Chapter Text
He was not entirely sure when it was he finally came into consciousness: But sensations came one after the other. The touch of the wind, the sense of moisture in the air-broken pipes?-the buzzing of the insects and, finally, the slight amounts of light filtering through.
He did not feel bad, but he did not feel good either-and, most importantly, he did not feel like himself. He felt as though there were senses which he had not had before, a menagerie of lanterns greeting him in unison for afar.
Then, all at once, he awoke- in full, this time.
He immediately gagged, his lungs attempting to draw forth air which they no longer required, his not-quite solid teeth gnashing with one another, and his eyes turning to all places. He was, unmistakably, undeniably, alive-at least he thought so.
He looked down-concrete beneath him, old and half-broken, the whole place seeming a disheveled place more fit for ghosts than for people. In his prior life, it would have frightened him but now-but now, he felt so comforted in this place where little quantities of light filtered as he would have felt around a fire or wrapped in furs, while the great beasts roamed outside and the winds came forth in the high hills.
“Hello-” He attempted to say, the words feeling odd within his throat, “Is there anybody here? Hello?” No response-there came no response.
He ended up standing up, noting that there were some robes of an odd dark style upon him. He didn’t hate them. He stood up, feeling at the same time like this was something he had done innumerable times. “Very cheery reception, innit,” he shook his head, his hair of a surprising length and color too, who had blue hair?-, “very gloomy sort of place. Pretty cold too.”
He said this, and yet he felt not bothered by it-such base sensations came forth to him muted, and dull, like in a dream or surrounded by some great binding sheet. He put a hand to the nape of his neck, and jumped back a little as he looked at his reflecion upon a miniscule puddle of clear water.
It had stitches all over it, like the kind of dolls of straw and cloth with which he’d played as a child, and which seemed awfully large-but did not feel odd. The youth mused to himself, “...I’ve had a lot of wounds, but I don’t think I had this one.” he looked around, but was greeted only by the aformentioned sight he’d already witnessed. This was unknown to him, he who was-
Who was he?
He prodded his mind for answers, and indeed, there came many memories-the feel of a horse beneath him, the vast and overwhelming smell of the myriad brick-making factories and automobiles the first time he’d set foot in that grand city, the great sense of his muscles when they were pushed to their extremes, the soft gaze of his mother and the expectant ones of his siblings-But not a name. Or no-that wasn’t right. A name did come.
Mahito. That is the name which came-Mahito.
But that name wasn’t his. It didn’t sound like any language he knew, either. But he knew it was his, and it felt odd to have any other name but that. Mahito. He was Mahito.
He supposed there was no use fretting, and so he merely mused to himself, if only to hear the sound of his own voice-he wasn’t used to silence, he’d never liked it-That was still true, “At the very least that’s settled. Mahito-there are worse names. Once more: Anybody there?”
There wasn’t anybody-not a soul-even insects seemed lacking now that he had awakened. As though they could tell something-something strong and rotten-had come forth. Something deeply unnatural.
He acted as though he did not know what that thing was, deep down.
He made a purpose, within his mind, Mahito did, to leave that place-it was quiet, and he didn’t much like the quiet-that remained true. There was something cursed about that place, though he didn’t seem bothered. He left the place with ease, finding a spry nature to his limbs to a degree he hadn’t ever felt before-and he had hardly been an old man, stripped of strength.
The sun beat down upon him-too harshly. Before him stretched out a vast city-the great buildings of concrete and wood all present, towering before him-a distinctly different style from the great buildings he’d known prior, but undoubtedly, they were the work of man. Everything else, though-he felt like the crocodile, looking at the water and at the heavens
Humans did not simply-they were not what he’d seen prior: Oh, their flesh was there, their eyes and their noses and their hands-but that wasn’t all. No-he saw something else,something he at once recognized to be the soul, from which-like the smoke of a great flame-there came energy, which writhed and moved. They looked-they felt mutedly, like clay, so physical-all this worried, and confused him, even if it felt perfectly natural-like a piece of the world he’d simply never seen before, but which made all things fit better once it did.
He shook his head, and he looked at himself for a moment, before musing, “What is-no, who speaks to himself on the street?” And, Mahito fixing the muted robes upon himself, plastered the best smile he could upon his own face. He attempted to speak to the people around, “Excuse me, if it could be possible, but I am afraid I am quite lost. I do not very well know where I am, if I could know where-”
But he failed, and indeed, he saw nobody was watching him. Nobody paid him any heed. No heed at all. He noted, though he’d felt less the features of the people and favored the writhing mass of emotions around them and the shape of their soul-so unique, so unique!-they were not shaped like those of his homeland.
