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Prologue: The Flower Thief’s Favor

Prologue: The Flower Thief’s Favor

CROSSROADS were peculiar places—vital, mystical points in space where worlds collided and monsters were wont to appear.

At an intersection dim with fading twilight, the green light of a crosswalk began to flash. There, the bridge leading out of town encountered a bypass that hugged the mountainside. A car surged across the bridge, headed home after a day’s work, its driver eager to slip into the stream of traffic before the signal changed. Hues of lilac and lavender faded to deep indigo where the sky confronted the horizon, pedestrians’ silhouettes melding with darkness on the periphery of headlights.

The signal turned red. Desperate to somehow scoot around the corner before the traffic intersecting the bridge was given the green light, the car tailgated the one ahead.

Squealing brakes pierced the air. The slam of metal on metal reverberated, followed by a cacophony of shattered glass—and again, and again.

The perturbing symphony repeated as first a moped, heeding the green light, sped forward. Unnoticed by the car that veered into its path, it crashed head-on, toppling sideways and skidding into the intersection. The driver of the car yanked belatedly on the steering wheel to avoid it but immediately rammed into the cars waiting at the opposite red light. One after another, a pileup of shrieking vehicles ensued.

Two people were killed and three others critically injured. Accounting for those who sustained minor injuries, ten people in total were harmed, the most grievous incident that the prefectural police had handled in years.

***

THIN wisps of cloud blanketed the dusk sky. The crosswalk flickered green.

The dim, ghostly intersection was completely void of cars. A quiet Sunday in a countryside town ensured no rush-hour traffic, yet the main road and bridge had been closed in precaution. Congestion was surely occurring elsewhere as a result.

“I only have…fifteen minutes, huh?”

A slim man with smooth, pale features stood directly in the middle of the eerie crossroads, mumbling to himself as he peered at his watch. No time to dawdle.

At that time of year—a Sunday in April—sakuras bloomed throughout the town although the temperature plummeted at sunset. The man shuddered before squinting up at the traffic lights, his shivering shoulders clad in a bright red uniform.

That glaring green light continued to blink.

The man wore his hair in a neat, silky ponytail, and as a particularly chilly breeze whistled past, it whipped the jet-black strands into the air.

“If only it had never happened.”

A sorrowful voice keened alongside the wind.

“If only I could turn back time.”

Several bouquets had been laid at the side of the road in mourning.

“Stop, stop! Stop!”

“It’s too late,” the young man murmured as he listened, his gaze cast down.

The signal winked frantically, an incessant beat of green light.

He carefully scanned his surrounds, seeking the source of the cries. “You can’t turn back time,” he said quietly, lullingly. “What’s done is done. The dead can never come back to life.”

His voice was a little high for a man, and its clear, tranquil timbre strove to soothe the wailing entity.

“No! This… This can’t have happened. I won’t believe it!”

A whirlwind scattered the floral tributes across the street. Buds tore from nearby trees, sweeping across the intersection as if in a blustering tantrum.

Amid the storm, the man finally glimpsed what was causing the disruption.

Oh… It’s a key chain of some sort. A small plushie? Maybe it belonged to the woman on the moped.

The moped rider, a young woman, had died as a result of the crash. That tiny key chain, once so treasured, had become a vessel for the regrets of those involved in the incident and their loved ones. The most likely cause, he reasoned, was that the moped’s strewn luggage hadn’t been fully cleared in the aftermath.

But given the location, this sort of thing is bound to happen. Not only is it a crossroads, but one at the end of a bridge. And the accident happened at twilight. Talk about spiritual overload.

Internally, he loosed an exhausted sigh.

The town was rich in ancient history. It was surrounded on all sides by the winding slopes of the Chugoku Mountains, nestled in a basin that supplied several streams—a natural hotbed for mountain spirits.

The area’s spiritual activity was closely monitored for that exact reason, and the town’s tranquil, unchanging atmosphere generally prompted very little commotion. Without several, simultaneous spiritual triggers, accidents rarely spawned restless ghosts, regardless of a tragedy’s scale.

Not long after the accident, the crosswalk signal developed a troublesome malfunction. It flashed green and, no matter how long a pedestrian waited, never went back to red. Sometimes it worked as intended, yet the glitch always eventually recurred. The council had even attempted to cut the light’s power and employed a traffic guard to direct the intersection instead, but the signal seemed to have a mind of its own: it turned itself on and green all the same.

The error occurred only during the fleeting minutes of early evening. The crosswalk was not a busy one, but for the handful of pedestrians that happened to use it, that brief malfunction had the potential to be lethal. It needed to be fixed, and soon.

Thus, after a call from the police, the young man was dispatched to do exactly that.

“I bet that’s why you took on so many people’s regrets,” the man said to the key chain. “That’s got to feel heavy, huh? But you can be at peace now. Those regrets aren’t yours to shoulder.”

He raised his right hand, forming a mudra with his first two fingers pointed. He slashed them through the air four times vertically, then five times horizontally, while chanting, “Rin, pyou, tou, sha, kai, jin, retsu, zai, zen! All that is pure shall not be corrupted. Exorcise and purify. O sacred flame, holy water, divine wind—kyuu kyuu nyo ritsu ryou!” He clapped his palms together with a powerful whap!

As though blown away by a force more powerful, the thrashing whirlwind faded and dispersed. The small, worn keychain tumbled to the asphalt.

The man bent to pick it up with a sigh of relief. “I’ll have you sent to her family, so at least you’ll be able to rest in peace at home.” He carefully tucked the plushie into the inner pocket of his jacket, then checked his watch once more before nodding in satisfaction. “Done, and with time to spare! A… ACHOO!” He sniffled. “Ghhh, it’s so cold out here. I knew I should’ve worn another layer…”

He hunched his shoulders, rubbing both arms to stave off the chill. His nametag, attached to his breast pocket, fluttered in the breeze. Beside his photo, the text read:

“Misato Miyazawa

Abnormal Disaster Unit, Crisis Management Division

General Affairs Department

Tomoe Town Hall”

The man with long, flowing black hair and delicate features was employed by the local government in Tomoe, a town in northern Hiroshima Prefecture.

“Now I’m supposed to go straight to Ozekiyama Park, right? Ugh… But I’ll get paid for overtime…and that might lessen the pressure for next month slightly.”

Oh, and he was poor. Very poor.

Sniffing pitifully, he returned the way he came—and was met by two figures approaching from the other direction, only just visible before the sunset. They were men around the same age as Misato, and both very familiar to him. One was a fellow exorcist (and his landlord), and the other man was a colleague from the town hall. The latter had only recently transferred to Misato’s unit, just three days prior, yet they had known each other since high school. The man casually waved a hand in greeting, which Misato returned with a quick flick of his fingers.

“Ryouji, Hirose! I did it!” Misato closed the distance between them at a jog.

The trio was unaware that in six months’ time, they would face their most vicious foe thus far. That soon, Misato would reunite with a woman he’d taken a passing fancy to in his college days, and Ryouji with the sister lost since childhood. The oncoming case that spring, however, was the very first they faced as a team.

***

TAKAYUKI Hirose was twenty-three years old and a civil servant. Although he was in just his second year of postcollege employment, Town Hall had suddenly issued him a change in position. Usually, personnel reshuffled on a three-year basis, so the transfer was in itself surprising. For his first year, Takayuki had been assigned to the Housing Maintenance Unit in the Property Administration Division, where he had overseen Tomoe’s municipal housing. His new post, however, was in a different department entirely.

He was moving, to be precise, to the Abnormal Disaster Unit, part of the Crisis Management Division.

Overall, the Crisis Management Division’s role was to prevent crime, ensure road safety, and respond in cases of natural disaster. The division was composed of two units: the Crime and Disaster Prevention Unit and the Abnormal Disaster Unit. Not only was Takayuki’s transfer unexpected, but the latter unit was so unique that only a few of its kind existed throughout the whole of Japan.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Takayuki had quietly scoffed in disbelief.

He’d been placed with the ghost hunters.

***

“HI there, Hirose. Welcome to the ADU! It’s good to have you!” said Takayuki’s boss-to-be, grinning widely.

The day after receiving notice of his reassignment, Takayuki was visiting the unit office, ready to begin the transfer process. His new manager’s name was Toshimi Yoshida. The man was in his fifties and slight in build. Though the lilt of his accent clearly belonged to the local area, the prevailing impression of his voice was that of eloquence and wisdom.

Unlike Takayuki, Yoshida had been hired as a specialist, so there was very little chance that he would ever work in a different unit. He’d been there for decades, slowly climbing his way up the ladder. And although Yoshida was introduced to Takayuki as a skilled practitioner of Shugendo who’d obtained strong spiritual power through rigorous training on Mount Daisen…the magnitude of such feats was lost on Takayuki. He barely knew what a mountain ascetic was, let alone what a particular type of spiritual power might be capable of. Nevertheless, he could appreciate what he’d heard of Yoshida’s warm character and reliable leadership.

The unit was located in the older of Tomoe Town Hall’s two buildings, the main premises constructed almost seventy years prior. The room was an old, pathetic excuse for an office, tacked onto the council’s assembly hall like an afterthought. It was on the third and therefore top floor, and only unit members had regular reason to be there. Hardly anyone else passed by, and the view out of the south-facing window was overshadowed by the five-story tower that was the newer building. Sunlight was a rarity; the Abnormal Disaster Unit shoved into a dark corner not only socially but also literally.

“Funny to be sayin’ that now, when this fella pops into our office basically every day anyway!” chortled Ookubo, a member in his midforties. He was the chief priest at a Tomoe shrine, and Takayuki had heard that his specialties were protective charms and barriers. His Hiroshima accent was particularly thick.

Yes, Takayuki had been visiting the unit almost every day for the past six months. His friend worked there, and, best of all, it was the perfect place to eat lunch. The office’s dismal location meant that it was quiet; no one bothered Takayuki on his break. So, he was more than familiar with his colleagues already.

“See? I told you so! Sure, everyone was saying that you’d be transferred here within three years… But two years? I think that’s a new record,” said Misato Miyazawa, the aforementioned friend. His name was notably feminine, yet he was most certainly a man.

Both Takayuki and Miyazawa stood at around five foot eight, but Miyazawa’s long hair, slender frame, smooth skin, and well-defined features created an androgynous air that Takayuki couldn’t hope to possess. His waist-length hair was almost always slicked back in a tidy tail. He spoke in a mild-mannered tone and, in his default state, plastered an archaic smile on his lips. That, at least, made him appear gentle and easy to approach, though he had an unfortunate tendency to withdraw into himself.

“About that, Miyazawa…” began Takayuki with a slightly resentful wince. “At the General Affairs Department’s end-of-year party, didn’t you tell the deputy mayor that we were classmates back in high school? Don’tcha think that’s why I got moved?”

“Wait… Seriously? You mean…?” Miyazawa paused. A hum of realization rippled through the office.

The mayor and deputy mayor often attended the department’s trips and get-togethers. Miyazawa had the misfortune to be seated beside the latter and mentioned their high school days while struggling for small talk, he’d later admitted to Takayuki.

“Um… I don’t know what to say. Sorry?” Miyazawa tilted his head and offered Takayuki a sheepish grin, scratching at his jaw awkwardly. For a moment, he was the perfect portrait of a timid man easily exploited, but his temperament belied his true nature. The reality was that he, too, was an expert in his field and possessed skills that allowed him to inhabit a world that Takayuki could not even see, much less enter.

He was a so-called onmyoji.

The meek classmate that Takayuki had always assumed utterly harmless was actually someone far, far grander—someone he’d thought existed only in movies and comics.

A real-life ghost hunter.

***

AT eight o’clock on the first Sunday of the new fiscal year, after waiting for Miyazawa to deal with a possessed crosswalk nearby, Takayuki visited Ozekiyama Park alongside Miyazawa; Tsujimoto, their senior coworker; and Miyazawa’s monk-maybe-thug landlord, Ryouji Karino. Karino would also assist the Abnormal Disaster Unit moving forward, Takayuki had learned.

Renowned for its flowering cherry trees, Ozekiyama Park was in Tomoe District. Its name aptly included the character for “mountain,” the park comprising a large hill. In spring, the landscape was baby pink with sakura petals, and in autumn, a rich scarlet with turning leaves. Its spectacle was appreciated by many, and the grounds were illuminated even at night.

Every first Sunday of April—that very day—people came to celebrate Tomoe’s Sakura Festival. That year, an unfortunate haze obscured the view, though it didn’t dampen the spirit of those enjoying the festivities. About four hours had passed since the end of the festival, the cleanup evidently finished but for one neat stack of supplies. Everyone appeared to have left.

The trees bloomed late in Tomoe, a consequence of the town’s high altitude in the Chugoku Mountains. While the rest of the country picnicked under a firmament of blossoms, suffused with springtime spirit, Tomoe lagged behind, waiting for the winter frost to melt. In fact, a cold snap had dogged the town since the end of March—frigid enough that standing still was uncomfortable even in thick clothing.

The four of them traversed the plaza at Ozekiyama’s peak on one such chilly evening, the wind strong enough that no one else dared stroll beneath the trees. As empty as the park was, floodlights bathed the burgeoning petals from below, casting a faint, pink glow in the night air.

“’Course we’re the only idiots who show up on a day like this. Lightin’ the whole place up for four guys? Talk about a waste of our taxes,” grunted Karino, who was swaddled in a nice, fur-lined parka. His wardrobe consisted of garments commonly adored by delinquents, and his signature slightly tinted sunglasses complemented every outfit—nighttime or not.

“Well, yeh can’t expect ’em to turn ’em off just for one night. Yesterday, the park was all busy with pre-festival parties, and the weather’s supposed to clear up and get a bit warmer tomorrow anyway,” Tsujimoto countered, his gentle voice characterized by a local burr. He was in his midthirties and dressed in the same uniform as Miyazawa and Takayuki, clad in crimson from top to bottom. He lifted his chin to study the flowers above, pushing his half-rim glasses up his nose.

“They’ve got a lot of tall trees here, huh?” observed Miyazawa as he followed his superior’s gaze to the warmly lit branches.

Miyazawa, also wearing the bulky Town Hall blouson, had opted for gray work pants instead of red, his simple sneakers protruding from their hem. Surrounded by cherry blossoms, his nose angled toward the sky, the onmyoji’s face in profile was beautiful and bewitching…but as was the case for Tsujimoto and Takayuki, the outfit was doing him no favors. The fact that he paid absolutely no mind to his mismatched getup prompted a private chuckle from Takayuki. He was beautiful, sure, but he didn’t exactly pursue it.

Takayuki turned to Miyazawa to share a factoid he’d happened to overhear at his previous position. “Apparently, this place has been a park for a hundred years, and the trees are pretty old. They were planted close together, so the foliage tends to be thicker toward the top.”

“Hey, you’re right,” concurred Tsujimoto with a sympathetic smile.

The majority of the sakuras throughout the park were of the ‘Somei-yoshino’ cultivar, accompanied by a few clusters of mountain cherries, weeping cherries, and double-flowered cherries. All were large, sturdy trees that had seen many years of the park’s history, though the boughs of the Yoshino cherries atop the hill, whether suffering from age or overcrowding, seemed to desperately strain upward in search of more sunlight. The flowers were actually rather difficult to see from Takayuki’s position below.

But despite all the joys of sakura season, the specialists of the Abnormal Disaster Unit had not come to Ozekiyama Park for a leisurely jaunt.

“Well, a tree ain’t gonna bloom close to the ground just so us lowly humans can see ’em better. But damn if I didn’t wish those branches were a li’l lower right now. If our culprit’s up on those high-ass branches, it’s gonna be a rough old job.” Propping his hands on his hips, Karino sighed.

He originally operated as a self-employed psychic—medium, exorcist, take your pick—all throughout Tomoe. More recently, he’d collaborated with Town Hall to solve a couple of cases, and otherwise worked a part-time job at a bar close to the municipal offices. Takayuki and Miyazawa had visited him there for drinks several times, sitting at the bar where he stood grilling various delicacies on the teppan.

“There are quite a few here that would be big enough to steal, huh?” mused Miyazawa. Tsujimoto nodded in agreement.

They had come to Ozekiyama Park to patrol the trees and trap a flower thief. That spring, reports of stolen sakura branches had been popping up all over Hiroshima Prefecture and its neighbors. The thief specifically targeted the boughs of large, old trees—branches almost as tall as an adult human. The resulting stumps were fresh and clean-cut as if someone had used a sharp blade to sever the limb from the trunk. There were never wood chippings or sawdust to suggest that they used a saw, nor identifiable footholds in the surrounding canopy, even with the disappearance of particularly high-growing branches. Given the mystical manner in which the perpetrator seemed to have floated into the treetops and sliced the wood, it was reasonable to assume the supernatural was involved.

Eventually, an instance of the crime was discovered in Ozekiyama Park, and the Abnormal Disaster Unit was dispatched to put an end to the thieving once and for all. The missing branch had been discovered the previous day during preparations for the Sakura Festival. With a wry smile, Tsujimoto had commented that when specters were suspected, rather than people or animals, any requests to cancel or postpone events due to safety concerns were untenable.

At first, Miyazawa, Tsujimoto, and Karino had planned to investigate as a trio, but because Takayuki had volunteered at the Sakura Festival earlier that day anyway, they decided the occasion was the perfect opportunity for him to come along and see what the job was all about. Additionally, Takayuki lived less than ten minutes from Town Hall by bicycle and was beginning an annual leave the following day, so staying at the park well into the night was no issue for him. The unit, making use of the additional personnel, had given him a digital camera and tasked him with photographing the crime scene.

“I doubt it can drag a big ol’ branch like that along the ground, so I reckon it’s more likely to have wings. Yeh’re ready for an aerial battle, Miyazawa?” asked Tsujimoto.

“Yep. I’ve got a few swallows ready to go.”

Takayuki had heard that Miyazawa could create a variety of spiritual servants called shikigami by tying strands of his hair into specific shapes, each of which served a different function. According to Miyazawa, that was why he was permitted to keep his hair so long despite the possibility that the general populace might deem it inappropriate for a civil servant. Takayuki himself had been shocked by its length when they bumped into each other for the first time since high school. But after subsequently spending so much time together, he’d grown accustomed to it—to the point that others’ discomfiture with Miyazawa’s hair sometimes confused him. Alas, in spite of that familiarity, Takayuki had never witnessed the famed shikigami for himself.

“Now, where’s that mountain cherry tree? They said the branch was probably stolen the night before last… Ah-ha!” Tsujimoto pointed. “I reckon that’s the one. Could yeh take a picture for us, Hirose?”

Nodding, Takayuki set the camera to night mode. Sure enough, when he traced a line from Tsujimoto’s finger to the treetop, his eye met a gaping hole, a fissure of ebon sky in the light pink haze concealing the heavens. Twisting the lens, he zoomed in on the stump, held very still while the camera compensated for his shaky fingers, then lowered it to check the result.

“How’s that?” He turned the screen toward Tsujimoto, who leaned in to study the shot.

“Aye, I’d say that’s pretty good.” Tsujimoto nodded, grinning pleasantly. “Now we need a full-length one to show what type of tree it is, one of the sign on the trunk, and… Well, once yeh’re done with that, yeh’re all right to go home. We’ll teach yeh how to write up a report at the beginning of next week.”

“Go home?!” protested Takayuki before he could stop himself. They’d only just reached the summit of Ozekiyama, and he was brimming with curiosity about Miyazawa’s yokai battle—or whatever it was that they’d do. Immediate dismissal after snapping a couple of photos was a genuine letdown. His disappointment was anything but subtle, too, and Tsujimoto gave a pitying chuckle. Karino scratched the back of his head uncomfortably, and Miyazawa maintained his usual, slightly troubled smile.

“To be honest, even we don’t know what we’re up against. We can’t let anything happen to yeh, so consider it a matter of safety, won’tcha?”

If a colleague ten years his senior insisted, Takayuki had no choice but to back down. With a reluctant nod, he lifted the camera to take the last few photos.

“Sorry,” Tsujimoto said with one last apologetic grin. Then, perking up, he promised, “Oh, but we’ll have plenty of time to show yeh what we do throughout the rest of the year. No need to push you too hard right at the start, is there? In fact, I reckon yeh’ll be on so many jobs that yeh’ll get sick of it, so yeh’ve got a lot to look forward to.”

That last, breezy assurance had Miyazawa and Karino sharing a slightly perturbed look.

…Is that code for being ridiculously busy or something?

But Takayuki didn’t particularly mind. He’d spent his school years hopping from one sports club to another, and he was confident in his physical stamina; the motivated nod he gave Tsujimoto was in earnest.

***

DESPITE his reluctance, Hirose left the park. The remaining trio of experts performed a quick patrol of the area, scoping the trees most likely to be the thief’s next target. Misato felt bad that Hirose was forced home after specifically taking time off to stay late, but his presiding sentiment was one of relief—mostly because he’d worried about the serpent inside him causing a commotion should the flower thief appear.

“Outta all of ’em, I’d say that one’s the most impressive. Whaddya think, Tsujimoto?” Ryouji indicated a huge Yoshino cherry tree at the edge of the plaza. Its branches loomed over an outdoor stage erected for events, and around two-thirds of its flowers had blossomed, on the brink of displaying one of the most extravagant exhibitions of the year.

“Aye, I agree. Along with the one that was already targeted, it’s probably the biggest one here.”

Only three days had passed since Ryouji started officially contracting for the Abnormal Disaster Unit. In reality though, he’d been habitually showing up at the office ever since he, by sheer coincidence, happened to work on the same case the previous winter. Tsujimoto was just as friendly with Ryouji as he was with the rest of the unit by that point.

“Aight, I’ll sneak on top of the roof.” Without further ado, Ryouji easily clambered up the wall of the concrete stage.

Nobody followed him, of course. They would be shorthanded if the sakura thief appeared elsewhere, and most crucially, no one else could physically scale a wall with their bare hands. Misato and Tsujimoto opted to lie in wait at the stage’s base, peering upward.

Still…why would a spirit do this?

Misato mulled the question while he stared up at the night sky, watching the stars blink into existence where visible through wisps of cloud.

Cherry trees were points of contact between the spiritual and physical worlds, and the people of Japan had venerated them since ancient times. The blooms themselves were sources of great spiritual power. Their flowering had long been used by farmers as a sign of spring and had thus come to be regarded as a special period by association.

Due to the belief that sakura blossoms comprised wild, spiritual energy, the falling petals were once assumed to scatter that riotous energy across the land, culminating in gods of pestilence that wrought disease. As a result, the Department of Worship at the time established a ceremony called hanashizume-no-matsuri, which shrines performed to quell the disturbance.

Even in the modern day, when those ancient, magical rites were no longer a fixture of sakura season, the enormous spiritual power of the trees remained. Misato guessed that power was what the thief was after.

But gods, it’s getting cold. A full-body shiver racked him. Unable to bear the blasting wind any longer, he was about to propose another patrol of the area to keep warm, at the very least, when…

WHOOOM. A piercing gale blared through the trees, bending the branches in its path. Ripping newly unfurled petals from stems, it whipped them into a whirlwind tinted pink as it headed directly for the trio.

Misato swept his elbow over his face instinctively, shielding himself as something white floated beyond the glow of the park lights, its shape stark against the moonless sky. “Ryouji! There!” he shouted with an erratic gesture at the figure.

It hovered right next to the Yoshino cherry tree on which Ryouji had pinned his hopes, and when Misato strained his eyes, he discerned the white fabric of a Shugendo monk’s garb. Then, as his focus adjusted, he saw that two wings sprouted from the figure’s back and that its face was a dog’s.

Tsujimoto ran to Misato, pushing his glasses up his nose as he said, “That looks like a crow-billed tengu to me…or maybe a guhin tengu, with that face. Lead it to Karino and be ready to stop it from stealing any branches.”

“Yes, sir!” Misato nodded, then breathed life into his swallow-shaped shikigami. Buoyed into the air by his breath, three shikigami fluttered briefly in place before transforming into pure-white swallows and zipping away. They swooped down on the thieving guhin, and it batted its hands at them.

Instantly, Ryouji lurched forward to capture it from the stage’s roof. “Namah samanta vajranam ham!” Purifying flames crashed into the guhin’s side. “Misato! Bind him!” he called as Misato hurried toward the tree.

Misato nodded, stopped in his tracks, and inhaled. Spooked by the burst of fire, the guhin was flapping toward the plaza, away from the blaze.

“O unfaltering chains of Acala, lend thy power to me,” Misato recited. “Invoking the fundamental vow of Acala, I urge that you apprehend this fiend. Om vish vish hara hara sivali svaha!” He chanted the Binding Sutra of Acala and shot the resultant rope at the guhin. Just as the metaphysical snare was about to touch the defenseless creature, light from below illuminated a curved, wicked smile on the guhin’s muzzle.

“Gah?!” Another violent blast of wind bludgeoned Misato, and he stumbled. Not a moment later, the branch with the biggest share of early-blooming sakura was suddenly airborne. They had their answer: the trees were cut with a blade of wind.

“Forget the flowers! You two go after the guhin!” bellowed Tsujimoto when he noticed Misato eyeing the swiftly descending bough.

Misato called his wind-strewn white swallows back and glanced at Ryouji, who still balanced precariously on the edge of the roof.

“Bring him this way!” Ryouji barked, beckoning. Misato nodded and set his swallows free once more.

Clawing and pecking, they fiercely attacked the guhin’s face, hands, and wings. It swiped at them in response, and with every furious swing at the swallows, it drifted toward the stage.

Once it was about five yards from where Ryouji stood, he leaped off the roof, launching himself toward the guhin with superhuman power. “Gyah! I gotcha this time!” His arms clamped around the guhin’s neck with beautiful precision, and gravity yanked them downward.

They were about three feet from the ground when another cyclone spawned beneath them, encompassing the entire plaza and elevating the pair once more. Wrenching free, the guhin slammed Ryouji with its wings.

“Bwaagh!” He tumbled to the pavement. “Come back here, damn it!”

“Rin, pyou, tou, sha, kai, jin, retsu, zai, zen!” Misato aimed as the guhin shot toward the fallen limb at full speed. His Kuji-in Mudra scored a direct hit on the creature, causing it to pitch forward slightly—before it righted itself with a harsh kick to the concrete.

Wow. It sure isn’t going down without a fight!

A guhin was a type of tengu, yet it was the lowest-ranking creature among the mountain spirits. They didn’t usually possess such power.

Is it drawing its power from some other source? Or is some intense emotion fueling it?

Gleefully united with its sakura branch, the guhin cradled it close. That momentary pause allowed Misato to propel himself toward the creature as fast as he could, close enough that his fingertips almost brushed its feathered wings.

The guhin summoned another gust of wind.

At that rate, they would lose it. Just before the blast catapulted the guhin into the air, Misato took advantage of the tailwind to fling himself onto its back.

“Wha…?! Geddoff me!” The guhin reeled, slapping Misato with its wings.

Their feet had already left the ground, and Misato clung to its back desperately as they both hurtled skyward.

“Misatooo!”

“Miyazawa!”

Ryouji and Tsujimoto’s voices sounded below. Despite himself, he blinked in surprise, taken aback by how he’d acted on sheer impulse. His altitude promised a nasty descent, and unlike Ryouji with that outstanding physical prowess, Misato couldn’t hope to break his fall without injuring himself.

“Let go, ya bastard!”The guhin’s doglike mouth struggled to form words that Misato could just barely understand. In conjunction with its panicked protest, the creature’s wings struck even harder.

His grip loosened, and rocked and buffeted by the whirlwind, Misato careened off the guhin’s back. The guhin was similarly flung aside, somersaulting across a sky tinged gray with the ghostly glow of a cloud-cloaked moon.

“Aaahhh!”

Stars peeked through gaps in the haze, then fast-flitting sakura petals, then the floodlights embedded in the ground. Amid the confusion of images and with no concept of which way was up, Misato lost his consciousness to the wind.

And then there was nothing.

***

WHEN Misato next cracked his eyes open, he lay on a mountainside at the roots of a huge tree. Bit by aching bit, he hauled his chilled body into a seated position. He peered at the surrounds.

He had no idea where he was.

The tree’s colossal branches hung heavy above his head, but no sign of spring budded at their tips. Pressing his fingers to the tawny, shriveled bark, Misato inspected its thick trunk.

“Looks like a mountain cherry, I think… Oh. Seems like something has been stripping the bark.” Deer, probably.

Deer were known to cause a fair amount of damage to trees in the winter when food was scarce. They were simply fighting to survive in desperate circumstances, yet their rising population over the past few years was causing lasting harm to alpine tree health.

If he’d been cast into the same realm as the guhin, Misato figured, the thief was likely nearby. He was climbing to his feet when he caught a flash of a winged silhouette disappearing through the doorway to a grandiose estate, the creature still clutching the sakura branch in its arms.

The house stood next to the pitifully bare cherry tree, and its facade was that of a Heian-era palace where nobles would have once lived. The open shutters revealed a glimpse of bamboo blinds and a partitioning screen beyond.

The vicinity was as dim as the fading light after sunset, and a pervasive mist shrouded anything more than a few feet away. Misato could see just far enough to note the verdant landscapes painted on the freestanding silk curtain that formed the screen. A dim flicker of flame glowed beyond. The building looked like a stage set, which was strange enough, yet its lack of weather protection on such a chilly spring night was the most notable suggestion of otherworldly phenomena.

Plus, there was the fact that Misato had never heard of such a landmark in the area—and considering how much it resembled the setting of a historical drama, he was sure he would have if one existed. The most logical explanation was that he was in a spirit realm between that of life and the eternal abyss of death.

Turning in a circle, he could see no other structures. There was merely the manor, its garden, and the dense forest surrounding the estate. Presumably, then, the manor was at the realm’s center and a spirit dwelled within.

Should I tail the guhin…? I mean, I doubt it would react well if I just knocked on the door and said hello.

After confirming that the guhin was out of sight, Misato silently crept toward the manse. He cast a presence-concealing charm on himself, removed his shoes, and carefully stepped onto the open veranda bordering the house. Once crouched behind the partitioning curtain, he strained his ears to discern the conversation within.

“Your Highness, behold!” said something that sounded like an elderly lady. “These sakura are from Ozekiyama, a most renowned spot in northern Bingo Province. Contemplate the beautiful, lovely shape of the branch!” The croaky voice sang the flowers’ praises, clearly affecting as much cheer as possible.

There was a muffled snarling that sounded more masculine. That was the guhin, most likely. At least three people—if one could call them that—occupied the room beyond: an old woman, the guhin, and “Your Highness.” Misato could only assume that all three were supernatural entities.

“Goodness, it truly is beautiful!” sighed the graceful voice of a young woman. “But…it’s still no match for the other bough’s color or splendor. Oh, how dreadfully sad… My chest pains me so…” Her voice grew wispy and sob-choked, softening as though on the verge of vanishing completely.

The sick princess, Misato surmised, was directing the guhin, her servant, to fetch sakura branches. Curious, he craned his neck around the edge of the curtain and managed to make out what looked like bedsheets ringed by several branches in full bloom.

So it wasn’t a case of gathering spiritual energy…but of consoling the princess. It sounds like they’ve been everywhere looking for the perfect one. Maybe to replace the withered tree outside?

Each mountain cherry tree had a distinct color, shape, and blooming period. The petals were on the smaller side compared to the common ‘Somei-yoshino’ cultivar, but the complexity of their hues produced a unique baby-pink haze when the tiny flowers blossomed. The enormous tree outside had probably been a magnificent sight a few hundred years prior. If it were healthy, the season would be just about right for its full-bloom splendor.

“How frustrating, Your Highness… Those foolish deer just don’t know when to stop!” a male voice—the guhin—growled.

Definitely deer, then, thought Misato.He had to stifle a laugh at the thought that even spirits suffered vermin in the modern age—which was a mistake. He almost missed the several small presences that passed right next to him as they rounded the curtain. There seemed to be some small yokai scurrying around.

Crap. I need to stay hidden and—

Something squirmed in his gut.

No, no! Shirota, stop that! You can’t come out right now! Those aren’t snacks! shouted Misato in his mind as he tensed his core in panic. His insides twinged, grating painfully in protest as they always did when he forced the escape-happy creature back down.

Misato’s body housed a snake. He didn’t foster the creature of his own volition, though they generally got along well as body-mates, for lack of a better word.

Unfortunately, the snake—a massive, white serpent named Shirota—was obsessed with food, and natural spirits were his favorite. He writhed in Misato’s stomach, desperate to chase the small yokai. The snake’s thrashing, as always, pummeled Misato from within, and the combination of pain and panic made it incredibly difficult to focus on anything else.

I said no! No, Shirota!

“Snaaacks!”

Unable to resist temptation, Shirota broke free of Misato’s control and surged from his host’s nape. Misato could do nothing to stop the creature, his concentration already diverted in part to the frantic upkeep of his concealment charm.

The second Shirota escaped, his size increased drastically, swelling until his body was the width of the average human thigh. An instant later, a clamor of screams issued from the room as the household plunged into chaos.

“Wh-Where did you come from?! I-I’m not gonna let you eat the princess! No way!”

“Goodness gracious! Your Highness, this way! If it must feast, it will feast on this old body instead!”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve no attachment to this world now that the tree has withered away…”

After a moment of clutching his head in ashamed, dumbstruck disbelief over the tragic scene Shirota had instigated, Misato clamped his hand around the section of snake’s tail still on his side of the curtain and yanked it backward. “Shirota, no! Bad boy!”

“Eeeeep!” cried Shirota. Incapable of further disobeying the decree of his host, he returned to the size of a regular rat snake. Misato forcibly wrapped the serpent around his neck, then stepped out from behind the partition.

“I apologize deeply for my snake’s discourtesy, Your Highness,” he said, graciously kneeling before her and bowing his head. His grip tightened around Shirota in admonishment when the creature continued to struggle.

“But…snacks…” came the pitiful cry emanating through Shirota’s scales.

“You! You’re the one from Ozekiyama!” roared the guhin as soon as he saw Misato. He brandished a staff. “You followed me here, huh?!”

Shirota reared his head in response. “Can eat this snack?” he asked, that time with a hint of malice.

No. An attempt to overpower the enemy before they understood the situation would only worsen the risk involved.

“Please don’t misunderstand my intention.” Misato inclined his head again, his voice firm yet respectful. “We humans love sakura just as dearly as you, Your Highness, and we care for the trees throughout each year in anticipation of their blooming. Therefore, I would ask that you refrain from stealing any more flowers.”

The guhin charged Misato, brazenly growling, “Shut up, you dirty serpent! We don’t have time for your excuses! You just tried to attack Her Highness!” He swung his staff downward.

Misato whipped his tessen out of his inner pocket to block the strike. The iron-ribbed war fan was useful for defense, so he always kept it on his person. While his martial arts skills weren’t sufficient to wield it offensively, he could at least intercept and parry attacks.

Incidentally, his first tessen had broken after a single use the previous December. Following serious reflection on his (bad) choice to buy the cheapest one he could find online, he paid for its replacement with his winter bonus and in regular installments.

The guhin sucked his teeth. He wasn’t pleased that Misato had thwarted his onslaught.

Hang on. He just called me a “dirty serpent,” didn’t he? Misato met the guhin’s eyes with a furious glare—only for their standoff to be interrupted by the gentle lull of a woman’s voice.

“Please, stop. The young serpent is correct; we were mistaken in stealing the flowers. I must also beg forgiveness for my servant here.” Some distance from the curtain, atop a sleeping platform, the princess pushed herself into a sitting position on her sickbed. Next to her stood a foxlike old woman with silver hair. The princess wore a white, short-sleeved kimono, and when she bowed her head, her lush, black hair spilled over the fabric and her sickly pale cheeks as if in allusion to the corruption of purity.

The house interior and her clothing were reminiscent of those of the upper class in a time long past, and the intensity of her aura suggested that she was no mere specter. The sleeping platform was crowded with countless sakura branches in full bloom, their petals ranging from white to deep crimson. Some flowers were tiny and sparse, others large and dense. Many of the huge boughs extended beyond the edges of the curtains around the platform, giving the illusion that the princess slept atop a pale-pink cloud.

She offered him an elegant smile. “But my, what a gallant and beautiful boy you are. Why might a spirit like you concern yourself with protecting human pursuits?”

Misato’s voice died in his throat. Evidently, he did not appear human to them. Cautious and careful, he finally ventured, “Um… First of all, I make a living by working at a human organization, so… Do I not look human, Your Highness?”

“Oh, not at all. I see a most enchanting snake with pristine white scales and ruby-red eyes.” She laughed pleasantly, clear and bright like the toll of a bell. Her complexion seemed to have brightened somewhat.

