had readied his attack, and the next the demon had crumbled at his feet. A man had emerged from the ash, shirtless and confident, his head crowned by tousled tufts the color of camellias.
The memory took hold one night while he was eating supper, and he asked if a man fitting that description lived in the area. His caretaker blinked at him strangely, tilting her head to the side. She popped another bite of rice into his mouth, signaling that the conversation was over.
A few hours later, he rolled off his left shoulder and tucked his hands under his Western-style pillow in an attempt to sleep. Just as he started nodding off, the door downstairs slid open, and something hit the floor with a thud hard enough to shake the house.
“Mr. Ando,” the doctor’s wife greeted. Her voice sounded tight, like it had been forced through a smile. “What a surprise.”
“Is your husband home?” A voice slurred. He sounded too much like Kyojuro’s father for his liking. Letting go of his pillow, he scooted up.
The doctor called from the back room, “What? What is it? I told you last time, you just have to wait it out. Come back when the hangover comes.”
“This isn’t about that.” The house shook again. Kyojuro swung his legs off the bed and grabbed the headboard to rise. He thought better of it and sat back down when his knees buckled.
There was another dragging thud below, followed by a gasp. Mrs. Ishida took off towards the kitchen, brushing past her husband in the hall.
“I’m hurt!” Mr. Ando growled. “And it wasn’t a bar fight. Not a normal one at least. Oh no! It was a creature with glowing eyes, I say. He snatched old Matsui. I tried to hold on, but that thing caught my arm and—oh, oh no.”
“You’ve dislocated your shoulder by the looks of it,” Dr. Ishida explained as he went to pick up his medical bag from the front room. Kyojuro hardly heard him. His mind had gotten stuck on the glowing eyes. Glowing eyes meant demonic activity, but the demon was dead! He had seen it crumble and turn to ash.
Then again, there had been so many heads. What if he had missed one? Maybe his orders hadn’t come because his mission wasn’t over.
Forgetting his conviction to stay put, he staggered to his feet and headed for the door. As he opened the door, a sharp wail rushed into his room. The doctor must’ve reset the man’s arm. That was good! He had a lot of questions he needed to ask him.
“Hey, you gotta warn a guy first,” Ando moaned.
Kyojuro clung to the railing with his good arm and shuffled down the stairs. When he appeared on the threshold, both doctor and patient turned to stare.
Ando’s dirty face was streaked with tears, and his graying hair was rumpled in the back like it had been yanked out of a braid. Their eyes locked, and the man’s jaw went slack. Doing his best to reassure him, Kyojuro mustered a smile and extended his hand.
“You said you were attacked by a creature. Where did this occur?”
“On the way back from the bar. But, hey, who are you? You’ve got some weird hair.”
Kyojuro ignored the last part, glancing at the doctor, who frowned in disapproval. “I am here hunting a creature just like the one you described. Where was the bar in question, and where were you headed? I would appreciate any information you can give.”
The man stared at him in silence for a moment, before turning to Dr. Ishida, who shook his head. “You need to return to bed, Mr. Rengoku. Moving around is dangerous. You could tear your stitches.”
“I accept the risk.” Kyojuro focused his attention on Ando. “The bar, is it here in town?”
“A few streets away, yeah, but we were out near the temple at the foot of the mountain. Don’t ask too many questions, okay? Sometimes I walk to clear my head before I go face my wife.”
Kyojuro’s smile wavered. On a different night, he might’ve pointed out that the longer he stayed away from home, the more upset his wife would be. He held his tongue this time, but only because he had more pressing questions to ask. “At the foot of the mountain, you say? Are you sure it was a temple, and not a shrine?”
“No, no, no, a temple. That one full of Nichiren monks who pound their drums on holidays. You know the one, doc.”
Kyojuro glanced at Ishida, who looked grim. “It’s north of town,” he said reluctantly. “There’s a temple nestled in the woods, and a path that leads further up the mountain. It’s possible that a bear woke up early and wandered down looking for—”
“It wasn’t a bear!” Ando threw open his arm, then winced, grabbing his shoulder and shrinking back in on himself. “It was a man, I tell you. A short, pale little thing with flashing eyes. Like some kind of mountain spirit, or—or a kappa.”
“A kappa?” The doctor looked incredulous.
“No, a demon!” Kyojuro chimed in.
Even Ando looked stunned by this revelation. His wide eyes glimmered in the lamplight as they looked Kyojuro up and down. It was the first bit of true clarity he had seen in them all night.
“I am sorry to tell you this,” he said as kindly as he could, “But your friend is likely dead. I was sent to this region to investigate missing person cases. I fought one demon three nights ago at an old shrine on the mountain’s southern slope, which is how I ended up here. Unfortunately, from the sound of things, I didn’t finish the job.”