In stature, they roughly resembled the people of Mexico, but their features were different, and the shape of their eyes as well: The way they walked, even that, was different, and their color of their skin was well-though he’d had a rather pale complexion himself for his country's average. So, he attempted to speak once more, placing his hand around the back of his head, and saying, “Ah-ah, how very silly of me! I am afraid I’m not from around, but please, well-” And he attempted to make himself known through gestures.
Once more, no one paid him any heed. No heed at all.
Slowly, very slowly, a frown ame upon his brow. The horrible thought came over him-but no. They simply were ignoring him, that was all. That was a custom of the local people here, perhaps-Chinese, or whatnot.
He tried multiple methods to get others to pay some kind of note to him: but they all failed-he could throw to one place or another the things around them. They saw that. They did not see him.
He grabbed ahold of the arm of one man, a balding bloke with a thick and heavy brow. “You see me, do you not,” he asked, soon continuing, “I am-this is but my imagination, no?” The man attempted to shake him off, but found no such thing, and eventually continued forth. A very confused and frightened expression came across the bloke's face.
More importantly, he was frightened the moment he touched the man-it felt odd. That thing-the soul, it had felt within his grasp-he left like one who touched cardboard or clay, as though a single push-as though there was no pressure, no hardness behind it. Not for him,
“They can’t see me,” Mahito realized, wrapping his arm around himself, and he told himself, “I might as well not exist.”
…
He walked around without aim for some time afterwards, finding the cheery day hateful-the sun, the eye of heaven, had its place so high and so lofty as ever. It never wondered, never doubted. He wished he were the sun. It must not be very complicated.
He noted them too, eventually-the monsters.
They were ugly things, or at least they should be-their limbs were odd, and strangely placed. Their eyes are many and abundant-their mouths odd and numerous. Their hues of skin, and the smell and color of their flesh-
They didn’t seem to be noticed, either, not anymore than he was which felt-odd. He looked human, didn’t he? But some deep, throbbing part of him, told him with mocking glee he very much no longer was.
He approached one of the creatures more closely, out of curiosity, waving at it-his pale skin tattered with stitches softly touched by the sun's light. “Hello there, now what might you be,” and Mahito scratched at the nape of his neck, “I’ve not been having an altogether great day today. Odd bloke.”
The creature turned to see him-at least those creatures seemed to notice him. It was certainly an ugly creature, with three mouths and half a dozen eyes, five scraggled limbs without any god-given rhyme to them, and an odd hue between green and purple for its hide. But he didn't have any repulsion towards it whatsoever.
After he’d spoken to it, it approached him at once, and that did startle him somewhat, but not as much as it should have. The creature didn’t bite him, or anything of the like, only-nuzzled him, somewhat. He’d touched its body-which felt odd beneath him, but oddly enough, more tangible and normal than the humans.
“Good boy, or gir-or-wahtever,” he said, the interaction not going precisely like had expected, patting one of its scraggled legs, “You don’t wanna eat me?”
The creature, it seemed, did not-it made a purring sort of noise, before going back to its station. He remained there dumbfounded for some moments-the monsters, at least, were not hostile to him.
Mahito walked around, observing humans wherever he could-even though they always left. The monsters retreated, too, but they returned upon seeing he didn’t have any quarrel with him. They acted almost-reverently, with him.
This continued until night fell upon the land, coating with its shadow the whole of the world-perhaps it was just him, but it appeared as though there crawled and appeared more of the creatures. With so many images and appearances as could be expected of God-fangs, and claws, and eyes and mouths. And he felt, simultaneously, like it was so very odd and like he belonged in no other place.
Mahito curled up against himself, bringing his arms around his knees as he sat in front of a windowpane, for the first time admiring his reflection, “This is not a dream, is it? But I do not-I do not feel dead.”
The figure on the other side of the pane was not him, that much was for certain: its eyes were, on the left, dark blue, and the right, a grey he’d not seen outside of storybooks. His legs-the skin there did not match that in the rest of his body, and instead was a dark and lustrous black-he resembling some odd breed of horse rather than race of man.
His frame was lanky and healthy in a way even in his best years he had never been, though at least his face seemed as old as he’d been in the past-when had that been?-and the stitches-they were a part of him. Even his hands-they were soft, and unblemished. Somehow, he knew that was the oddest part.
“Why did this happen, what did I do-Ah!,” he realized at once, and immediately felt an immense amount of guilt. He questioned himself, “Why did I not think upon-God, oh, it is to you I should have turned first.”
And so, there, he prayed: he clasped his hands together, stitched amalgamations though they resembled. He let fly prayers, as odd as they were desperate, “Oh, God-I confess, though my memories are odd, I have hardly been the greatest saint, and none can be perfect. But-great God, I beg of you, what am I, and what has become of me? I feel in whole like that monster Victor crafted in Shelley’s book and which I know I now resemble. I beg of you-open my eyes, I beg of you-I do not even remember my old name! In the name of your blessed son, Jesus Christ, amen.” He felt ridiculus for adding mention to a book in his prayer, but the prayer came unbidden and without control.