He looked like a snake. The revelation was akin to a douse of ice water, and Misato just barely managed to say, “If I may… I couldn’t help but notice that you are bedridden with some sort of affliction, Your Highness. Might I ask what is ailing you? I cannot offer you sakura, but if the request is not too presumptuous, I would like to help you find an alternative path to recovery.” He bowed his head low once more.

With a guhin and an old fox in her retinue, the princess was more likely to be some manner of mountain goddess than a spirit or demon. That would explain the guhin’s peculiar level of power. Blessed by the personification of the mountain, the guhin served her with a devotion that further amplified his abilities.

As far as Misato was concerned, entities that protected the land were not humanity’s enemy. Rather, without them, nature was susceptible to neglect and natural disaster.

It was the silver-haired fox-woman, still waiting attentively at the princess’s side, who answered him: “Her Highness suffers from a lack of life force, I’m afraid. That sakura outside was gifted to her by a young warrior who visited the mountain not long after her birth. She grew up alongside it, always treating it with the utmost care.” The old woman could have been mistaken for a human if not for the notable protrusion of her snout and the well-groomed streaks of fur framing her face. Misato glimpsed a bushy, silver tail flowing from the base of her spine as well.

“Yes, precisely. The tree became part of me, as did my best clothes. They were also a gift from him…” The princess trailed off. “He has departed for the domain of the dead, and I’ve been protecting both this palace and the sakura in his absence. And yet…oh, it does nothing but wither away.” Fat, heavy tears began to slide down her cheeks.

Beside her bed, where one might expect to find a ritual hand mirror, an uchigi, a garment worn in the Heian court, hung on a rack. The robe was embroidered with a haggard tree, inspiring a sense of loneliness instead of admiration.

“Did you say that the uchigi is also part of you, Your Highness?” asked Misato.

The old fox nodded. “Indeed. But the deer, those fools, nibbled at the hems, and it has withered beyond all recognition. How heartrending for our princess!” She burst into tears.

“Her Highness is a dragon who safeguards this land from wildfire and graces its waters with divine protection. If she continues to be eaten away, the effect will spread to the people who live here. So if you can help us, you’d better start makin’ suggestions!”barked the guhin, pointing his staff at Misato with an audible whoosh.

Misato considered. Well…back in the human world, I’m pretty sure there’ll be a legend of this sakura guardian princess. If I can just track that down and pinpoint its origin, we should be able to find the site and perform the appropriate rituals, but…that can’t happen if they don’t let me leave.

On his own, his options were very limited. He peered over his shoulder at the wizened sakura outside, the cherry tree looking just as sorry as the one on the uchigi.

If that tree is part of her, maybe that’s a sign that her power has run dry…or—no. This is sakura we’re talking about. Maybe the flowers serve as a link between her and her power’s source.

The princess herself appeared very drained. Given the guhin’s mention of wildfire prevention and water, Misato suspected she was some type of water god.

Is there some way I can assume the sakura’s role and imbue her with spiritual energy? If so…I need to absorb energy myself. But how can I do that when I’m alone in the spirit realm?

Typically, the tree’s roots would draw power from the world of the dead to feed the flowers, which showered the princess’s domain with energy when their petals fell. Yet the tree’s lack of bark evidently rendered that process impossible.

“Excuse me, but could I perhaps borrow your uchigi and one of those branches?” asked Misato. “I don’t have the means to revive the tree, but I may just be able to help you see it in full bloom again, if only for the night. Think of it as a fleeting dream.”

A few tales referenced human bodies bridging the worlds of the dead and the living. Although the princess’s realm was more metaphysical in nature, it resembled that of the physical. Suddenly, he recalled a method among the stories that was perfectly suited to revitalizing the tree.

“My, that sounds lovely! How will you do that?” Her innocent eyes sparkled as though she’d never distrusted anyone in her entire existence.

Misato responded with a bright grin and a particularly deep bow. “I was thinking of performing a Noh dance, one from the play Saigyouzakura.”

The play was about a poet, Saigyou, who adored sakura. In the final scene, a sakura spirit visited him amid the glory of the capital swathed by cherry blossoms in full bloom.

Dance was a deeply sacred art that served both as entertainment and a link between heaven and earth, spiritual and physical. People danced out of respect to the gods, as a method to siphon otherworldly energy, or in prayer to ensure the divine’s longevity and blessing. Dance had played a part in spiritual practice since antiquity; in other words, it was one of the most widespread forms of invocation.

Misato had taken a number of spiritually oriented dance lessons while still part of the Narukami clan. He was semiconfident that, drawing on the residual power of the stolen branches, he could act as the withered tree’s roots for a night.

“Oh, how wonderful! Nana, would you fetch him the uchigi? And you can select whichever branch you like, young man.”

Misato nodded at the twinkle-eyed princess as he accepted the robe from the fox-woman’s outstretched hands. The tree was conveniently right behind him, so he moved the partitioning curtain to the side to create a space to dance in. From the various specimens resting on the sleeping platform, he selected a mountain cherry that was slightly brighter than ‘Somei-yoshino’ and boasted a light purplish haze of dense florets. It was imbued with the most spiritual energy out of all the branches Misato could see.

Once the guhin sliced off a cutting for him, he slipped his arms through the uchigi, layering it on top of his jacket, and plucked the smallest twig off a nearby bough of Yoshino cherry. He slotted the sprig, which consisted of just two blossoms, into the base of his black ponytail. Decoration of one’s hair with fresh flowers was another way to channel their spiritual energy.

“Could I possibly ask someone to sing a verse?”

Normally, the dances in Noh dramas were accompanied by a chanted chorus. They faced an emergency, however, and he was quite conscious of the chance that no one else present was interested in Noh. If none of the three knew any lines, Misato would have no choice but to recite them himself while dancing.

As expected, the three shook their heads apologetically.

Holding the branch of blooming sakura like a fan, Misato nodded curtly, then muttered, “Well…here I go.” He dropped to one knee, his back to the gaunt tree, and started the dance.

“I look out over the entwined lacework of willow foliage and flowering sakuras, the capital brilliant in all spring’s brocade. Here, where a thousand trees acquired root, their blooming lends splendor to the name Senbon. Through cloud and snow…”

He swayed from step to step, swishing the branch through the air. Tiny petals fluttered to the ground in his wake, and the sakura on the sleeping platform quivered before abruptly flying upward in unison. A breath of wind had swept in from outside, whipping petals of all shapes and colors into a hypnotic dance.

“Oh, what a beautiful sight…!” The princess’s cry was muffled and distant as Misato immersed himself in movement.

More and more petals floated into the fray, and as he gently shook the branch in a slow arc, he noted the wild energy beginning to resonate from below. Far, far below the flitting, pale-pink haze surrounding him, it originated from the underworld—from the roots of the huge cherry tree.

As he ponderously waved his branch, the energy twined among the flurries of petals, following them like a trail of smoke. Noh dance was extremely limited in style, and with each delicate surge in direction, each gesture of the branch, the air became thicker and thicker with spiritual energy.

Intoning the locations of famous sakuras in the old capital of Kyoto, Misato raised the branch and spun with exquisite grace, swirling it in ever larger patterns. Urged forth by his motion, the energy gushed into the air with increasing fervor. Light pink petals shot past and around him, then, all at once, they sped toward the uchigi he wore, melting into its fabric.

Instantly, thousands of flowers adorned both trees, the giant limbs and embroidered boughs alike in full blossom.

The princess, beaming in delight, cried for joy. “Oh, look, Nana! The sakura have returned! My lord’s tree is abloom once more!”

Misato twisted amid the frenzy of petals, twirling the flowering branch. The dance typically ended around that point, but he was determined to hold the fantastical scene for just a little longer.

Citing a different section of the drama, he sang, “From the blossoms’ shade, the spring night breaks free. We need not wait for the bell, for it is time to part, time to part. But, oh, stay a while, stay a while! The night is yet young. The dawn you glimpse is the light of flowers agleam. We see night still in the shadow of Mount Ogura, where there is naught but blooming pillow. Upon that pillow we have dreamed, and wake from it you shall, wake from it you shall. With storm and snow scattered ’round…”

In the play, night had broken, and once Saigyou had farewelled the sakura spirit, he awoke from a dream. Fallen petals blanketed the ground around him, yet the poet saw no one.

Finished, Misato elegantly lowered to his knees. He set the branch on the floor with delicate hands, and the tree lost its soul once more, shriveling again to a dry, flowerless silhouette.

“That was a most splendid dance. Oh, how you have alleviated my heart and cleansed me of terrible feeling! You’ve no idea how thankful I am, young serpent. What you showed me was fleeting indeed, yet I’m so overjoyed to have seen my beloved tree alive once more!” The princess was trembling in emotion, her tone a sunny warble. Color flushed her sickly cheeks, and her long, black hair seemed to shine where before it had looked dull.

Misato breathed a silent sigh of relief. “It is my honor. I could summon the sakura only for the night, but rest assured that I will return next year to bring you some comfort. I’ll also see what I can do in terms of local ceremonies on the human side.” He bowed his head in entreaty. “May I now request safe passage home? And could I ask your name, Your Highness?”

The princess nodded kindly. “My name is Mitatsuhime. My lord built this palace here on Mount Goryuu, and I have protected this land ever since he called me to wake. The portal to the physical realm is at the base of that tree; there is a large cavity between some of the roots that stick above ground.” She pointed behind Misato with one thin, ghostly pale finger. “However, as thanks for your magnificent dance, allow me to transport you back myself.”

She raised her finger toward the heavens, and a sudden whirlwind stirred around him. It caught the petals lying on the floor, enveloping him in a burst of pigment. His vision was dyed white then pink as they completely shrouded his sight—and within a few more seconds, the blushing cloak had snatched his consciousness.

***

TRUDGING down the hill with heavy limbs, Takayuki stopped in his tracks when he heard the low rumble of wind. It was a wild, natural sort of force that made the canopy quake and groan as it blasted from base to peak. He followed its ascent with an intent stare, spying a surge of petals converging on the hilltop, their swirl illuminated by the glow of the ground lights.

Something strange was afoot. He stood motionless as he narrowed his eyes, straining to see farther. Peering at the twilight sky, he saw the silhouette of something—no, someone—dancing.

“What the heck?”

It quickly disappeared into the ether, and the vision was so surreal that Takayuki questioned his sanity. He could’ve sworn he saw a very familiar long, black ponytail whipping in the wind.

“I’m imagining things…right?” he muttered to himself, already turning back toward the summit before he could stop himself.

His superior had told him to leave, so he was likely obliged to march down the hill and pretend he’d seen nothing. And yet, he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Finally. He was finally in the same unit as Miyazawa, and something supernatural was happening right in front of him. He absolutely did not want to simply proceed home, stay a regular citizen just as oblivious as everyone else.

Retracing his steps, Takayuki jogged up the floodlit promenade. The lights blinded him from below as he attempted to navigate the path; their purpose was to feature the flowers, not guide the way. Dazzled, he could barely see the way forward, and he kept his eyes glued to the summit, minding his step.

Although he never aspired to be a professional athlete, Takayuki had grown up doing sports. After neglecting regular exercise for more than a year, however, he had to stop at a viewing area about halfway up the hill to catch his shamefully ragged breath.

The wind had fallen utterly silent, his heaving gasps the only sound disturbing the tranquil night air. Beside him was a sakura close to its prime, a wooden bench in its shade. Next to the bench was a streetlamp fashioned after a paper lantern; it and the ground light amid the tree’s roots bathed the branches in a faint orange glow.

He hung his head in chagrin as he tried to deepen his breaths, only to be taken off-guard by the distinct scent of sakura wafting past his nostrils. The fragrance alone was not unusual—but one so strong was seldom found naturally, even during the blooming season. As opposed to the mellow, floral odor he might have expected, it was more akin to the flavoring of sakura mochi. In fact, it was exactly what he smelled when eating sakura mochi.

The scent enveloped him for a few seconds, then whirled away on the wind just as swiftly as it had arrived. Subconsciously glancing in the direction that the breeze had fled, he spotted a small plaza that forked from the main path. As if to beckon him, a tiny petal fluttered at its entrance, dancing to and fro in the air.

Takayuki had no proof that the petal meant anything, yet he felt compelled to investigate. He thought he saw a light there—not the floodlights but a faint flicker in the darkness beyond their reach. It shone pale pink as opposed to warm orange, and he paced toward it as though magnetized.

After straying past the perimeter of ground lights, he realized he could still see surprisingly well. The limbs of the trees cast faint shadows, alerting him to the waxing moon that had materialized in the clouds’ absence. As he rounded a row of trees that seemed to split the plaza in two, he recognized the person standing ahead of him from behind. The flurry of spikes atop the man’s head glinted even in the dead of night, and Takayuki knew exactly who it was.

“Karino!” he called.

The thuggish medium, for some reason walking around in the dark, whirled at the sound of his name. “Whfgh?! Ya scared the hell outta me, damn it…” Karino ripped his signature sunglasses off, likely hoping to get a better look at Takayuki in the gloom. “What the hell are you doin’ here?” he barked, wide-eyed.

“I don’t really know. I mean…I saw Miyazawa floating through the sky, or something? So I got curious, y’know…?” Embarrassment tinged Takayuki’s tone.

“Ohhh, that…” said Karino monotonously. After a moment, he nodded as though realizing he couldn’t talk his way out of what Takayuki had witnessed, then resumed his position facing the direction the breeze had blown.

“So, there’s really something over there?” asked Takayuki.

“Probably,” murmured Karino. “You’re here ’cause ya sensed something, right? If it’s that obvious, it’s pretty much guaranteed.”

With that, he strode forward fearlessly, and Takayuki followed close behind. After a few moments of deafening silence, Takayuki desperately racked his brain for a topic to breach the awkward atmosphere. Nothing particular came to mind, however, and his lips latched onto the first thought he had.

“So, Karino…you can see pretty well in the dark, huh? Better than me anyway.”

Takayuki knew very little of Karino personally. Considering the man’s fashion and occupation, he pegged Karino as the rebellious type—but that was all he’d gleaned as a friend of a friend and a regular at the bar where Karino worked. Despite the general sense of distance between them, Takayuki didn’t dislike him and was well aware of how deeply Miyazawa trusted him. Yet, although Takayuki no longer really resented Karino, he found they had shockingly few common interests. If necessary, he could often make their mutual friend the subject of conversation, but that friend was evidently embroiled in some sort of unfortunate circumstance.

He’d chased them there on impulse, and Karino’s lone presence unnerved him, his meaningless question instead of a demand to know what had happened.

“Guess so,” said Karino, indifferent. Then, seeming to pick up on the painful silence in the wake of his terse reply, he added, “More importantly, I ain’t used to bein’ called Karino. Can ya just call me by my first name?”

Takayuki blinked. “Not…used to it?”

Karino nodded, slowing to a more leisurely gait. “Yeah. Cuz I had a whole different surname back in Tokyo. I mean, it’s not like anyone ever really called me that either; I was just Ryouji to everyone, so that’s what I’m used to. That okay?”

“Ah, right.” Takayuki nodded. Truthfully, he wasn’t the kind of person who assigned any particular meaning to using a friend’s first name anyway. Takayuki referred to Miyazawa by his surname out of habit, for example, rather than as a reflection of their relationship. “In that case, you’re free to call me Takayu—”

“Nuh-uh, man. You’reHirose through and through. It’s quicker to say anyway,” Ryouji retorted with a cackle.

“How’s that fair?!” Takayuki blurted—then fell silent at the contrast of their playful conversation to the uncertain situation at hand. “But…is Miyazawa okay?” The question slipped out on its own.

Ryouji nodded and gestured ahead of them. “I dunno what he’s been doin’ for these few li’l minutes, but either way, seems like he’s safe.”

Takayuki strained his eyes, noting the pale pink glow he’d glimpsed before. Upon closer inspection, he saw what appeared to be a massive mound of sakura branches in full bloom, their petals reflecting the faint moonlight. And, lying upon the pile as though it was a bed, was…

“M-Miyazawa…?”

His pale face reminded Takayuki of a Japanese-style doll, his eyes closed as if in a peaceful dream. A couple of sakura peeped from the base of his jet-black ponytail. He had not been wearing those when Takayuki last saw him—nor the refined, feminine kimono.

The beautiful, dreamlike scene entranced Takayuki, stealing his breath away.

***

HIROSE seemed to have lost all sense of reality and his ability to speak. Meanwhile, Ryouji rushed to Misato’s side. The penniless lodger’s serene countenance was at stark odds with the fact that he had just pulled one of his most reckless stunts to date.

“Why were ya flingin’ your clumsy self around like that, huh, idiot?” Ryouji couldn’t help but murmur. To Misato’s credit, he was probably only clumsy in comparison to Ryouji—because Ryouji’s physical abilities were, admittedly, a darn sight better than the average dude’s.

“Heeey, sleepyhead. You awake?” He crouched beside Misato and leaned over the sleeping man’s face.

Misato’s straight nose wrinkled slightly. “Mmh…”

At the same time, a sudden whirlwind sprung up around him, veiling him in sakura petals before vanishing into thin air.

Misato’s eyes slowly blinked open, and he squinted at Ryouji with a bleary, vacant expression. He was clad in the same work uniform as when he disappeared, the sakura-embroidered kimono he had been wearing a split second before nowhere in sight. His bed of flowers had been reduced to little more than a heap of withered twigs.

Misato rubbed his eyes with one hand. He frowned as if trying to make sense of his memories, then abruptly recognized who was in front of him. “Oh. Ryouji…”

“In the flesh.”

The onmyoji surveyed his surroundings with a sigh of relief, a sleepy look tugging at his eyes as though he desperately wished to nestle back into his bed of sakura. He appeared, Ryouji thought, to have been whisked to the spirit realm along with the guhin.

“Oh, thank the gods I made it back,” Misato said, “because— Wait, Hirose’s here too?!” The fatigue weighing his eyelids evaporated when he spotted Hirose behind Ryouji.

“Well, I just sorta… You looked like you were flying through the sky, so…” said Hirose lamely. Evidently, he’d managed to catch a glimpse of Misato tumbling through the air with the guhin. And what he’d seen struck him as so outrageous, so unreal, that he hesitated to validate it with a coherent sentence. That was a perfectly understandable reaction for someone unfamiliar with the supernatural.

“Ah, right…” Misato giggled awkwardly in an attempt at deflection. “I just kinda got swept away, so…”

Pah! You didn’t “just kinda” get swept away by shit, you guhin-grabber.

That Misato had been dragged into the spirit realm rather than simply falling from the sky was sheer dumb luck—as was the fact that he returned so quickly and to the same exact spot. He’d come to a civil compromise with the spirit involved thanks to his competency, sure, but his safety had been at genuine risk.

Misato ducked his head in sheepish shame as if anticipating that exact lecture. Averting his gaze, he swung his legs off the jumble of stripped branches.

“What the hell is this mountain of twigs about, anyway?” asked Ryouji, recalling the flash of teeming flowers.

“Right. These are all of the branches that the guhin had stolen so far. The petals are gone now, but…maybe they let me keep the branches as a gift?” He stood, then tilted his head as he peered at the pile.

“Is it really a gift when they’re stolen goods? They’ll only cause trouble for ya,” scoffed Ryouji. “They don’t even got any flowers. …And what’s with the hairpin? What the hell were you doin’ in there?”

A sprig of sakura was poking out of Misato’s ponytail. Yes, it complemented his fine facial features—and clashed awfully with his work uniform, causing Ryouji to grimace.

“Oh, um… I met a princess, and she was sad because her favorite sakura had dried up, so, basically…I made her feel better by dancing?” Misato scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. His fingers brushed the sprig of flowers, and he tugged them out, flustered.

Ryouji was glad to hear that Misato had persuaded the thief to stop—albeit with a method Ryouji could never have pulled off even if he tried. “Gettin’ up to all sorts of glory again, huh? Welp…let’s just go find Tsujimoto and show him you’re all right.”

Ryouji turned and ushered Hirose down the hill with a wave of his hands. The man had silently listened to their conversation with a conflicted expression that was difficult to interpret as one of simple admiration, surprise, fear, or suspicion.

They picked their way back to the promenade by following the glow of the floodlights. After no more than a few paces along the main path, they spotted Tsujimoto rushing down the hill from the plaza at the summit.

***

IN a forgotten corner of the town hall, Manager Yoshida was sitting at his desk, addressing everyone in the Abnormal Disaster Unit’s cramped, dated office.

“In short, we’re pretty certain that this ‘Mitatsuhime’ is the goddess of Mount Goryuu in Akitakata. Local folktales claim that sakuras have the power to prevent wildfires and that catastrophes occur when they don’t bloom. There’s also a legend about a leader of the Shishido clan during the Nanboku-chou period: apparently, when he prayed to a dragon god in search of water, a new spring appeared in the area. What’s more, we checked with the authorities there, and they told us that they have indeed had trouble with deer eating the bark of the ancient trees on Mount Goryuu. The sakuras have all withered.”

Four people stood nodding in front of the manager’s desk: Tsujimoto, Hirose, Ryouji, and Misato.

“Do they have any ideas about how they might solve the problem?” asked Misato.

Akitakata was one of the municipalities adjacent to Tomoe, and any subsequent investigation and resolution would be implemented with the help of the local government. While Yoshida had discussed as much with its leaders, Misato had been unable to attend those meetings due to the volume of work assigned to him at the scene of the “crime.”

“Aye, they do,” said Tsujimoto. “Basically, a kagura dance troupe in Akitakata will have another occasion to perform. Around this time every year, Akitakata holds a sakura festival at the foot of Mount Goryuu as a city revitalization effort, so they’ll perform as a part of that. If Mitatsuhime likes it, problem solved. If not…I was thinking we’d have to get yeh involved again, Miyazawa.”

“Of course.” Misato nodded. The notion of an essentially sakura-less city throwing such a festival was strange, perhaps, but the intention to appease the gods was most important. Overall, he was impressed to hear they were adding a new element to an ancient festival; that didn’t happen often. “But that’s such a relief to hear,” he said. “Even if there aren’t any sakuras, a yearly dance could at least help Mitatsuhime feel a little less lonely.”

“On that note…” chimed in Yoshida. “Turns out the trees aren’t actually dead. There’s still life in the roots, and they say they can chop down what’s dead for lumber, then take cuttings from new sprouts and plant them along roads.”

“Hey, that’s a grand idea,” Tsujimoto said with a cheerful nod. “That way, Mitatsuhime will be able to take care of them again.”

Ryouji tilted his head in confusion. “Uh, just wonderin’, but…isn’t it kinda crazy that they just so happen to have a local kagura troupe and got ’em to agree to this festival? And the dancers are gonna create a whole new routine, too? Do things usually go that smoothly with kagura troupes?”

Everyone blinked, and silence reigned for a moment.

Yoshida hummed in thought, then said, “The group who agreed to take on the challenge is called Shizukushi Kagura Troupe, and they’re pretty keen on creating new works to begin with, y’see. The Abnormal Disaster Unit in Akitakata—or the Special Cultural Assets Team, as they’re called there—know the leader of the troupe quite well, and he’ll be the one choreographing it all.”

Everyone nodded in satisfied understanding except for Ryouji, whose brow was still furrowed. Misato studied his friend; he couldn’t guess what was giving Ryouji such pause. Unless—

“Wait,” he said. “Could it be that kagura troupes in Kanto are nothing like the ones here? In Hiroshima, there are a lot of amateur groups run by shrine parishioners, and a lot of them in Akitakata in particular, actually. There must be about…twenty groups in the city alone, I think? Maybe more?”

“Twenty?!” yelped Ryouji.

The young Ryouji Karino, who’d once lived in Tomoe, would have grown up very familiar with kagura dance had those years of his life not been lost to him. Instead, the prefecture’s culture around kagura was a complete mystery to the adult Ryouji Karino, as was the Chugoku region in general.

Hirose nodded. He was a trueborn Hiroshiman, and Akitakata was his hometown. “Yup! People use community centers to hold contests and everything. I remember a couple of my classmates being part of troupes. Plus, at my first school, there was a traditional performing arts club. There must have been a kids’ kagura group in almost every neighborhood. I never joined one, but I did go to watch my friends’ performances sometimes. Oh, and some of the troupes took part in different ceremonies at my local shrine. It wasn’t just shrines, either; city events such as the sakura festival used to feature kagura performances a lot, too, and— Wait…you’re telling me this is just a Hiroshima thing?”

Misato spluttered with laughter as Hirose suddenly trailed off in bemused realization. He only just noticed?

“Kagura is popular in Shimane Prefecture as well, so it sounds like a similar deal throughout the Chugoku region. Not that I know all too much about it,” added Misato. Judging by Ryouji’s reaction, he’d surmised that kagura wasn’t a countrywide phenomenon. But Misato was being honest when he said he had little knowledge of the art, so he directed an imploring stare at Yoshida.

Nodding, Yoshida continued, “Nowadays, very few troupes tour Kanto, so people aren’t as familiar with it. But I’ve heard that long ago, there were just as many troupes in other regions as there are here. Of course, many different styles of kagura exist within Hiroshima, and Akitakata’s troupes are known for their very energetic, funny performances. I think you should go watch a dance or two when you get the chance, Karino, certainly.”

Ryouji nodded, a gleam of genuine interest in his eyes.

Meanwhile, Misato cast his thoughts back to Mitatsuhime. If the troupe performed for her sake, praising the sakuras, the energy generated would probably suffice in place of the withered trees, at least for a while. On the other hand, the cuttings would require time to become self-sufficient and begin providing any significant amount of power for the princess.

“Still…they’ll definitely need fencing around the trees,” he pointed out. “Deer love shoots.” He’d seen plenty of such evidence around the Karino estate. In fact, just the previous winter, the animals had terrorized the property’s trees and vegetable garden. He crossed his arms in frustration just thinking about it.

“Haha! I expect they’re already planning hard countermeasures,” said Yoshida heartily, then paused for a beat as though just remembering something. “The sakura branches that came back with Miyazawa are contraband, but…y’know, the thief was a spirit. There’s a detective called Akagi at the police station who’s well-versed in crimes of this nature, so I decided to leave that part of the cleanup to him.”

From what Misato had heard, Yoshida was well acquainted with Detective Akagi, the officer particularly good at handling the “abnormal disasters” the Tomoe Police came across.

“Blech! That old fart, huh?” muttered Ryouji under his breath. Evidently, he knew the detective as well.

The sky outside the office window was a beautiful pale blue, and a light pink petal fluttered past the glass on a gust of wind, journeying from someplace to somewhere. The weather forecast had promised sunny weather throughout the weekend.

Misato glanced at the faces of his colleagues, suddenly struck by their utter familiarity. Just a year prior, he lacked the capacity to admire cherry blossoms, let alone befriend anyone. Tomoe had once been a place of strangers, and back then, although determined to survive in the new town, he hadn’t been able to conceive what that might look like. Over the past year, he’d encountered acquaintances new and old in ways he could never have expected and was consequently working alongside people he could confidently call friends. Reflecting on how starkly his life had changed in so little time filled him with the strangest feeling.

He had truly settled into his job, and that year, he would enjoy sakura season in Tomoe. The idea of wandering aimlessly around a park with Ryouji and Hirose actually sounded really fun.

So Misato made plans for the weekend.

Chapter 1: Kushinada’s Mask

The Tale of Kushinada’s Vengeance

Chapter 1: Kushinada’s Mask

in old Izumo

where the clouds descend so thick

the dark fog cloaks me

and here begins a downpour

over my grudge-ridden form

“The man who stole both me and the one I love, I resent.

“The parent who tore our love to pieces and delegated that man to me, I resent.

“And most of all…she who cried not a single tear and mutely allowed such theft, I resent.

“I curse her.”

Thus the woman became a demon.

***

TAKAYUKI and Miyazawa had attended the same private high school. They’d pursued the same route to higher education, even, and taken the very same classes. Miyazawa’s was one of the faces that Takayuki saw most often at school.

At that time, Miyazawa followed school rules concerning hair length and kept his short enough that it did not reach the nape of his neck. He appeared like any other boy, perfectly regular without any indication of spiritual powers. He’d hidden them so scrupulously that a happy-go-lucky teen like Takayuki could never have hoped to see through his facade. Instead, Takayuki had found out about his supernatural upbringing on their first day of work at Town Hall—their first encounter in four years—a year prior.

When Takayuki saw how much Miyazawa had changed, at last realizing the scale of what his classmate had hidden from him, he was genuinely shocked. Before long, his astonishment curdled into a sort of resentment.

And Miyazawa’s long hair, usually unacceptable on a civil servant, was apparently utilized in some kind of ritual, although Takayuki had not yet seen him perform it in the six months since joining the Abnormal Disaster Unit, nor in the almost two years they’d worked at Tomoe Town Hall together.

“As a guy who can hardly spell ‘apparition,’ let alone see one, I really thought there wouldn’t be much for me to do around here,” complained Takayuki one day that fall. “But before I knew it, you guys were working me to the bone, for real…” He dropped a stack of ring binders onto his desk.

Miyazawa chuckled softly as he dumped an identical pile of binders onto his own desk. “Well, everyone’s just so excited that the average age of the office has dropped so drastically. And to be honest, I’m pretty pleased to have an underling of my own…”

The Abnormal Disaster Unit demanded far more physical labor than Takayuki had anticipated. But not in the sense of the fantastical, supernatural battles that were depicted in manga and novels—not in the slightest. Virtually every task entrusted to the unit was something dull, whether oral surveys, shrine maintenance, or assistance at religious services.

They spent almost every workday outside. They carried supplies, trekked through the mountains, and inspected rivers and other natural features. On the rare occasion they weren’t performing manual labor, they advised citizens (sometimes regarding spiritual matters but usually providing guidance to hospitals or the police), processed the forms incurred as a result of those discussions, and wrote reports on incidents’ resolutions for approval. Furthermore, the unit was also required to submit budget estimates and financial forms and consolidate all data into Town Hall’s existing records.

Takayuki was among the general administrative staff, so his primary role revolved around the latter of those duties: paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. Sometimes, however, he found himself playing the part of a Shinto priest (and badly, at that). Frankly, there wasn’t enough time in the world for him to feel on top of his assignments.

At the beginning of the fiscal year, his colleague Tsujimoto had grinned and promised that Takayuki would soon “be on so many jobs that he’d get sick of it,” yet six months later, Takayuki had yet to witness any spirit hunting—for better or for worse. But he had learned that there was a great variety of other reasons to make trips out of the office.

“This unit is so understaffed though; it’s crazy. I heard that Town Hall hired a whole load of new recruits this year, so why not do the same for our department?” he grumbled. He glared through the window at a dismal sliver of autumnal sky, the view mostly blocked by Town Hall’s newer office building. A wispy blanket of spotted clouds drifted high in the pale sky.

Fall was the height of the festival season, when many shrines around town held annual celebrations, in which the unit was very involved. At first, Takayuki was confused by the amount of time the unit dedicated to festivals, but appeasement of the gods enshrined throughout Tome was ostensibly one method of supernatural disaster prevention. As someone with no sixth sense to speak of, Takayuki could merely smile and nod when presented with such rationale.

“Because it’s not that easy, I suppose. It’s tough to find genuine spiritual specialists…” mused Miyazawa.

Employment as a specialist in the Abnormal Disaster Unit required some level of psychic power and the ability to perform incantations. Candidates needed to be able to easily see all manner of entities, from ghosts to animal spirits to demons, as well as possess a mastery of techniques to combat them. Con artists who claimed such capabilities were in plentiful supply, yet the skilled practitioners the unit sought were harder to come by.

“And more crucially, we don’t have the money,” Miyazawa professed with a listless sigh. His long hair and sorrowful, downcast eyes formed an ethereal picture of beauty at stark odds with the worldly complaint on his lips.

“Money, huh? Money, money, money…” concurred Takayuki with an even deeper sigh, all too aware of the department’s finances from the documents he helped generate.

The unit’s expenditure looked horrifically suspicious on paper. Their needs, while justified, were extremely difficult to describe when questioned in meetings. Takayuki had no idea how he was supposed to explain the purchase of talisman paper or that of alcohol used to placate a random mountain tengu.

Of course, the mayor, deputy mayor, and longer-serving councilors were well aware of the unit’s responsibilities and respected its work deeply. But if the paperwork were to be publicized for some reason, trouble would surely follow. For that reason, they were forced to euphemize the details of their budget as much as possible.

“Welp, it’s no use discussing all this doom and gloom now.” Takayuki glanced at the wall clock. The minute hand was approaching twenty-five minutes past one o’clock. “Can we just leave these on our desks? Yoshida said he wanted to talk to us at 1:30.”

“Sure, that’s fine. Thanks.” Miyazawa smiled. “I wonder what it’s about?” He craned his neck, scanning the office for their manager. The pair hadn’t seen him since returning from the archive room.

“Come to think of it, Ryouji said that Yoshida asked to speak to him this aftern—”

The shabby sliding door to the office rattled open and in sailed a young man with a bright voice that was noisier than uplifting.

“Afternooooon! It’s ya psychic boy Ryou in the building! Manager said he wanted to talk! Where’s the guy at?!”

***

“JEEZ… You never leave your volume at home, huh?” Hirose sighed in monotonous response to the tall, sunglasses-wearing blond thug ducking under the low doorway and marching into the room with long strides.

The thug was Misato’s landlord-cum-friend, Ryouji. When the man wasn’t unleashing a sonic boom in their office, he could usually be found at his part-time job, where he presided over the teppan of a small bar. He styled his bleached-blond hair into little spikes with wax, wore lightly tinted sunglasses at all hours of the day, adorned his ears with countless silver piercings, and sported baggy street fashion regardless of the occasion. In two words, he was “extremely unapproachable.”

The heavy-duty wallet chain hanging from his belt jangled as he walked past, and Hirose snickered.

“That metal thing takes me aback every time. I’m surprised you aren’t hunched to one side from the weight of it.”

He had evidently not spent enough time with Ryouji to automatically tune the clinking out as Misato did.

Both Hirose and Ryouji were more outgoing and sociable than Misato, but whereas Hirose played on the school baseball team and participated in student council, Ryouji embodied the look of a dropout. In fact, Ryouji hadn’t graduated from even elementary school, the two at opposite ends of the scholastic spectrum with very little common ground. They’d first met around a year before, and although their relationship was generally amicable, at times they treated the other as if he were a rare breed of animal.

“And what’s the matter with ya today, Hirose? You’re makin’ that sour ol’ face again,” Ryouji retorted.

He owned a large, old, Japanese-style house in a mountain hamlet a short distance from the developed area of Tomoe, and Misato lived in the outbuilding of the estate, so they were effectively cohabitating. He was a self-proclaimed psychic who typically took clients on a freelance basis, although sometimes the Abnormal Disaster Unit called on him for extra help.

“It’s what happens whenever I hear you’re coming. They only ever have you come here when we have a troublesome case on our hands…and Yoshida asked to speak to me, too. Whatever’s happened can’t be good.” Hirose’s grimace deepened, and Ryouji loosed an amused cackle.

As his rough-and-tumble appearance might have suggested, Ryouji fought spirits with martial arts in addition to incantations. Inwardly, Misato agreed with Hirose; Ryouji’s arrival spelled trouble.

“For real? Wait, wait—I bet that means you’re finally makin’ your spirit-hunting debut, Big Hiro! We’re gonna make mincemeat outta ’em together!” Ryouji clapped a hand on Hirose’s shoulder and gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “…Aww, c’mon, man. Don’t give me that look.”

Hirose’s expression was one of absolute repulsion. He picked Ryouji’s left hand off his shoulder with a deep sigh. “First of all, don’t call me that.”

“Bahhh, you’re such a damn killjoy!”

Despite their antagonistic conversation, the two got along well enough. Misato had heard them banter with each other many times over the past six months, and by that point, it was more or less their way of greeting one another.

“But for real, dude, your face says it all. Don’tcha think you should rein it in a li’l, just to be polite? Right, Misato?” Ryouji suddenly flung the discussion in Misato’s direction.

Misato looked up from silently organizing the binders on his desk. “Sorry, what? Did you say something to me?” He hadn’t really been listening.

“I was sayin’ he ain’t meant for civil service with that grumpy face of his.”

Indeed, Hirose was the sort of person to let emotion dictate his countenance. Misato couldn’t disagree that placing him on reception duty, where he would interact with many citizens, was perhaps risky. That said, since he never hid his true feelings, he was actually very personable once one was accustomed to his demeanor. Ryouji seemed to delight in how easily provoked he was as well, and they therefore teased each other relentlessly.

“Weeell… I think it’s nice that it’s not hard to tell how he’s feeling,” supplied Misato with a mild smile. He was careful in his choice of words, yet…

“Miyazawa. You’re not backing me up at all here,” Hirose said, his shoulders slumping.