“Mr. Rengoku,” the doctor’s wife urged from the hallway when her husband failed to speak up. “Please go back to bed. We can talk about this more in the morning.”
“If there’s a chance I can save the other man, I have to go. I’m sorry. Thank you for your care. I will send payment for your services as soon as my work here is done. Thank you, again.”
He bowed to the side to avoid straining the stitches on his back, then headed for a closet in the hall where he’d seen them stash his sword. He pulled it out, shoving it through the belt of his yukata. The doctor and his wife had taken his uniform on his first night here, and he hadn’t seen it since. He’d have to go as he was, but that was fine.
He hurried towards the door, glancing one last time into the doctor’s office on his way out. He caught Ishida’s eye and bowed again, but the man merely shook his head. Mrs. Ishida, on the other hand, followed him out to the genkan. As he slipped on his shoes, he turned to her and asked, “Is it just the temple in the north, or do other people live nearby?”
She pursed her lips, then slowly exhaled and checked his bandages one last time. “There’s a little farm across from the temple owned by the greengrocer, Takagi. There is also a cabin further up the path owned by an elderly man named Koyama, but he hardly ever comes down except to sell bamboo.”
“I will check in on him, as well,” Kyojuro decided. He thanked the woman, then walked as decisively as he could out the door. It was only after the screen slid shut that he let himself stagger a bit. His limbs still felt weak and useless, and his shoulder burned with a fire that made it hard to put one foot in front of the other.
He pressed on, more focused on his duty than the pain throbbing deep within his chest. It didn’t take long to locate the temple, and from there he found the narrow path and followed it.
Night closed in, but as a demon slayer, he was no stranger to the dark. He let his eyes adjust, opening his senses to any sign of movement in the stillness. Somewhere up ahead a branch groaned. Some kind of small creature dug through dead leaves, but no demon shook the silence.
He walked alone with nothing but the moon shining through the bare branches to keep him company. His thoughts returned to the pale-faced man. Why had he left Kyojuro so suddenly? Was he the shrine’s keeper? No, the shrine was abandoned. Its beams were rotting, and its roof had started to cave in.
Did that man live in the woods somewhere? Was that why he hadn’t frozen in fright when the demon heads had crashed down around him?
Kyojuro spotted a clearing through a gap between two trunks and headed towards it. He had to pause to focus his energy on the throbbing tear in his muscle, but after a reset he was ready to continue. The darkness wasn’t as thick as it could have been; the star-speckled sky cast a flickering glow on a thatched roof nestled among the trees and lit it up like a beacon.
He crossed the remaining distance at a brisker pace. The building reminded him why he had come and what could be at stake if a demon was on the hunt.
As he emerged at the top of the path, his eyes fell on a vegetable patch that had been left to rot, and he feared he’d come too late. He gripped the hilt of his sword and cast a wary look across the farm to the house. The way ahead was caked in ice and littered with kabocha with wrinkled, sunken flesh. No mountain farmer would squander a harvest like that, even if winter’s frost had come early.
Beyond the farm stood a small shed. Inside he found clay pots filled with pickles and a rice bag torn open by some wild animal’s teeth. He knelt beside it, running his fingers through the fallen grains and frowning. He tried his best to make sense of the scene.
It left a bad taste in his mouth to see so much food abandoned. He sucked down a breath that felt cold and heavy in his chest as he drew his sword. The blade flashed in the darkness. A jolt of pain shot up his back, but he didn’t let his wince reach his face. He exited the shed. A sheet of ice cracked in the distance.
He puffed out his chest. No matter how bad it hurt, no matter how sticky and cold his robe felt against his upper back, he had to keep going.
Around the corner, a shadow retreated like a black cat into the woods. He swung his sword, and as the red blade caught the gleam of the moon, he spotted something else.
Standing beside the rotten field, a man with black hair and pale skin clutched a clay water jug to his broad chest.
Kyojuro’s eyes narrowed, and he held his blade out in front of him. After a few tense moments, the man set down the jug. From the hollow thud that echoed in its depths, it was empty, which was no surprise given the frost.
He wasn’t ready to let down his guard. He offered the man a broad smile, but stepped towards him with his sword outstretched. The man eyed the blade, but didn’t try to retreat. He held his ground, which made Kyojuro even more wary of the situation.
Ordinary people tended to freeze when they saw it, or at least scold him for carrying it, as swords has been outlawed in Japan for many years. Then again, someone this deep in the woods might not know the law had changed.