For how could he forget, the God whom his ancestors had worshipped, in that great unbroken line for so many generations, doubtless all the way back to the subjugations of his country and land of Mexico by Spain. How could he forget? He waited anxiously, his heart beating within his chest, faster than it should be possible for a human.
There was no answer, none at all, though in truth he’d not grown to be so old without knowing this was how God dealt.
“No response, is there? That is alright: Everything is alright," and so, the terribly lonely figure made himself stand up, “I feel well and alive. That ought to count for something. All is alright.”
This he spoke to himself, as though wishing, and as though expecting that it might grow true.
…
A week and more had passed before he knew it. It was odd, how time passed when not labor,and not school,-no family- and nothing called him. He failed to eat, and yet found no need for it-indeed, as though he was nothing but a wisp of cloud. And yet, he did not vanish like one.
And he saw all others perfectly well: he saw the men and women and children going along. And, everyone once in a while, he heard some awful shrieks-he knew they were not human, and a part of him knew they came from those friendly monstrous creatures. He didn’t fully know, nor wish to know, why they came so. Their voices were awful.
He settled around a school there was-something sweet, awful pleasant, about staying somewhere where there were lots of people. He knew they were resigned and saddened and-it made him cheery, for some reason. He learned far faster than he should have-truly, perhaps he had the wit of the monster which Mahito now resembled, for reading came as easily as if he had known it all along.
It wasn’t altogether difficult, prounciation being only a modicum of difficulty more than that-but it was enough, to entertain this shiftless and hollow existence of his.
…
Mahito had managed to cheer himself up somewhat that day! Somewhat was the center of the word but, be as it may, he'd dealt with this problem as he did with all of the great problems of life: By not thinking about them. If it could not be dealt with by one’s acts, what point was there in wondering such things?
Mahito prayed to the saints, to little use, but that was well. All was well: At least one here knew how all this ended. He spoke to a pigeon-or a bird which resembled it, as Mahito played with a stick, “I do tell you, I’ve done and gone and given it very great thought: perhaps I am a ghost, or something of the like, and for some reason I’ve wandered so far. But that’s all well!”
The pigeon, being nothing but a pigeon, a being of limited intelligence tied to its carnal pleasures-its soul felt so small,and so hard, a pebble compared to the humans’s soft lump clay-did nothing. The living humans had left. They always did, when he came-if they could, eventually.
“This is what I’ve become, haven’t I?” Thus he mused to himself, that primal part of oneself which always clamors for violence feeling far stronger than it ought to. He mused further, “Speaking to pigeons and drawing in the sand like a child. Could I not at least be not alone? Well-I suppose you are here-”
As though feeling the depth of the pressure which was placed upon it, by the grave desires of this one hapless boy, the wretched and miniscule bird vanished from sight-it simply blew the air with its wings, and left.
The smile Mahito had forced upon his face came down just a little.
It was simply-”There is nothing to do: There is nothing worse than being without work,” thus he mused to himself, “nothing worse. Work-It drives out vices. Idle thoughts.”
He sat there, in silence, for some very many moments: for in spite of all the voices around him, he did not belong among them. He was less than nothing. They knew not of him, he’d learned their speech with astonishing speed, but how was he to use it?
Perhaps, indeed, all was not well.
…
Here the thing which called itself Mahito remained: But while he did these things, another figure went along there, one made of human flesh and blood, but within which great amounts cursed energy did still lurk. It was a woman of perhaps some thirty years, a former sorcerer, whose name he never did learn.
He registered her, but did nothing regarding her. The petty Curse user herself, however, did-”What an awful feeling.” This she herself said. She wondered, then, if there was some cursed womb around there, or some kind of special-grade cursed object.
But nothing outright caught her attention-whatever spirit it was, it was not very territorial-curses of grade three and grade four crawled around freely as it so pleased them. Disgusting things-perhaps she no longer worked in that thankless society, but they were disgusting nonetheless. The stronger ones too-simply in a different manner.
Seeing as her sister was still talking things out with the blokes for whom they had been hired-the yakuza were always so very boring, non-sorcerers always were, so concerned over trivial things-she’d wandered along, up to this small place. But they paid well, and shikigami made it so easy to wreak unseen damage. Such things did the blind and naive curse-user think.
“I suppose, let I deal with the consequences later,” she had mused to herself, straightening out her professional if ordinary robes, “Let’s see what is about.” The presence was great enough she half-thought a finger of Sukuna was hidden somewhere. They left those fingers in all kinds of places.
She’d always thought it unwise-and apparently some now-dead boy had gone at eaten them.