***

THEY discovered that Yoshida wanted to dispatch the trio to the next city over.

“It pains me to have to send three of our youngest employees, but the situation sounds pretty urgent, y’see. I expect Miyazawa isn’t finished with his current case yet, so I was hoping you two could go ahead of him. Hirose, it’s a temporary relocation for you, which I hate to spring on you, but beginning tomorrow, you’ll be commuting to their city hall for the foreseeable future. And Karino, you can discuss when you’ll be needed with Hirose, and travel on a case-by-case basis. Actually, I think your family’s closer than where you currently live, Hirose, so it might be a good idea to bunk out there for a while,” he’d said.

He was correct; Takayuki’s childhood home was not in Tomoe but in the neighboring city, Akitakata. The city was very small, with a population of less than thirty thousand, and encircled Koriyama Castle. The castle once served as a fort for the Mori clan during the Sengoku period, and ancient pottery dating from the Yayoi period was unearthed around the city with some frequency. The urban district of Yoshida lay at the foot of Koriyama Castle, bisected by the Gouno River, which cut through the entirety of the Chugoku region. Like Tomoe, Akitakata was a tranquil, countryside city where people had been leading quiet lives since antiquity.

“Of course, you came wearing that…” Takayuki heaved a deep, exhausted sigh when he spotted Ryouji in the parking lot outside Akitakata City Hall the next morning. They were hardly attending a job interview, so Takayuki hadn’t expected him to dye his hair back to black or anything—but had nonetheless hoped he would don something a little more discreet. Alas, Ryouji was rocking an extremely garish satin baseball jacket embroidered with a dragon. Takayuki could do nothing but face-palm.

“Whaddya expect? These sunglasses are a part of me!” Ryouji tipped his signature accessory in defiance.

Takayuki was aware. Ryouji’s eyes were a shade of silver-flecked green exceedingly rare for a Japanese man. Furthermore, Takayuki had heard that they enabled him to see things others couldn’t.

“You could’ve done something about those clothes, though.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?! You should be glad you got these and not the old-ass Uniqlo crap that Misato wears!”

“It’s not about fashion!” barked Takayuki. “What are we gonna do if they think you’re part of some shady gang and turn us away at the door, huh?!”

Instances of members of certain organizations colluding with local governments weren’t unheard of. He would shrivel and die if they were mistaken for third-rate criminals.

“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s totally fine. The manager told ’em all about us, right? Probably, anyway. Aaah, screw it… I’d usually still be nice and cozy in bed at this time in the morning,” Ryouji said, checking his watch with more emphasis than necessary. No doubt the gesture was a jab at Takayuki, who’d insisted they meet thirty minutes before the workday began.

“Put up with it for once, would you? At the very least, we need to make a good first impression.”

“Yeesh, don’t hit me with those outdated customs. If there are fixed working hours, that’s when ya work.”

“Don’t blame me! I’m just as exhausted as you are, man. Besides, it takes you the same amount of time to get here as it does to Tomoe Town Hall.”

Although his parents lived in Akitakata, Takayuki’s commute to the city hall was much, much longer than the jaunt from his apartment to Tomoe Town Hall, and he’d woken a full hour earlier than he would normally. And despite the thug’s constant grumbling, Ryouji had shown up at the agreed time. Perhaps he was not as irresponsible as he looked.

Still quarreling, they entered the pristine offices of Akitakata City Hall, which occupied a far newer building than its counterpart in Tomoe. They gave their names at the front desk, and soon a pair of people came down the stairs to collect them: a large, older man and a woman who appeared even younger than Takayuki. He could barely believe she was a staff member, yet her formal suit suggested that was the case.

The man gave a short bow. “It’s nice to meet y—” Pausing, he squinted at Takayuki, then broke into a broad grin. “Ah, we became acquainted earlier this year, didn’t we? It was a pleasure to work with yeh. My name is Moriyama, and I’m from the Lifelong Learning Department’s Cultural Asset Preservation Unit.” He bowed once more.

Moriyama had likely never met Ryouji, but Takayuki had collaborated with him on paperwork for the Mount Goryuu case. Akitakata’s version of the Abnormal Disaster Unit was part of the Board of Education, and Takayuki was already dreading the bureaucratic difficulty of bridging two entirely different departments.

“It was a pleasure to work with you, too.” He bowed in return.

Moriyama angled himself toward the young woman and lifted an introductory hand. “This is Yukiko Takamiya. She’s a local university student who will be helping us with the case.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said with a bow of her head. Her black hair, styled in a half updo, brushed the shoulders of her trim suit, and light makeup accentuated her face. She was the epitome of a newly employed intern.

She was attending college in Hiroshima City, they learned, and she’d returned to her hometown of Akitakata to conduct research for her thesis.

If Yukiko exuded the prim, proper aura of a scholar, Ryouji oozed that of a rough, dangerous thug. “You’re here doin’ research? Sooo…the thing you’re studyin’ is the same thing causin’ trouble, right? We were told it was a kagura mask or something.” All he and Takayuki had heard from Yoshida was that the mask was possessed and had disappeared.

Fortunately, Moriyama and Yukiko seemed to have been given ample warning concerning Ryouji’s conspicuous appearance and character, because neither so much as flinched.

“Exactly,” Yukiko replied as the four of them ascended to the unit’s office on the third floor. “I’m from Midori District, and a particular style of kagura dance has been passed down at the shrine there for generations. That’s the subject of my thesis.”

Hiroshima Prefecture was famous for its love of kagura. Geihoku Kagura, for example, was a particularly popular style derived from Iwami Kagura and was bold and loud and eye-catching. It entertained audiences of all ages, especially young children, due to its colorful performances and defined narratives. The Geihoku Kagura contest held in Hiroshima every year always attracted plenty of passionate fans, and a troupe from Akitakata had won first place for several years running. The city even maintained a village that was basically a kagura theme park.

The small troupe that helped resolve the case of the flower thief was also from Akitakata, Takayuki remembered. And if he wasn’t mistaken, they were based in Midori District as well.

The mountainous district was home to a style of kagura that had endured since antiquity. In contrast, despite its mass appeal, Geihoku Kagura was rather less storied: it first arose around the shift from the Edo to Meiji eras, and its flashy character developed further during the post-war period. Nevertheless, the history of kagura in Hiroshima ran deep; depictions of performers clad in demonic oni masks dated back to the Middle Ages.

“The current style was established toward the end of the Edo period, but it was based on techniques endemic to the area, so you won’t see it anywhere else,” explained Yukiko. “Anyway, the mask is used once a year by a dance troupe the night before an annual festival. But recently it went missing.”

“How’d ya notice it was gone?” asked Ryouji, clearly accustomed to interrogation after so long in the business. Takayuki’s role, apparently, was to monitor his behavior. Ryouji was a contractor as opposed to an employee, and Town Hall couldn’t send him to investigate alone without triggering a trail of paperwork—paperwork they could circumvent so long as Takayuki went with him.

Typically, Miyazawa was who accompanied Ryouji, and Takayuki was sure Miyazawa would have offered to go instead had he been free.

“Eh, we’ll get into all of that in a moment,” Moriyama said. He ushered them into a bright, spacious, and well-maintained office wholly unlike the Abnormal Disaster Unit’s. The huge room was shared by the entire Lifelong Learning Department, and he led them to a partition at its far end. Beyond the partition were six desks, three of which were already claimed—one by Moriyama himself.

“Please take a seat,” he said. “From today on, these two desks will belong to you, so yeh’re welcome to use the space as yeh wish.” Although slightly gruff, his voice was cheerful, relaxed.

The Abnormal Disaster Unit often complained of understaffing, and it comprised more than ten employees. Takayuki’s shock at the number of workstations must have been evident, because Moriyama was quick to clarify the office makeup.

“This is the Special Cultural Assets Team—a small part of the Cultural Assets Preservation Unit,” he said with a wry smile. “We aren’t as big as the team in Tomoe, y’see, which is why we called on yeh for help. This case is simply beyond our capacity, unfortunately.”

Takayuki nodded in understanding while lightly touching his cheek—was his face really such an open book?

After greeting each of the staff members present, he stowed his bag underneath his new desk. Ryouji, however, stood totally still, intently staring at Moriyama. Inconspicuously, using only the tiniest muscles of his face, he shifted his sunglasses down his nose and inspected Moriyama from head to toe over the top of the frames. Takayuki nudged Ryouji with an elbow as if to ask what the hell he was doing, and a moment later, Ryouji opened his mouth, his tone unabashed.

“You said your name’s Moriyama, right? You an employee here?”

Isn’t that obvious? Where did this come from? Takayuki silently chastised Ryouji for the rude query, but Moriyama’s long, thin eyes softened in amusement beneath lengthy brows.

“Oh, no. Well—I’m an employee, but not exactly full-time. I’m getting old and all, so I’m more of a part-timer now.”

Ryouji cackled. “Ah, I getcha. I was just thinkin’ ya looked about old enough to retire.”

Takayuki elbowed his side again; how did he think that was an appropriate line of conversation upon first meeting? Then again, perhaps Ryouji’s strange eyes—his tengu eyes, as he called them—had spotted something. While Takayuki had anticipated trouble, he was struck anew by how exhausting interaction with Ryouji was without the buffer of Miyazawa.

“Hahaha! I might technically be working under all these other folk, but I’ve actually been here the longest. Anyway, as for the case…”

Takayuki, a respectable, normal person, sat down in a respectable, normal way. Ryouji spun his chair around, straddled it, and propped his arms on top of the backrest as he listened. Reprimanding his every action was becoming tiring. Coolly, Takayuki pretended not to have seen that latest transgression.

Moriyama and Yukiko outlined the case from the very beginning, switching speaker when appropriate.

Deep within Midori District was a small village called Shizukushi, and farther upstream stood Inada Shrine. The local residents formed a kagura troupe in order to dedicate performances to their god. They created a special ritual dance, one that was taught to every generation since.

Takayuki’s eyes widened at the mention of the troupe’s name. “Shizukushi Kagura Troupe? Isn’t that…?”

“The troupe that choreographed the routine for Mitatsuhime last spring? Aye, precisely,” said Moriyama.

Takayuki had met the troupe’s leader in passing during the sakura case, a gentle, sixty-year-old man round in both stature and presence. An office worker by day, he practiced kagura and wrote new settings at night.

“The ancient routine, called Kushinadahime, is about a kijo.”

A kijo, or a female demon, was a type of oni. They were former women whose deep-seated resentments transformed them into monsters.

Despite his upbringing in Akitakata and familiarity with kagura programs, Takayuki had never heard of one with that name. “Isn’t Kushinadahime a goddess? The one who almost got eaten by Yamata no Orochi?”

“It’s gotta be,” drawled Ryouji. “I mean, the whole performance thing is for Inada Shrine, right? They worship her at every shrine called Inada.”

Kushinadahime was nearly devoured by a monstrous serpent with eight heads and eight tails called Yamata no Orochi, Takayuki remembered, before the god Susanoo-no-Mikoto saved her and took her as his wife. Tales surrounding Yamata no Orochi were typical in Geihoku Kagura, so that piece was understandable—but why would a goddess rescued by a heroic god be portrayed as a kijo?

Takayuki tried to recall other shows that included kijo. There was Takiyashahime, in which a daughter of the samurai Taira no Masakado became an oni to avenge her father; and Momijigari, in which the hero was tasked with eradicating a kijo on Mount Togakushi. Both dances were postwar adaptations of Noh and kabuki plays that capitalized on kagura’s eye-catching nature to entertain the masses. The kijo in those stories were slain with divine power for their resentment toward the emperor.

“…Wait. Is that true about the shrine?” he sought to confirm, slightly frustrated that he had to do so. Moments when Ryouji casually flexed his knowledge as if it were the most obvious fact in the world reminded Takayuki that he was a genuine expert in such matters.

Yukiko nodded. “That’s right. And unlike the usual legends, this one is about a love story between Kushinadahime and the serpent. But her parents force them apart, kill Orochi, and make her marry Susanoo-no-Mikoto against her will. Her wrath and resentment then turn her into a kijo.”

After transforming into a vengeful demon, continued Yukiko, Kushinadahime eventually tired of her fight against Susanoo-no-Mikoto and left Izumo. She arrived in Shizukushi, where she found peace, ultimately becoming a goddess once more.

The typical kijo tale concluded with the oni’s defeat and the people living happily ever after, but Shizukushi’s rendition focused more on Kushinadahime’s return to godhood after losing herself to pain. In the end, the personification of Orochi descended from the heavens to console her and escort her back, whereupon the villagers all bid her goodbye and prayed for her heart’s ease. The kagura performance was therefore an expression of gratitude toward Kushinadahime for her role as a goddess of rice cultivation.

Takayuki listened with wide eyes, the tale’s outcome entirely at odds with most of kijo canon.

Ryouji, on the other hand, sighed in exasperation. “The hell’s with this story? Why would Orochi still be alive? And what was a monster like him doin’ in heaven to begin with?!”

Yukiko smiled. “There’s another local legend that describes the goddess Amaterasu’s pity for Orochi after his loss to Susanoo-no-Mikoto, and she invites Orochi to receive treatment for his wounds there. Amaterasu is even said to have gifted the land with a hot spring. Basically, anything can happen in stories around here.”

Surprisingly, said hot spring was in Akitakata, Takayuki learned, and he realized with some shock that he’d visited it a few times himself. It was no different than most upscale public baths, though he had the vague sense that he’d read a similarly strange legend posted on the wall of the changing room.

“Kagura troupes unassociated with the imperial court first formed in the Middle Ages,” Yukiko said, “and by that point, the Buddhist concept of the Pure Land had already meshed with Shintoist beliefs. So my theory is that notions of the afterlife had become a confusing mixture of Shinto’s High Plain of Heaven and Buddhism’s Pure Land.”

That she could so easily launch into a coherent breakdown astonished Takayuki, although perhaps that ease was only natural given her major in local administration and her research of traditional performing arts. Takayuki had studied Japanese history in high school, sure, yet Yukiko’s explanation was rife with words that Takayuki just barely remembered, and she casually used them as though they were everyday vocabulary.

“Ah-haaa, a li’l bit of Shinto-Buddhism syncretism! Amaterasu equals Vairocana an’ all that. Are ya keepin’ up, Hirose?”

Ashamed, Takayuki shook his head. Not one bit.

“Well, to put it simply for ya, we’re talkin’ about how the concepts of gods and Buddhas used to be all mixed up before the government forced a strict divide between Buddhist and Shintoist belief at the beginning of the Meiji era. But I bet that back at home, your family’s got a Shintoist altar right next to a Buddhist one, yeah? It’s like that at my place, too. And I bet ya pray to both of them without really thinkin’ about it,” Ryouji expounded swiftly. He rested his chin on the back of his chair. “That’s super Japanese too—to not really differentiate between heaven or paradise or pure lands. I bet that was the vibe back when they created this kagura program, cuz there was a long, long period of random mythology before they started basin’ everything on the earliest written chronicles of Japan.”

Yukiko and Moriyama were nodding vehemently.

Man. He really is a pro despite himself, huh? Ryouji was absolutely right: a Shintoist shrine sat directly opposite the Buddhist one in Takayuki’s childhood home, and he pressed his hands together when praying to either of them. And the only difference was in whether to ring a bell or clap beforehand, he remembered hazily.

“Well, we can revisit all of that later if need be,” Moriyama decreed. “I’d like to get into the meat of the matter: the kijo mask used in Kushinadahime disappeared last month. The mask is normally stored in Inada Shrine’s treasury for safekeeping, but a group of thieves managed to break in. The place was an absolute mess.”

Takayuki raised an eyebrow. It was merely stolen, then. How is that in any way mysterious?

“The thieves couldn’t have taken anything,” Moriyama said. “Not the mask, nothing—’cause they were found dead in the treasury. That’s what makes the situation unusual.”

A noise of alarmed disgust escaped Takayuki. He’d been working for the Abnormal Disaster Unit for around half a year and had never encountered such a critical case.

“And the cause of death?” asked Ryouji smoothly as if totally unfazed.

“Heart attacks—all of ’em. Apparently, all three men were cold by the time they were discovered. The shrine was able to confirm that nothing else was taken, and just Kushinadahime’s mask was missing from its box, lid wide open. It’s rumored to be cursed, so we seal the box with an incantation. The only time it’s ever removed is for the annual kagura performance—and the dancers wear it only for the duration of the show.”

“Ahh, I getcha.” Ryouji nodded, sitting upright and folding his arms in thought. “That was last month…and we’re about halfway through October now, so basically a whole month since its disappearance. No word on its whereabouts?”

“Nothing more than a couple sightings in the mountains. Both accounts describe seeing it for a mere split second, and the sites are nowhere near each other. We can’t track it with so little info, yeh see. There might be more witnesses if we could only find ’em, but we don’t really have the resources to put out a big call for people to come forward.” Moriyama sighed, his shoulders slumping.

The police had been involved from the start, he said, and Yukiko since the beginning of October. Only when she joined the team had they started to make any meaningful progress.

“It’s a sheer blessing that nothing’s happened since the incident in the treasury. But three people died that night, which means there’s a real risk to the population despite the victims’ poor intentions. Plus, Inada Shrine has its annual festival on the final weekend of this month, and the performance of Kushinadahime needs to take place the night before. We thought we should call for backup sooner rather than later…which brings us to now.”

Takayuki’s eye was drawn to the calendar hanging on a steel file cabinet. They had roughly half a month.

“Now I’m fired up for sure,” Ryouji murmured to himself—and Takayuki, who overheard him. “So, how’d the kijo mask end up at Inada Shrine? If you guys are the ones overseein’ it, you’ve gotta have a pretty decent idea of where it came from.”

“I’m ashamed to say that we don’t know all too much about it,” replied Moriyama, his eyebrows apologetic. “We haven’t been in the business as long as Tomoe’s team, yeh see…”

The Abnormal Disaster Unit’s origins lay in the middle of the Edo period, when Tomoe was established as a subarea of the Hiroshima Domain. Its formation was the result of Tomoe’s regional fame as a spiritually dense location; certainly not every town in the country had anti-spirit authorities. The Special Cultural Assets team had originated in the most remote part of Akitakata and assumed the spiritual protection of Mount Kori, where the Mori clan had constructed Koriyama Castle. The rest of Akitakata had come under their jurisdiction due to relatively recent municipal mergers, and they were consequently less familiar with the cultural assets of, say, Midori District.

“Ah—which is why we recruited Miss Takamiya here.”

Although from a different village in Midori District, Yukiko was scouted for her expertise in Shizukushi’s history of kagura. The team would have been in a better position had Inada Shrine still employed a chief priest, but the previous one had retired without a successor, and the shrine’s services and ceremonies were currently conducted by visiting priests.

There was one other person with firsthand knowledge that could help: the leader of Shizukushi Kagura Troupe. He had been told the generations-old story of the mask, but was rarely available since he had a full-time job elsewhere.

“The troupe leader has been extremely helpful in providing me with data and materials for my research, and I’ve been intensively looking into Shizukushi’s kagura history and legends about the mask, but…honestly, I feel like there’s still so much I don’t know,” Yukiko admitted, her shoulders sinking in chagrin.

“But yeh’re a great help to us; yeh have no idea. We’re real lucky that we got yeh here on an internship so suddenly even though yeh’ve already got a job lined up elsewhere after college.” Moriyama regarded Yukiko with gentle eyes, gazing at her as warmly as he would his own granddaughter.

If a lack of investigative personnel was a concern, Takayuki had plenty to offer, too. “I see the problem now,” he said. “I haven’t been with the ADU for long, and I don’t have spiritual abilities like Karino…but if it’s manpower you need, then manpower you’ve got. Leave all of the running around to me.” His roots were in sports clubs, after all, and he couldn’t help showing off a little in front of an elegant young woman—which earned him a little snicker from Ryouji.

***

A man drove through the mountains in the northernmost point of the prefecture, seeking a place to die.

He held only a rope in his hand as he stopped on the side of the road and stepped from the car. He left a note on the driver’s seat.

Staggering, he waded through alpine foliage, the season too early for the leaves to have turned crimson. The mountain, untouched by humans, afforded him no path, and wild thorns snagged the jacket he’d been wearing for three or so days. The brambles seemed to tug him further into their grasp the more he twisted his body to pass through them, and a thought registered fleetingly in his mind: Just like life, then.

Whenever he scrambled to save something, his efforts hastened its ruin. If he managed somehow to surmount one obstacle, the next only cut deeper into his long-battered body.

His stupidity in climbing a mountain in the least suitable clothing merely proved once again that he was not good enough. He was slow, socially awkward, and both physically and mentally weak. He’d been born useless, without any of the skills required to survive in the world of the living.

That’s right. It’s all my fault for being such a worthless failure.

He was utterly, painfully pathetic. His wholly miserable existence prompted him to wail in sorrow, moaning like an injured beast as he carved his way up the slope.

His father had been stern but respectable. His mother, timid but kind. They’d endeavored to raise him into an honorable adult who did not burden others with his problems, and he’d nonetheless remained defective and incompetent despite the passing years. He couldn’t do anything right and, plagued by misfortune, had lost everything.

Surely I’ve suffered enough.

He begged for reprieve. He was a failure. He wasn’t worth life. He didn’t have the means to endure such a harsh world. He wished he’d never been born, to have avoided the agony of existence altogether.

Oh. But if I die here, I’ll cause trouble for others yet again…

Someone would have to recover the rental car. He’d left his utility bills and rent unpaid. If anyone found his corpse, he’d inconvenience various people long after his death. On the other hand…no one in the world would weep for his loss.

“Ghhh… Aaagh!” he screamed. He couldn’t bear to be human any longer. Actually, he was a far lowlier creature, could never have hoped for such majesty since his birth.

“Then why should thou not hope to become a demon?”

The man froze in shock as a woman’s voice floated into his ear. Abruptly, he realized that undergrowth no longer clawed at his feet. Rather, he stood in a dense cluster of reedy cedars. The vicinity betrayed their thirst for nutrients, the thicket one of withered bark, snapped branches, and toppled trunks. The man spun, feverishly searching for the owner of the voice, only to be met by trees as far as the eye could see.

“I-Is someone there…?” His shaky question quickly dissipated amid the throng of thin branches.

“What fault could possibly lie with thee?” came a whisper from behind his right ear.

He whipped around and, again, found only the dejected curve of a cedar trunk.

Then, from his left, “Is this world not to blame for treating thee so heartlessly?”

He should have been repulsed; the woman’s viscous, cloying tone clearly belonged to something as opposed to someone. Yet her words sunk warmly into his heart, sweet and soothing. He’d always longed to hear them, even just once, a reassurance of “It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.” But, of course, he’d never known a single person willing to speak them.

“Dost thou not wish to teach the world its error?”

The world ignored him. Ignored his regret, his frustration, his sorrow, rage, and resentment. It persisted, purposefully spurning his struggle. It victimized him while brushing corruption and sin aside, abandoning him to rot in obscurity alone.

Curse this world. He would have it atone. The man owned only his body, but he would force a repentance even at the cost of pulverizing the one thing he had left.

I cast dishonor upon this world. It will know my malice, my hatred.

A warm breeze caressed the nape of his neck, tepid and breath-like. The man turned, and the rope fell from his grip with a thump.

There hovered a gigantic kijo mask, so close that its nose touched his own.

***

“LONG, long ago, a thief snuck inta the shrine o’ Shizukushi Village. After trashin’ the shrine’s treasury, he made off with a kagura mask stowed within. That mask were fashioned after a female oni called Kushinadahime, the wife o’ Susanoo-no-Mikoto, the man who slew Yamata no Orochi. But as a matter o’ fact, Orochi and Kushinadahime were in love, an’ she came to resent Susanoo-no-Mikoto for killin’ him.

“So to Shizukushi the demon came. There she found peace, an’ she returned to godhood where the shrine now stands. And, aye, there was kept a mask used in sacred performance to represen’ her time as an oni. That were the stolen mask.

“Kushinadahime’s mask were a big’un with magnificent horns an’ eyes an’ tusks all covered wi’ gold leaf. The thief was wantin’ to sell that, I reckon, but the mask is godly property. ’Course the theft would incur divine punishment. Next mornin’, the thief’s found hangin’ dead and upside down in the mountains.

“An’ the mask, it were lyin’ conspicuously in the middle o’ the four-way crossroads at the entrance to Shizukushi. It musta used ’em crossroads to get home. The villagers figured the thief musta been cursed by the mask, so, ever so careful-like, they enshrined it wi’ the utmost respect. Thus ends this old, old story.”

***

THE legend of Shizukushi’s kagura mask was recorded in ancient chronicles of Old Midori. Misato pensively cast his eye over the paper copy before saying, “So, about this story…it only mentions the thief being cursed by the mask. Overall, it gives the impression that the mask of Kushinadahime really housed a god, and that the people of Shizukushi prayed to it with respect. But we’ve confirmed that, in reality, the mask was sealed as opposed to enshrined, and with a full-fledged Shintoist sealing technique. That’s a sign of something more malevolent. I have a bad feeling that it’s likely to claim more victims…”

He stroked his chin in thought, the mask’s box empty in front of him. He was investigating Inada Shrine’s treasury, the very scene of the crime. It wasn’t a very big treasury, more like a small storeroom with some shelves on one side. No windows admitted the afternoon light, so Misato had only the glow of a dangling lightbulb to rely on.

Five others peered over his shoulders to inspect the vacant box: Hirose, Ryouji, Yukiko, Moriyama, and Shigeru Nakahara, the leader of Shizukushi Kagura Troupe. Three days after Hirose and Ryouji started on the case, at the beginning of the new week, Misato joined them in Akitakata.

Ryouji leaned over him while Misato poised a digital camera to take a few photos for their report. “We were suspicious ’bout that, too, so we were tryna gather info, but…apparently this is all that’s out there ’bout the mask’s origins. What should we do, Officer Miyazawa?”

Misato closed the lid of the box, snapped a couple more photos, then draped the protective cloth over the top once more before facing the others. There loomed the familiar, thuggish monk, wearily folding his arms as if to say he was entirely out of ideas. The remaining four awaited Misato’s next words in eager anticipation, their eyes fixed on him. He recoiled slightly; normally, he operated at his bosses’ behest, yet at that moment, Misato had the richest spiritual know-how out of everyone there. Even Moriyama had insisted that he was merely a local with a better-than-average understanding of the spirit world.

“Aren’t there any more stories about the shrine itself?” asked Misato, turning to Moriyama and Nakahara, the most knowledgeable about Kushinadahime of the group.

“Unfortunately not,” Moriyama said, shaking his head. “All we know are the legends that Miss Takamiya tracked down and the circumstances of the kagura routine’s creation. I hear that the current Kushinadahime program has been modernized and dramatized quite a bit, but historically it’s been performed at Inada Shrine since the Edo period, and everything points to Kushinadahime being enshrined here. You can’t see the same performance anywhere else in the country, so it’s highly likely the play was created specifically for the god of Shizukushi’s local shrine.”

Nakahara nodded. A mild-mannered man, he’d readily composed a new kagura program for Mitatsuhime the spring of that year. Curiosity and warmth brimmed in his every action, embodying the soul of a creative versed in local lore rather than that of a stern commander of a gaggle of male actors.

“My predecessor had a right crack at changin’ up the staging of the program,” he added. “I’m not all too caught up on my history, but…he told us again and again that it was a crucial performance for the area.”

The kagura programs created in the postwar period had an entertainment factor that was particular to Hiroshima and mimicked the drama of kabuki, whereas the routines crafted before the Meiji era tended to be more akin to rituals. The earlier the program’s origin, the more likely it was religious in intention. Perhaps, before its revamp, Kushinadahime had been similarly ceremonial.

“It must be pretty old…especially if you’ve been using the same mask the whole time. If that’s the case, we might have something truly powerful on our hands,” Misato hummed.

Such masks had been used to represent oni in kagura for hundreds of years. A dancer performing Kushinadahime could have first debuted the mask many, many centuries past.

“You guys get this hella-sealed mask out once a year to do your dance, right? Did nothin’ bad ever happen?” queried Ryouji.

Nakahara shook his head. “Nay, nothin’. Our troupe is careful to communicate the proper openin’ and sealin’ techniques to members, so it seems like nothin’ happens so long as yeh do it properly. Rather, we’ve always been sternly told that we hafta do our yearly performance no matter what happens. That was the main concern for us, I reckon.”

Misato nodded in understanding. Despite the strict insistence that the mask remain sealed, it was purposefully released once a year—as though the performance served to soothe whatever malevolence it might contain. Those peculiarities intrigued him.

“If the mask intended to merely punish the thieves, it would’ve had no need to leave the building,” he realized. “And though the exact reason hasn’t survived the test of time, the people of Shizukushi seemed very aware of the fact that disaster will strike if the mask is resealed poorly.”

“Aye, that’s true,” agreed Nakahara, crossing his arms in thought. “Everyone’s real certain that somethin’ terrible happens if yeh don’t treat the mask with respect, although no one knows what that somethin’ terrible could be. Every year, we get nervous as heck when we hafta touch the seal. But now that yeh mention it…I don’t recall a particular reason for that. There’s no story of a curse or nothin’.”

Typically, some sort of anecdote accompanied sealed artefacts, warning of the terror to be unleashed in the event of triggering the curse. That no one knew the full story of the mask prompted a flash of unease in the back of Misato’s mind.

“Our last resort is to deduce the identity of the exorcist who originally cast the seal,” he decided, “then trawl through the records for them, I suppose.”

The seal on the box was a very powerful charm from the Onmyodo tradition. He could hardly imagine that any of the villagers had just so happened to be skilled exorcists, so they’d probably called in an expert from elsewhere. And if the curse originated in the Edo period, the governing authority of Shizukushi or the offices of the larger domain at the time might have noted who was sent.

“In that case, we can take charge of searching the documents,” offered Moriyama with a nod.

They could confirm nothing more in the treasury, so they left. The sun shone high in the sky upon their exit, the weather ideal for a serene fall outing. Although the mountains had yet to burn crimson, the sacred ginkgo trees on the shrine grounds were dappled with yellow.

Akitakata’s Midori District occupied the densest part of the Chugoku Mountains in the prefecture, and autumn arrived earlier there than where Misato and Ryouji lived. Shizukushi nestled at the foot of the peaks that divided Hiroshima from Shimane Prefecture, not far from the ridge particularly perilous in winter that delineated the border. With the rapid onset of cold, the first spots of scarlet in the trees would likely appear in about a week’s time.

Nakahara had kindly come running from his day job to aid the investigation, and he said a brief word of parting before rushing back to his post. The rest leisurely strolled back to their City Hall cars, enjoying the autumnal air…

Until a horrified scream sounded from behind them.

“Waaagh?! What the— Eeep!”

Misato whirled in panic to see Hirose leap away from the purification font at the side of the path, his arms shielding his face in terror.

“Oh, it’s okay, Hirose. It’s just a rat snake. It won’t bite you,” Yukiko reassured him gently. Evidently, a snake had dropped from the font’s eaves.

“A-Ah, yeah… I know, sorry. Man, I’m making a fool of myself. I’m just…really bad with snakes. I’m not worried that they’ll bite me or whatever, but…eugh, the way that they look all slithery and slimy and creepy and crawly…” Hirose hunched his shoulders and rubbed his upper arms as if to ward off goosebumps.

Misato hadn’t known that about Hirose. He remained politely silent, but Ryouji—of course—immediately jeered at their coworker with an ill-natured cackle.

“Hirose! What’s all this about? And ya call yourself a country boy? That’s coward’s behavior!”

“Shut up, asshole! It’s because I’m a country boy that they freak me out!” snapped Hirose, twice as loud. “Have you ever had a rat snake fall on you in the middle of the night? Well, I have! And one ate my pet hamster whole, I tell you! Who wouldn’t be traumatized by all that?!” His antipathy toward the creatures seemed genuine.

For a moment, Ryouji’s gaze flicked toward Misato, who simply tilted his head. I can’t fault him. Everyone’s bad with something.

“But yeh don’t seem fazed by snakes at all, Miss Takamiya,” remarked Moriyama in a tone of unmistakable admiration. While Hirose and Ryouji yelped and yapped, Yukiko was herding the snake back into the foliage with a smile on her face.

“Well, you know how it is. I was raised in the mountains and I’m an only child, so I had to learn how to defend myself—”

“That’s what I’m sayin’, man! That’s what country kids are all about! Be more like Yukiko!” Ryouji shook Hirose with even more vigor, and Hirose slapped him away with a click of his tongue.

Misato was struck by how close they seemed after just a few days without him, though he was certain they would refute the observation if he ever mentioned it aloud. Truly, he was impressed by the fluidity of their squabbling.

“But honestly, I was surprised as well. I had no idea you were scared of snakes, Hirose,” Yukiko snickered.

Hirose blinked—why was she acting as if she’d known him for a long time? “Yukiko, what do you…?”

“I was your underclassman—yours and Miyazawa’s. I attended Seijou High School.”

That was indeed the name of their high school.

“What?” they responded in unison.

“I had no idea,” Hirose added. “But like…did we even know each other?”

“Hirose,” said Misato, “you were president of physical education in the student council, remember? You probably met her at one of the interclass field days or when presenting an award or something.” He smirked at Hirose’s bemused expression. The president of physical education was bound to stand out at athletic meets and intramural tournaments, especially when so talented a sportsman.

“Huh. I guess so…” replied Hirose, still perplexed. Clearly, he had no concept of his high school prominence.

“You must’ve been two years below us, right? What a coincidence,” Misato said.

“I was just as surprised, believe me! But then enough time passed that it became awkward to bring up…” She chuckled. “I admired both of you a lot.”

Both of us?

That time, Misato blinked. Unlike Hirose, he’d striven to nullify his presence in school as much as possible due to his difficult family situation. He hadn’t joined a single club, much less participated in student council, so he was shocked to hear that a girl in a different year had heard of him at all.

“You took calligraphy as your elective, right? I did as well. The teacher showed me your work among examples from previous years. I thought your penmanship was so beautiful and assumed you were a girl from your name. I was surprised to find out you’re a boy, so you just kind of stuck in my memory.”

Oh, crap. I didn’t think to keep a low profile on that level. He automatically chastised himself, yet he wasn’t as averse to praise as he preferred others to believe. While Hirose and Misato blushed, however…

“Ahem!” said Ryouji pointedly beside them. “Could we possibly hold the heartwarmin’ class reunion after work’s done? Do it on your own time, without me, damn it.” With that gruff command, he stalked away.

“Ah, sorry!” Misato ran after him. Ryouji claimed to have no memory of his school days, so naturally he felt left out.

As Misato attempted to cheer Ryouji up, his thoughts turned to their next plan of action.

Chapter 2: A Turbulent Night

Chapter 2: A Turbulent Night

IN the passenger seat next to Ryouji, a certain penniless onmyoji unhinged his jaw in a huge yawn.

After the autumnal equinox, sunset crept earlier each day. The twilight was not yet dim enough to describe the road ahead as “dark,” but Ryouji flicked the low beams on just in case. The clinging daylight was deceptively illuminating; despite the visibility, Ryouji knew all too well how the silhouettes of pedestrians could fuse with the scenery.

“Good work today. Did ya finish the job from last week super quick to come help us instead?”

“Yeah,” replied Misato sleepily. Apparently, the workaholic had relinquished his days off to conclude his assignment in Tomoe before transferring to Akitakata.

On paper, the pair were landlord and lodger, but in effect, they simply lived together—a fact that pretty much everyone they knew had puzzled out.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Ryouji sighed as he guided his beloved sedan along the route to their house. Misato had a car as well, but they didn’t see the point of journeying separately to the same job. “Me and Hirose had it all under control. You shoulda just left it to us.”

Misato snorted and shamelessly reclined the seat, likely basking in how luxuriously plush it was compared to those in his flimsy car. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

They were more than accustomed to each other, and an easy silence hung between them for a moment. A year and a half previous, Misato had found employment at Tomoe Town Hall and shelter under Ryouji’s roof. Similarly, eighteen months had passed since Ryouji picked up a poor, pretty-faced onmyoji in a random park.

Misato was—without exaggeration—briefly homeless before Ryouji invited him to live in an inherited, too-spacious mansion. Misato’s apartment had been double-booked, Ryouji learned, and at first, he could hardly believe that such a cliche blunder had been a genuine mistake. The realtor, however, was one of his regular clients, so he’d heard the entire story.

Had Misato disliked the living situation at Ryouji’s estate, he certainly could have searched for alternative housing. But, perhaps due to the comfort of cohabitation with someone of similar age and industry, or the suspiciously cheap rent—probably the latter—Misato decided to stay in the manor’s outbuilding. Before long, they furnished a communal living room in the main house and, via one excuse or another, started to eat together more and more often. Misato had worked his way through school in severe poverty, without any support from his contentious family. So, despite the all-inclusive, very low rent, he still occasionally fell behind on payments as a result of his student debt.