It was hard to pin down the man’s age. His face looked youthful, but he held himself like someone much older. He didn’t look like a demon, but there was something about him. Something ethereal—and something familiar.
“Can I help you?” The man’s voice was soft but not weak.
“What happened to the old man who lived here?” Kyojuro shot a pointed glance towards the house.
“Ah, you must mean Koyama Santaro.” The man’s expression softened. A knowing smile warmed his wan face. “His health took a turn for the worst last autumn and he traveled to Tokyo to stay with my uncle. I’m his grandson, Hakuji. I'm here to clean up the place.”
His grandson? Kyojuro lowered his sword and looked the man up and down. Hakuji did the same to him, tilting his head to the side, before reaching down to scoop up the empty jug. “Did you have some business with him? I can send a letter.”
“Thank you!” Kyojuro answered decisively. “But that won't be necessary.”
He took a few steps closer to the man so he could get a better look at his delicate features and honest smile. Everything he had said checked out. He knew the former owner’s name, and if the man had left in autumn, it made sense his pumpkin crop would have rotted.
The only thing that didn't check out was how dirty the place looked. “You must not have been here long?” He asked to try to reconcile that fact.
Hakuji chuckled. His laugh was warm and melodic—like a shamisen singing its first few chords. “I’m not sure if I should take offense to that.”
Kyojuro’s face flushed despite the biting chill in the air. He looked away from the other man’s face, but his gaze landed on a rotting pumpkin spilled across the ice between them, and that made things even worse. His blush spread to the tips of his ears, and he frantically shook his head. The man laughed again, and the song his voice played made Kyojuro’s heart skip several beats.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, no!” His own voice sounded strained: not its usual booming baritone. “I only meant the storehouse looks untouched.”
“Oh, Kyojuro.”
Kyojuro froze, the smile fading from his lips as he finally looked the other man in the eye. At first, he tried to recall when he had introduced himself, but he came up empty, and Hakuji looked just as shocked as he did. Was this some kind of trick? Or a blood art? Kyojuro rested his hand on his obi, his fingertips grazing the handguard of his sword.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” He looked the man up and down. Something flicked in the back of his mind. Pale skin in the moonlight, and a strong shoulder pressed against his abdomen.
“Oh, this is embarrassing.” A small smile tugged at the man’s lips. He shuffled his weight from one foot to the other and shot Kyojuro a sheepish look. “I’m glad to see you well enough to move around again, Kyojuro, but after taking a fang to the back, you should still be in bed. You certainly shouldn’t be climbing any mountains!”
Kyojuro squared his shoulders. He let go of his obi to touch his wounded shoulder instead. The bandage was sticky with blood. Hakuji must’ve caught a glimpse when he was coming around the corner, but even if he had, how would he know about the fang?
“You’re lucky there wasn’t a blood art attached to that bite, you know. Had there been, you might not have made it.”
“You know about demons?” Kyojuro asked.
Hakuji’s expression softened and he nodded slowly. He lived alone on a mountain. Of course he knew about demons.
Kyojuro looked him up and down, from his bare toes almost as pale as the icy earth beneath them, to his slender waist where his obi cinched his robe in place, then to his broad shoulders and the suggestion of defined muscles beneath his sleeves. Even the way he carried himself was the same. The only problem was his hair—he clearly remembered his vibrant pink hair blooming like a camellia in the snow.
“You saved my life?” He tried.
“You saved yourself, Kyojuro.” The man smiled. “I merely carried you to Ishida.”
Everything checked out. Everything but his hair, but perhaps Kyojuro had misremembered. After all, his energy had been all but spent, so much so that he couldn’t remember dealing the demon its final blow, only watching its heads crumble at his feet.
He cracked a small, grateful smile and approached the other man, extending a hand that Hakuji took after some hesitation. Shaking hands wasn’t common yet in the mountains, so that made sense.
When their palms finally came together, Kyojuro gave him a small squeeze and an affirming shake, before taking a step back to regard him again. “You are more than capable from what I saw that night, but I urge you to be careful in these woods. There’s a powerful demon on the loose.”
Hakuji blinked at him, then chuckled softly and nodded. “Of course. You have my word!”
Kyojuro wanted nothing more than to take his hand again, but he settled for flashing him a smile. His heart skipped another beat, and he touched his shoulder, which was sticky and slick with blood.
Hakuji followed his hand with his eyes and frowned. “Oh dear, Kyojuro. Let me get you cleaned up. You need to be at your fighting best if there really is a demon.”
Kyojuro couldn’t argue with that. He followed the man into his boarded up cabin, where he waited politely in the entry for him to boil water. The house was stuffy and falling apart around him, but he’d never felt more at home.