The feeling had only gotten stronger as she entered the peaceful park-even the non-sorcerers, she supposed, were cunning enough to know when something was off. Though the day was pleasant, and she new the neighborhing places populous, silence reigned. Well, at least the cursed user noted most of them had sense-an old man and some teenage boy, likely skipping school, were there. Both had awful fashion senses, that was for certain.
But the awful feeling-it had become worse-yes, it was most definitely here.
“Damn, the thing must be slippery indeed,” she did her best non-sorcerer impression, who knew how those creatures thought, and asked the two human-looking creatures around, “Felt anything wrong, or disturbing, have you?” She’d gone too far to back off. The old man remained asleep, but the boy was clearly awake, and responded to nothing. This annoyed her, so the curse-user threw some dust at him, and said, “You there, kid, I asked you a question.”
The child-seeming to be a youth of perhaps fifteen years-had originally noted her words not at all. It seemed enthralled on its own moping, the dopey brat. But upon feeling the dust which came from her foot, he blinked, and looked at her.
His eyes were like those of the dead-inmediatly upon making eye contact with him, she felt a shiver of awful might run and crawl up her spine. Regardless, it’s grey and blue eyes looked at her, and it looked around as though being astonished, “You are-it is to me you are referring to? You can-see me?" The boy's voice was full of hope, but had an odd quality to it.
At first, she responded without thought,”Who else, you fool.” But the words were odd. See him? She strove to look and attempt to feel more closely-and there it was. She felt so very foolish for not seeing it sooner.
The boy-he was the special-grade apparition.
It rambled on uselessly, a slight blush upon its own face, in an useless faccisimile of a human-the emotions had vanished from the second-grade curse users face, only quiet resignation remaining. “Oh-oh, I am quite sorry for having been so very rude: I did not mean it, it is just-only the creatures have seen me thus far, though some animals sensed me. I am so glad-I ought to introduce myself, my name is-I am pretty sure it is Mahito.” He put his hand to his chest as he ended up saying it.
She allowed it to speak, and, immediately thereafter, managed to snap back to reality as she saw it playing with its own hair-a blue, disheveled, mess. She drew her sword from its scabbard- a very pretty cursed tool, if she thought so herself.
She swung it, with deadly accuracy, moving so swiftly as any bird ever has, and wielding it as though it were an extension of her limbs rather than something separate. She nearly cut off the thing's hand, leaving it dangling, and she trusted it straight into its chest.
She couldn‘t handle much against a true special grade, but due to its placid behavior, she assumed it was merely a cursed womb. It did, however, jump back with such speed, nearly tearing down a tree that it almost made her reconsider.
The useless non-sorcerer remained asleep-It was infuriating how oblivious they were. She could certainly understand Geto’s desire, even if his plan had been foolishly impossible, even for one so mighty as he. The sound of the heaving breaths and odd noises of fright which came from the curse brought her back to reality.
“Would you look at that,” she said, forcing herself to remain calm, observing the red blood which coated her blade and the floor, “You got even the color right. No need to pretend, though, cursed spirit. It’s clear what you are.”
She licked her blade, if only to check-it was, most certainly, a cursed spirit-the same rotten taste, no matter how human it may look.
…
The world opened before him, like the bright ripening of a flower, full of all its beauty and all its thorns. Mahito’s breath was staggered, though, for some reason, he did not feel so anxious. He looked down-blood, red and dark, seeped from his own body-his hands and wrists were ruined, the bone being clearly visible and the dark flesh all torn. He didn’t think, in such moments, that he was a ghost-a ghost would not bleed in such a manner. And that thing she called him-
“Cursed spirit? What do you mean,” but the pain came, grinding and fresh, and so certain offense he said, “And be careful with that-do you wish to kill me?”
He hated how fresh and how light the pain made him feel-his body welcomed it, as though he were suffering but exhausted from a good run-as if his blood wasn’t seeping outwards. The woman of perhaps thirty, as nondescript and homogenous as everyone in the damned country outwardly looked to him, charged-even her soul seeming to be a boring thing-with enormous speed, flashing that deadly blade.
He shocked himself with the swiftness of their movements: he had retreated with immense speed, faster both than the hawk and the motorcar. She went forth, and as they moved, the concrete heaved beneath his feet, and a tree-aged, ancient-broke entirely.
“That’d mean you were a living creature in the first place, curse,” such things did the woman say, but her anxiety seemed to be rising with every retreat of his, “I mean to exorcise you.”
Exorcise him. As though he were some demon, being driven out by a priest or warded off through some other method: But he didn’t know demons could bleed. He certainly knew he wasn’t one of the fallen angels.
His ears ringed-he had kept bleeding, though a part of him was awakening-was he to die here? He knew it somehow he’d-the woman stabbed him again, tore his neck in twain and cut off one of his pale ears, and kicked him so hard a bone broke.