“I don’t mind anyway, since they’ll pay me for the overtime. Plus, I felt sorry for Hirose having to babysit you,” Misato giggled.

Ryouji raised an eyebrow, stopping the car at a red light, then turned his head to give Misato a quick glare. “Babysit me? Pah! I’m a competent medium on my own, y’know.”

“I know, I know.” Misato grinned, his arm slung over his eyes while he spoke. “But it’s Hirose’s first time teaming up with you, right? He’s a commonsense sort of guy, so he’s probably worrying more than strictly necessary about you. I’m just trying to take a load off his plate.” Unlike Misato and Ryouji, Hirose wasn’t exactly in the supernatural business.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?!” barked Ryouji just as the traffic signal turned green. Beyond the intersection, at the next bend, was a side road that functioned as a shortcut to their house. The sun was rapidly submerging into the horizon, cloaking the land in shadows dangerous to drive through without headlights.

“Oh, yeah. Ryouji, let’s go to Goryuu.”

“Are ya kiddin’ me? You wanna make more work for yourself now?”

They would soon arrive at Mount Goryuu if they continued straight instead of turning. More a hill than a mountain proper, it lay adjacent to the main road that connected Tomoe and Akitakata. A feudal lord had settled atop it in the Nanboku-chou period, and the ancient foundation of his residence remained alongside one of many small shrines erected by daimyo to deify tengu. A goddess presided over the land from its peak—the same goddess that Misato had assisted that spring. He likely hoped to ask for her help.

“Can’t it wait ’til tomorrow?”

“I have a feeling we need to act quickly,” Misato insisted, evidently revitalized as he snapped his seat upright and glared at the windshield. “Actually…I have a really bad feeling about this case. The fact that there’s no myth attached to the mask is creeping me out.”

Ryouji watched Misato’s reflection in the glass as he untied his hair, combed his fingers through the disheveled strands, then pulled it back into a tight ponytail. His pale, well-proportioned face echoed that of a Japanese doll, and his almond-shaped eyes sparked alive with a sharp glimmer.

Gone was his typical expression of feigned cluelessness, for in truth, Misato Miyazawa was an elite member of a large Shintoist clan. He called himself an onmyoji as a matter of convenience, although he hated the title. More accurately, he was a Shinto medium who drew on Onmyodo practices.

“Your sixth sense is at it again, huh? Then I guess I have no choice.” Ryouji could hardly ignore a skilled psychic’s gut feeling. And he had to admit that the mask’s lack of lore had troubled him as well. Besides, they had long passed the turn for the shortcut while talking.

Ryouji eased the car around a sharp bend. Once the road straightened again, they nosed through a tunnel, reaching their destination on the other side. The headlights illuminated an understated information sign and a moss-covered gateway. A muted tchk, tchk, tchk resounded through the car as the turn signal blinked, and Ryouji rolled to a stop along the sidewalk.

A thick wall of concrete blocks flanked the shrine’s modest gate. The stone steps beyond the low arch were shadowed by trees, the torii a portal into pitch darkness amid dusk. As ominous as the landscape appeared, Ryouji and Misato were undaunted, thoroughly familiar with the area after visiting countless times since spring.

Ryouji removed his signature sunglasses and lithely hopped onto the stair. He needed no flashlight. His peculiar eyes, an inconvenience in everyday life, were ideal for night vision. He loped up the steep, uneven steps, the sacred trees looming across the dwindling expanse of sky above them. A few more strides, and the gloom lifted into a dim, hazy light—the best indicator that they’d entered a spirit realm.

What lay ahead was an unusual space that lingered between the worlds of the living and dead. It existed in the same physical location as reality but was its own dimension, the two separated by an ethereal membrane. The passage of time was different in such places, faster or slower depending on the realm. On the metaphysical Mount Goryuu, for example, time progressed at a quicker pace than in the material world.

A dragon princess was that realm’s deity. Summoned to the land, manifested by the Shishido, a ruling clan during the Nanboku-chou period, Mitatsuhime blessed Mount Goryuu with a new spring. For centuries, she cared for the sakura planted by the clan’s leader.

She was a gentle, good-natured goddess and, after Misato saved the withered sakura she’d so mourned, seemed to have taken a liking to the frustratingly beautiful onmyoji. She sometimes invited both him and Ryouji to her realm for rather trivial reasons. Once, she declared that they simply had to see how splendid the fireflies looked—a suitably elegant invitation from a holy princess.

The hazy light seemed to shine from nowhere, diffusely revealing patches of mist. No shadows dogged their feet, and a glance upward exposed clusters of branches instead of sky. A faint crimson tinted the air, akin to a sunset on an overcast day.

“Gh—?!” Ryouji’s breath caught in his throat when a sudden bloodlust prickled the back of his neck. He jammed a hand into his pocket out of sheer reflex as he swiveled to locate the source. Something came flying down from overhead, and he swung his arm to block it with a single-pronged vajra. The sound of metal on metal screeched in complaint. “Get down, Misato!”

Ryouji wasn’t the target. Seeing the flare of panic on Ryouji’s face, Misato crouched and threw his arms over his head.

The difference in their fighting experience was stark. While Ryouji grew up in the mountains and the back alleys of Tokyo in the care of a self-proclaimed tengu, Misato struggled through school amid his other issues. In spite of those issues, Misato took the respectable route, attending college and becoming a civil servant. Ryouji, on the other hand, had been working as a medium since fifteen or sixteen, his turf a warren of rundown streets.

So, thankfully, Misato didn’t hesitate to heed his warning, and Ryouji darted forward, vajra poised to protect his housemate.

A ritual implement in Esoteric Buddhism and Shugendo, a vajra functioned perfectly as an exorcist’s weapon, especially the single-pronged variety. It could be gripped with one hand, each end fashioned into a spearhead. Its use had spread to Japan from India alongside Buddhism.

There was another sharp scrape of metal, then a deep thunk when whatever Ryouji had deflected embedded in a tree trunk beside the stone steps.

“A chakram…?!” realized Misato with a surprised yelp. The weapon was a flattened ring of metal, its outer edges tapering into lethal blades. Chakram were another ancient Indian import, and he could only assume that their attacker, like Ryouji, was a Buddhism-centric medium.

“Who the hell thinks they can just chuck these nasty-ass things at us, damn it?!” snarled Ryouji. He snatched the chakram that had fallen by his feet and lobbed it in the direction of their enemy. It skimmed toward a silhouette that Ryouji could barely discern, clipping branches in its path before being deflected in turn.

“I’ll lure ’em out here. Get ready,” he instructed Misato.

“R-Right.”

Performing gallantly as bait, Ryouji launched himself onto the top stair while Misato rose into a combat stance. And as soon as Ryouji shifted his attention to the assailant among the trees—

“Ack?!”

A small shadow darted between two nearby trunks and pushed Misato off-balance, sending him hurtling down the stone steps.

***

THE school bell chimed six o’clock. Takayuki, swimming in a pile of documents, raised his head. The view outside the library window was steeped in darkness; at some point, the workday had ended.

“Hey, how long are you two planning to stay?”

In search of records about the kijo mask, they’d come to a high school in Akitakata with a long-lived, particularly active history department that maintained a large and varied archive of the city’s folktales. The collection was the result of continued efforts to research the local area, the accrual of information over generations building on prior study in a way unique to their institution. To disregard such a resource would have been unwise, for their archive even included mimeographed documents predating the Meiji period—from long before computers and printers existed—which recorded the sorts of details that could only be found in firsthand accounts of the past.

“Oh. My dad will give me a ride home, so I have until he’s done,” Yukiko said as she lifted her nose out of an old academic journal. Her father was a teacher at the school.

Moriyama stood. “In that case, I have something to do at home, so I’ll be off. Please don’t work yerselves too hard.” The Akitakata team usually comprised just three people; he likely didn’t have the stamina to spend an entire day on one task when used to juggling much more.

“I’ll stay here with Yukiko then. Thank you for your hard work,” said Hirose, hoisting his behind off the chair to bow to Moriyama, who exited the library with a casual wave. Once Moriyama’s footsteps faded down the corridor, a stark silence fell on the otherwise-empty library.

“Sorry,” said Yukiko abruptly, shrinking in on herself. “I feel bad for making you stay behind, too…”

“Oh, don’t worry. I wanted to keep going until I got to a better place to stop anyway.” Despite their safe location and the fact that her father was in the building, Takayuki couldn’t bring himself to leave a young woman all alone. Besides, he was a full-time employee—albeit a transfer—and she an intern. Forcing a college student to do all the work while he went home wasn’t a good look.

“Sorry. I thought I’d just get a ride home with my dad, but…I didn’t consider the position that would put you in.” Her troubled expression indicated she was overthinking the issue. She did have her own car, yet they’d all bundled into Takayuki’s that morning since so many of them were headed to the same place.

Takayuki chuckled, straightening in his chair as he skimmed an old booklet of mimeographed papers. “You really don’t need to worry. If we can make even a little progress, we’ll be that much closer to solving the case. Plus, yeah, I’m usually still working this time of night anyway.”

As a civil servant, he rarely clocked out at the official end of the workday, though that was hardly worth boasting about. The Abnormal Disaster Unit in particular tended to push its staff a little too hard—but he hated to complain when Yoshida and the other specialists had no choice but to work. Still, it was a tough unit, especially given the night shifts most cases required.

“Oh, wow… You have a hard job, huh?”

“Not really. Well—it depends on the department. You’ve already got a job offer for after college, right?” She was completing the final semester of her fourth year, and many students had something lined up by that point.

“Yes—I passed the exam to become a teacher. I don’t know which school I’ll be at yet, but it’ll be a middle school.”

“Whoa, congratulations! I’ve heard those lectures are super rough. And that the results come in way too late.” One of his friends had aimed to become a teacher. Not only were the classes difficult, but students were required to do a practicum as well. On top of that, the certification exam was scheduled later than that of the civil service, and new graduates had to compete with teachers with years of experience. Obviously, the bar for the profession was high.

“Thank you. The exam results came out at the end of September, so I feel like I’m finally starting to relax a little.”

“So now you’re in the final push for your graduation thesis, right? Is it coming along okay?”

“I think so. I mean, I feel bad, but I’m kind of using our task as research time…” she commented with an awkward shrug of her shoulders.

Having given up on reading, Takayuki glanced at her where she sat diagonally across from him at the long, sturdy table. She retained her inner mettle but was more outwardly gentle than upon first impression, hinting she was much less reserved than he’d assumed. She had the air of a mature, reliable person, and he wasn’t surprised to learn that her father was a teacher and that she hoped to follow in his footsteps. She was also unexpectedly talkative; his worries about awkward silences consequently moot—although he doubted they would make much progress that day.

“Nah, that’s only natural. I’m just glad that we’re not getting in the way of your schoolwork,” he laughed. “So, you wanna be like your dad? Actually, my dad works in Akitakata too, but I was so scared I’d end up at the same place as him that I took the exam for Tomoe instead.”

Then in a karmic twist, of course, he was temporarily transferred to where his father worked. Which wasn’t big enough of a deal that he could justify refusing the request, yet he and his father would live in the same house, leave at the same time, take the exact same route to work… The idea so repelled Takayuki that he returned to his apartment in Tomoe and suffered the forty-minute (twice as long) commute instead.

“It’s not that I wanted to be like him, but…the next thing I knew, I was heading in the same direction. I guess the same applies to you, huh?” Yukiko smiled. “Y’know, a long time ago, I used to think being a teacher sounded so boring and formal, but…I eventually came around to it because it’s a stable career. Well, not exactly stable—respectable, I suppose.”

“I know how you feel.” All over Akitakata, people recognized him as “Mr. Hirose’s son.” For a time, he resented his father’s shadow, but perhaps it had influenced him to unknowingly tread a very similar path. “I bet everyone referred to you as ‘Mr. Takamiya’s daughter’ at school,” he added jokingly.

Yukiko nodded furiously. “Exactly!” she cried, before giggling in unaffected relief. “That’s exactly what happened. So for high school, I insisted on going to a private school. But whaddya know? One of my teachers was my dad’s classmate way back when. I guess that’s only to be expected since I chose a school I could commute to from home, but still…”

For better or for worse, the countryside was a small world indeed. The private high school they’d attended lay deep in the mountains close to Hiroshima’s border with Shimane Prefecture, and many of the students and staff alike hailed from the surrounding towns, Akitakata included.

The conversation soon shifted to their school days, meandering through memories of shared teachers and events until the rumble of Yukiko’s phone interrupted them. Presumably, her father was done for the night.

“Ah. He’s telling me to come down, so… Sorry about this evening. I kept talking and we got absolutely no work done. Oops.”

“Eh, it’s fine. We can just work harder tomorrow,” Takayuki reassured her. He’d enjoyed the chance to reminisce.

They stood and hurriedly tidied the documents into stacks before donning their coats. Early October was still relatively warm during the day, but evenings were quick to chill in the mountainous region. Takayuki flicked the light switch and locked the library door behind them with a borrowed key. The corridor’s sterile lights dazzled overhead as they headed for the second-floor stairs. They’d exit the building through a door on the first level that opened onto the parking lot by the school gates.

“It feels so strange that I’m working with people I knew from school…” mused Yukiko as they descended the more dimly lit stairs. “Did you and Miyazawa end up working together by sheer coincidence, too?”

Takayuki was from Akitakata, and he was pretty sure he’d heard Miyazawa mention growing up in Izumo. Despite no contact in the four years after high school, they’d become colleagues in Tomoe, an obscure town that had played no part in either of their personal histories.

“Yup, total coincidence. I honestly couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw him.”

“I was a little surprised by Miyazawa as well, actually. I had no idea that jobs like his existed in real life. Do you know a lot about supernatural stuff too, Hirose?”

Their slippers flapped against the plastic flooring, echoing through the empty school building. Takayuki noted a slight skip in Yukiko’s step as she walked a pace ahead of him. He supposed a young woman was bound to be curious about and excited by the presence of an onmyoji in her life—and a handsome young man, at that. Yet, their shared history notwithstanding, Takayuki knew very little about Miyazawa. In fact, he knew so little that his very lack of knowledge was a recent discovery, revealed only when the two had crossed paths again in Tomoe.

“Nope, nothing. I didn’t even know Miyazawa was into that stuff until we started working at Town Hall.”

“Really? I figured you two had been together the whole time, but…I guess not. He’s quite mysterious, isn’t he? He doesn’t have the air of someone who’s always on their own, but he seems to distance himself from those around him. It feels like he’s…detached from the rest of us, somehow. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but I can’t shake the feeling that all of that would make sense if I just knew…who he really is, I suppose?”

“I’m impressed, Yukiko. You’ve got a sharp eye, ’cause I spent three years with the guy and never noticed anything strange about him at all,” Takayuki said with a dry laugh. Women’s reputation for being observant evidently existed for a reason.

Miyazawa hadn’t stood out during their high school years. Nor had he after adopting that very distinctive hairstyle, attracting little attention and praise despite his beautiful features. He was an expert at concealing his presence and blending in. Even accounting for Takayuki’s lack of awareness, he masked that side of himself very well.

“Personally, I think it’s easier to judge the character of someone you’re not close to. That distance gives me an advantage, don’t you think? And unlike the rest of us, you actually seemed pretty close to him, I thought.”

“Ahaha! That’s probably ’cause I’m a thickheaded idiot who doesn’t notice when Miyazawa’s trying to keep his distance, so I just go barreling in. It’s super one-sided.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Yukiko peered back over her shoulder with wide eyes, perhaps taken aback by Takayuki’s self-deprecation.

“Sorry,” he tacked on with an awkward laugh, sensing that she wasn’t sure how to respond. “But…” He hopped down the final step to land beside her. “Even if I feel close to him, it’s true that I know basically nothing about him. It’s just… Y’know that detached vibe you mentioned? I think that makes him sorta comforting to be around.” Takayuki’s voice dwindled toward the end of his sentence, but it echoed in the cold, empty corridor regardless. Soon they would reach the guarded staff door that led to the parking lot.

Misato Miyazawa was special to Takayuki.

“I used to be on the baseball team in high school. Then in my second year, the coach was replaced by this big, experienced guy from some powerhouse school. Our team got real strong, sure, but it wasn’t fun anymore.”

He’d felt like a lazy dropout for not being able to keep up with the new training regimen. That he fell so far behind severely wounded his pride, and he was terrified that the other club members and his classmates were sneering at him behind his back. Yet he loathed wasting time on an extracurricular that was no longer what he’d signed up for.

“So I quit. It was kinda awkward hanging out with the guys from baseball after that, so sometimes I’d walk around with Miyazawa instead since we were taking the same classes.”

He had agonized endlessly over the decision, and while deliberating, he let his worries slip to Miyazawa. Miyazawa had never been the sort to respond with an overblown reaction or pass gossip, nor poke fun at his friends when the topic turned too serious. That unconscious safety net encouraged Takayuki to blurt his inner turmoil, to bare all of his feelings about wanting to quit the club, as well as his reluctance to do so.

As they’d sat side by side, Miyazawa’s nose stuck in a hardcover book from the library, Takayuki wasn’t sure he was even listening.

Until Miyazawa slowly raised his head, casually replying, “If you’ll really feel happier and more at ease without it, why should you beat yourself up for quitting? That’s like being mad at yourself for having fun and being happy. It’d be a different story if you were running from something you really wanted to do, but surely you can’t blame yourself for choosing to be happy.”

Takayuki had never done anything in particular for Misato Miyazawa. And Miyazawa had likely approached Takayuki’s problem as if it were merely a subplot in a book or TV show. But the advice encouraged Takayuki and became a driving force for the remainder of his high school days. For the first time, he realized he could simply enjoy his school life to the fullest.

With the extra time and energy that being club-less had afforded him, Takayuki turned his attention to his studies and school events, and all of a sudden, he’d easily passed his college entrance exam with a recommendation to boot. And he had none other than Miyazawa to thank for prompting him down that path.

“Ahh, I see. So, it’s pretty full circle that you’re working together now, huh?” A sweet smile spread across Yukiko’s face.

Takayuki gave a slight nod as he wiggled his toes into his outdoor shoes. Yukiko said a word of farewell to the doorman, bowing her head, then exited the building. Takayuki followed behind her, answering her solely in his mind.

But…from his perspective, I was just one of many. An extra.

Meanwhile, to Takayuki, Miyazawa had been a dear friend who supported him for the rest of high school. Then, when their days together came to a bitter conclusion, he became a small thorn in Takayuki’s heart forevermore.

Miyazawa’s expression was gentle and kind in Takayuki’s presence because he had no interest in Takayuki whatsoever. The reason he listened to Takayuki’s complaints without interruption was that he had no intention of talking about his own life. That soft, silly smile was a facade for his true feelings. All of which, Takayuki found out only just before they graduated.

He shook off the small, piercing needle in his chest, the pain unforgotten even after so many years. He fished his phone out of his pocket in an attempt at self-distraction. The time was already past seven o’clock. Mentally shooing himself toward a different topic, his eyes focused on Yukiko a step ahead: Should I eat before going home? Otherwise, he’d arrive back after eight. I could visit that restaurant on the way—

A man screamed in the distance.

Yukiko froze. “Huh? Did you just hear…?”

Takayuki stepped in front of her, forcing his troubled mind into action. Should they run to the man’s aid? No—he shouldn’t lead Yukiko into possible danger. But the parking lot was dark, with few streetlights. He had a feeling he shouldn’t leave Yukiko wholly alone either.

“I’m gonna check it out, so go back inside and call for security, all right? Maybe the police, too.” He led her a few steps toward the school doors, then dashed in the direction of the scream. Straining his ears, he listened for calls for help.

I really hope he just tripped and fell or something, but… The cry had been animated by a fear that far exceeded mere accident. Just recalling it sent a chill up his spine and churned the pit of his gut.

Steeling himself, he dug his nails into his palms and shouted, “Hello?! Are you all right?! I heard a scream!”

The attacker—if there was one—might run away after hearing him. And if that saved the man who’d screamed, perhaps he should simply let them flee.

“Are you all right?!”

His voice echoed through frigid quiet. There was no reply, and the only sound he could hear came from the distant school grounds, where students were training for some sports club. Frustrated by the lack of light, he lifted his phone to turn on the flashlight. The white LED illuminated the ground beyond, reflecting off parked cars. Perhaps many of the staff were still at their desks, because the number of vehicles made it difficult for Takayuki to scour the area.

Then, from the back of the lot, he detected the faint sound of something striking metal.

Takayuki ran as fast as he could. “Is someone there?! Are you okay?!”

“H-Help me! There’s an oni… An oni…!”

The word blew Takayuki’s eyes wide. No way.

A man in his fifties, clad in a smart suit and probably a teacher, crawled out from under a car. He scrambled toward Takayuki, who quickly outstretched a hand to help the man to his feet.

“When you say ‘oni’…are you talking about an oni mask? Like one they’d use in kagura?” Takayuki was already half certain, but he asked just in case.

The man’s eyes widened, then he nodded two, three times vehemently. “Y-Yes! A man wearing an oni mask ran off that way…!”

A man…? So someone was wearing the mask—or possessed by it, more like.

Takayuki didn’t know a single thing about fighting or martial arts, so regardless of whether the man attacked using spiritual or physical power, to face him alone was foolhardy. Beckoning the teacher, Takayuki opted to retreat. As he aimed for the streetlights lining the parking lot, he peered toward the school to see whether Yukiko had returned with help.

“Was the man carrying a weapon?” he asked.

“Yeah, uh… I think it was a crowbar. Ah—over there!” the teacher yelped. “Listen, you can hear him dragging it along…!”

Sure enough, Takayuki could just barely hear metal scraping heavily along the asphalt. He couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from, and that frightened him. The multitude of minivans in the parking lot was preventing him from seeing much of anything, the “oni” included.

His pulse raced. A cold bead of sweat slid down the back of his neck. Should they call for help? But from whom? And how?

I could call Ryouji or Misato…but would they pick up?

He and the teacher stuck close to the sides of the cars, stooping low as they scurried toward the school building. The weighty, lumbering drag of metal over the ground rang some distance behind them, the sound so unnerving that it could not be categorized neatly as a clatter or a rattle. Takayuki glanced down at his phone, turning the flashlight off as he swiped to his call history. Neither Ryouji’s nor Miyazawa’s names appeared; they usually communicated via a messaging app. Frantically, he pulled up his contacts list—

The man next to him grunted in recognition. Several silhouettes wavered at the end of Takayuki’s line of sight under a floodlight.

“Yukiko…!” the man cried, straightening as if regaining his composure.

She had brought the security team. Relieved, Takayuki turned to the teacher—most likely Yukiko’s father—to tug him forward once more.

“Let’s go. Security’s here, and we can call the police, too.”

“No! No…I couldn’t bear to lead the oni to Yukiko…” The man tore his arm out of Takayuki’s grip, his face hardening as he swiveled back toward the darkness, his expression that of a father who refused to risk his daughter.

“Takamiya, right? Yukiko’s father? I’m sorry, but we really need to run. The monster is too dangerous for us to face alone.”

“But it’s after me! If I run away now, it might come after us at home… HEY! Show yourself, demon! You have a problem with me, huh?!”

Takayuki panicked at the sound of his valiant cry. If he was determined to stay, there was no way Takayuki could simply grab him and force him toward safety. Of course, Takayuki didn’t want to lure the oni to Yukiko either. While listening for the demon’s crowbar, he turned in her direction for a moment and gestured at her in a way that he hoped conveyed, “Stop. Don’t come any closer.”

Luckily, that seemed to work, because Yukiko and a guard bearing a flashlight stopped in their tracks.

Yeah, okay… I need to call someone while I have the chance.

If he could get Miyazawa or Ryouji to pick up the phone, they would likely come together. But time was an issue. Would it be smarter to contact Moriyama? Or the police, if the man was truly flesh and blood? Conflicted, Takayuki tapped Miyazawa’s name. He waited for the ring—and was greeted instead by a droning female voice.

“The person you have called is unavailable. They may be in an area with no cell coverage or—”

Takayuki clicked his tongue with a tch. Why now, of all times?

He tried Ryouji’s number next and encountered the same monotonous tone. Wherever they were, their service was bad.

But…that might not be a coincidence.

A shiver zipped up his spine.

The harsh, metallic noise was gradually drawing closer. Slowly, slowly, like a predator trailing prey. Gradually, another sound joined the high-pitched twang: footsteps crunched alongside it, step after stalking step.

Yukiko’s father glared into the shadows, his hair astray from their previous struggle.

There, from the gloom, a huge white face emerged. It was about twice the size of a regular human’s, and a pair of golden horns protruded from its forehead, curving toward the heavens. Two wide, abyssal eyes, also painted gold, blazed in the darkness. Its countenance contorted in resentment, baring long tusks and vermilion gums.

Takayuki had seen a kijo mask before. Plenty of times. He was perfectly accustomed to them, even fond of them on a cultural level. But in that moment, he sensed an awful terror, a dread unlike anything he’d ever experienced. No—the man was not some disturbed weirdo who’d decided to dress up and torment people. Takayuki was strangely convinced of that.

Before them was a genuine oni.

What the hell am I supposed to do?! I can’t fight a monster like that…!

Recalling the face of the man who could save him, his heart stung. Now is NOT the time for that, he chastised himself.

He reached into his pants pocket with a hesitant hand. There was absolutely no way he could resolve the situation. He wasn’t like Miyazawa or Ryouji. He was completely, utterly, painfully average. Even if I try, it’s not like it’s gonna do anything.

Despite his misgivings, he clutched the charm Miyazawa had given him. It was a twisted cord of white Japanese paper, formed into the shape of a swallow. He was semiconfident that he recalled the incantation to activate it. The words—

“Mr. Takamiya…” forlornly echoed a low, gruff voice. “Do you…remember me…?”

Takayuki studied Takamiya beside him. Had the oni been one of his students?

“I…I don’t know. How am I supposed to recognize you when I can’t see your face?”

The oni came to a stop. His arms hung loosely at his sides, a crowbar in his right hand. He wore a ragged, dark-colored tracksuit and sneakers, and the dull clothing created the chilling illusion that the mask was floating in midair.

“It’s me…Shinohara. Mr. Takamiya…you told me to change my first choice of school…and that…that was where it all started…!”He struck the crowbar against the ground with a fearsome clang.

Takamiya, not seeming to remember Shinohara, was desperately muttering the name over and over under his breath.

The oni brandished the crowbar overhead with both hands. “Remember meee! R-Remember what you did! B-Back then! I’ll…I’ll…I’ll never forgive you!”

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. Crazed and roaring, he smashed the crowbar into the asphalt.

The bizarre scene had rendered Takayuki immobile. Alarm and horror seeped through his limbs from the tips of his toes as he stood helpless in the face of the oni’s erratic behavior.

“Y-You’re gonna know what you did! ALL OF YOU! YOU’RE ALL GONNA FEEL WHAT YOU MADE ME FEEL! AAAGHHH!”With a tremendous bellow, the oni sprung at them. He swung the crowbar, his hands dripping with what looked like dark blood.

Yukiko’s father braced for impact.

Takayuki roused himself. “E-Exorcise! And…purify!” He clapped the paper swallow between his palms with a resounding slap!

When he opened them, white wings burst forth and cut through the night to swoop at the oni. Stunned, Takayuki stumbled backward a couple of paces, staring at his hands in sheer disbelief. “It really worked… Haha! No way!”

The charm he’d cast was fashioned out of paper twined with Miyazawa’s long strands of hair. Miyazawa could produce a range of shikigami depending on the shape of the charm. Takayuki had known as much but never seen one in action before.

The white swallow pecked at the oni’s face. When the kijo mask began to peel off the man’s skin, the bird persisted, darting to the side and charging into the growing gap.

But…what next? I doubt a single bird can defeat a creature like that.

The oni swatted at the swallow, recklessly flailing his crowbar.

If I can just get that crowbar out of his hands…

As if it had heard Takayuki’s thoughts, the swallow changed targets. It speared at the oni’s right fingers with all its might, flying at full speed.

“Gyaaagh!”

The crowbar hurtled from his grasp and into the windshield of a minivan, shattering the glass into tiny pieces.

The swallow vanished, its energy spent.

The oni clutched his right arm and let loose a groan that almost seemed to vibrate the earth. It was no mere howl of pain—the creature’s despair ran far, far deeper than an injured arm—rather a curse toward all existence.

Sirens trilled in the distance, then closer as red lights flashed over the parking lot. Yukiko must have called the police. Finally, Takayuki had the advantage, and in his split second of relief, the oni lunged.

The demon leaped atop a car with inhuman ease and bounded across its roof with hard, ruthless stomps to propel himself over the chain-link fence. Several angry shouts issued from the officers rushing out of the squad car.

“Hiroshima Prefectural Police. Are you Mr. Hirose?”

“Wh… Y-Yes, that’s me!” Takayuki shook himself, still somewhat stunned after mutely watching the man move exactly like an oni in Geihoku Kagura.

Stepping out from behind the policeman, Yukiko peered between Takayuki and her father with concern.

***

SHOVED off his feet by a shadow darting from the trees, Misato tumbled to the bottom of the steep stone steps—or so he’d thought. What greeted him was not a jolt of pain, but a soft surface that broke his fall.

He blinked. “Huh?”

What had just happened? As he dumbly peered upward from where he lay, someone bent over him. A woman, coquettishly covering her mouth with a folding fan. Her green-tinged black hair cascaded from above, raining silk across Misato’s vision.

“Are you quite all right? Shisen is being rather violent indeed…” she said with a weary sigh.

Misato sat up. He’d landed on a large heap of leaves overlaid with an uchigi in an expansive, well-maintained clearing. The woman, clad in a short-sleeved kimono, was kneeling gracefully on a tatami mat spread over the ground. Though she wore the guise of an upper-class lady from the age of samurai, she was none other than Mitatsuhime, the god of Mount Goryuu.

He followed her gaze to see a man flying through the air, his white Shugendo monk garb fluttering behind him. He was a tengu with the bill of a crow and the wings of a black kite.

“Hyaaaaaah!” A flash of familiar blond hair was speeding toward the creature. A case could be made for his being a tengu as well, given that he was the adoptive son of one. Schooled in their technique since childhood, he was able to jump to unbelievable heights and moved with far more agility than any regular human.

Ryouji pitched forward, and a chakram, the same that had almost hit Misato, sliced through the air toward the tengu.

The tengu deflected the chakram with a khakkhara around twelve inches long. The metal rings affixed to the pointed end of the staff jingled harshly with a sharp swish. Flapping his wings, he aimed for the freefalling Ryouji.

Misato dug his hand into his inner pocket—he wasn’t at all armed for battle but could save Ryouji—and Mitatsuhime gently halted him.

“Please, stay here with me. We shall watch and see what ensues.”

His brows knitting, Misato glanced at her.

The goddess simply offered him a sake cup, a giggle glittering in her throat. “We may enjoy this libation while spectating the match. I believe Shisen is rather keen to assess the abilities of Sougen’s adoptive son.”

Ryouji twisted his body in midair to dodge the khakkhara hurtling toward him. In the same fluid motion, he grabbed the tengu’s outstretched wrist, relying on gravity to drag the two of them earthward. Misato never tired of admiring his superhuman grace.

The tengu, Shisen, somehow managed to shake Ryouji off, but too late. His feet hit the ground before he could stabilize his position in the air.

Ryouji, landing in a handstand an instant prior, swiftly kicked out to knock Shisen’s legs out from under him—

The tengu sidestepped the attack at a hover, putting some distance between them.

Sougen was the name of the man who’d raised Ryouji. He’d been based in Kanto, so Ryouji had grown up in Tokyo.

Misato opened his mouth to ask how the tengu knew Ryouji’s father, and Mitatsuhime preempted his curiosity, beginning the story while pouring sake into his cup.

“Shisen was born here on Mount Goryuu and became a tengu after completing his training on Mount Kurama in Kyoto. All of the powerful tengu have large networks, you see, so Shisen was aware of Sougen through his connections. He took an interest in Ryouji when I spoke of him the other day,” she said, still tittering.

Misato wanted to snap at her, to say that it wasn’t the time for fun and games, until he reminded himself that he was in a spirit realm, a place wholly unconcerned with human troubles or distress. There was no use panicking or arguing, so he sighed and surrendered. Perhaps the tengu, who’d presumably existed in the area for generations, would have a clue or two if they could earn his favor.

He hesitated to drink the sake, but Ryouji was the one driving, so… Screw it, he decided. He lifted the cup to his lips as one of Ryouji’s masterful threats echoed through the air.

“Ya wanna test me, huh? Who the hell d’ya think you are, puttin’ on airs and actin’ like ya got the right to do whatever you want?!”

Given his outward appearance, demeanor, and habit of loitering in broad daylight for exorcism-related obligations, Ryouji unsurprisingly came under a fair share of suspicion. Two and a half years had passed since he moved from Tokyo to Tomoe, and in the first year, the police questioned him relentlessly. The following year, he took Misato in and acquainted himself with the Abnormal Disaster Unit, triggering a dramatic change to his everyday life. He started to accept supernatural cases on a municipal level, and the police helped him in order to solve them. His relationship with the local authorities had grown into one of trust.

“Waaahaha! Sougen-bo picked up a mighty assertive little rascal, he did! I test you, oh yes, I do. I am he that is named Shisen Shishido. Sougen-bo of Mount Ashiho used to dabble in sumo wrestling with me, you understand, and now fate brings his adoptive son to live near my mountain!”

“Shut your mouth!” yelled Ryouji. “This ain’t the time to reminisce ’bout your old buddy, and I don’t wanna play with ya right now! Fine, whatever, I’ll give you your dumb-ass fight later, so can’t ya back down for a sec?! And why do all tengu have such damn loud voices?!”

That’s big coming from you, Misato quipped internally. He tipped the sake down his throat. He didn’t know whether the alcohol had been left in offering by a local human or brewed by another spirit using the alpine waters Mitatsuhime herself once called into being, those of Goryuu’s Sengan Spring. Either way, it had a sweet, mellow flavor with no impurities or foul aftertaste.

At his side, Mitatsuhime watched the pair of squabbling tengu with amusement. Despite her graceful, willowy figure, she was a dragon god that had descended upon Mount Goryuu to protect a samurai’s clan—and ostensibly accustomed to frenzied fights as a form of entertainment.

A realization struck Misato. “Shisen Shishido… Wait, is he…?”

Beyond the torii and stone stairs through which he and Ryouji had entered the spirit realm, Shisen Shishido Shrine stood in the physical world. Shisen Shishido was a tengu rumored to have been born to the local Shishido clan, who once resided on Mount Goryuu. His shrine was therefore erected at the edge of their land. Naturally, then, he lived alongside Mitatsuhime in Goryuu’s spiritual dimension, yet Misato and Ryouji had never encountered him during previous visits to the goddess.

Misato had heard that winged tengu could freely travel the country to mix with those from other mountains, so he could only assume that Shisen was likewise often absent from his territory. Sougen-bo’s peak was located in northern Kanto, for example, yet he’d stayed in central Tokyo while raising Ryouji. Tengu could also remove their masks to blend in, the faces beneath as human as any other.

While Misato was absentmindedly pondering the tendencies of tengu, filling his empty belly with sake, the battle seemed to have reached a conclusion. Shisen had drawn a vajra sword from the cloth at his breast, and Ryouji froze midpunch to avoid impaling his throat on the tip of the blade. He glared at Shisen with such frustration that Misato could almost hear his teeth grinding.

“It appears we have a winner!” laughed Mitatsuhime with a congratulatory round of applause.

“I’m not sure such an unfair fight counts for anything…” Misato added disapprovingly. They had been attacked out of the blue while effectively unarmed.

“That’s what I’m sayin’, man! Ya call that a fight?!”

The long-lived apparitions merely smirked in response to the two seething young men.

“Hahaha!” Shisen crossed his arms over a belly laugh and turned to face Misato. “Forgive me, I prithee. You’re a young man of strong heart, I see, despite a delicate face.”

Ryouji scoffed in indignation. “What the hell? Why am I a ‘little rascal’ while he’s a ‘young man’? I’m a year older than him, ya bastard!”

Shisen easily ducked under Ryouji’s arm to poke him in the forehead, further emphasizing that Ryouji was nothing but a brat in comparison. But Misato knew that Ryouji was far from weak. Rather, the difference in ability showcased Shisen’s total mastery.

“A year is equivalent to the blink of an eye. Oh yes, you’re surely a rascal yet. I was astir with anticipation when I heard that you are Sougen’s successor, but what a disappointment.”