She tried to flee soon thereafter: As though noting he was swifter than she’d thought, and wishing to act as though little had happened.
And oh-how could he have forgotten! How could that piece of knowledge have exited from his brain-he’d died! He’d died, yes-the illnesses which God so often sent against him at last grew greater, and all at once for at that point of life he’d been cheery, and healthy, and he’d even had some lands at his ripe young age-and he’d died. He’d coughed and he’d lost fluids until he died, and he couldn't eat anything, and then he’d died. Yes, he’d died. He’d died in pain.
His ears ringed. He bled, and he bled red. Was he to die again? He refused.
Yes, he refused-he refused, and he willed himself to be whole once more-he willed himself to be whole. And so he was. His flesh mended itself, his skin grew back over where it had been lost, and his bones went together again. His ear grew back. Yes-he was whole. He was healthy. He was alive.
She began to attempt to flee, away from him. He laughed in delight, and he jumped with obscene speed towards the woman, and he asked her, “This is what you do? You prod me, and you make me bleed? And now you leave-No. I refuse.”
And, in magic greater than in any oriental tale, his flesh simply answered his call-like it answered if he wished to swim, or to walk. A blade came forth, his whole arm turned into a menagerie of things not of bone, but of steel, and at once, the woman found herself without an arm. It lay on the ground, the dark liquid all around it, the flesh torn as though it were mere meat.
She shrieked upon seeing this, and he laughed-he shouldn't laugh, so why did he?-and she said, “You-you wretched parasite-is this how you kill people, acting all meek? My arm! Oh-you shall pay for that.”
And she attempted to strike at him. His body moved by itself-it was so easy, so easy, to catch her blows. It was exhilarating. He let go a full, true blow against her after an exchange of a few blows, and he reached.
There he found her soul, which like the clay simply begged to be warped, and he molded it.
She screamed, and all at once her body changed-it was like a kernel of corn within a pot of iron or clay, kept with flames of gas or wood beneath it. She expanded, going beyond what she should have-her expression contorting and remaining fixed, her proportions being warped beyond repair, her very clothes being torn. The end result was chaos. It resembled a snake and a locust more than a human. It was not shaped in the image of God any longer.
And he laughed, he laughed at its hilarity, and it felt good.
“What am I doing? What have I done-,” this he asked himself, as he gazed at the sight before him, “I have done a rather bad thing. Why is it that I laugh?” The woman was dead. It took her some time to die, as the wretched and impotent creature, shaped like the things he worked before learning how to mold clay into solid little soldiers and horses. It died in contortions of pain. And he’d laughed.
“How did I do that-” this is what he asked next, “how. I should not be able to do that.” He touched the dead thing before him, outside of his control. That thing which had once been a woman was there.
Humans shouldn’t be able to do that: he’d heard people blame spirits for a menagerie of things but not-not this.
He looked around-at least not many were here, and so, her corpse was not conspicuous. And what had she called him, “A curse? She said I was pretending when I attempted to be polite-I’m not a human.” This he knew at once. He’d died, and he was alive, but he knew he had not been resurrected. He had flesh but it wasn't truly flesh.
But then what was he?
A part of him answered at once, knowing innately like one might know one has two legs and two arms-he was born from hatred. From malice, from fear, which humans had for one another-he was a mirror of humanity. He’d only needed a little push by the blade to realize it.
Still-he remembered. He remembered he’d once been a human even if-he felt nothing. He killed someone, and he felt nothing other than mild glee. Mild. “I still should do something,” he told himself, straightening out his dark robes, “I still ought to do something. I’ll bury her-do japanese bury their dead?” He didn’t really wish to try and go through old newspaper scraps to realize it, but he had his conviction-Wish she what she may, she was dead. He couldn’t ask her. He’d bury her-he’d even buried beasts before, how different could a woman be?
Perhaps he had disposed of her so pitilessly as had done a pig, into which he had once drove steel blades through their hearts, or a chicken and roosters whose head he’d torn off. “I’ll bury her,” he determined, picking up the great corpse, “I’ll bury her. That ought to count for something.”
Mahito repeated this to himself, as though it would make him believe it.
…
Mahito found his body answered to his own thoughts and desire with obscene ease after having done it the one time-like some duck which is exposed to water. And his own soul felt firmer now-reinforced itself. There weren’t any graveyards, but he wished to be rid of all this so soon as possible.
And so, the other blokes found him when he was mid-way through the purpose of throwing the mutated dead creature into a hole, as a hound digs its bones.
The chief figure among them, a woman strikingly similar to the shape of the other woman before what he’d done to her, looked at him very attentively. Seeing this, he brought a hand to the back of his head, “-I greet you. Is there something which I can help you with?”
The woman had a hand upon a sword-he hadn’t ever really realized the Japanese still did such a thing. She took it from its sheathe and back into it in the blink of an eye, tearing at a little monster with wings like a fly that’s been moving there and ah-it shrieked so very badly.