“Right. That’s it. When I get my hands on ya, I swear, I’m gonna—”

“However!” shouted Shisen as Ryouji balled his fists, about to throw down once and for all. “I’ll acknowledge that you have rightly inherited Sougen’s tactics. Our fight returned me to times long past, and for that, I thank you.”

Ryouji’s father had passed away around eight years prior, and Shisen truly seemed to have known him well. Misato recognized his tone as one of lamentation for a friend. The fondness woven into the tengu’s words dampened Ryouji’s rage, his fists withering with scarcely a dejected mumble.

“Come along now,” Mitatsuhime prompted. “Solemnity shall only sadden us, don’t you think? Nana, pour cups of sake for the other two, would you? I shall bring some food to accompany our drinks.”

“Ah, Mitatsuhime! Please, wait a moment,” cried Misato before they could be swept any farther by her gentle, flowing aura. “We’re currently searching for a kijo mask, one of Kushinadahime. It’s used in a kagura routine about her, but remains sealed for most of the year because it’s rumored to be haunted. Recently though, some thieves tried to take it from its shrine, and it escaped. I realize that we were rude to visit without any forewarning, but we came here to beg your counsel should you happen to know anything about the mask.” He bowed his head in apology.

For a moment, the goddess stared at him in bewilderment. Then she raised her closed folding fan to her mouth and gave a high-pitched, bell-like laugh. “Goodness me! I assure you, you needn’t be so formal. Yes, we are quite aware of the story. I hear that Kushinadahime of Midori was the subject of an awful kerfuffle not long ago. Shisen is far more knowledgeable about matters of the world, as I am confined to this space, and I corresponded with him in hope that he could be of use to you. I was most surprised that you visited before I could call you!” She giggled, innocent and sweet.

In short, she’d intended to assist them from the start, and Shisen’s test was simply a “fun” bonus.

“What the hell…?” muttered Ryouji to himself, slumping in exhaustion.

Misato breathed his own sigh of relief before straightening once more. Mitatsuhime was using a hisage, a ceremonial sake decanter, to fill the empty cups.

“Now we shall have a feast prepared for all present!” She smiled beautifully, the expression void of any underlying motive.

She was a god of the land, and Misato lacked the will to defy her. Swallowing his complaint, he silently held out his cup with a grimace.

Chapter 3: The World-Cursing Oni

Chapter 3: The World-Cursing Oni

IN spite of his role as the designated driver, Ryouji was almost roped into their sake-fueled merrymaking. But the moment before his cup was poured, an intruder entered the mountain space, bringing their celebration to a swift end.

The interloper cantered up the slope on all fours until, passing the bounds of the goddess’s garden, it rose to stand on two feet. One of Mitatsuhime’s servants, a dog-faced guhin with the wings of a kite, darted forward to stop it.

To Misato’s surprise, it was a fox with a magnificent, bushy tail. Its golden fur was midwinter thick despite the season, a ruff of white around its neck. With a large body and notably long tail, it was a very majestic creature indeed.

“Ahh! A fox…!” he couldn’t help but cry in delight before clapping his hands over his mouth.

Despite the nature of his job, the closest thing to a fox spirit he’d ever met was a mischievous, thin-coated tanuki that had wreaked havoc in Onomichi the previous year. Misato marveled at the fluffy creature as it emerged from the shadows, his heart singing. Due to personal circumstances, namely the powerful aura of the snake dwelling within him, Misato rarely got the chance to touch cats or dogs before they fled. He longed to pet a furry animal again. (The opportunity to touch the tanuki had also evaded him, unfortunately, again due to the threat of Shirota’s presence.)

“Dear, dear. Whatever is the matter today? You’re in quite the hurry!” exclaimed Mitatsuhime in a familiar tone, gesturing for the guhin to stand down.

“Something awful seems to be afoot, eh?”

“What’s the ruckus now, huh? Did somethin’ happen?”

Shisen and Ryouji addressed the fox in unison, turning away from the feast in the middle of the grassy field. Again, Misato was taken aback by their friendly response. The princess and Shisen were sure to have plenty of acquaintances that Misato was unaware of, certainly—but Ryouji? Misato hadn’t known that he was pals with such an impressive fox spirit.

“The oni has appeared,” the fox reported. “Miyazawa, Karino, I do apologize for interrupting yeh when yeh’re having fun, but please come with me immediately.”

Misato stared at the fox, unblinking. Despite its long snout and splendidly sharp canines, the fox spoke perfect Japanese. Misato couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew that voice. “Wait… Are you…?”

“Oh, dear Moriyama! I see now why you came running all the way from Mount Kori,” Mitatsuhime fussed.

Yes, that was it: the fox sounded exactly like Moriyama. And so Mitatsuhime had addressed him.

According to legend, Moriyama was chief of a skulk of foxes who protected Koriyama Castle at the behest of the Mori clan during an invasion by the Amago. After the foxes helped drive the Amago forces away, the Mori awarded Moriyama his own territory, where from he continued to protect Mount Kori.

“…I get it now. You’ve been guarding your land ever since that battle, even after the Mori clan’s jurisdiction was reduced to Choshu Domain,” Misato murmured. The story of Moriyama was famous within the former Aki Province. He was ashamed of himself for not making the connection sooner.

“Aye, that’s the one. But embarrassingly, I wasn’t all too informed about the goings-on of villages deeper in the mountains. My lack of knowledge about Midori has made trouble for all of yeh.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about that.” Misato shook his head. “More importantly, what happened with the oni?”

Had the kijo mask they sought shown itself? In which case, judging by Moriyama’s demeanor, Misato was inclined to agree with Shisen. Something awful was afoot.

Misato’s question appeared to remind Moriyama of the situation’s urgency. His voice was low, sonorous, as he answered, “A man possessed by the mask showed up at the high school where we’ve been doing research, and Miss Takamiya’s father was attacked. Hirose managed to fight it off before anyone was hurt, but the oni unfortunately fled.”

“Hirose fought it?!” yelped Misato. He paled in realization of the grave mistake they’d made.

Moriyama nodded, the regret in his expression palpable despite his animal form. They had left the only two “normal” team members entirely vulnerable to the enemy. Misato and Ryouji had assumed there would be no danger involved in holing up in a school library to wade through research materials.

“I accept all blame,” the fox said. “It’s my fault for leaving first, since it happened immediately after I left…” Clenching one of his paws tight, he flicked his tail in frustration.

Hirose had always been sports-oriented and was likely more physically capable than Misato. But he was administrative staff. Although he’d gained an understanding of exorcism, he had no ability to protect himself. Misato had given him a shikigami in case of emergency, but it was by no means powerful enough to compete with an entity as fearsome as an oni.

Misato clenched his fist in equal frustration. What the hell am I doing? Have I forgotten why I made this my profession to begin with?

“Either way, what was that thing doing at a school? And why’d it go for Yukiko’s old man?” asked Ryouji. “Unlucky coincidence? Or has it caught on to our meddlin’?” He handed his full sake cup to Mitatsuhime, then stood, cracking his neck from side to side.

“I’m not sure of the details, but I hear the oni was targeting Mr. Takamiya specifically. The police are taking statements from him and Hirose at the moment, as well as searching for the masked man. The man dropped a weapon covered in his own blood at the scene before fleeing. I might be able to track him with my sense of smell, but I’d like to ask yeh both to come back with me to act as bodyguards for Hirose and Takamiya.”

Misato and Ryouji turned to each other, nodded. They were exorcists—beings who straddled the line between life and death to defend the boundary and protect people such as Hirose and Yukiko. Those with the perception and power to fight the void were bound to stand at its shore, to face it while shielding the physical world at their backs.

“Good grief. The enemy seems intent not to give you any time to act at all,” Shisen said, also putting his sake cup down. “That kijo mask preys on unfortunate souls by enticing and possessing them, then attacking those connected to the victim. The oni itself lies within the mask, you see. It’s a dark, vengeful demon that resented and cursed the whole world before renouncing its own body and transferring into the mask.”

“A vengeful demon…” Misato repeated to himself. That would mean the creature haunting the kijo mask was not a goddess who’d stooped so low as to become a kijo—and therefore not the Kushinadahime enshrined by the local people.

Shisen nodded, climbing to his feet. “We may discuss the details later. If it missed its chance to eradicate that Mr. Takamiya, it might attack him again. Or it shall target another acquaintance of the man possessed. I surely have an underling with a sharp nose, so I shall send them ahunt.”

Moriyama’s large ears pricked, his eyes widening as he noticed the tengu for the first time since arriving. “Ah, Shisen. I never expected to see yeh home. Your assistance would be truly reassuring. Thank you very much.”

“Yes, for an old friend, I mind not at all. I doubt that my help can stretch too far beyond my own territory, but I’m happy indeed to do what I can.”

Moriyama bowed his head low, then turned to face the same dim expanse from which he’d come running. With a swish of his tail, the clearing was illuminated by countless will-o’-the-wisps. The wisps arranged themselves into a line, each light equidistant from the next, that stretched into the boundless mist enveloping the spirit realm of Mount Goryuu.

“I’ve connected this realm to my own territory,”he explained.

Using a nawame, a ghostly pathway that linked spirit dimensions together, they could instantly travel from Mount Goryuu to Mount Kori—a distance that would take twenty minutes by car.

Once the will-o’-the-wisps settled into place along the nawame’s trajectory, Moriyama urged them forward. “Let’s get going. Hirose is currently looking after the Takamiyas on his own, so we’d better get there as soon as possible.”

Until that day, Hirose had never encountered the supernatural in person. He had likely made do with Misato’s shikigami, but those didn’t last for long. Misato clenched his fist once more; they had to find Hirose before the oni attacked again. “Right. We need to hurry.”

Moriyama dropped to all fours and sprung forward, sprinting beyond with Misato and Ryouji at his tail.

***

SHINOHARA had changed his choice of college upon the recommendation of an irresponsible teacher who cared about nothing outside of ensuring students passed their entrance exams.

He lost his drive completely while studying a field in which he had no interest. Despite that, he managed to graduate—directly into a period of job drought. He joined the sole company from which he had procured a tentative job offer. Clinging desperately to that offer, he wrecked both his mind and body.

He became sick and was effectively fired, forced to begin a life of irregular employment. Years upon years of no prospects passed by.

When his mother died in that accident six months prior, he was left with no surviving relatives.

Again and again, complete strangers had trampled his existence before moving on, unconcerned. They crushed his life beneath their feet while wearing uncaring faces and saying that it had nothing to do with them, then simply strolled past his limp body. The strangers who spurned Shinohara most likely had no idea that he’d collapsed to the ground in the first place or even that they were the ones mercilessly kicking him.

Ruined, heaving breaths rattled through him with each stride. His entire body hurt. Everything from the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes was in agonizing pain.

He had lost his weapon. He returned to his childhood home to rifle through the shed, unearthing a blade used in woodcraft. This is for the next one.

“The next one… Yes… I must…take revenge…for my mother…”

A vehicle had rammed into his mother’s car while she was stopped at a red light. The driver sped into the intersection to make a turn, knocked over a motorcyclist, then veered into his mother’s car after spinning the steering wheel in a panic. Two had died: the girl riding the moped, and Shinohara’s mother. The car attempting to turn when it shouldn’t have was identified as the cause of the accident. The driver had survived.

It was so utterly, painfully, senselessly unfair.

The driver was admitted to a hospital in Akitakata after sustaining serious injuries. The news had said that they would never be able to fully move again, but nevertheless, they were alive.

“I’ll kill them. I’ll kill everything. I’ll kill everyone!”

And to that end, Shinohara would expend what little remained of his life. He would debase the rest of his existence and have them know his rage.

He couldn’t recall how he’d left the mountains where he had vowed to end his life.

He couldn’t recall how he’d gotten home, nor how he’d traveled to his old high school, nor how he’d been thwarted upon attacking his old teacher.

All he knew was agony, and a deep resentment gnawing on his constricted heart that was equally excruciating.

“Gyaaaaaagh!”He pulled at his hair. The twisting, squeezing anguish gushing from his heart was the one thing propelling his body.

I’ll kill them. Everyone. Everything.

He could hear a woman whispering.

“They shall know our pain. They shall know our resentment.”

***

ALONG the southwestern road from Akitakata to Hiroshima lay the town of Yachiyo, site of a multipurpose dam on the Gouno River called Haji Dam. The river cut across the Chugoku Region, and the dam was situated farther upstream than Tomoe and Yoshida District, the latter home to Takayuki’s parents. The Gouno River also separated Akitakata from Kitahiroshima, where he and Miyazawa had attended Seijou High School. He’d commuted by bus, traveling the winding mountain road of National Route 54 past the dam almost every day.

Sometime past nine o’clock that same evening, Takayuki found himself driving his old school commute in the company of an old classmate.

The police had taken Takayuki’s statement about the oni just before eight o’clock, and he’d reunited with Miyazawa and the others not long afterward. Miyazawa had materialized before them with terrified eyes, his countenance pale and ashamed as he ensured Takayuki and Yukiko were uninjured. Then he doubled over in apology. According to him, the night’s events were all his fault.

Moriyama and Ryouji left the police station in search of the fleeing oni, while Miyazawa, proclaiming himself Takayuki’s bodyguard, stayed behind to wait until Takayuki was done answering the officers’ questions.

The primary witness was Yukiko’s father. Takayuki and Yukiko were released relatively early in comparison, so he and Miyazawa were preparing to drive Yukiko home when they received some breaking news: a suspicious man wearing an oni mask had broken into a medical center in south Akitakata. He was wielding a nata, a hatchet often employed in woodworking, and had pushed his way past a security guard to rush into the hospital.

A police car was dispatched immediately, leaving Takayuki and Miyazawa behind, although an officer did at least give them the address of the hospital. With the oni’s location pinpointed, they could safely entrust Yukiko to the remaining police and departed in Takayuki’s car as a lone pair.

For the moment, they had no idea why the oni would target a hospital. Maybe someone related to Shinohara, the man beneath the mask, was convalescing there—but they had no information beyond what they’d heard in the bulletin. Based on the man’s demeanor when he attacked Yukiko’s father, Takayuki suspected that Shinohara had a bone to pick with one of the patients, the majority of whom were elderly people requiring long-term medical care.

“Looks like we’ll get there first,” Miyazawa murmured from the passenger seat. Ryouji and Moriyama were evidently in wholly different locations.

National Route 54 curved past the section of the Gouno River that lay downstream from the dam. Highways in the countryside saw very few cars outside of the weekday rush hour. And once past Yoshida District in central Akitakata, the number of traffic signals dropped dramatically.

“I get that Moriyama has, uh, his own thing going on…but how was Ryouji tracking the oni? Does he have a sharp sense of smell as well?”

Moriyama is a fox, thought Takayuki with a sense of uncertainty. And he was a huge fox, as tall as a human when he rose onto his hind legs. Sighting a fox the same height as oneself was rather alarming, especially given the size of Moriyama’s mouth.

Upon discovering Moriyama’s animal form, Takayuki didvaguely recall hearing a story about a fox with the same name during elementary school. Of course, never in his wildest dreams had he considered that it could be real, and the thought of the very same legendary fox digging through paperwork with him a few hours prior made a laugh bubble in his throat.

“Ryouji borrowed a familiar from the tengu on Mount Goryuu, one that looks like a small dog. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.” Miyazawa shot Takayuki a slightly bewildered glance.

“Well, yeah. I don’t have a sixth sense.”

He wasn’t proud of the fact, but the oni was the first supernatural phenomenon he’d seen since the Ozekiyama case half a year before. And even then, a human had been wearing the mask, so Takayuki was somehow more alarmed by the beings on his own side: the paper swallow and the bipedal talking fox.

“Ahh, I didn’t realize that most people can’t see those guys… It was dark, so I couldn’t tell whether it had a physical body or not.”

Miyazawa wasn’t like Ryouji, who perceived the physical and spiritual planes without distinction, but he apparently struggled to discern the two in low light. He and Takayuki lived in entirely different realities, literally. That Miyazawa no longer hid the fact was possibly the biggest milestone in the history of their friendship.

“Listen, Hirose,” Miyazawa said. His tone was slightly hesitant. “Even if we do arrive first, I really think we should wait for Ryouji and Moriyama before going inside. And…I’m really sorry, but could you wait for us in the car?”

Takayuki had been expecting such a request. Without thinking, he pursed his lips in dissatisfaction. He realized an instant later that his reaction was exactly why he’d been told he was easy to read.

“…The guy has a physical body,” he said, striving for a viable counterargument. “I mean, he’s a living human, right? Surely I can do something to fight that. I have hands.” He glared at the illumined road ahead as his fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

His own words, those of “living human,” specifically, echoed in his mind. They were about to face a vicious, armed, flesh-and-blood criminal. Takayuki had seen the man, uncomfortably close, with his own eyes just a few hours before. But Shinohara’s strange appearance and worse-than-nonsensical posture had left such a chilling impression that he could barely believe the man was human at all.

“Besides, aren’t you drunk?” he added.

“I’m fine now. I had a tengu sober me up, so I’m good to go.”

Takayuki had discovered that Miyazawa and Ryouji had been in the spirit realm when he attempted to call them. And Mitatsuhime had coerced Miyazawa into drinking sake with her. Not a single part of their explanation was plausible, but Takayuki was coming to learn that shock or disbelief over every little detail was a waste of time and energy.

“I’m sorry about leaving you back there. Really,” Miyazawa said.

“It’s whatever,” Takayuki insisted. “You were still the one who saved us.”

Of course, Takayuki had panicked when he was unable to contact Miyazawa. In the end though, the emergency charm had driven the oni back. Besides, none of them had ever foreseen being attacked at a school of all places.

Instead of turning right at the three-way intersection by Haji Dam as he would have on his old commute, Takayuki continued straight. A short distance up a gently sloping hill, the hospital came into view. The large facility comprised seven stories of wards and a nursing care center. They could already see red lights blinking against the walls of the building by the time Takayuki turned into the drive.

“Anyway, the police told us where to go, so we should be able to enter the crime scene,” Takayuki pressed. “And… Listen, Miyazawa. We might see entirely different versions of the world around us, sure. We might live in different realities. But we’re colleagues working in the same department and the same office. I don’t wanna steal the experts’ limelight, but if there’s anything I can do to help, please just tell me.”

For all three years of high school, Takayuki had believed his friend to be an affable, quiet, totally average boy. He wasn’t particularly good at either sports or academics, achieving passable results. He had weaknesses just like anyone else. He wasn’t a popular kid, nor was he completely friendless. Takayuki had assumed that Miyazawa wasn’t all too different from him—a peer, born to average parents in a middle-class family, with worries and troubles, hopes and dreams. That was, until their high school graduation ceremony.

“Okay. Thank you.” Miyazawa smiled.

At the end of their high school career, on the day of their graduation, the class reunited after a month or so apart. When Takayuki saw Miyazawa in the classroom that day, he was immediately struck by how haggard the boy looked. His complexion was sickly, and he appeared thinner.

“Are you okay?” Takayuki had asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay, thanks. Don’t worry,” was his response, though he was visibly very not okay.

And his smile was perfectly identical to how it had always been.

That was when Takayuki first detected the barrier between them. At that time, he hadn’t known what sort of world Miyazawa inhabited. The existence of oni or yokai was far beyond his imagination, yet he nonetheless realized that Miyazawa’s ever-present smile was simply a mask to prevent others from glimpsing the person beyond. Don’t come any closer. I won’t show you any more of me, he’d signaled.

I bet he’s making that exact same face right now. In the dark of the car, Takayuki could hardly pry his focus from driving to stare at his passenger, but he could readily guess Miyazawa’s expression: an awkward, slightly troubled smile.

At graduation, Takayuki felt so humiliated by that smiling rejection that he didn’t venture any more questions, and then Miyazawa vanished. He was accepted into a university far from Takayuki’s first-choice college and changed both his phone number and email address.

The truth had finally hit Takayuki.

The truth that while he’d counted Miyazawa a treasured friend, he was nothing more than part of the fuzzy backdrop of Miyazawa’s high school memories. Certainly, Miyazawa would deny it were he to say as much out loud, but after meeting Ryouji, someone who occupied the same reality as Miyazawa, Takayuki was only further convinced. He truly was just an extra in Misato Miyazawa’s story.

Back then, that scared me. I said nothing more to him and never demanded a real answer. But now fate has us working together again, and I’m not gonna chicken out this time. There are things that even I can do for him.

After graduation, nothing bound them. In spite of the year and a half since encountering one another at Tomoe Town Hall, Takayuki ultimately knew very little about him. If he didn’t push for more, their relationship would never change. He would always be an extra, running with his tail between his legs every time Miyazawa rejected him alongside all the others.

I don’t expect to be able to stand at his side…but I’m done being part of the backdrop.

When one desired something, the responsibility was theirs to reach for it—just as Miyazawa had for Ryouji a year prior.

Takayuki slowed in front of the hospital and was greeted by a strange crowd of squad cars, police, and curious bystanders. A familiar officer gestured to stop the car, and Takayuki rolled down the window.

“We’re Hirose and Miyazawa from Tomoe Town Hall’s Abnormal Disaster Unit. We’re currently investigating the mask case, so could we please access the parking lot?”

After a few words exchanged via radio, the officer beckoned them onto the premises.

***

AFTER parking the car, they headed to a back entrance swarming with police officers. Several squad cars loitered right outside, and floodlights were aimed at the open door. The glare was so powerful that it seemed to physically pierce his eyes, and Takayuki froze.

As his slow-turning thoughts refused to comprehend the situation, Miyazawa’s panicked voice supplied an answer: “Wait…is there a power outage?!”

Takayuki’s head snapped up to the seven-story complex in fear. Although past time for lights-out, the fact that not a single speck of illumination was visible within the entire building was notable. From outside, they could perceive only an ominous gloom tinged with green that sank into pitch black further in. The facility’s exterior lights, however, were functioning perfectly.

“Isn’t it pretty catastrophic for a hospital to lose power? And it’s weird that it’s only dark inside…” replied Takayuki. The hospital housed long-term patients. There were sure to be some who relied on electric medical equipment to keep them alive.

Miyazawa tugged his short trench coat tighter across his chest. Takayuki could’ve sworn Miyazawa had shuddered for an instant; was he cold, perhaps? “I’m not sure how it works, but—”

“Miyazawa!” someone called from behind them. “And…yeh must be Hirose, aye? Whew, thank the gods. Yoshida told me yeh’d be here as backup.” The middle-aged man jogging in their direction was wearing a tawny-brown duffel coat over a business suit. Takayuki vaguely recognized his face.

“Oh, Akagi! Why are you… Oh, did you get called out here as backup, too?”

“Aye, that’s right. Weren’t a chance in hell of the local force managing a big ol’ case like this on their own!”

Sergeant Akagi was a veteran detective from Tomoe Police Department. He and Yoshida apparently attended the same karate dojo, so he was usually the Abnormal Disaster Unit’s point of contact whenever the police were involved in a case.

Akagi led Takayuki and Miyazawa toward the door. “So far as we understand the situation, the ‘oni’ has barricaded himself in the building. I dunno if I should be tellin’ yeh this, but he forced his way into the building while callin’ some man’s name, and now he won’t come out or nothin’.” The oni had appeared wielding a nata, shoved past the security guard, then kicked down the steel-framed wire glass door.

More than aware that he was not whom everyone was counting on, Takayuki nevertheless felt his heartbeat quicken when the throng of uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives parted as he and Miyazawa were escorted to the forefront of the scene.

“Several members of the Mobile Investigation Unit stormed in already, and now their radios are dead. We’re guessin’ that they’re out of commission for one reason or another. This is just a layman’s hunch, but I reckon they’ve been paralyzed rather than attacked or any o’ that. What do yeh think, Miyazawa?”

“I have a feeling you’re right,” answered Miyazawa, both of them glaring into the abyssal hospital interior. Akagi had no supernatural ability, but he’d developed a keen instinct through years of working with Yoshida and the Abnormal Disaster Unit.

Idle and useless, Takayuki studied their silhouettes from behind as the young onmyoji and veteran detective confronted the dark.

“Phone calls and radio transmissions won’t go through, no one’s comin’ out, and there’s not a light in the whole place. We can’t afford to take our time, I’m thinkin’. The oni was probably yellin’ the name of his target, and all the other patients will be in danger if the power is out much longer, too.”

Miyazawa nodded vehemently, then glanced around, hesitant. “Are there any other exorcists here?”

Akagi shook his head. “Nope.”

They were not in fighting form. The circumstances demanded urgent action. Takayuki understood that, yet he couldn’t help but clench his fists. He seemed to always be one step behind, his efforts too little, too late amid a lingering bitterness that squeezed against his palms.

Steeling himself, he said, “Let’s go in just the two of us, Miyazawa. I might not have any powers, but I can follow your instructions without questioning you or doubting you. I can be your assistant, at least.”

Takayuki had been working in the Abnormal Disaster Unit for half a year with zero knowledge of religion or folk customs or the occult. He barely had five senses, let alone a sixth, yet he’d assisted with rituals and ceremonies on several occasions.

In the past, when he’d fretted that his ignorance and inability would cause mistakes, his manager, Yoshida, had reassured him, “Extraordinarypeople aren’t the ones carrying out the religious services. They’re the people who live there, who believe in the continuity of that place and cherish it. Sure, you can’t see specters like Karino or engage them in battle like Miyazawa. But that doesn’t mean you have no power. Regardless of what you can’t see or can’t do, reality will follow your command so long as you follow the correct process and believe in it. And I asked you to accompany us because I see you as someone who has the ability to believe.”

Takayuki remained somewhat doubtful regarding that assessment. He’d never thought of himself as particularly credulous. In fact, his “belief” in the supernatural could’ve been summarized as “I don’t care so long as it doesn’t interfere with my life.” But after working with Miyazawa for half a year and witnessing the miracle he himself had performed just hours prior, he was determined to faithfully follow the onmyoji’s orders whether they made the slightest sense to him or not.

“Hirose…”

“I’ll come with yeh,” interjected Akagi. “And I’ve heard from Yoshida that yeh’re a real talented exorcist, Miyazawa. But we don’t have time to hesitate.”

Reluctantly, Miyazawa gazed at the entrance, its festering darkness more like a cave than a place of healing. “All right. Hirose, take this rice. On my signal, I want you to scatter it around. And take a talisman, too. You can activate it with the same incantation you did the shikigami. As for Detective Akagi—”

“I’m good, actually. I’ve got my own gear for this stuff. Yeh might call it an oni, but the violence is bein’ committed by human hands. The ADU can’t threaten him physically, and arrestin’ him is our job, so I want yeh to stand down on my command.” Akagi flashed the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Hirose’s breath caught in his throat when he made sense of the shape.

It was a gun. The first real gun he’d seen in his entire life. Goosebumps rushed across his skin.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got silver bullets in there,” Miyazawa scoffed, seemingly before he could help himself. Takayuki recalled that as more of a werewolf thing—and the misshapen line of Miyazawa’s lips resembled something between a fearful grimace and a smile. A joke, probably.

“Wouldn’t yeh like to know?” Akagi smiled in return, his eyes failing to match the repartee. He turned to brief the officers behind them, but not before adding, “The department doesn’t have the budget for somethin’ as splendid as silver. Though they are imbued with a charm.” He shrugged his shoulders. Admittedly, Takayuki was impressed by his casual demeanor.

The squad consisted of Takayuki, Miyazawa, Akagi, and two plainclothes officers from the Mobile Investigation Unit sent by the Hiroshima Prefectural Police. Miyazawa would lead in front, followed by Takayuki and the two prefectural officers, with Akagi taking the rear.

Before getting into position, Akagi called the City Hall pair over once more, saying hastily in a hushed tone, “With the situation bein’ what it is, we have to work with what we’ve got. The two officers from the main branch aren’t familiar with abnormal disasters, so they’ll be followin’ my orders. If yeh need anythin’ from them, just let me know.”

Miyazawa nodded. His lips were taut in a look of anxiety that was noticeable even in the dim light.

“Good. I’m countin’ on yeh.” Akagi strolled between them, clapping each of their shoulders. His every action was as effortless as breathing, as if their predicament was an everyday occurrence for a veteran detective—and Takayuki was left feeling awfully out of his depth.

***

MISATO stood before the gaping cavity of the hospital door. A few steps into its embrace presented him with their first obstacle: a violent reek that seemed to engulf his whole body. His stomach threatened to empty its contents, and he desperately covered his mouth. Then grimaced at the sensation of something rubbing his insides the wrong way, slithering and gnawing.

Calm down. We don’t need to react over something so small, okay?

He straightened. Human lives hung in the balance, and his actions would tip the scale in the most direct manner of his career thus far. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

The stink intensified with every step into the ward, curling into a gas that simmered with all conceivable sources of negative energy in the world. Rotting animal flesh, blood, vomit, feces, urine—that which forged the smell of death and wrung terror from the very crevices of his mind.

The odor could not be sensed by the human nose, however. It was the demon’s miasma.

No wonder regular people can’t move when they’re in one this dense.

The hospital was dead silent, which was no surprise. Though he’d given the rest of the party talismans as well, their faces were contorted in exertion when Misato glanced over his shoulder. The miasma was affecting them despite the protection.

This must be what’s creating the barrier between the hospital and outside. Even pushing through the very edge is exhausting… We’re not going to make it at this rate!

He steeled himself, controlled his breathing, then came to a stop. He slowly stretched both arms out to halt the group. “Step back a little. I’m going to purify this miasma.”

After receiving acknowledgement from behind, Misato gently closed his eyes. “Rin, pyou, tou, sha, kai, jin, retsu, zai, zen!” He formed the Kuji-in Mudra with his right index and middle fingers and slashed the air nine times. “All that is pure shall not be corrupted. Exorcise and purify. O sacred flame, holy water, divine wind—kyuu kyuu nyo ritsu ryou!”

He raised the mudra above his head and whipped it downward upon the final words as if cutting the putrid amalgamation in half with a serene, inviolable blade.

WHOMP.

A colossal invisible force struck the ward, and the glass throughout the entire first floor shattered before their eyes, the blast whipping Misato’s long locks into the air. Behind him, Hirose groaned something inaudible. As the wind settled and Misato ensured his hair was aligned with his spine once more, he cautiously peered into the gloom ahead.

He saw a flicker amid the darkness.

It winked out immediately as though wary. Then, a beat later, the hospital lights simultaneously burst back to life.

The restored lighting revealed a kiosk and small overnight reception near where they’d entered. The hallway beyond led to the medical wing, a collection of consultation and examination rooms, a pharmacy, and so on. Opposite, on the other side of the main entrance lobby, was the corridor to the wing for long-term care.

“Let’s go,” breathed Misato. “Everyone in the building should be able to move again, though the oni probably knows we’re here now.”

On his cue, the four men followed him toward the lobby, their faces stiff with strain. They were approaching a huddle of cowering officers, and farther down, Misato spotted people collapsed on the floor.

“Get the rice ready, Hirose. I think they’ve been affected by the miasma. Detective, do you know which floor the oni’s target is on?”

“Nope, we haven’t figured that out yet. I just wish we could ask one of the staff here…” Despite the five sets of footsteps pattering toward them, the cowed crowd wasn’t reacting. Akagi waved his hand in the direction of the exit, wordlessly instructing the paralyzed police to return outside when able.

Just before the lobby, the party spied a male staff member lying face down on the floor. The two officers overtook Misato to rush to the man, who was groaning as though choking on his own vomit.

“That all right?” asked Akagi in a low voice.

“Yes,” Misato whispered.

The officers called to the man and attempted to sit him up, but he merely moaned in anguish, his face pained.

Trailing the officers, Akagi proceeded two, three steps ahead of Misato. When his men failed to get any other response, he glanced back with concern, silently asking how they could help.

“Hirose,” Misato said with a small jerk of his head.

“Should I sprinkle some rice over him?” Hirose moved to stand next to the man, slightly tense as he stuck his fingers into the pouch.

“Yes. With a purifying incantation, please,” Misato replied. “There’s no telling how many people we’ll need to cleanse, so a small pinch of it should be enough. Ookubo knows how to make a quality product; even a little should be extremely effective.”

In spite of his brawny appearance, Ookubo crafted his powerful implements with delicate-fingered care. Honestly, thought Misato, I probably should’ve given the two MIU officers some purification items, too. But they’d dashed into battle on little notice, so the tools at his disposal were few. In terms of weaponry, Misato had the sword he’d acquired on Kamiki Island around a month prior, but he hesitated to summon Shirota and draw the blade from the serpent’s throat—not to mention he had a bad feeling that it wouldn’t be useful even if he did.

Hirose, nerves tugging at his expression, began to chant, then sprinkled a few grains of rice over the man’s chest.

At once, the man’s face went slack. When the officers, their arms around him, addressed him once more, his eyes cracked open.

“…You really are incredible,” Hirose murmured in absentminded admiration as he watched them.

“Not at all,” Misato refuted with a light shake of his head. “We’ve only just gotten inside, and I’m already close to exhausted. I need to conserve my energy as much as possible until we track the oni down.”

Akagi entrusted the man to the pair from the Mobile Investigation Unit before walking back to Misato with a frown. “Given the severity of his condition, I reckon we’d be doin’ some shoddy policin’ if we didn’t attend to the other staff and the patients. We’ll lose time, but we gotta rescue everyone on each floor, startin’ with the second.”

The majority of the nursing center’s residents were elderly citizens whose level of care was difficult to maintain when living at home. Naturally, they possessed very little strength, and the duration of time that many had gone without power to their medical apparatus was concerning.

There was also a bloodthirsty demon in the building, and his target.

As Misato wavered, Akagi suddenly pressed his fingers to his earbud. “Right. Aye, I got it. Gimme a sec. Miyazawa—just got word that someone from Akitakata City Hall has arrived, a man named Moriyama. What should we do?”

Misato’s head shot up. Reinforcements! “Tell him the current situation: a large number of people are unconscious due to miasma sickness, and we have neither the time nor the tools to cleanse them one by one.”

The long-term care wing had seven floors. The first housed a cafeteria and a rehabilitation room; it could probably be cleared the quickest, with only night-shift staff to worry about. The other six, however, consisted almost entirely of patient rooms, fifty beds to a floor. Reviving everyone would not only take too long, but also likely empty Hirose’s stores of rice.

Akagi dutifully relayed Misato’s message, the radio droning in the background as he scrambled to think of a plan.

Do I even have the strength to face the oni at this point? But…if I don’t step up, people will die—

“Miyazawa.”

The sound of his name jolted him back to the scene at hand.

“They’ll need time to prepare, but Moriyama reckons he can get the purification done,” Akagi reported, his tone relieved. He turned to the officers helping the staff member. “Hey. Have yeh identified the oni’s target?”

“His name is Sasaki—fourth floor, east side. Room 503.”

“Room 503,” Misato repeated to himself.

“He’s bedbound,” the officer added. “Apparently caused a traffic accident in Tomoe half a year ago.”

Akagi’s eyes widened. “Really?! In that case, it could be…” He lifted a hand to his mouth in realization, and before Misato could ask the reason, he barked, “Stay with him for now. Once Moriyama joins yeh, follow his orders, please. Miyazawa, we’ll be takin’ the stairs.”

“Yes, sir. But, um, I think we should at least leave talismans on each floor,” Misato suggested. “It should make a noticeable difference.”

“Gotcha.”

Misato faced Hirose, who was observing from a few steps behind. “Hirose. Could you stick a few of the talismans I gave you to the wall next to that door?” He pointed to the one linking the medical and long-term care wings.

Hirose nodded nervously. “Right.”

Certainly, Hirose had no special talents of perception, nor was he spiritually trained past what he’d picked up with the unit. Yet the incantations he recited worked. Yoshida had registered that well before Hirose joined them. Not just anyone could activate one of Misato’s shikigami, after all.

There were two sets of stairs: one on the east side, and one on the west. The stairwell to the west, adjacent to the elevator, was the closest. Versed in investigative analysis, Akagi proposed that they alternate between the two in order to assess the situation on each floor. So Misato dashed down the corridor, feeling for the oni’s presence while Akagi ran a step ahead of him, gun at the ready, and Hirose a step behind.

Akagi had taken the lead out of consideration for the threat of physical violence, and if the oni attacked with spiritual energy or more miasma, Misato would dart in front to intercept. Misato’s hand was jammed into his coat pocket, fingertips lingering on a paper swallow that he could dispatch in an instant.

The inside of his stomach stirred. Not in anticipation of a “snack,” but a display of caution and animosity.

You’re awfully nervous, aren’t you? But…hah, I completely understand why you would be.

Without the miasma curdling the air, Misato could perceive an aura of utter hatred emanating from the upper stories like a trail of slithering vines. Its power boiled and seethed, too wild to be a loathing for any one person or thing.

A vengeful demon, huh?

Shisen had said that such a being was haunting the kijo mask of Kushinadahime. And that the demon was not Kushinadahime, for whom the kagura performance was intended, but likely the person who had tried to steal the mask in a time long, long past. They’d transformed into an oni and lurked within the mask ever since.

You don’t transform into such a vengeful spirit without detesting the world and everything in it.

Usually, when a person died, their soul immediately returned to the realm of the dead. The spirit residing in each person comprised yin and yang. Yang, generally considered to be the departed’s very self, typically vanished from the physical world the moment it lost its living flesh. Yin endured a little longer, gradually fading. The entities often referred to as “ghosts” were largely that residual yin.

But there were exceptions.

One occurred when a person forsook their humanity while still alive. There were humans who became tengu as a result of their training, and, clearly, humans who became oni out of resentment. The latter discarded their personhood to become monsters, their existence amid society the subject of legends. In particular, many famous tales stretching back to antiquity concerned people who lost themselves to malice, morphing into terrible creatures. Exorcists like Misato and Ryouji had clashed with such beings over the ages, and their notoriety was exactly why they featured so heavily in Noh and kagura.

Born into a world only to be constantly abused and beaten down, they drowned in grievance, which led them to wholly desert humanity. Thus they became vengeful oni, creatures known as enki. The enki residing within the kijo mask was among those that had abandoned all, even its physical flesh, in order to curse the world with its very essence.

While tracking it earlier, Shisen had told them that the enki had caused significant damage before the mask was first sealed, though the tragedy had been erased from record.

They had a truly perilous case on their hands. The gravest, most brutal case Misato had faced in all his time as an exorcist—and so far, he was consistently at a disadvantage.

Not to mention…

Misato gritted his teeth as he hopped onto the stairs behind Akagi. Something deep in his chest shifted uncomfortably. The creature in his stomach squirmed.

Misato knew.

He knew what it was like to loathe and condemn the entire world.

He knew what it was like to lament betrayal by all one knew, to be backed into a corner.

At the end of his high school days, when most other students had returned home, Misato vied with a cursed entity in an empty dorm, alone in his room. Who would consume whom? The sinister murkiness that had gutted Misato’s heart that long, dark night was alarmingly similar to the enki’s vengeful sentiment.

Calm down. The rage isn’t aimed at me. My heart no longer feels this way. Remember that.

Misato was a professional exorcist. He worked for the government. He was not a high school student in the throes of despair. He was not the victim of an irrational grudge.

It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not—

Nearing the second floor, Akagi halted them with an outstretched palm. The stairs opened into the main corridor on each floor, so the risk of ambush was high if they proceeded unthinkingly. Akagi hugged close to the wall as he checked the landing, then beckoned the rest of the party up.

“Hate.”

The monster within Misato began to thrash. He instinctively clutched his middle, grabbing at the lapels of his coat.

“Hate. Hate.”

Targeted by an unjustified wrath, Misato had been fed a hex in the form of a serpent. Refusing to be killed so unfairly, he’d consumed the serpent attempting to tear through his intestines and eat him from within.

There was a monster inside Misato. A snake he’d devoured. A monstrous snake that was thrashing, rioting in response to the enki’s pure hatred.

“Miyazawa? Are you okay?” came a concerned whisper from over his shoulder. Hirose.

Misato did his utmost to speak in a mild, even tone. “Yeah, I’m okay, thanks. Don’t worry.”

Thankfully, he managed to sound perfectly calm, yet he could not bring himself to look back at Hirose.

Chapter 4: The Hell He Craved

Chapter 4: The Hell He Craved

THERE, in the dark, was hell itself.

As he had on every floor he’d checked thus far, Shinohara shone his flashlight at each patient’s door, searching for the placard labeled with his target. He found it on the third door, the name seared into his memory. Underneath the mask, an unconscious smile darted across his lips.

You’ll know how it feels.

He flung the broad sliding door open and peered into the room. Loud, ominous, low-pitched groans issued in harmony from the four beds within, melding with the electronic beep, beep of an urgent alarm to form an overture. The only light sources in the stygian ward were the LEDs on the patients’ medical equipment and the faint green of the emergency exit.

It was hell. A hell of his own making.

For those who had dragged Shinohara into their hell, he’d created hell in turn.

Ample distance separated the four beds, the patients further segregated by partition curtains and furniture. Immobile and hooked up to machines, however, they surely couldn’t enjoy such space. They could do nothing but lie still.

Noting the order of the names posted next to the door, Shinohara walked into the room. As expected, on the bedside to the right of the window, his flashlight revealed that of his quarry.

“You… Oh, yes, you… I found you… The murderer… Ahh…” breathed Shinohara, his voice hoarse.

There was his mother’s enemy. He staggered toward the head of the bed, brandishing the nata in his right hand.

You cast me into hell. Now beg for mercy. Cry your regret and beg for forgiveness. Fear the oni. Fall into despair. This is the hell you have brought upon yourself.

Trembling with excitement and anticipation, he raised the flashlight and finally beheld his abhorrent enemy. While the man moaned in distress, Shinohara fixed those eyes, that face, with a glare. The oni drew near, filling the man with fear and sorrow—

Shinohara wavered. “Hey…”

The man continued to whimper amid the web of tubes stretching from his body. His eyes rolled emptily, unfocused and cloudy. He did not see Shinohara.

“Look at me!”Shinohara tossed the nata aside, ripped off the thin bed cover, and grabbed the withered man by his tired hospital gown.

“Unngh… Gahhh…” Meaningless keening sounded from the man’s throat. His tongue lolled under sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. His hair was unkempt, his beard ungroomed. The tubes trailing from his chest and abdomen led to a medical apparatus flashing red in warning.

He was the man who had killed Shinohara’s mother. He was a criminal who had murdered two people, whereas he remained perfectly alive, unconcerned with his sins. Shinohara would judge him for those misdeeds. He would make the man pay.

Shinohara tossed him back onto the bed. The stink of urine clung to the man; he likely couldn’t control his bodily functions in his paralyzed state. Yet even then, he did not look at Shinohara.

Shinohara picked up the nata from the bed and swung it overhead. The man did not look at him.

“LOOOOOOK AAAT MEEE—! Gugh—!”

Abruptly, a dull pain throbbed deep within him, almost as if his organs had been struck. The nata slipped from his grip. The world around him ignited in a flash as the overhead lighting flicked back on.

Someone was there. Someone who intended to get in Shinohara’s way.

They will know my pain. They will know my resentment.

Forgetting the foe that would not meet his eye, Shinohara limped toward the lower floors.

***

AN eerie, bleak silence lurked amid the dazzling light restored to the second floor.

No—not silence. Misato heard an overlapping chorus of beeping, most likely medical equipment warning of critical failure. And when the trio’s footsteps stilled, faint groans came from multiple directions. But he perceived no other footsteps, no rustling, no sign of anyone else moving with intention. He gulped.

“I’ll check each room in order, aye?” said Akagi. “Meanwhile, yeh can very slowly make yer way over to the stairs on the other side.”

“Yes, sir. Oh, um…should we save the nursing staff first? If they can move, the patients won’t be so much at risk…” improvised Misato. Several different alarms blared, piercing his ears. The shrill, electronic cry was an omen of possible death, and he could do nothing to help on a medical level.

“Aye, if yeh can, then please do. I’ll check inside then call yeh over, so wait there a sec.” Akagi kept his gun poised as he carefully, nimbly wound his way toward the nurses’ station.

Standing in front of the western elevator, Misato and Hirose waited by a bulletin board outside the central lobby. The nurses’ station stood at the midpoint of the ward, which was around two hundred feet in length, east to west. The corridor ran longitudinally through the middle, separating the lobby and private patient rooms from the station and multibed suites on the opposite wall. Sixty-five feet of corridor lay between the two sets of stairs.

With the power back online, the hallway was glaringly bright. Someone had panickily flipped all of the light switches on during the outage, Misato surmised as he gestured for Hirose to purify the second floor with a talisman.

“Hey, Miyazawa…” Hirose peeled the talisman from its sticker backing, shoving the trash in his pocket. “I get that this isn’t the best moment to ask, but how is it okay to use plain old double-sided tape on these?” he grumbled.

Misato couldn’t help but give a listless laugh; the same doubts had occurred to him more than once.

Although the implements were already imbued with spiritual energy, Misato was extremely grateful that Hirose was the one activating them, for he wanted to conserve his strength as much as possible for their fight with the oni. Hirose had wheedled his way into the operation, yes, but Misato had realized that to leave an old friend alone outside in such a dire situation would be more than rude. And most importantly, he needed all the help he could get.

“Nowadays, tape is more reliable than using grains of sticky rice…I think. Either way, they still work, and I don’t wanna risk making holes in them with thumbtacks.”

Misato could understand why Hirose was baffled by the use of double-sided tape on an ancient, powerful tool, but it truly was the most user-friendly pasting method. There was no mystical force that could make paper sticky, and real talismans, though magical, were not inherently adhesive like those in fiction appeared to be.

Akagi had not yet called for them. Despite the danger of entering the lobby alone, he’d likely done so for several reasons. One was that noncombatants could present a liability if the oni was inside. Another was out of a sense of consideration in case they were too late, so he could prevent the others’ exposure to any atrocity within. Reports said that the oni was wielding a nata, and Akagi had determined that bringing a novice into a potentially violent situation was not the safest course. Hirose wasn’t the only one at risk; Misato was a skilled exorcist, but he’d never undergone any police training.

If Ryouji were here instead of me, he’d probably be able to come up with a better, more thought-out plan…

Hirose chanted the purifying mantra and activated the talisman, shaking Misato out of his thoughts.

Agh, now isn’t the time to be ruminating on stupid stuff! I wanna calm down, but I don’t know what you’re supposed to think about when you’re calm!

People were possibly dying. They could have already died. They could have been murdered just seconds before. There were fifty beds per floor, and the majority of the patients needed the highest possible level of care. Most were elderly people who required help to eat, bathe, and use the bathroom. Moreover, he’d learned that fifty percent of them relied on medical equipment or treatment to keep them alive.

The alarms continued to beep.

“It’s safe inside. Miyazawa, Hirose, do your thing.”

He startled at the sound of his name, then nimbly leaped into action. He and Hirose cleansed the staff members closest to them, and after telling the first person he revived the situation, Misato rushed down the corridor. There would be more people unconscious on the upper floors.

Akagi was finishing the sweep of the patients’ rooms. Misato darted to the east stairs and was waiting for the detective when he happened to see Hirose wince then massage his temples.

“Hirose? Are you okay?”

Hirose hastily lowered his hands, shaking his head as though his brow weren’t wrinkled in pain. “Oh, just…my head feels kinda heavy.”

“Ah…sorry. I pushed you too hard.” Misato clenched his fists, recognizing what must have happened.

Hirose’s incantations worked. Therefore, he was harnessing unobservable energy, energy that—of course—dwindled with use. And Hirose’s stamina was nowhere near as robust as Misato’s, since Misato had been training since childhood.

Misato was both disappointed and frustrated with himself for not foreseeing Hirose’s exhaustion. I really do need all the help I can get. I can’t make sense of anything right now… Can I actually face the enki like this?

Within, the serpent grated along his gut. The sensation was growing more distracting than he expected, the constant churning overwhelming him. But blaming his poor performance on Shirota would do nothing to improve it.

“It’s an emergency, ’kay? If you’re ever gonna push me too hard, now’s a good time to do it.” Hirose grinned. “I can take my head hurting a bit in exchange for saving lives.”

Misato nodded reluctantly. Considering their priorities, he knew Hirose was right. The circumstances necessitated a certain amount of risk. Obliviously overworking someone, however, felt entirely different from pushing them to an informed limit.

If Yoshida were here instead of me…or Ryouji or Tsujimoto— Damn it! Not now, brain! He rapped his right knuckles against his head.

“Hey!” chided Hirose nervously.

Misato could see Akagi looking at him with equal apprehension from afar. “I’m okay,” he assured them. “Thank you. You’re both a huge help. Let’s all just do what we can.”

It was no use thinking about people who weren’t there. All Misato could rely on was the party’s own power; that had to be his focus. He forced a shaky smile onto his lips.

Hirose nodded.

Akagi had a few more rooms to check before they could move on. As Misato and Hirose waited, watching, Hirose abruptly whipped his head to peer up the eastern stairs.

“Hirose?”

“It’s just… I thought I heard— Ah!” He came flying at Misato with open arms and a look of sheer horror.

With no time to brace himself, Misato was swept off his feet and sent skidding along the floor. Quickly, he anchored his elbows and hips into the cold linoleum and had almost managed a semblance of a defensive stance when Hirose slammed to a stop on top of him. “Wh-What happened?!”

There was a sharp, violent thunk as metal wedged into the wall beside where their heads had been. A beat later, another heavy object fell to the floor from high above.

“Keep low! Both of yeh!” ordered Akagi in a tense voice.

Misato forced his eyes open, the world before him contorting amid his shock and pain. A dark silhouette was sluggishly hauling itself off the floor. It raised its head, revealing a colossal, snow-white face. Its golden eyes shone with pure rage under a pair of horns that curved toward the ceiling, and the crimson of its bare gums evoked blood.

It’s him!

The oni mechanically tilted his head as if assessing them, then scowled in satisfaction. A muffled murmur sounded from beneath the huge mask as he began to approach, brandishing his nata.

“Look…at…me…”

Misato was trapped under Hirose; he couldn’t reach for a shikigami, couldn’t form a mudra with his fingers.

What do I do? What should I—

“Release. Now,” demanded a voice inside him. It brimmed with rage and hostility, desperate to spring from his body and attack.

No! Misato stiffened in an attempt to keep the creature within, and Hirose glanced at him in concern. In front of them, the oni staggered closer. The serpent rioted, pummeling Misato’s insides. But…

Hirose’s words echoed in his head. “I’m just…really bad with snakes. I’m not worried that they’ll bite me or whatever, but…eugh, the way that they look all slithery and slimy and creepy and crawly…”

I’m scared.

His mind succumbed to utter fear, a fear so overwhelming that for a moment, he had no idea what it was in response to.

BANG. A dry, piercing noise cut through the air, and the oni froze. After a blank second, Misato recognized the sound as a gunshot.

Step by leaden step, the oni turned around. “A-Ah… Ahh, Officer… I didn’t expect…to see you here. Listen…I found…a murderer… There’s…a murderer here… Please…arrest him… Please…” The oni’s head lolled, hanging as if with incredible weight.

“Throw yer weapon down, and I’ll hear yeh out. I heard yeh were lookin’ for Mr. Sasaki, aye?” replied Akagi in a calm, unhurried tone. He had not aimed the exorcising bullet at the oni, nor was the creature restrained in any way. The detective was the epitome of cool composure.

“Officer…”the oni repeated to himself, mumbling and delirious.

“I’m s’posin’ yeh hate him ’cause of what he did to yer mother, aye? I completely understand that yeh feel justice hasn’t been served, but we can’t be solvin’ things with violence, can we? There, now—why don’t yeh just put the nata down?”

Akagi addressed Shinohara rather than the monster possessing him, coaxing him toward peace. The oni said nothing, merely let his head droop.

“Miyazawa? Are you okay? Miyazawa!” whispered Hirose urgently, sliding off him and grabbing his shoulders.

Misato allowed his limbs to relax and gently pushed Hirose away. He nodded—he didn’t trust his voice enough to answer verbally.

He wanted to get away from Hirose as soon as possible.

“Hate. Hate…!” howled the serpent inside him.

Shh, no. We don’t hate anyone; we’re just trying to stop that oni. Not because we hate him. That’s not why. I’m just trying to—

Was he truly using his power for good?

Was he truly trying to protect the physical realm?

Was he not simply acting out of rage and wrath and vengeance?

Was he truly part ofthe physical realm?

How was he any different from the enki?

Was he not already one?

“They shall know our resentment,” a woman crooned.

Misato’s head snapped up instinctively. The voice was cloying and sticky, twining in a way that made him shiver from head to toe. For an instant, he could have sworn she was talking to him. Then he noticed that something was embracing Shinohara: two long, thin, ghostly pale arms. They lacked a head or torso, yet the translucent limbs were visibly coiling around the man’s exhausted body.

There! That’s the enki haunting the kijo mask!

The enki’s presence intensified as the arms wrapped around Shinohara’s head and held it close—almost as if to cover his ears.

Misato noticed the oni’s fingers tightening around the nata. “Akagi, that’s not going to work!” The enki’s influence was too strong; there was no reasoning with the human within.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to give the order to shoot.

Slowly, deliberately, Shinohara shuffled to face him once more.

He had drawn the enki’s attention, Misato realized. His eyes met Shinohara’s. The nata whooshed through the air. Akagi’s warning shot assaulted his eardrums. The serpent writhed. “Let me out! I eat it!” it roared. In front of him, staring him down, was murderous intent fueled by an unjustified grudge, and…

Will I be forced to eat it again?

His mind ground to a halt.

“Miyazawa!”

He’d missed his chance to seize the shikigami in his pocket. Dazedly, Misato’s eyes traced the rusted blade hanging over his head. A nick in its surface glinted in bizarrely distinct definition. The frantic shouts and clamor around him registered only in the faintest corner of his consciousness.

I’m miserable. Save me. I don’t want this. I don’t wanna die!

But…I’m too scared. Save me… Someone… Ryouji—

“The hell’s wrong with ya, ya bastard?! Don’t hesitate now! Ya wanna die, huh?!”

When a yell his ears knew better than any other ripped through the air, so did a chakram. It knocked the enki’s nata far, far away.

***

ALL humans had weaknesses.

No human was all-knowing. No human was all-powerful.

Everyone knew that. No one could concern themselves with the well-being of every person in their life twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year. So no one was to blame for what had happened.

But a lack of fault did not change the fact that it had happened, nor mean that the victim would ever make peace with it. Such was the cold, hard truth.

***

ON his hands and knees since first knocking Miyazawa out of the path of the oni’s attack, Takayuki was, naturally, alarmed to glance over his shoulder and see Miyazawa staring blankly at the nata hovering overhead. Miyazawa did not retreat a step or flee. In fact, he did not move a single muscle.

Oh hell. What should I do? What should I do?!

The question flooded his brain to no avail. Miyazawa was equally petrified, to the point that he seemed to have forgotten how to fight back.

Then a shout rang from the way they’d come, a shout that Takayuki recognized as Ryouji’s, accompanied by something sharp that sliced right past the top of his head. A metal clang sounded, and the oni looked upward. The nata and a large, metallic ring were spinning into the air.

Miyazawa flinched as though snapping back into his body. “Ryouji!” he yelped, then added with a deeply relieved sigh, “I’m sorry…”

“Just get outta there! And take Hirose with ya!” His voice echoed, slightly distant.

Takayuki faced forward again, spotting Ryouji by the stairs.

“Okay.” Miyazawa nodded and got to his feet. When Miyazawa’s eye met his, Takayuki found himself able to move once more. “Come on.”

“Wait! I’ve gotta be the one to face Shinohara! I can’t let regular civilians attack a man!” came Akagi’s plea from behind the oni.

Clambering to his feet, when Takayuki raised his head, he saw Ryouji dashing forward with an expression of bloodcurdling rage. His eyes seemed to gleam silver over the rim of his sunglasses.

“Officer, are ya tellin’ me that thing looks like a livin’ human being to you?! Cuz to my eyes, it ain’t nothin’ but a haunted mask luggin’ a corpse around!” he bellowed, swinging his khakkhara amid a full sprint.

His back to the oni, Takayuki had no idea what the creature was doing.

Ryouji skimmed past Takayuki and Miyazawa, holding his khakkhara high. From behind, Takayuki heard Akagi let out a scream, strained as if he were being strangled. Ryouji’s face stiffened.

Miyazawa’s head twisted over his shoulder toward the oni, then back forward in terror. “Hirose!”

For an instant, something pale, translucent, and strangely long cut across his field of vision. It reminded him of an arm. Confused, he looked back toward the oni.

The oni was staring at him.

“Namah samanta-buddhanam indraya…” The jingle of the golden rings atop Ryouji’s khakkhara clanged through the air.

Exhausted, the oni stood motionless, merely staring at Takayuki with a heavy, bowed head. A visceral cold caressed Takayuki’s cheeks, the prelude to what he could only describe as an overwhelming foreboding that he felt in his very bones: something was coming for him. Immediately, he raised an arm to cover his head as he swiveled away from the oni, his gaze skipping over Miyazawa—whose left shoulder suddenly bulged unnaturally. Before Takayuki could even begin to wonder at that, Miyazawa’s top button popped free as something burst from the base of his neck. Takayuki mutely tracked it with his eyes; it was swelling larger by the second, slithering through the air in a white, slippery haze.

Those were scales.

Pearlescent scales filled his vision, glistening in a way that made all of the hair on his body stand on end.

A gigantic snake was coiling around him.

“Wh… WAAAAAAGH!” He instinctively thrashed and batted at the huge, white serpent, but the creature didn’t so much as flinch. From beyond the sea of scales, he heard a thunderous clash, then glimpsed a flash as though lightning had struck. Perhaps they were a result of Ryouji’s incantation.

Sometime later—or after what was most likely no time at all, despite what had seemed an eternity in the snake’s embrace—his field of sight slinked open once more.

“Are you okay, Hirose?” asked Miyazawa meekly. The neckline of his shirt hung wide open. Takayuki had not been hallucinating; an enormous, white snake had charged out of his shirt. From under his skin.

“Y-Yeah…” He had no idea what to say or where to start. He simply stared, transfixed.

Miyazawa stood there sheepishly, the snake twining around him instead. It grew smaller and smaller until it easily looped around his shoulders as if accustomed to doing so.

Takayuki shuddered in horror.

Miyazawa laughed bashfully. “Sorry. You said you were bad with snakes, so I tried my best not to let him out, but…I’m just glad that you were protected from harm.”

Takayuki was used to Miyazawa’s slightly troubled, embarrassed smiles—but his current one was so incongruous with the catastrophe at hand that Takayuki couldn’t help but be baffled.

“Seems like Ryouji managed to subdue the oni. Can you stand? I really am sorry for scaring you… He won’t hurt you, so don’t worry.” Miyazawa chuckled again dryly, running his fingers over the snake’s scales. He stood and withdrew a few steps as if trying to stay away from Takayuki.

Only then did Takayuki realize that the space between them could never be bridged again.

He wanted to reach for Miyazawa and tell the man to wait, wanted to say that Miyazawa didn’t need to distance himself, but he couldn’t move his lips, his arms. Every thump, thump, thump of his heart seemed to batter him from within.

He could explain, claim that he hadn’t known, that he never could have guessed. But regardless of how much he might insist that his response had been reflexive, based in fear on a physiological level only, his words and actions had deeply hurt someone—Misato Miyazawa, his friend. And he could do nothing to erase that fact.

Takayuki remained on all fours, and Miyazawa stood a pace apart, unable to even offer him a hand. Upon his lips drifted that classic archaic smile.

For a split second, that smile could not have looked any more miserable.

***

RYOUJI arrived at the hospital around five minutes after Misato and Hirose.

He had slowed in front of the dark building, seeking the entrance to the parking lot, when he encountered the first sign of trouble: an intense blast rocked the body of the car, and Ryouji slammed his foot on the brake. A few seconds later, the hospital blazed with light.

Realizing that the shockwave had been an attack from his side, Ryouji eased off the pedal with a sigh of relief. He inched forward once more, and a police officer rushed over to halt him.

“Stop, stop!” The officer waved a flashing red traffic wand with exaggerated motion. The car headlights illuminated a band of bright yellow tape stamped with the words “KEEP OUT.”

Ryouji obediently braked and rolled his window down. Perfect—he could ask the officer about the current situation. Or so he planned, until a vital issue occurred to him.

Crap… I got nothin’ to prove I’m with Tomoe Town Hall, and it ain’t as though I look the part.

Ryouji had been subject to unpleasant run-ins with police officers for as long as he could remember. The young officer appeared to be on edge, peering into the car with a stern, rigid expression. Considering the fact that a violent criminal was presently barricaded within the building, a circumstance exceptionally rare in the countryside, perhaps the officer was keyed up for combat.

“This building is currently under lockdown! Please make an immediate U-turn!”

Ryouji had apparently been branded a rubberneck. “Hey, just wait a sec,” he protested before stating his role and listing the people and departments that could vouch for him. To no avail, tragically.

“The Abnormal Disaster Unit?” scoffed the officer. “I dunno what yeh’re talking about, but if we require yer cooperation, the station will contact yeh themselves. Please leave until then, all right?”

Ryouji silently panicked. He couldn’t think of a way to convince someone who knew nothing about abnormal disasters that his presence was needed. Finally, he reluctantly nodded and rolled the window back up. There wasn’t enough space to do a U-turn, so he had no choice but to continue along the hospital drive and find another access point.

He clicked his tongue with a loud tch and shook a cigarette from its box in frustration. Propping it between his lips, he flicked his turn signal and hit the gas.

“Eewuff!” sounded a somewhat silly, high-pitched animal cry from the back seat.

“Whaddya want me to do about it?! Makin’ enemies of policemen gets ya into all sortsa trouble when you’re human,” retorted Ryouji without looking back.

But the barking, somewhat like a dog’s yet also not, continued. “Eewuff! Eewuff!”

“Gaaah! Shut it already! We’re in this mess cuz you tracked the oni the wrong way!” he snapped, that time twisting his head to face the creature behind him. There, on the back seat, was a…dog? No, definitely not a dog. But it was something.

“Eewuff!”

The something,about the size of a Shiba Inu, pressed its raptor-like claws against the window. It squashed its nose against the glass and sniffed, fogging the surface. Armored fish scales coated its sides, and snake scales its stomach. A mane covered its back. It had a tiger’s legs, deer antlers, and the ears of a cow, which restlessly pricked and flicked. Its face was best described as that of a slightly pug-nosed camel—or so the legends said, at least—and its wagging short tail was shaped like a goldfish’s and tufted with thick, fluffy fur.

The mysterious beast was one of Shisen’s divine servants. A creature of Mount Goryuu, it was vaguely draconic, yet it had the general silhouette of a dog. Its large eyes bulged in a manner either leporine or demonic.

In fact, it was the very same creature that tripped Misato as they were climbing the steps up the mountain. At the shrine, it took the form of a guardian dragon statue (as opposed to the more common dog variety).

“Eewuff!” barked the guardian dragon anxiously. It clawed at the window frame again and again.

Unable to bear its yapping any longer, Ryouji stomped on the brakes once more. Its talons had probably scraped gruesome gashes all over the car’s interior, he thought grimly. “The hell’d ya just say, huh?! The cops are starin’ at us, damn it! I guess my only option is to leave for now and call someone—”

“Eewuff!”

Someone knocked on the back window. Amid the curtain of night, Ryouji spied an elderly man wearing the uniform of Akitakata City Hall. Moriyama.

“I’m so sorry about that, Karino. I’ll explain, so just park yer car here and we’ll hurry on inside. It sounds like the team’s not doing too hot.” Moriyama’s tense tone set Ryouji strangely on edge as well.

“Aight,” he agreed quietly. He quickly switched off the engine and rushed after the older man, his khakkhara and the guardian dragon in tow. From the bottom edge of his sunglasses, he noticed that Moriyama’s long, bushy tail was curled in discontent. “What have ya heard? If you’re out here, I’m guessin’ that means Misato is in there alone.”

“They said that Miyazawa entered the building alongside Hirose and a detective from the Tomoe police force.”

“Ew,” Ryouji said before he could stop himself. To have charged in with a lone exorcist was unwise, of course, but the latter half of the sentence was what had provoked such a visceral reaction. “What’s old Akagi doin’ here, the bastard?”

Detective Akagi was an acquaintance of Ryouji’s, one that he would not much like to see. The guy had repeatedly taken him in for questioning during his first year in Tomoe. Although Akagi had no spiritual sensitivity, his veteran experience had instilled in him an entirely different kind of sixth sense. There were scents that only his keen detective’s nose could discern.

“Yeh know each other?” Before the mask case, the Akitakata team had not worked with the police.

Ryouji shrugged and hummed noncommittally in response.

A thin, middle-aged man bowed to Moriyama as they passed the no-entry tape. He was from the Akitakata force and the lead detective in the investigation of the mask’s theft. Ryouji felt somewhat sorry for him, seeing as he’d been chasing a thief that didn’t exist.

After a succinct conversation with the man, Moriyama turned to Ryouji. “From what I hear, no one in the building can move due to the aftereffects of the oni’s miasma. Miyazawa and the rest are on his tail, but we’ll need to purify people one by one as we make our way up. Could yeh help me prepare?”

Ryouji nodded—then paused. He wanted to find Misato as soon as possible. No, he needed to. Either an uncharacteristic anxiety or a strange premonition was pushing him toward that need. The problem was that he couldn’t tell which.

Misato’s alone. And there was that blast that shook my car, and…

He tried to unravel the unease lurking in his chest. Surely, there had to be some other factor making him feel so worried.

…That’s it. Hirose, you dumbass. Hirose had mentioned that he hated snakes.

“Eewuff!” Tucked under his armpit, the dragon yipped as if to say, “You’re right!”

“My bad, Moriyama, but I gotta go cover Misato’s ass. There’s no chance in hell he’s gonna pull off fightin’ an oni while lookin’ after an ordinary citizen,” Ryouji declared. He broke into a sprint without waiting for a reply, his khakkhara jingling with each stride.

The guardian dragon wiggled free of his arm and dashed in front to lead the way. One by one, the officers crowding the hospital entrance turned their heads in alarm at the guardian’s bizarre barking. The sight of Ryouji pounding after the creature widened their eyes even further.

“Outta my way, damn it! This is an emergency!” he yelled as they gawked in wonder. He flipped his khakkhara in one hand, and the wall of people parted, the onlookers bending over backward in fear of being struck. Ryouji slipped through the resulting gap and finally dove through the door.

The lingering stink of the miasma clung to his nose, and he involuntarily wrinkled it as he desperately hunted for stairs to the upper floors. At the near end of the corridor, several men wearing the prefectural police logo were helping others in their squad to their feet. Ryouji nimbly darted around them and cast his eye farther down the hall, where he spotted another two, three silhouettes crouched miserably on the floor.

“Eewuff!” yelpedthe guardian from ahead, turning its head toward Ryouji.

Ryouji nodded, and sure enough, running toward it, he found that the creature had located a set of stairs. He took them several steps at a time, his basketball shoes squeaking against the floor when he skidded around the landing. The dragon howled urgently above, and Ryouji increased his pace. He could hear a man’s voice echoing from the second floor, the level almost in sight. The words were indecipherable, but the intensity of whatever was happening radiated loud and clear.

He leaped to the top of the staircase, clearing several steps at once. Khakkhara in hand, he bolted down a hallway. At the other end of the long stretch of flooring, about eighty feet away, several figures wavered underneath the glare of clinical lighting.

“Misato!” Ryouji shouted at the top of his lungs when he recognized the pair on their knees in front of the masked man. The man was brandishing something in the air—a nata?

Oh, shit…!

Ryouji hurtled forward with all his might, racking his brain for a way to attack the oni. He was too far away for his khakkhara to do anything. He doubted he had time to recite a mantra.

“Eewuff!” The guardian soared ahead of Ryouji with a squeal and somersaulted in midair. In one circular blur, it transformed into a chakram, the same throwing weapon that Shisen had used. Ryouji snatched it with no hesitation.

The corridor was free of obstacles; Misato and Hirose were effectively flat on the floor. His legs propelling him at full speed, Ryouji readied the chakram. He calculated its flight path, accounting for the hall’s width and height as well as his distance from the oni.

Had Misato unleashed the serpent, he easily could have knocked the nata flying. Yet Misato remained frozen on his behind, powerlessly gazing up at the oni.

“The hell’s wrong with ya, ya bastard?! Don’t hesitate now! Ya wanna die, huh?!” Screaming in rage, Ryouji lobbed his chakram at the oni’s nata. It hit the mark dead-on, and the oni’s gaze followed the hatchet into the air.

Pale-faced and terrified, Misato stiffly turned his head toward Ryouji. His lips formed the shape of Ryouji’s name.

“Just get outta there! And take Hirose with ya!”

Misato’s face hardened into a look that was slightly more alert, nodded, then spoke to Hirose beside him on the floor.

The oni had lost his footing after his nata was deflected, and was sluggishly rising once more. The chakram lay near the oni’s feet. But Ryouji was at last close enough that his khakkhara could deliver the next blow.

“Wait! I’ve gotta be the one to face Shinohara! I can’t let regular civilians attack a man!” yelled a deep, male voice from the other side of the oni. Akagi.

“Officer, are ya tellin’ me that thing looks like a livin’ human being to you?! Cuz to my eyes, it ain’t nothin’ but a haunted mask luggin’ a corpse around!” Over the top of his sunglasses, Ryouji saw the huge kijo mask floating in the air. Tentacles extending from it twined around a dirt-caked man, manipulating him like a puppet.

Hirose was goggling at Ryouji, utterly dumbfounded. Regardless, Ryouji had to rip the mask from the man’s face and get rid of those tentacles for good. That was his intention, anyhow, as he aimed the tip of his khakkhara at the mask’s chin.

The oni’s head jerked upward. More tentacles burst from the underside of the mask. They took the shape of absurdly long arms, open-handed and intent on grasping the nearby humans.

“Gwagh—!” Akagi was thrown to the floor by his neck. Several other arms shot toward Misato and Hirose. Then, heavy and robotic, the oni’s head snapped back down. It stared at the three young men as two thin, pallid arms reached toward them, stretching outrageously long. The five fingers on each hand flexed as wide as possible, groping for the men with demonic claws.

Aight, we can’t afford to hold back for the guy’s sake.

Ryouji whirled his khakkhara to dispel the onslaught of arms, then leveled its tip at the mask once more.

“Namah samanta-buddhanam…” He called upon the force of lightning with the Mantra of Śakra. A purple flash sprayed through the air and coalesced around the head of the khakkhara. Ryouji lunged forward with a kick. “…indraya svaha!”

With an air-shattering clap of thunder, lightning pummeled the monstrous mask. Thin bolts dispersed among the tentacles, burning them with an electric sizzle, and the mask flaked off the man’s face. Heavy and wooden, it clattered on the linoleum with a ka-clunk.

The dull thud of the man against the floor followed an instant later, his form falling limp like a puppet with severed strings. His limbs protruded at unnatural angles, bent in ways that the human body did not typically allow for.

After confirming that neither the man nor the mask was moving, Ryouji lowered his khakkhara.

“Karino… I swear to the gods…” rasped Akagi in a bitter tone, staggering to his feet.

Ryouji grimaced. “Shut up. Save it for later; we gotta seal the mask.” He was not a talented sealer, however. Opting to leave the job to an expert, he turned. “Hey, Misato—”

Misato stood as stiff as a board, clutching his gaping shirt where Shirota draped over his shoulders. His head hung abnormally; something was wrong. Hirose was riveted to the floor, staring up at him in total stupefaction. That brief snapshot was enough for Ryouji to surmise that he was too late: the worst-case scenario had come to pass.

Misato’s upper body began to violently shake. His knees gave out beneath him, and he toppled backward.

“Misato?!” Ryouji dropped his khakkhara. A split second before the back of Misato’s skull cracked against the floor, Ryouji caught him from behind. “Hey! What’s the matter?! Hey!”

He didn’t respond to Ryouji. His eyes were scrunched shut in anguish, and his breaths heaved in hoarse, heavy gasps. Doubling over in a coughing fit, he dug his fingers into his chest, clawing at it as if to tear off his skin. His tidy ponytail had loosened, and stray hairs stuck to his cheeks. The episode culminated in a convulsion of his upper body as if he were about to vomit—only for him to slump, motionless. His scrabbling hands fell to the floor.

The severity of his condition rendered Ryouji speechless. For a second, he could only stare at the man comatose in his arms. But a part of him maintained a strange composure, automatically checking that Misato’s shoulders were rising and falling. Yes, his breathing was ragged, yet he appeared to have only fainted, thankfully. Ryouji gently lowered him to the floor. With Misato out of action, someone else would have to seal the kijo mask—and Ryouji was the only person present with the ability to do so.

“Hey. You.” Ryouji addressed Hirose, who was still sitting in front of Misato. He looked up at Ryouji blankly, his sickly pale face full of despair. “Did Misato give ya any talismans or charms or whatever?” he asked, fishing through Misato’s pockets and belt pouch.

They’d hardly had the opportunity to pick up any tools for the task. There was no guarantee that either happened to be carrying binding implements. Plus, for whatever reason, Shirota was just as still as Misato was, slung limply over his shoulders. Both of them were wholly unconscious.