He knew where those voices had come from, then. Was that what they wished to do to him?-and she ended up asking him, or rather affirming, “You’re not a human. What are you doing? What is that-it is dead, but it is not vanishing.”
The individuals around her, all tough-looking people, did not seem to see him. He ended up bringing a hand to the back of his neck. Very sheepishly he said, “Well-it used to be a human, but I-Let us say it is no longer a human. I want to give it a holy sepulchre, that’s all.”
Some very pitiful holy sepulchre, he was pretty sure he’d buried one of his dogs-why couldn’t he remember its name?-in a similar-looking place, and so, it was hardly befitting of a human. The woman,however, seemed to understand at once. Her teeth gnashed, and she said to him, “it is her is it not?” He could merely nod. “We left, but you monsters remain,” she said, then continued, “I suppose I was once a Jujutsu sorcerer-curse, I will exorcise you.”
Their battle was brief, only some nine blows exchanged in all. His body moved with immense swiftness, and his flesh turned into pitiless steel once more-he cleaved her intestines open to the world. The other blokes grew anxious, and attacked blindly, and so, in his frenzy, he slaughtered them as well. His mouth unhinged at one point, rows of teeth like savage needles manifested, and he tore in twain the neck of the sorcerer. It perished quickly enough, her dark blood coating the earth. He’d also warped the bodies, he noted, of many of those he had so pitilessly slaughtered.
“Well, now-” Mahito blinked, and looked around, his multi-colored eyes wretched, “I really am a monster, am I not? I do not think I should remain here.” he searched, deep within him, for pity or for guilt-but he knew them not, and his own body questioned why they should care about such nameless creatures.
One of the creatures had run off, for he’d warped them into curselike entities, and he said, “... This is not a very good situation, ain't it? Someone's going to see it.” The weight of this settled and, his body noting the fear of reprimand and death-or exorcism, for were they right, was he even alive?-it agreed swiftly to run from there.
His legs were like wind, then, in such moments-but his heart was beating, and his face had an awful grin.
…
Mahito sat within the depths of the sewer. The darkness stretched out before him: vast and very deep, seeming less like merely the absence of light, and more a wide and powerful substance in and of itself. It disturbed him not at all: Rather, it provided him with a hearty comfort.
“I think,” he told the creatures-many of which had continued to follow him, even when he spat them out,“Nobody shall reach me here. What do you think?”
The creatures, the poor hapless wretches which he had transfigured into this things, gave no response. He’d swallowed them on a whim, a successful whim. They were dumb, poor things-he’d stripped them of any kind of humanity or intellect. Their eyes wandered to all places, and none would have once thought them humans. Other than he: he knew very well-their souls, while changed, were still unmistakably human.
“I’m not very scared of normal authorities: They can’t even see me,” he noted, and he said, mostly to himself, seeing as those creatures couldn’t respond, “But those others could hurt me. You don’t have to follow me, you know?”
The mute beasts gave no response. He ended up sighing, the sight of them creating odd feelings within them. As he had learned to do, he called them forth, and he made them miniscule and swallowed them, so he was all alone again. They did not resist at all.
“Poor creatures,” he mused to himself, now all alone, “What have I done?” This he said: but he felt nothing at all, as though there were only a muted lump of ice where his heart once was.
He remained there, thinking, as he always seemed to do-and indeed, the government of the Japanese was a very good one, for even their sewers had a very shapely quality to it.
If there was something he’d proved many times over the past few days, it was that he was overwhelmingly, notably, not any kind of creature resembling a human. He, for one tested out his arm-turning the hand up to the wrist into a great jagged blade of steel, turning him into a mockery of a praying mantis, was obscenely easy.
He turned it back into a humanoid hand, with similar ease, “It’s a pretty good ability.” He admitted to himself, even if he knew somehow that he was merely scratching at his abilities boundless depth, “A very fun one. At least it seems I’m a decently strong monster.”
Strength was good: It was through force of arms that all things were done, and without that kind of martial pride a man could not walk to any place and do anything in life. If he were a monster, that was true even more so.
“Should I simply allow myself to be killed,” he questioned, vomiting one of the little things the humans turned into-miniscule things contorted with pain- to toy and fiddle with it, “Maybe it would be better. And it wouldn’t much be suicide.”
He rested his chin upon his hand, but in spite of the calm way he spoke to himself about it, Mahito felt the whole of him viscerally reject such an idea.
The old portion of him remembered a life of woe and of cheer, which was cut short at its summit, and the new portion of him-though a lesser difference existed between the two than he should like-was a curious, childlike thing, which with wonder viewed all around him. No-he would not allow himself to be willingly killed.
A miniscule sound created a sense of worry around him, and so, he at once swallowed the thing, and jumped up with immense fright. He did not know how he had not noted it prior, but now that it was in close proximity to him he felt this kind of immense power, which made him uneasy. He couldn’t tell much whether it was a human, or a being like himself, or perhaps both, but he attempted to get out of there as swiftly as he could.
His teeth gnashed very terribly, not out of anger but out of fright, as the legs of Mahito moved almost with more swiftness than the brain which commanded them could grasp. “This is not very good-I was surprised," he noted, and he soon said, “I do not think I much like being surprised."
Talking to himself, it seemed, had with shocking swiftness become an ingrained habit.
He attempted to leave the place with great strength, and indeed, he found some tunnels and some other places, and he was altogether certain in his escape. He clenched his fists, only to find himself face to face with two figures.
He recognized, at once, all he had done was speed up his meeting of the two of them: They seemed fearsome, the both of them, the taller of the two being a creature pale of skin and possessing dark marks through its body. A pair of hornlike branches came forth from where there should have been eyes, and one of its arms was fully covered by cloth. Immense energy and power radiated from it.
The other was far shorter, but somehow, seemed even more intimidating-It's teeth were a dark black shade, as he had seen when it had exchanged words with the creature by its side. It had upon its head an open mound resembling a volcano, and a very real amount of smoke and fumes came froth-it had but one, singular massive eye, with its hue of skin being somewhat pallid, and it possessed some brightly colored robes.
Both were fearsome, terrifying creatures, and by assessing their soul and the fumes of energy from it, he very much recognized he had not seen something even close to their level since God had brought him back in this form. His limbs tensed, somewhat calmed by seeing they were not human, but otherwise assessed by their power.
“Is this the special grade apparition, Hanami?” The volcanic spirit said as much, a judgemental sort of gaze to its eye, “It seems a bit wimpy, if I say so myself.” Its intelligence was apparent, but that served to distress Mahito more-if hostile, an intelligent foe was far mightier.
“You needn’t be so rude to him, Jogo,” the creature referred to as Hanami said as much, and though it had no pupils Mahito knew it was peering straight at him, “And it is clear it was just a womb a little while ago. It is a child: It can’t be more than a month old.” Which was, indeed, true.
Mahito had attempted, as the two shared some conversation, to slowly back away. Nonetheless, this creature which was apparently known as Hanami called out-and it must be said, their words were not words but only chirping gibberish said in a soft and womanlike voice, whose meaning he nonetheless grasped to perfection, “Halt-why do you go? We hold no ill will towards you. We are all cursed Brethren. Have you a name?”
Finding this, he did stop, for he did not wish to antagonize it. Hanami didn't seem hostile, and said as much, which was more than the human had treated him with. “I apologize-i was startled, is all,” he said in a skittish manner, before continuing, “I do-I am rather certain my name is Mahito.”
Jogo ended up responding to him with swift haste, “Well, Mahito, we are very happy to meet you indeed.” His posture and gaze was intimidating, but seemed genuine.
Hanami nodded, and answered, “Likewise. Our finding you is very fortunate.” Mahito, calmed somewhat by the apparently nonhostile attitude of the two, allowed himself to wonder while his beating heart slowly slowed down.
“So-you two were searching for me,” he ended up asking at once, “or was it fully by chance?” He made his tone as polite as he could muster it. They did not seem altogether surprised by him, and Jogo’s first comment-he couldn’t deny compared to that Hanami he seemed wimpy-seemed to indicate their knowing of him.
“We have! Of course we have, and we came as soon as we could, hearing the disturbances in the area,” Jogo ended up straightening out his robes, though they seemed to have an eternal thin layer of soot fixed upon them, “we, the true humans, ought to stick for one another, Mahito!”
Mahito was about to open his mouth and ask as to whether there were more individuals in their group, or for clarification as to what Jogo meant, before he heard footsteps. The other, final figure, which had been hiding its presence-and Mahito had to admit he hadn’t truly finely-tuned that ability of his either-came forth. “My, what a merry little meeting! Seems the group grows larger by the day.”
Mahito turned at once, feeling the same sense of power, though less crude and more refined if that made sense, from the human. And there were myriad little, minuscule souls around him. The figure had long, black hair, with the kind of soft and somewhat feminine features the Japanese considered attractive. He seemed perhaps nearly thirty years in age, being clad in the robes of a monk, a Buddhist monk that is, and with sutures upon his forehead.
Mahito jumped, and attempted to run away from the human, for if the last encounter he had was something it proved, it was the hostility of humans towards things like him. Moreover, as he had a propensity to do, Mahito tripped, and fell upon his face, crushing it entirely.
The man laughed, and rather greatly at that, “Ha! And it is upon your face you fell-you have to admit there is some grace to this, Jogo. I didn’t think I was so frightening!" Mahito lifted himself up, and did his best to move away from the figure, still startled and full of fright.