“…This is everything Miyazawa gave me,” said Hirose, holding out some talismans and a pouch of rice. Ryouji flipped through the former, finding a few malice-busting ones. They wouldn’t suffice for a full-fledged sealing, but they could potentially weaken the mask.

As for whether I should go touchin’ that thing, however…

There was a risk that it had survived the lightning and was simply waiting for a chance to strike. For the moment, however, the kijo mask lay lifeless.

“Hirose, call Manager Yoshida. Then go tell Moriyama what happened. And you,” he said, facing Akagi, “look after this bastard on the floor. And don’t go anywhere near the mask.”

Misato’s breathing was disturbed, but most importantly, any signs that he was experiencing a seizure had abated. With Shirota dangling unconscious outside of his body, Ryouji hesitated to call an ambulance. And there was a worrisome number of people in the building whose lives were at risk. At any rate, one thing was for certain: Ryouji needed solid backup.

Gripping the relevant talismans, he crept toward the kijo mask.

Medical alerts wailed from all directions.

***

AT half past nine, Yukiko finally arrived home. A police officer gave her a ride from the station in Yoshida District, a twenty-minute drive from her home.

The house stood adjacent to a prefectural road, roofed with black tile and surrounded by earthen walls. Two name placards hung upon the gate: Takamiya and Yonehara. Originally, the house belonged to her mother’s parents. Yukiko’s mother had married into the Takamiya family and adopted her husband’s surname, and the family lived in what had once been the Yonehara household.

She climbed out of the car and bowed her head in thanks to the officer. He’d kindly driven his personal car to avoid giving nosy neighbors any fodder, and he told her once again to take care before making his own way home. Yukiko pulled open the sliding door to the entrance, welcomed by the bright, warm light spilling from within.

“I’m back.”

“Hi!” her mother called in answer. The door to the living room was open, and Yukiko glimpsed her face through the doorway. Peering at Yukiko in concern, she welcomed her daughter into the combined living and dining room. “Are yeh all right? Sounds like yeh’ve both had such a tough night… Is Dad not with yeh?” she asked with a furrowed brow.

Yukiko’s mother, Saeko Takamiya, was a slender woman with a petite build. She’d met Yukiko’s father, Hitoshi, through a shared love of tennis. She’d also worked as a teacher until the previous year, though at a different school from her husband.

“Yeah, he’s still at the station. It seemed like he’d met the culprit before, so…”

Two full plates of food covered with plastic wrap sat on the dining table. Sighing, her mother placed one in the microwave. “Oh dear…”

Yukiko filled a clean bowl with rice. Just as she sat down, she noticed a glow next to her—her mother’s phone. The flashing green light indicated an incoming call. “Mom, your phone’s ringing,” she said with a jerk of her head when her mother put the reheated meat and potato stew in front of her.

Her mother shook her head wearily. “Don’t worry about it. I bet it’s just my brother again, anyway.”

The Yonehara household had once consisted of an additional person: her mother’s older brother, the man who traditionally would have been the family heir. Since moving to Tokyo, however, he rarely contacted them anymore. He only ever called for one reason: when he wanted money.

“Oh…” Yukiko picked up her chopsticks, uncertain what to say. “Thank you for the food,” she recited quietly, pressing her hands together before digging in.

“…But yeh know, I really don’t think yer father could’ve done anything to warrant such a deep-seated grudge,” her mother murmured absentmindedly, attention divided between Yukiko’s dinner and the TV listings in the newspaper.

Yukiko nodded. “I know.”

Her father was well loved by his students. His past pupils often idolized him as the teacher they owed much of their career to, and many of them stayed in contact with him into adulthood. The man who attacked her father and Hirose seemed to hate him, but for whatever reason that was, Yukiko was certain that it was some sort of misunderstanding.

“Yer dad’s a real good, upstanding man, yeh know?”

That was somewhat of a pet phrase of Yukiko’s mother. Her father was the second son of the Takamiya family and had moved in with the Yoneharas upon their marriage. Yukiko’s uncle, on the other hand, had not only abandoned his family to chase a “self-centered” dream, but his lack of job and financial stability also continued to burden them. In his absence, her father had stepped up to look after the house and land despite their tight finances. And so her mother had praised him ever since.

“I know,” Yukiko said.

Masato Yonehara, her mother’s older brother and Yukiko’s uncle, had quit high school midsemester to pursue stage acting in Tokyo. His career plans didn’t come to fruition, however, and thirty-five years later, he barely had a stable address in Tokyo, let alone steady employment. So his legal address remained that of their own, and Yukiko’s grandfather, the head of the family, had been paying Masato’s health insurance.

“Yeh’ll find a nice, stable job like yer father, won’t yeh, Yuki?”

That was another of her mother’s pet phrases.

“Yes, Mom…” She always answered the question with a semi-bitter smile.

“Come to think of it, what do yeh think of those schoolmates of yers from Tomoe Town Hall, hm?”

Yukiko wavered. What did she think? She’d known them only by name in high school—while they’d been wholly unaware of her—and she viewed them as no more than fellow alumni.

“We just work together. That’s all.”

“Really? Ahh, I wonder if they’re both eldest sons. It’d be just perfect if yeh came away from this job with a good match…”

“Beats me. It’s not like we’ve spoken that much.”

Yukiko loved her mother, but she could not muster the same or any enthusiasm for marital tradition. She quickly shoveled the remaining stew into her mouth, then crammed in the last mouthful of rice, washing it all down with her perfectly warm tea. She brought her hands together once again in thanks for the food.

“Of course,” her mother said as she cleared the table of dishes, evidently not particularly committed to that line of inquiry.

“Let me know when Dad gets home,” said Yukiko as she climbed the stairs to her room.

“Aye. Yeh can take a bath first. I already ran the water,” her mother called after her.

“All right.”

The house was built in the Taisho era, then remodeled not long before Yukiko’s birth, when her parents first settled there. The stairs to the second floor were a little steep, but her western-style room was around a hundred square feet and furnished with plush carpet. Yukiko considered it her own personal refuge. Though, with most of her things in her solo apartment close to her university, the interior felt disorderly somehow. A mere two weeks had passed since she’d returned home to throw herself into her thesis fieldwork and internship.

Still in her suit, Yukiko slumped onto her bed. The decade-old mattress springs creaked as she rolled onto her back.

“Gods, I’m exhausted…”

She had not directly faced any danger herself, nor had she gotten a proper glimpse of the “oni” targeting her father. But after calling the police and being escorted to the station and questioned, she buzzed with nerves. The comparatively peaceful hours of research in the library with Hirose and Moriyama seemed so distant that she could hardly believe they’d happened earlier that same day.

She fetched her phone from her bag as she did every night to check her notifications. The bath could wait; she felt a moment’s reprieve was necessary. Out of habit, she tapped the icon of a social media app. Mostly, she followed celebrities, the official accounts of various businesses and organizations, and people she knew from her college clubs and classes. But one person on her following list did not fit into any of those categories: AZAMI.

Yukiko met Asami Masaoka (her real name) in elementary school. They also attended the same middle school before each going further afield for high school. Yukiko applied to the private, academic school in the next town over, and Asami to a powerhouse school with a highly successful dance team in Osaka.

“Oh…! She made a new post!” Shocked, Yukiko flipped over on her bed when she noticed the update on her timeline. The account had been inactive for over a year. Lying on her stomach, she stared at the tiny display.

After graduating high school, Asami moved to Tokyo to form a small dance group with her friends instead of pursuing college. At first, she frequently updated the AZAMI account as part of their publicity efforts, but after two years, the group’s activity had grown sporadic, and AZAMI’s updates few and far between. Yukiko suspected they were not being managed well.

The last time she’d seen Asami was when she visited Tokyo the previous summer for a short-term internship. Asami had told Yukiko that she’d not once returned to Hiroshima since middle school.

The title of her new post was “The Dancer Retires.”

“Huh? What?” Worst-case scenarios immediately flashed through Yukiko’s mind. Was she injured? In financial trouble? Or—

“Today I have a message for everyone who was rooting for AZAMI…”

Yukiko thumbed past the large gap—perhaps four or five lines of empty space—that Asami often left between paragraphs.

“The dancer AZAMI will die…”

A disquieting chill swept through Yukiko.

“Thank you for all your support, guys… You can just forget about AZAMI now… See ya… Bye-bye…”

The title mentioned retirement, so Asami presumably meant that her identity as the dancer AZAMI would die. If that was the case, Asami was probably not in any physical danger. Yet the post included no reason for her retirement whatsoever, which set Yukiko strangely on edge.

Why is everything happening all at once?

People did say that bad things came in threes.

She closed the app, swiping to the home screen, then opened the one she used to message people. The list of chats was full of advertisements for college programs, job-hunting sites, and corporations. She scrolled through the mess to her conversation with Asami. Her outbound messages from the previous summer were all marked “read.” They had sent only a few to each other since.

She probably hasn’t gone to bed quite yet… Should I ask what happened?

Yukiko paused, conflicted.

For years, they had walked totally opposite paths, united nonetheless by one thing. In an underpopulated, rapidly aging town, where less than two hundred students comprised their entire elementary school, that they had found each other was a miracle. Both loved something that was not considered “normal” for girls to like. Asami was special to Yukiko as a friend who shared her interest, and they stuck together until graduating middle school.

Yukiko had been rooting for AZAMI to succeed because she deeply admired Asami’s ability and ambition. Although nowhere near as talented, Yukiko had always loved to move her body to the beat, to dance as a form of expression.

Their conversations had always focused on performing arts. More specifically, they centered on a style more familiar to Yukiko than any other: kagura.

Chapter 5: Echoes of a Bad Dream

Chapter 5: Echoes of a Bad Dream

SOMETHING was ravaging his body from the inside, violating him.

The monster had torn through his intestines. It crawled amid his organs, coiled around his heart.

Misato writhed in agony, his chest constricted to its limit.

He was alone in the dormitory that night, struggling in the dark. His vision clouded and twisted. His room appeared vague, indistinct, and he desperately grappled for his phone on the headboard of the bed. Groans and howls of pain wrecked his throat as he just barely managed to unlock his phone and locate the contact list. With trembling fingers, he swiped to the number saved as “Dad.” Praying, he tapped the call button.

He curled into himself, cowering as the line rang hollowly before eventually redirecting to an unfeeling voicemail message.

It’s no use… I guess he doesn’t sleep with his phone next to him…

Misato’s father wasn’t like most people. He seemed to share little of his private self with his family, though Misato had no way to confirm as much. Misato wanted to believe that the number was for his personal phone, but the man wasn’t the family-oriented sort of father to drop everything at any time for his son.

Nor could Misato call his mother. He had not known her whereabouts for some time. He’d heard she was safe, yet all he knew for sure was that she had not left willingly.

Neither of his parents would come to his rescue.

It was the third term of his third and final year of high school, and most of his classmates had gone home for spring break. Misato had seen no sign of anyone else in the dorm, had hardly expected to so late at night. And his body was beyond his control; he could barely raise his voice. Of course, any call for help would be in vain, regardless, since a regular person with no psychic powers could do nothing for him. He was suffering from a curse—an affliction unacknowledged by the general populace.

Not a single person could save him.

Why me…?

He flung his phone aside. Gritting his teeth in agony, Misato curled up again and clenched his eyes shut. It hurt. Sweat coated him from head to toe, yet his limbs were cold, numb. He kicked at the bed covers in an attempt to ameliorate the pain even a little.

He was going to die; he was sure of it. Noticed by no one, he would scream in torment until he dropped dead. How miserable was that?

“Go away. Die. So long as you’re gone… So long as you’re gone, I’ll…!” A bass echo of resentment spoke directly into his mind, worming through his veins like jet-black sludge. The voice of the cursed entity.

Who are you? What are you?

The unavoidable, choking pressure only intensified.

I have to do something. On my own.

No help was coming.

Giving up on everything but himself and steeling his resolve, Misato focused all his energy on confronting the monster that slithered inside him. Spite, jealousy, rage, and hatred twined around Misato and squeezed viciously.

Is that…a snake?

Behind his eyelids, he saw a slimy, ink-black serpent. The sinister creature twisted to rear its head at Misato, baring venomous fangs.

“You should just disappear. Should just die. Go away. Perish. You, the head of the family, him, her, everyone, everything. Everything! Die. Just disappear!”

The snake hissed as venom dripped threateningly from its mouth.

“Why?!”

What had Misato done to deserve any of that?

His prevailing emotion was a dizzying rage, a frustration so profound that it burned at the core of his brain. His heartbeat battered his chest. The pain wasn’t the only reason for his shaking breath: was he really going to die from an attack so unreasonable, so selfish?

“…I don’t care who you are. Who gives a damn?” He spoke in a low, low tone, as quiet as a whisper of air. He truly didn’t need to know. No one was coming to save him, and if he didn’t fight back somehow, he was going to be swallowed whole by a senseless hex, pathetic and alone. Neither the caster’s identity nor their motive, no matter how scandalous or grave, was more important than his survival.

He seized the snake’s neck with all his strength. His thumbs dug in, straining to crush its windpipe. Twitching, the serpent tightened around Misato. It wrapped around his arm to weaken his grip, then—

It lurched at him, and a scorching heat gushed at the base of his neck.

Choking with sobs, Misato endured the fangs searing his skin. The metallic tang of blood flowed across his tongue as, once more, fingers flexing on both quivering hands, he tore the snake from his body.

It’s a cursed, flesh-eating snake. One that ate other vermin until it was the only creature left alive. An onmyoji’s shikigami. That’s something I can’t exorcise, especially not in this state.

Most likely, the curse had been hidden within the sweets sent from home. Why had he not considered that possibility, Misato railed at himself, when he experienced stomach pain earlier that day? The serpent had burrowed deep into Misato’s flesh, and he could no longer expel it on his own.

If I…make the hex backfire…how can I cut the link to its caster?

Shikigami that functioned as curses had no particular attachment to their creator. If the charm controlling them was dispelled, they would just as easily attack the onmyoji who cast it.

His breathing was growing more ragged. The sensation that his flesh was blistering, melting, all over his body enveloped him. His arms began to convulse. He had no time to hesitate.

In front of him, the snake flailed its head from side to side in distress.

An idea flashed through Misato, and for a moment, he did hesitate.

Why me?

Regret. Outrage. Bitterness. They shone, sparked, simmered. He absolutely could not die in such an absurd way. They expected him to just shut up and let himself be killed? No chance.

If there’s no one in this world who will save me, then I’ll save myself.

Why would Misato let himself be killed by an unreasonable, unfeeling world that constantly abandoned and punished him? Even if he had to consume a cursed serpent, he would survive.

He would survive.

He didn’t care if that desire was shameful or selfish. What good was dwelling on those who would criticize him for it? They would not save him. Ultimately, the only person who could act for one’s own sake was oneself. In which case, what did he care if protecting himself would hurt someone else?

“Damn it all!”

Misato sank his teeth into the serpent’s head.

***

HE awoke with a jolt.

A worn, Japanese-style hanging lightbulb dangled from a ceiling of long bamboo wood panels. On the other side of a paper sliding door backlit by the sun, sparrows chirped intermittently, peaceful and serene.

Meanwhile, Misato’s breath heaved violently as he surveyed his surroundings. He was in his own room, on his own futon, wearing his own pajamas. Sweat dripped down his spine.

“I was…dreaming?”

The rest of the nightmare slipped away from him like retreating waves on the seashore. But its contents remained clear in his mind—because it had been reality, far worse than any fleeting dream. It was his memory of that night. He hadn’t dreamed of those events in a long time, which begged the question of “Why now?”

As he pondered, he abruptly noticed a heavy sensation on his chest. Slipping his arms free of the futon, he craned his neck to see something white coiled on his chest. It was a large, white snake.

With a sigh of relief, he let his head fall back to the pillow. He reached up to stroke the snake loafing on top of him. As he casually massaged its spine, the sleeves of his night kimono sagged, the motion exposing his upper arms to the autumnal morning chill. His sheen of sweat rapidly cooled.

“No! Stop!”

With a ghostly cry, Shirota slithered away from Misato in panic. Although drastically different in appearance and demeanor, he was the very same flesh-eating snake that Misato had devoured. Misato could only surmise that the change had occurred when they fused together.

By consuming and absorbing the cursed entity that had been slipped into the food sent to him, Misato managed to break the chains keeping the serpent under its caster’s control.

The general method of conjuring a flesh-eating curse was to place several vermin in a jar, then leave it sealed for a few days until they had no choice but to consume each other. The last living creature became the conjuror’s curse, its vitality and obstinate self-preservation the strongest of all. Misato’s showdown with the serpent was somewhat of an extension of that battle royal. They’d both grappled to survive, and in the end, Misato’s obstinacy won out.

He consequently absorbed the serpent, integrating it into his very self and thus forcing it to obey his will. Then, amassing the resentment and malice that had imbued the curse, supplementing it with his own fury, he ordered the creature back to its conjuror.

Misato didn’t know what had happened to the person who received that grenade of ill will. When the serpent came back to Misato almost half a year later, it had lost all of its pigment and turned white. Furthermore, it seemed to be completely harmless.

The snake liked to sneak out of the house and prowl around while Misato was sleeping, then return to its resting place inside him by morning, usually without causing any significant trouble in the meantime. Misato couldn’t fathom why the snake had instead slept on top of his chest, crushing him. No wonder he’d had a nightmare.

“Hey. Why don’t you come back inside?” he asked Shirota.

“Little Shirota no go in Misato. Misato hate. Trap Shirota.” The serpent’s tongue flitted in displeasure by Misato’s pillow, and his tail lightly whapped against the futon.

Shirota was given his name when he first reappeared after Misato repelled the hex. Taken aback by the snake’s newly pearlescent scales, Misato could think of nothing else, basing it on shiro, the Japanese word for “white.” At first, he was none too pleased about the serpent’s presence, but their relationship had since developed. In fact, people cooed “little Shirota” so often that the snake seemed to think that “little” was part of his name.

Typically, Shirota was very relaxed and amiable. That he was the same creature Misato had fought to the death with was difficult to believe. Perhaps the difference was a result of throwing the sinister intentions lurking within his body back at their caster. That was Misato’s theory, anyway.

“What do you mean? You won’t get trapped—… Oh. Right. Yesterday, huh?”

Misato had repressed Shirota’s frantic response to the oni’s vengeful aura at the hospital. Begging to be released, the serpent had thrashed against Misato’s insides so hard it hurt.

“That was our first argument in a while, huh? I didn’t expect you to react so strongly, y’know…?”

Before he arrived in Tomoe, their quarrels were a frequent struggle. He lived in a small, poorly soundproofed college dorm, having cut ties with his family. Under no circumstances could he possibly allow Shirota to roam free every night, so he forcibly sealed the creature inside his body with a talisman. Inevitably, Shirota rioted against the restrictive treatment, leading to a huge backlash that often left Misato sickly.

The digital clock on the small table beside his futon read 10:00 a.m. Misato stared at the numbers absentmindedly. I’ve had that clock for so lo—

He jolted in realization. It was Tuesday. A weekday.

“Oh, crap! I’m gonna be late!”

He tore the futon cover aside and snapped upright, only for his vision to spin lopsided. Tragically, he toppled right back onto the pillow. As he stared at the ceiling in misery, blurry memories of the previous day began to replay in his mind. He’d collapsed and fallen unconscious…right in front of Hirose and Ryouji.

“Ughhhh, this sucks…”

He curled into a ball, biting back the intense wave of nausea that had assailed him as soon as he sat up. His uneasy slumber had left his long hair a tangled mess, and sweat clung to his neck. A swarm of discomfort from multiple sources crept over his body. It was starting to gnaw at his sanity when he noticed the sticky note next to his pillow.

“Hirose Yoshida and me are gonna talk to the cops. You just sleep. Ryouji”

Misato picked up the lazily scrawled note and muttered, “Seriously?”

Next to it was an electrolyte drink and some gelatin pouches. An itchy sensation flared on his forehead, and he discovered a cooling gel sheet stuck to it. A flustered mix of surprise and embarrassment stirred inside him. He hadn’t been so tenderly looked after in a while.

The gel sheet was dry at that point, so he peeled it off. Examining the space around him once more, he found his phone and checked it for missed calls and messages. There were a few short sentences from Yoshida informing him that Ryouji had requested paid sick leave for the day on his behalf. Of course, while there was the literal matter of his late rent payments, Misato had the vague sense that he would be indebted to Ryouji in a more abstract manner for a while.

He felt a little more at ease knowing that everything was already settled—or perhaps he had hit the limit of his stamina after only a few minutes awake, because his energy immediately nosedived. His thoughts became jumbled and hazy as he tossed his phone aside and ducked his head under the blanket. If Ryouji and Yoshida were handling things, Misato didn’t need to push himself. Rather, he was in such bad shape that he shouldn’t.

It’s never been this bad before… Maybe because I haven’t sensed malice like that since literally that day.

He remembered Ryouji showing up at the hospital. He remembered releasing Shirota to shield Hirose from the enki, then retrieving the snake while Hirose stared in astonishment. He remembered seeing from the corner of his eye that Ryouji had defeated the entity. That was when he collapsed the first time, although he regained consciousness for a moment while being carried out of the hospital. Yoshida had already arrived as emergency backup at that point. Misato had been struggling even to sit up, so Ryouji ended up lugging him all the way home.

Considering that Ryouji had nursed him, called in sick for him, and left him with so many provisions, he had no doubt he’d looked more than a little worse for wear. Ryouji had tried to speak to him several times through the night, Misato thought, but he could scarcely recall any of their conversation.

Still, how pathetic is this? Annoyance at his sickly condition combined with his chronic self-loathing to sink his mood even further.

What had happened at the hospital would surely recur countless times over his life: he would encounter both vicious grudges and people who rejected a part of his most integral self in Shirota. Hirose didn’t fear the serpent out of contempt, Misato knew. Rather, for the average person, Hirose’s reaction was natural and perfectly understandable. If Misato continued to overanalyze every hint of rejection, continued to err due to his fear of it, he was going to get himself killed.

“Shirota…please come back,” he called weakly to the other half of himself coiled at his side.

Despite their traumatic past, Shirota was the embodiment of Misato’s sheer will to live, as well as the vessel for Misato’s spiritual energy. When Misato first sent the serpent away, he lost effectively all of his power. At the time, he interpreted the loss as the price to pay for cursing another, yet when the snake returned, so did his spiritual energy. Well, more accurately, when Misato had begged for its restoration, the snake appeared alongside it.

Misato couldn’t detach himself from Shirota—or so he’d thought.

“Shirota no go inside. Misato don’t want!” complained Shirota as he slithered over the futon and under the fabric of Misato’s kimono.

Shirota used Misato’s shoulder blade as his point of exit and entry. The snake’s cool body slinked around Misato’s neck toward his spine, yet then Shirota stopped, head stuck between his kimono and shoulder blade.

“…No way. Don’t tell me…” murmured Misato in dumbfounded dread.

Shirota nosed along his back for a while longer, as if searching for an alternative entrance, before curling up once more beside the futon in defeat.

“I’m…rejecting you? Even now?”

Misato had thought he accepted Shirota as part of himself. He’d acknowledged that the man known as Misato Miyazawa was the eternal, inseparable host of a serpent. He could be classified as neither human nor spirit yet persisted in the physical realm as its protector regardless. He recognized that. So why…?

Am I scared of him still? Rejecting him? Over something that really wasn’t thatbig of a deal?

When Shirota writhed in response to the oni’s miasma, Misato scolded him, ordered him to keep away from the snake-wary Hirose. That sort of situation would certainly happen again. If he was to exist as Misato Miyazawa, that was unavoidable—and frankly, fear of snakes was so common that he was bound to run into it repeatedly. He simply couldn’t afford to faint, miss work, and burden others every time.

“Why am I this weak…?” he muttered to himself unconsciously, the whine in his tone doubly pathetic.

He reached for Shirota. The snake did not resist, allowing himself to be pet. The cool, smooth sensation of his scales helped to soothe Misato somewhat.

He was well aware that he would have to accept the reality of his nature if he was to survive—and that he was far too weak to do so right then. Despair tightened his throat. How often would he disappoint himself in his struggle merely to live?

Jeez, I’m sick of this…and very tired.

He’d clung to life out of a refusal to die. Yet, his current existence was markedly more difficult and restricted than before, to the extent that Misato doubted his ability to endure on occasion.

I’m so exhausted… Ugh, I feel sick.

He closed his eyes against the unbearable sensation. Every position was fraught with pain, and he tossed and turned restlessly. He huffed a frustrated sigh and groaned, clutching the pillow tighter.

Ill was among the worst things one could feel. He foresaw no future that included any sleep whatsoever—the last thought on his mind before his consciousness drifted away.

***

RYOUJI slouched in a far-flung corner of the Akitakata police station, languidly resting his chin on his palm as he peered at a blackboard in the dim, cramped conference room. The words “Investigation Headquarters” faintly lingered on its dusty, textured surface.

He and Misato had arrived home past midnight, and a measly few hours had passed since. He’d been at the police station since the start of the workday.

Excluding Misato, each person present and conscious at the hospital the night before was invited for questioning, one by one. After that, once Akagi and the Akitakata detectives finally found a free moment, they’d confined themselves to the conference room to organize the information collected so far. Ryouji’s report detailed the events at the hospital as well as what they’d learned at Mount Goryuu. The meeting had already lasted an hour.

Out of the thirty chairs, only seven were filled: Ryouji, Yoshida, and Hirose from the Abnormal Disaster Unit, Moriyama from Akitakata City Hall, Akagi from the Tomoe Police, and two detectives from the Akitakata Police. Ryouji recognized one of the latter, a rather thin man named Nishino who’d led the investigation of the mask’s theft. The other man, Nishino’s young assistant, had read the morning’s findings aloud.

“The charges against Shinohara are most likely going to be trespassing, damage to property, and attempted murder. The particulars will be settled at the other meeting, but the charges will, of course, be dropped in light of his death. I see no alternative outcome,” Nishino said.

The “other” meeting was the official inquiry taking place on another floor, led by the prefectural police, who, clearly, were even worse at dealing with abnormal disasters than Tomoe Town Hall.

Akagi and the other detective nodded. With a resigned sigh, Akagi said, “I doubt the prefectural police or any of them higher-ups know a thing about the enki of the kijo mask or whatever yeh call it. It’s not worth explainin’ all o’ that, so we’ve got no choice but to get our story straight so it’s feasible to the average person.”

Huddled on the chair at the end of the row, the young detective glanced at him, wide-eyed and wary. No doubt the investigation was his first time dealing with a “special” case.

“Either way, whaddya think you’re doin’, showin’ your face ’round here, Akagi? This ain’t your turf,” Ryouji observed as he slumped forward. Akitakata didn’t fall under Tomoe Police’s jurisdiction.

“Pah! I could say the exact same thing to yeh. What are yeh doin’ here, hm?” A frown developed on Akagi’s thick eyebrows. “Yeh might not like it, but I’m part o’ the Hiroshima Prefectural Police too. And it’s not like they’re gonna invite youse to their meetin’.”

Yoshida gave a dry laugh. “Well, there’s no use dwelling on it. Anyway, what’s the situation with the mask theft case?”

Nishino nodded, saying, “Shinohara will probably be named the thief, too. It’s not like there were any sign of him at the shrine, but he’s got no alibi either. The mask itself was taken as evidence and handed off to forensics.”

“Whoa there! That ain’t gonna be an issue, right? I don’t wanna admit to a shoddy job, but that thing was sealed on an emergency basis, y’know?” said Ryouji with a hint of panic, his spine snapping upright. “Manager, ya gotta get that thing and seal it somewhere no one can touch it.” Not only had Ryouji lacked the appropriate talisman, but he himself was not exactly an expert in sealing techniques. He’d pacified the mask with the barest, most makeshift of measures.If, gods forbid, anyone happened to remove the talisman, the subsequent escape of the kijo mask would not surprise him.

“I’m just as eager to get it back, believe you me,” Yoshida answered with a bitter smile. “But with such a high-profile case, there are so many officers from headquarters around that we can’t get anywhere close to it.”

“Luckily, I managed to ask someone I know in forensics to do us a solid. Yoshida and I are plannin’ to go check on it before lunch,” promised Akagi, his smile just as sour.

“Ya gotta be kiddin’ me,” Ryouji groaned, whipping his sunglasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose.

He’d crossed swords with a number of various entities throughout his career and had never been directly roped into police proceedings. Whether the threat was a specter, grudge, or curse, Ryouji’s job as an exorcist was to vanquish it long before the authorities became involved. Or, if working with them on the same case at the same time, he endeavored to distance himself whenever possible and bring the threat under control while their backs were turned.

When a spirit was to blame for a crime, the police often found themselves unable to pin down a suspect or, more crucially, any worthwhile evidence to prove that a crime had even occurred. That, naturally, put them a consistent step behind Ryouji. The oni case was a first for him in that there was an observable culprit that could be branded as such.

“Guys, please… If it gets away after causin’ so much harm, I’ll lose the will to live, I swear.”

Only a few hours had passed since he’d literally carried Misato into their home. The previous night’s cacophony of medical alarms and groans still rang in his ears, and he saw red lights flashing against the dark, countryside sky whenever he closed his eyes. Ryouji remembered watching Hirose’s face blanch, his fists silently clench. Worst of all, Ryouji remembered Misato limp in his arms, blank-faced and barely conscious.

Incidentally, Hirose was present, sitting wordlessly on the other side of Yoshida. He was in attendance because he’d been at the scene of the crime, but given his very limited experience with abnormal disasters, he could add little to the conversation.

“Well, either way, we managed to keep harm to a minimum thanks to Ryouji and the rest of the team,” Moriyama said from his position farther back, brightening his tone in an attempt to shift the dreary mood.

“A minimum? Hah…” muttered Ryouji before he could help himself. The electronic beeps of lives at risk had yet to leave his head.

Yoshida nodded, exhaling a relieved sigh. “True enough. Between the high school and the hospital, the number of casualties is a nice, round zero. Shinohara’s plan was ruined the moment we made a move. Karino, Hirose, and Miyazawa did a great job.”

“You call that zero victims? Hah! Don’t make me laugh, Manager.”

Zero victims. The words triggered something visceral inside Ryouji. Hell had welcomed him that night, and they dared describe it as causing minimum harm? Zero victims? What a cruel joke.

“Well, no one died, at least.”

Ryouji lurched to his feet in unthinking rage. How could Yoshida be so cold, indifferent? Yoshida had always struck Ryouji as an empathetic man. His reaction made no sense. How could—

“Karino.” Akagi reached diagonally across the table to halt him, speaking his name as if it were a low, heavy command.

Ryouji’s hands balled into fists. His teeth ground in frustration. He snatched his sunglasses and jammed them over his nose.

“The deaths caused by abnormal disasters aren’t officially recognized as such,” Akagi said, his hoarse voice softening with a note of sympathy. “We managed to protect Mr. Takamiya, and there was nothin’ more we coulda done to stop the mask before it fled the scene. The fact that we then apprehended it before it could kill anyone means yeh get full marks for a job well done. Wouldn’t yeh agree, Yoshida?”

Yoshida nodded sagely. “Aye.”

Again, Ryouji was taken aback by Yoshida’s uncharacteristic response. Regardless of how the results appeared on paper, to classify the mayhem of the night before as the best outcome or declare that harm had been kept to a “minimum” was absurd. His stomach churned at how they were treating the case as bureaucratic routine and brushing him aside with a mere “job well done.”

“Karino,” Yoshida said, “as Akagi mentioned, some suffering was guaranteed the moment the kijo mask fled. After all, both our unit and the Akitakata team are understaffed, and we don’t have the authority to butt into the police’s investigation any more than we already have. Our job is done as soon as we get the kijo mask properly sealed. On this occasion, trying to prevent the disaster before it happened would’ve been a losing battle. Our plan was based on evacuation, and we did a fine job of that.”

From the beginning, their role had been to evacuate those in danger and neutralize the threat. The reminder of that fact made Ryouji feel rather like someone had just tipped a bucket of ice water over his head.

Since when did I…?

Since when had he thought that they were supposed to be solving the case?

A hand lightly clapped his fatigue-heavy shoulders. He sat in a daze as Yoshida stood.

“Right, then. Akagi and I are off to forensics to keep an eye on the mask. Hirose—could you help Moriyama? And Karino, I’d like you to go home and see that Miyazawa is doing all right.”

Was that it? Once Yoshida sealed the kijo mask for good, was it all over? Would they never investigate the enki in the mask that Shisen had mentioned? Would they never discover how Shinohara had managed to travel instantly from the high school to the hospital, a distance that took twenty minutes to drive? Was there no need for them to know?

Everyone aside from Ryouji got to their feet. Clustering around Yoshida, they followed him out of the conference room—except for Akagi, who turned back to stare down at Ryouji.

“Karino,” he said in a low, biting tone, “Shinohara’s autopsy revealed that he died two days ago, so yeh won’t be suspected of killin’ him. But yeh got lucky this time.”

Ryouji’s knuckles paled on top of the table. The implication was not lost on him.

“I’m sure yeh have yer own idea of justice, but that don’t mean everyone else thinks the same way. If there’d been even half a breath left in Shinohara when yeh attacked him…I mighta been puttin’ yeh in handcuffs.”

Even so, Ryouji felt as though he’d had no other option. If choosing otherwise would have meant ignoring the danger before his very eyes and imperiling those around him, he would never regret what he’d done. He absolutely could not sit idle and watch people get hurt.

“You’re right, old man. I’ve got my own idea of justice, and I ain’t ever turnin’ my back on it.” He did not look at Akagi.

The detective sighed. “I’m not tellin’ yeh to do nothin’, just sayin’ think a li’l. No one can back yeh up if yeh’re relying on supernatural vision that no one else can see. In the eyes of the law, there’s nothin’ I can do to protect yeh.”

“I know!” bellowed Ryouji.

Modern Japan did not recognize the existence of spiritual powers or specters. Ryouji’s entire livelihood was officially invisible. Of course, there was a small amount of pride to be had in the knowledge that psychics could crack cases that government authorities had no hope of ever solving. But their refusal to admit the importance of his role rendered him vulnerable and legally unprotected.

“I know yeh’re not that reckless. Yeh can dress however yeh want, but don’t start actin’ like a li’l brat tryna get his own way, too. Yeh’ll only tie yer own noose.” With those words of warning, Akagi strode out of the room.

Ryouji’s head remained bowed in anger, his fists trembling. He understood the reason for Akagi’s reprimand; the detective was cautioning Ryouji out of concern for him. Of that he was well aware.

But Ryouji had forgotten something vital, had been ignoring a cold, hard reality that he thought he’d internalized: the world he saw was not the world everyone else lived in. He was alone in a country that would never praise his career or deeds. After two years in Tomoe, he had deluded himself with a naive daydream, believing that he’d finally escaped the clutches of a society that did not see him. But, unfortunately, the world was all too eager to remind him of its injustice.

When did I get that stupid idea in my head?

He’d fooled himself thinking he could become a hero, admired by all. Could be more than a strange creature, more than some thug who scraped by on exorcism money.

WHAM. The sound of his fist against the table resounded through the room.

***

RYOUJI left the police station just past eleven. Climbing into his car, he wondered if Misato was awake and tried calling, but Misato did not pick up. He bought lunch at the supermarket nearest the station, then headed home.

As soon as he got back, he peeked into the outbuilding to see Misato bundled on the futon, asleep. Not wanting to wake him, Ryouji padded to the living room. At the very least, he thought, shoveling his lunch into his mouth, the electrolyte drink and one of the squeeze pouches were empty, so Misato must have woken up at some point.

He had no plans for the afternoon, nor was there any leftover work to catch up on since he wasn’t officially part of the Abnormal Disaster Unit. Yoshida was right in one respect: nursing Misato back to health was his most important job for the time being. Yet he felt somewhat shy about letting himself into the room to watch Misato sleep—but if he settled in the living room, he would be too far away to notice Misato waking.

After some deliberation, he began to open the main house’s external doors to ventilate the building. He and Misato had converted the room closest to the central, dirt-floor pit into their shared living space, which boasted a TV, game consoles, and a low table where they often ate and drank together. Those, plus the pile of clean laundry in the corner, contributed to an overwhelming lived-in feel. In contrast, the middle and farthest rooms were closed and empty of furniture.

One saving grace was the good weather. Ryouji wasn’t exactly in the mood to hum a happy tune about it, but it helped with airing out the house and allowed him to stay close enough to the outbuilding that he could sense any movement within. He opened the sliding windows along the external corridor as well as the door to the storeroom on the north side (that had actually once been the main bedroom). When he opened the patio door facing the rear garden, a refreshing fall scent began to flow through the house.