Jogo gruffly admitted, “Maybe just a little bit, Geto.” The figure, apparently known as Geto, by now halted his laughter, but instead looked at him with a piercing and boundlessly smug gaze.
Mahito had calmed himself somewhat, and he managed to note the spirits seemed to be very calm when it came to the human, so he turned to Hanami, who had not laughed, and asked, “-yes, very hilarious-Does this mean, ah, that the both of you are working with this-human. Hanami? Jogo? He is not hostile towards you."
Hanami ended up helping him with their hand to hoist him up somewhat in a very gentle manner. Hanami ended up voicing with kindly patience, “he truly is scared, Jogo. yes-geto is a human, but is sympathetic to our cause. You needn’t fear him.” Mahito ended up standing fully, straightening out his robes, and nodding. Hanami ended up saying with calmness, “I do not think we truly introduce ourselves. I am she known as Hanami, there is Jogo, the human is known as Suguru Geto, and the little one hiding over there is Dagon. We found him a few days ago.”
Mahito had not noted the figure prior, having been overwhelmed by the two and then third figure stepping up in rapid succession, but there was a rather adorable octopus-like creature at the corner. He waved weakly at it, and the little thing waved back.
“Good! Now we’re all acquainted with one another, Hanami,” the human said, with a mock politeness that betrayed his annoyance-though neither of the other two seemed to know it-, “I, for one, shall cut to the chase: mahito, we are part of a group which wishes to rid this world of humans, at least in the most part, and so create a world where it is cursed spirits who reign.” After a moment, as though having it considered proper to say this, he ended up saying, “it would be a far sweeter world for you, rather than one where few can see you, and those who do, wish for your end.”
Jogo ended up cackling widely once Geto had finished. He stood in front of Mahito with astonishing quickness, and he outstretched one of his hands. He was a short little figure, but he had an attitude and pride which made him seem much mightier, “Indeed! All the humans lying, cheating, all their wretchedness and deceit-we are their truth, Mahito! We are the truth sprung up from this disgusting world of thor own creation-and we shall burn it all, until only truth remains!”
Mahito was, frankly, somewhat overwhelmed. He frowned slightly, and he ended up voicing the foremost of his worries, “Why do you help then, Geto, if you are a human as well? I do not mean to be rude, but-I thought of it." It gave him some more time to think about it all.
Geto took the question in stride, a mocking little smile coming upon his lips. He brought a pair of fingers to his chin, and asked, “You are a curious little thing, aren’t you, Mahito?” He nonetheless answers soon enough, though the words seemed not his own truth, as though he had come up with it immediately, “Being a sorcerer is a thankless job: In truth, it is an inane cycle. Humans are wretched little things. I am so tired of all things, Mahito-Why not tear it all apart?”
Mahito could tell it was a lie: It was very convincingly delivered, from the features of the hands to the tone of voice, but his expression had a certain immense smugness. And his soul-it felt weird, odd. Not whole by itself. But he nodded-and the human didn’t seem to note his doubt.
At least the other two, and Mahito’s prior life had been excellent at teaching him to tell lies, were honest. Perhaps too honest, indeed, and perhaps the fact that he was one of these demonic creatures same as them contributed, but he felt much better approaching them than he.
“Mahito,” Hanami ended up saying, as she stepped closer to him, outstretching a hand, “that is what we fight for, but on a deeper level, we are curses. You must have been alone, and in a hostile world like this. Let us stick together: We shall not forsake our own.”
Geto looked annoyed by this, most likely the length of the whole conversation, though he hid it in a way that managed to deceive the other two. But little things betrayed it: His eyes wandered, and his foot tapped. But Mahito-Mahito, frankly, was touched by this.
Their goal was not very attractive to him-it seemed too dangerous, and too convoluted, and he had once been a human himself. But they approached him, Hanami and Jogo at least-Geto seemed to have his own plots-with honesty and camaraderie. Even if it turned out to be a lie, he chose to take it.
“Very well,” he ended up saying, accepting Hanami’s hand, “I’ll join you a lot. It’s true-some humans tried to kill me, but I triumphed. I’ll join you.” Jogo joined in the shaking of hands as well, and Dagon approached more closely, and tried the best he could. Mahito found the juvenile creature endearing.
“I thought it would be so-then it was you who killed those two second-grade curse users, Mahito?” Geto asked him as much, seeming very certain to already know the answer. Mahito nodded, and answered that he thought he had. Geto gave him a smile, genuine with its glee, but not very forthcoming with its intent, “I thought as much. Let us get out of here, my friends-I hold that you’ll achieve some very great things, Mahito.”
Mahito went along with them, feeling a sort of joy at walking fully alongside others, not merely as a spectre crawling unseen and unwanted.
It made him happy.