The rear garden was as much a wasteland as ever. The front garden, however, was well tended, a family of cabbage butterflies fluttering around the winter vegetable seedlings. Without insecticide, their leafy greens would have been littered with holes.

Gods, I wanna sleep…

On the southern side of the house, the descending sun poured soft light into the living room. The warm, tawny tatami crunched beneath Ryouji’s weight as he rolled over, and he unleashed a wide yawn into the sun’s autumnal glow. Sprawling, he stretched all four of his limbs. Not only had he gotten little rest the night before, but his dreams had been troubled as well.

After seeing the garden in its usual state and inspecting the cultivated plots, as he did every day, Ryouji finally felt as though he was home. All at once, an inescapable fatigue bore down on him. His limbs felt heavy. He eased his sunglasses off, setting them aside before making a pillow of his arms and shutting his eyes.

Overtired and dizzy, he felt as though he were spinning. I’m in pretty bad shape myself, huh? he thought with a wry smile before succumbing to slumber.

***

WHEN Ryouji’s eyes next snapped open, the first thing he noticed was the cold. With a sneeze, he sat up and stared blearily at the remnants of light trailing from the sun on the other side of the mountain. Twilight impatiently plunged the room into shadow and roused the nocturnal insects, which were croaking in glee. The air wafting through the main house had morphed into a sharp chill that cut to Ryouji’s very core.

Damn, I messed up bad, he noted as he rose to his feet, hunched against the cold.

The outside world was witness to enough dusk to be visible, but the house was uncomfortably dark. And within the gloom of an empty room, he spied a small, white mass.

“Shirota…?”

The snake was cautiously peering at Ryouji from a corner. Then, with motion that could only be described as wary, Shirota slithered toward him. Normally, the simple-minded creature launched himself at Ryouji on sight, and the fact that he hadn’t set Ryouji on edge. The serpent’s host had recently lost consciousness, and Shirota could be suffering as well. If not that, then maybe something was wrong with Misato.

Ryouji offered Shirota his hand as worst-case scenarios thrashed in his mind. Moving more than twice as slowly as usual, Shirota slid to a stop in front of Ryouji and reared his head, freezing for several beats as if nervous.

“Hey now. What’s the matter? I can’t hear ya if I don’t touch ya.” Irritated, Ryouji gently reached forward to touch the snake’s lower jaw. Shirota flinched slightly, trembling in fear, and silence stretched until, eventually, a hesitant voice filtered into Ryouji’s head.

“Ryouji love Shirota?”

Ryouji’s breath hitched at the tentative question—and not because he was unsure of his answer. What had prompted Shirota to come ask him that? And why did the serpent seem so tragically anxious?

More terrible scenarios flashed through his brain as he replied, “’Course I do. If I didn’t, why would I come to ya with all sortsa snacks, huh?”

Ryouji lifted Shirota—easily, since the snake was at his usual, small size. The treats often earned Ryouji bitter looks from Misato, but he liked to take jobs from time to time that presented the opportunity to feed Shirota a tasty spirit. In Ryouji’s mind, the serpent was a cute, innocent, beloved pet.

Shirota held his head aloft in uncertainty for a moment before gradually and very gingerly entrusting his weight to Ryouji.

“Hirose hate Shirota.”

Ryouji heaved a deep, internal sigh. That really is what triggered this whole thing, huh? A foreboding had been brewing in Ryouji’s gut ever since Hirose mentioned he was scared of snakes the previous afternoon. And a tumultuous night indeed had followed. Gut feelings were not to be sniffed at.

“Misato don’t want Shirota.”

Ryouji’s brow furrowed, and his fingers subconsciously tightened around Shirota, leading to a spiritual yelp. “Whoa, my bad. That just surprised me is all… Did Misato say somethin’?”

Shirota was part of Misato. Extraordinary circumstances had resulted in their extraordinary fusion, which had caused Misato immense grief in the past, Ryouji knew. Lately though, he’d been under the impression that Misato and Shirota had fully reconciled.

But thinkin’ about it, there ain’t a chance in hell that trauma like that would heal so smoothly, huh?

“Shirota hate oni. Shirota shoo oni. Misato say no!”

“You hate the oni?”

“Yep. Oni same as black one.”

Although Ryouji had no idea what the “black one” was, he knew Shirota was particularly sensitive to intense emotion in both humans and spirits. Unlike the natural specters that Shirota was partial to, the oni was the accumulation of feelings strong enough to lead a human to abandon their life for vengeance. No wonder Shirota didn’t consider such an entity a snack. His sentiment appeared to run far deeper, to the point of loathing.

“Oni same as black spirit Misato eat. Misato hate black spirit. Misato hate snake. Shirota and Misato same. Shirota hate black spirit…”

Ryouji’s penniless housemate was known by a second, far more extravagant title: the Narukami Snake Eater. As the name suggested, Misato had devoured a cursed serpent. In fact, Ryouji recalled, Misato once said that the snake he’d eaten—then cast back at its conjuror with an extra dose of hatred—had dark, ink-black scales.

Yet rather than trying to convey complex thought, Shirota seemed to be voicing a stream of apprehension and sorrow. He and Misato were two parts of the same being. If Misato detested the embodiment of malice and spite, so did Shirota. But the creature that had dragged Misato to the brink of death, the creature that he naturally abhorred for its senseless attempt on his life, had been a cursed snake.

Misato and Shirota shared an existence. And Misato detested snakes.

Self-denial, huh?

Shirota’s mind seemed to wander as he timidly wound himself around Ryouji’s arm.

Gently, a thumb holding Shirota secure, Ryouji caressed the snake’s belly. “It’s all right, Shirota. Even if Misato hates ya, I’ll always love ya.”

From the moment Ryouji met Misato in the park that fateful spring, he had known that the person called Misato Miyazawa was not quite human. He hadn’t known what inhabited Misato’s body, but, interested in the man’s function as a potential smokescreen against an inugami, he’d welcomed Misato into his home, mystery be damned.

Not to mention, Shirota was just plain cute, the majesty of his true form notwithstanding. Though Ryouji was certain Misato would sulk if he said as much.

One could overcome and accept one’s lot in life countless times only to be devastated by the slightest hiccup. Ryouji was painfully familiar with that fact as an equally peculiar person with his own array of self-criticism. While Misato struggled with his relationship with Shirota and his past as the “Snake Eater,” Ryouji contended with a pair of tengu eyes and the lack of a regular upbringing—and a tengu for an adoptive father. Abnormality, as far back as Ryouji could remember, was the only life he had ever known. To cast off that self-doubt and exist unabashedly was easier said than done.

In a barren room growing dimmer by the second, Ryouji sat still for a while, consoling the downtrodden snake. Until, ambushed by the autumnal night air, he unleashed another huge sneeze.

***

AN abyss was the perfect place to lay one’s weary head.

Ragged in both mind and body, he wanted to fall into a slumber from which he would never wake in the dark, cold, quiet blue.

That was the hope Misato cradled close to his chest that night.

One day, when he spent the very last of his energy…when he lost the willpower to continue living in the human realm…he would entrust himself to the sinking abyss. To that dark, cold, quiet place where there was no sorrow or frustration or really anything at all.

So I’m okay for now. If I want to, I can go there whenever. I can bring the pain to an end whenever I like. So for now, I can keep going…

It wasn’t the first time he’d reassured himself thus. In the years after leaving the Narukami clan, whenever he had a particularly frustrating day or longed to give up, he repeated those words to himself over and over.

After the evening sun’s speedy descent, the courtyard of the Karino estate plunged into night. Misato, crouched in the grass therein, peered into the weed-filled pond. He’d felt drawn to it since the moment he awoke and had ventured outside barefoot in nothing but a thin kimono, his hair hanging loose. He was unsure how long he’d been there, though he recognized vaguely that the world around him had grown darker since he’d padded out of his room. In the courtyard, which saw little sun even during the day, twilight turned the tree-shadowed pond a bottomless black.

From time to time, small ripples marred its surface to reveal the faintest hint of blue. There was no telling whether the tiny disturbances were evidence of pond skaters or specters. The incessant orchestra of frogs that filled the air every summer evening had dwindled to not so much as a single song.

Small specters, on the other hand, crowded the courtyard, the home they had made for themselves after coming into existence farther up the mountain then tumbling downstream. Invisible to most humans’ eyes, they appeared to Misato in forms such as those of winged insects, lizards, or frogs. They fluttered and skittered around him, taking particular interest in the hems and loose neckline of his kimono. They could not usually do so when Shirota, their natural enemy, lurked in his flesh.

Though the courtyard was in the physical realm, it was closely connected to the Other Side. The mountains’ edge was already a place long abandoned by most of the population, and after a decade of neglect, the estate had strayed from the human world. Even with Misato living so near the specters’ dwelling, the courtyard remained a nebulous space that existed somewhere between the physical and spirit realms.

While the master of the household had simply laughed at Misato’s “yokai zoo,” to maintain one right outside his bedroom was actually rather reckless. No large specters that could talk or cause trouble plagued the estate (Shirota had disposed of those), yet the sheer yin energy that gathered there was not suitable for human living spaces.

Though I’m pretty sure I don’t really count as human, given that Shirota is eating the specters that come here.

Otherwise, Misato wouldn’t have been able to live right next to his yokai zoo without casting a barrier. And the courtyard persisted as a source of comfort to him, a necessary place to soothe his heart and alleviate the exhaustion of everyday life.

I mean, let’s face it…

A dragon princess had referred to him as a “young serpent,” so if Misato wished as much, he was semicertain that the spirit world would accept him as one of its own. At least, such were the fantasies he sometimes indulged in. He wondered what form he took in the spirits’ eyes. Was he far more spirit than human?

If that was the case, could the creature Misato Miyazawa truly continue to live in the human realm as though he belonged there?

If I keep getting rejected as I am…then what?

Misato Narukami had severed himself from the clan he was born to, emerging from near death as Misato Miyazawa. But if the physical realm itself ever rejected his half-spirit existence…

Then I’ll give up for real, he thought, as he had countless times.

In his college days, he received terrified stares while at the mercy of the serpent’s rampaging. When he forcibly repressed those fits, trapping the snake within, the physical consequences bulldozed him flat. Alone, asked by no one whether he was okay, he’d groaned in pain in his dormitory, yearning for the day that everything came crashing down and he was left with nowhere to belong. Then, he always told himself. Then.

He hadn’t experienced those depressive daydreams in quite a long time. While immersed in their strange depths, he abruptly sensed a presence behind him.

There stood the reason that he had managed to live without any gloomy ideation for over a year.

“Hey. You’re awake now, huh?” called the landlord of the Karino estate from the bedroom, the sliding glass door wide open. His voice was low and hoarse, somewhat subdued.

A wry smile tugged at Misato’s lips when he spotted Shirota twining around Ryouji’s shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Yeah. Sorry for making you worry. Thanks for, um, the drink and the jelly stuff.”

After falling back asleep the first time, he woke up about an hour later. His body felt a little lighter, so he visited the bathroom, drank his electrolytes and gelatin, then slumped back in bed. The third time he awoke, the sky was on its descent into darkness.

“Sorry that I couldn’t getcha anythin’ more helpful. I can’t even make that talisman tea thing,” remarked Ryouji with a disgusted wrinkle in his brow and a grimace on his lips. He stepped down from the open veranda to slip his sandals on.

Misato rose, meeting him halfway. “It was more than enough. Thank you for contacting work, too.”

Ryouji and Misato were standing side by side, yet Shirota stubbornly remained in place over Ryouji’s shoulders, draped comfortably around his neck like a scarf.

Ah… Ryouji’s probably already guessed what’s going on, huh? Oh boy…

The thud of his heart raced against his rib cage. Every time conflict flared between him and Shirota, they ended up inconveniencing Ryouji. Misato had been determined, convinced that he’d progressed his ability to resolve any disputes without involving Ryouji for the nth time—but he had messed up. Again.

Ashamed, he hung his head. His voice came out in a pathetic mumble when he ventured, “Um, Ryouji… About Shirota…”

“You guys had a fight, huh? I’m on orders from the manager to make sure you get some more rest tomorrow, so I don’t mind takin’ care of him until you’re feelin’ better,” Ryouji replied casually, his cheerful response a sharp contrast to Misato’s chagrin.

As flippant as always. As if there were nothing wrong at all.

Ryouji approached the struggle of Misato’s existence as if it were no more complicated than pet-sitting. Ryouji made it seem normal. Feel normal.

Oh…right. There’s no need to hurt alone anymore.

All at once, epiphany burst through him, and something in his heart seemed to slot into place.

There was someone who worried about him when he couldn’t get out of bed. Moreover, he didn’t need to hide why he’d fallen sick in the first place.

I…can’t believe I have someone who’ll look after Shirota with me. Someone who is a place for him to belong outside of me. I don’t need to hide anything anymore. I don’t need to shut him out. Why am I only realizing this now?

He was an idiot for not recognizing it sooner. Such an idiot, in fact, that he was utterly baffled that he hadn’t seen it before.

Misato blinked, dumbfounded by the revelation. Like rusted shackles snapping open, a rush of freedom spread from his toes to his brain. An unlatched door creaked ajar in his chest, a flood of something spilling out from deep within.

“Somethin’ the matter…?”

Misato’s head snapped up. Although night shrouded most of his sight, the puzzled face and glowing hair of the thug in front of him was just visible. Ryouji’s night vision functioned decidedly better than his, and he had to wonder what exactly was reflected in those round, silver-green eyes.

Abruptly, those eyes hardened. “Misato,” he warned, low, quiet. His right arm stretched out, and a broad, rugged hand brushed a small specter from Misato’s shoulder. Evidently it had been clinging to him, and it tumbled to the ground.

After hovering hesitantly in the air for a moment, Ryouji’s hand landed gently on Misato’s left shoulder. His brow was furrowed, his lips pursed, as if he were in pain somehow. Only then did Misato feel the trail of wet dripping down his cheeks.

The inner corners of his eyes burned as droplet after dense droplet ran down his face, the hot tears culminating in a steady trickle from his chin. A hoarse, awkward chuckle bubbled in his throat. “I’d always thought…”

He trailed off, choking up as he reflected on the dark fantasy he’d imagined for so long. All too aware that he could not utter it even to those who cared for and worried about him, he’d resolved to take it to his grave. But—

“That one day, once I was sick of everything…I’d lay myself to rest at the bottom of a deep, deep riverbed.” His voice shook, whispery and warped with tears.

Why was he telling Ryouji? Why did he want to? Why couldn’t he shut his mouth? He didn’t know the answer. The confession was bleak, burdensome, and would surely put Ryouji in an awkward position.

In a way, he was disrespecting Ryouji’s care and concern. To even contemplate something so morbid was to betray those close to him, to hurt them, even. So he’d never told a soul.

“All right. In that case…” Ryouji’s voice took on an opposite timbre, rich and somber. “When that day comes, tell me. Don’tcha dare try to leave on your own. Wherever we go, we go together—so don’t up and leave me.” That last sentence left his lips in a rushed murmur as he lifted his hand from Misato’s shoulder—and Misato grabbed his wrist to bring it back down.

Misato dipped his chin in a small nod.

Slowly, smoothly, Shirota began to move. He slithered along Ryouji’s right arm to Misato’s left shoulder. Then, sliding his head between kimono and skin, he sank into Misato’s shoulder blade directly under Ryouji’s palm.

Ryouji’s hand twitched slightly at the sudden texture beneath the fabric before relaxing once more. When Misato at last let go of his wrist, his palm absentmindedly wandered toward Misato’s spine as if to check where the serpent had melded with flesh.

Once Shirota was safe and sound within Misato, that palm slowly caressed Misato’s shoulder blade, fingertips ghosting over the patch of scales.

Chapter 6: The “Normal” Ones

Chapter 6: The “Normal” Ones

TAKAYUKI listened to Akagi lecture Ryouji from the corridor.

The detective left the room first, followed by a very somber, sluggish Ryouji some time later. Startled by the displeasure on Ryouji’s face, Takayuki jolted upright in alarm, oversensitive amid all the emotions he had yet to process.

He wanted to ask how Miyazawa was doing; that was why he’d waited for Ryouji, after all. But…

I really hurt him.

Yoshida had examined Miyazawa and hypothesized that he’d exhausted himself by repressing the power roiling inside him—but what exactly was that “roiling power”? Ryouji had seemed to understand, yet Takayuki, of course, was mostly clueless. Once again, he was confronted by the huge, thick wall separating him and Miyazawa.

Even so, Takayuki could theorize. The power Miyazawa had repressed was sure to be that large, white snake. But why had he tried to restrain the creature? Before it burst from Miyazawa’s body to protect him, Takayuki had neither the chance nor skills necessary to become aware of its existence. Miyazawa had hidden it from him, most likely fearing hisreaction.

Takayuki had reacted in the worst way possible.

Surely, Ryouji was aware of that as well. Clutching a limp Miyazawa in his arms, he’d leveled a hostile glare at Takayuki.

“The hell’s your problem, huh?” he snarled in the present. “I’m in the worst damn mood right now, and I’m tellin’ ya, I’m itchin’ to send someone, anyone,flyin’ with a nice, hard punch. So don’t lemme see your stupid asshole face.”

That was the first time Takayuki had heard him say something that so flawlessly matched his spiky appearance. The threat, their location, and his outfit made him the perfect picture of a stereotypical hooligan.

A listless laugh escaped Takayuki as he realized that the moment was hardly right to be seriously dwelling on such matters, and Ryouji’s expression darkened further. “Oh, no, just…” Takayuki floundered. “That’s perfect, actually. Because I’m itching to have someone, anyone, punch me.” He hung his head, happy to be condemned by someone who knew what he’d done.

What met him was not a fist to the face, however, but a truly agitated sigh. “I ain’t so stupid that I’d resort to violence in a police station, idiot. And I ain’t kind enough right now to play along with your smug li’l game,” Ryouji spat before striding away.

Raising his head, Takayuki watched the thug retreat: with hands jammed in the pockets of a flashy, satin baseball jacket stretched over a hunched back.

***

ASAMI Masaoka was special.

The word applied not only to her speech and behavior, but also to her extraordinary talent, complicated home environment, and hobbies that tended to diverge from those of the other girls in their class. She had been Yukiko’s friend since elementary school, a precious friend who shared a love for local kagura.

Asami was passionate and single-minded with a disposition that verged on hell-bent. She clashed with her peers, refusing to compromise on the topic of conversation or blend in. She had no interest in her studies, and always wore a tattered, ill-fitting school uniform—though whether the latter was due to her family’s financial situation or some other sort of domestic trouble, Yukiko didn’t know. Yukiko did suspect, however, that Asami was extremely insecure about her uniform, for she despised anyone staring at her.

Hinting at her haughty, hot-tempered personality, their classmates began to call her “Azami” at some point, or “thistle.” Asami embraced the nickname and ended up using it as an alias on social media.

That Tuesday evening, the day after her father was attacked by the oni, Yukiko was restlessly monitoring her phone. Although the incident had plunged everything around her into chaos, Yukiko herself had suffered very little harm. Currently, her only responsibility at her internship was to occupy the office while everyone else was at the police station. Even Yukiko’s father, Hitoshi, had been called to the station again to aid the investigation, both as a victim and someone who’d personally known the perpetrator. Although physically unharmed, he seemed mentally exhausted, and Yukiko was deeply worried as his daughter.

Yukiko had messaged Asami the night before and received a response that morning. Evidently, her schedule was jam-packed, with no set break time, so she planned to call Yukiko that evening once she found a spare moment.

Asami had always been the sort of person to completely fill her calendar with a variety of commitments, so that alone was no cause for concern. But once ten o’clock passed with no word from Asami, Yukiko couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Giving up on some halfhearted reading, she snapped her book shut and nudged it onto the desk she’d used throughout her school years.

Very few children lived in the countryside, and due to population decline or poor location, schools rarely consolidated. When there were not enough pupils to fill even a single class, children spent the years from kindergarten to middle school in an utterly unchanging community. Witnessing Asami butt heads with the adults around her in every new grade or school, their classmates borderline bullied her. They sneered at her behind her back, avoided her, and even collectively refused to speak to her.

Yukiko considered Asami’s poor social skills the price for her incredible gift of physical expression. Whether dancing, singing, or acting, Asami turned into an entirely different girl on stage from the glowering child with rounded shoulders and ducked head. So long as music was playing, she embodied emotion.

Intently, obsessively, she focused only on performing as if to assert that the stage was the only place she belonged. She ignored the cloying static of anyone or anything beyond her art. From Yukiko’s perspective, she was blessed, dazzling—nothing at all like Yukiko. Despite Yukiko’s yearning to perform, she was cowardly and average, and Asami’s ability to fearlessly pursue such a dream wholly impressed her.

And Yukiko was supposed to believe that Asami, of all people, was stepping from the stage of her own volition? Asami had always operated as though nothing else in the world mattered to her. Actually, Yukiko was certain that was exactly how she’d lived her life…and she was quitting?

What had happened to her? What plans did she have for the future? Yukiko was desperate to ask her as someone who’d idolized her longer than any other, admiring the something inside Asami that Yukiko did not possess.

I wanna take a bath, but…what if I miss her call?

With the mask secured, the case would likely come to a close before long. She’d been asked to work the following day, however, and hesitated to stay up too late. She could at least grab her towel and prepare a change of clothes, she decided, and go straight into the bath after the call.

But just as she walked from her desk, her phone began to vibrate, the noise buzzing through the entire room amid cries of insects in the fall night. She padded quickly across the floorboards. “Hello? Asami?”

“Yukiii! Hey hey! How are you? Doing good?” The voice emitting clearly from the receiver was casual, not distressed in the slightest.

Yukiko wavered for a moment, then recaptured her resolve and got straight to the point. “Yeah, I’m good, thanks. I know I sent a message about it yesterday, but…I saw your post online about retiring, and I was just wondering if you were okay.”

She fought to keep her tone level, shoving away the terrible scenarios of serious injury or personal emergency that had plagued her mind since the night before. Yukiko probably couldn’t do much to help even if she knew the reason, yet she couldn’t stop fretting.

“Oh, right!” responded Asami brightly. “I’m gonna retire from dancing. I’m getting on in years, y’know? It’s time to face reality and all of that stuff!”

“G-Getting on in years…? Where is this coming from? You were working so hard for so long to be a pro dancer.”

They were only twenty-two. Yukiko was just finishing her fourth year of college, as was standard throughout Japan, poised to enter the workforce for the first time. What did Asami mean? True, she’d found very little success in auditions and competitions, but had the four years in Tokyo with her dance group truly been that rough?

“Ahhh, but we’re, like, twenty-two. We’re gonna be old and wrinkly before you know it, Yuki! Anyway, I actually got married! My husband runs a restaurant here in Tokyo, so I’m basically a business owner now! Not a dancer!”

“What?!” blurted Yukiko. That she could never have predicted.

Asami glossed over Yukiko’s reaction, saying, “We met at a matchmaking party, like, uhh…half a year ago? And I was like, oh my god, this guy’s the one! For real, when we’re talking, my heart just feels so calm and clear…and it’s soothing, I guess? So I wanna do the same thing for him!”

As Asami gushed on and on without pause, Yukiko was struggling to find enough of a gap to say “whoa” and “really?” to show she was listening. That was nothing new; Asami had always been a yapper. She talked and talked and talked while Yukiko listened. That had been their routine since they were toddlers.

She has a husband now, huh…? I honestly can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.

Of course, Yukiko wanted to be delighted for her. But the news was atypical of the Asami that Yukiko had always known and revered, and struck her as far too sudden.

I mean, Asami said she never, ever wanted to get married. Until very recently, too.

Since childhood, Asami had a tendency to start projects on apparent impulse, then abruptly abandon them. Yukiko had heard that falling in love changed a person, yet she had to worry that Asami’s mercurial personality was leading her down a bad path.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” played on the tip of Yukiko’s tongue, but she swallowed it. They were adults with separate lives. To impose her own standards and concerns on the new couple’s happiness would be rude.

Yeah, I…I need to congratulate her.

“Really? Congratulations.”

“Mm-hmm! You should totally get married soon, too, Yuki! Y’know, people say that we don’t really start life until we fall in love for the first time! And I’m like…yup, I seriously think I get it now!” A raucous peal of laughter pierced through the receiver. She was excited—obviously. The difference in her demeanor when she had a lot to say versus when she said nothing at all was staggering.

“Y-Yeah? Well, personally, I’m all right for now… I’m fighting tooth and nail just with job-hunting stuff.”

When Asami was that excited, she could only be described as a live wire, the stream of words spilling from her mouth as inexorable as an oncoming tidal wave. Yukiko didn’t mind when the conversation was about their shared love of the performing arts or a fangirlish spiel about Asami’s favorite artists, but marriage was a subject that Yukiko hoped to drop as soon as possible.

“Whaaat? For real? C’mon, Yuki, that doesn’t sound good!”

Boyfriends. Marriage. Two topics that Yukiko loathed having to handle. She didn’t consider herself queer, exactly; at that point in her life, she simply didn’t have the enthusiasm required to open her heart to anyone. But that answer wasn’t good enough for those around her, and gently but surely, they continued to ramp up the pressure. It was like being slowly choked to death.

She had never imagined that one day, Asami—the girl she’d respected for leveraging her talents and chasing her dreams—would become one of the many with their hands around her throat. Indeed, when they last saw each other in person, Asami said, “I’m definitely never getting married. Like hell am I gonna look after some guy!” Yukiko had always figured she’d found a friend in Asami’s refusal to bend to societal pressure. She’d been wrong, evidently.

“Actually, finding a husband is waaay more important than finding a job. I mean, women can’t exactly survive on their own! I only just realized that myself, y’know? Like, life is nothing but luck, natural talent, and who you get saddled with in the parent lottery. And god, you know I drew the crappiest ticket ever with that one! So don’tcha think it’s my time to pull an SSR card on the husband gacha?!”

“Wha—… I just think it’s such a waste to quit dancing when you’re such a gifted performer.”

Asami was the epitome of raw aptitude in Yukiko’s mind, and she had been fully convinced that her friend could make a living as a performer if someone took Asami under their wing and nurtured that inborn skill. Shocked to hear that Asami had “faced reality” and married at twenty-two years old, Yukiko had unconsciously argued her decision.

“What the hell?” Asami’s tone lowered and sharpened, forgoing the cheerful babble she’d maintained until then. “Yuki…what makes you think you know enough about my life to say something like that?” The frank distaste in her tone was alarming.

Yukiko scrambled to apologize. “I didn’t mean— I’m sorry!”

“Gifted? Me? Pfft…haha! Funny story, really, because I used to be under that sorta false impression, too. Like, come on—I was a stupid little kid from the countryside. Yeah, sure, maybe I seemed a lot better than the other country kiddos, and there were a few people who went on and on about how ‘talented’ I was. But in the actual industry, being kiiinda talented is the same as being a steaming pile of trash. So, like I said, it’s all down to luck.”

Yukiko had always admired Asami’s ability, yet its mention seemed to have triggered her.

“No way that someone as unlucky as me was gonna make it in an industry that’s basically a gamble within a gamble,” she said with an irritated sigh. “For one thing, if they expect me to be cooperative? Fat chance that’s gonna happen. People super hate me the moment I show up anywhere, so, yeah, hilarious idea. You have it so good, Yuki… You’ve got nice parents, and you’ll always have a place to live and stuff to eat, even if you get rejected from every job ever. But I seriously, definitely, absolutely can’t go back home, and if I keep on chasing the dream like a dumbass, then I’ll literally just run out of money and die!” A chilling laugh sounded through the phone.

That last word made Yukiko flinch. Certainly, their circumstances were worlds apart. Although plain, average, and without any particular talent, Yukiko was privileged to live in peaceful stability without poverty. She couldn’t truly conceive what the world in which Asami struggled to survive was like. She could guess that it was a volatile environment where both luck and skill were necessary to succeed. Each would-be star had to claw opportunity from others just to secure their next gig.

There was some truth in Asami’s self-deprecation as well: Yukiko had no doubt that her fiery temperament had sparked all sorts of discord. Progression in an industry where connections and networking were so important was probably difficult for her.

Ultimately, though, Yukiko could only speculate, and she didn’t know whether her speculation approached reality. Without the same experience, she dared not disagree with someone who had lived in that reality.

As Yukiko offered vague hums in response, Asami barreled on without a breath. “But y’know, Yuki, you can’t just take it easy at your parents’ place forever. I mean, your parents are gonna die before you, so you’ll be in reeeal hot water in the future if you don’t find someone to pair up with while you’re still young. The fact is that women don’t get paid that much! And, like, you’re not gonna find a husband once you’re an old woman, are you? If you don’t take a gooood, hard look at your future, you’ll suddenly be a poor, old woman and die alone! And that would suck, so you gotta give it everything you got, yeah, Yuki?”

Each syllable felt like a knife crafted specifically to stab Yukiko in the chest.

Her choice of words is as brutal as ever, huh?

That was the thing about Asami: she didn’t intend to offend and was merely forthright regardless of subject matter. Yukiko had witnessed many people distance themselves from Asami because they didn’t realize that she had no idea she was being rude.

But that’s just how she is.

“Anyway, I’ve started living with my husband’s family, and ohhh wow, his mom is something else!” Asami shifted to complaining about her domestic issues, oblivious to Yukiko’s desperate attempts to calm herself down.

When Asami vented, their dialogue often followed a pattern: Asami grumbled about having to do this and that and cried that she was going through a rough time. Yukiko kindly reminded her that she didn’t have to take on so many commitments. Asami grew angry.

Someone who soothes your heart when you talk, huh…?

The thought registered in a distant corner of Yukiko’s mind while the burst dam of Asami’s rant filtered into one ear and out the other. Listening to Asami was tiring. Whether they spoke on the phone or in person, Yukiko rarely had the chance to talk about her own troubles. Fielding Asami’s grievances felt somewhat like drinking poison and was, at times, genuinely distressing.

But it’s worse for Asami, since she’s the one going through it, so I should keep listening for her sake.

Yukiko had heard many of her gripes over the years—about her parents, school, her career path—though they had talked about their shared hobby equally as much. But Asami’s life was vastly more difficult than Yukiko’s, and in most cases, Yukiko exclusively assumed the listener’s role when discussing life’s challenges.

Things sound as tough as ever…but if I give her advice from a position she can’t understand, she’ll only get mad. I guess she just wants to get it all out.

But her problems weighed on Yukiko in turn, which was surely a given considering the blessed life Yukiko had been born into. The burdens Asami carried would be too much for Yukiko. That was the only conclusion she could come to.

***

THE following day, Takayuki sat at his desk in Akitakata City Hall with nothing to do. He was the only Tomoe-based employee there that day. Miyazawa had taken another day off due to sickness, and Ryouji wasn’t at the office for some reason unknown to Takayuki. As for the Akitakata team, only Yukiko and a member of the administrative staff were present. Moriyama had immediately gone out on a job that morning.

The staff member overseeing the Special Cultural Assets Team’s office, Murata, was the backbone of their operation. He managed their office in parallel with others and had been handling the team’s general affairs since the beginning of that year. He claimed not to be well-versed in the occult, which was also the case for the other employee on the team. The harsh reality was that they had no specialists aside from Moriyama.

In other words, no one present could tell Takayuki and Yukiko what to do next.

Moriyama had left them with just one instruction: to organize the files, a simple job that they’d finished by ten o’clock. Constantly glancing at the time, they were still idling when the hour inched past eleven. Hopefully, Moriyama would come back to the office for lunch. Otherwise, they had nothing to busy themselves with for the latter half of the day.

Ideally, Takayuki would kill that time by scrolling on his phone, yet he hesitated to do so at work. One could only have so much fun on the office’s business-use computers, and by that point, he’d read every notable news story. Although Yukiko was similarly unoccupied, Murata was certainly not, so they couldn’t even entertain themselves by chatting.

Until, after throwing his arms up in a huge stretch for the millionth time that day, Murata stood, hurriedly tidying his desk. “I have a quick meeting to attend, so yeh both can take it easy until lunch. Hirose, if the phone rings, I’d appreciate it if yeh could take their contact details and tell ’em I’ll get back to ’em this afternoon.”

“Oh, sure! Of course!”

A task at last! Though…funnily enough, he couldn’t remember ever seeing the office phone ring. Even so, that was a job Takayuki could happily undertake despite his ignorance about the team’s activities in Akitakata.

Murata chuckled at Takayuki’s overenthusiastic response, then vanished behind the room’s partition, leaving Takayuki and Yukiko alone in the section.

Takayuki finally allowed himself to relax. At the very least, talking was back on the table.

Not that I have any idea what to talk about.

The previous afternoon, he’d asked whether she’d arrived home all right after riding back with the officer two nights before. In fact, they’d spent the entire afternoon together, once Takayuki returned from his morning at the police station.

Unlike Takayuki and Yukiko’s father, who had encountered the oni up close, Yukiko had barely seen it from her position. Takayuki was glad that she had not suffered as much as a result, yet she looked tired nonetheless.

In the end, she was the one to initiate the conversation: “So…have you heard anything about what we’ll be doing next?”

“Oh, nope. Nothing, honestly.”

The kijo mask case appeared to be nearing its end, though it didn’t quite feel like a job well done. Both he and Yukiko would soon be released from their temporary assignments. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were dismissed within a day or two.

“You know, I feel like I did absolutely nothing to help,” Yukiko admitted.

“I feel the exact same. I was useless, to be honest.” Worse, actually—he had weighed Miyazawa down.

He could not get the image of Miyazawa in pain on the hospital floor out of his mind.

“That’s not true,” Yukiko reassured him awkwardly, and Takayuki shook his head with a bitter smile.

“Like I said before, I know absolutely nothing about exorcism or oni or whatever. And…I think that put a lot of unnecessary pressure on Miyazawa.”

Takayuki’s determination to learn more had been rooted in the assumption that with enough effort, he could understand. If he worked hard enough, surely he could grow closer to Miyazawa and stand at Miyazawa’s side. What a cruel, arrogant presumption. No matter how much he might try to understand, creatures still existed that glided past him unseen, unsensed. Some phenomena were incomprehensible from an outside perspective. The world was not so easy that willpower alone ensured success. People were not so simple that merely reaching out ensured a relationship.

I ruined everything just by being there.

Would Miyazawa have suffered if he’d kept his distance, refused to involve himself? Would he have been less of a burden? The hypothetical had been haunting him for two days straight.

“It reallyshowed me that we live in completely different worlds. Like…I dunno, I just wonder if it’s better for a guy like me not to poke his nose where he’s not wanted. I think I just don’t have what it takes to understand someone as unique as him…or accept shocking information without freaking the hell out.” After that incoherent confession, he abruptly came to his senses. “Sorry. I’m not gonna force you to listen to me complain.” He shot an apologetic look at Yukiko.

“No, it’s okay,” she said, shaking her head. She didn’t seem offended, at least. Carefully choosing her words, she fiddled with the bottle of mineral water on her desk. “I…feel the same way. There’s this childhood friend of mine, and…although she’s not special in the same way as Miyazawa…I know the feeling, I think. It’s hard, huh? You can ask them about their life as much as you want, but you just…don’t get it. And it’s not just that you live in different worlds, but your environments are so different that you can’t even imagine what it’s like for them. Like, when I say something that seems obvious to me, it hurts her, she gets mad…et cetera.”

She held the water bottle atop her knees, sophisticatedly poised in beige stockings. The plastic crinkled in her grip. Training her gaze on where her thumbs dug into the flimsy bottle, she ventured, “How should I put this? It’s like I know nothing and am completely powerless because I’m just an average, boring person who was blessed with a normal life, and— No, ugh…I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ramble about my problems!” Flustered, she gave him a chagrined smile.

“Nah, you’re right.” He echoed her expression with a cynical grin of his own. “I think I get it now. People like us…regular people who’ve never truly suffered… We just can’t see the world from the same perspective as people who do. And it really weighs on you, huh?”

Yukiko smiled a little at that, nodding in reluctant agreement.

Takayuki felt somewhat better knowing that she could relate to having a unique friend. Their extraordinary circumstances were no fault of their own, nor did Takayuki think they should be criticized for responding poorly to attempts to help. Always blaming himself for what was inherently a losing battle, however, was exhausting. He was comforted by the idea that there were other “normal” people who experienced the same pain.

“We’ll probably be done here by next week, but…if there’s any way I can help with your graduation thesis, just let me know. I doubt I’ll be of much use, but sources come from all kindsa places,” he offered, before sharing his social media handle. He used it mostly to keep in touch with people he knew from high school and college, yet he’d recognized the rare chance to connect with someone. He doubted he would be a beneficial acquaintance but figured there was no harm in giving her his contact information.

Yukiko took out her own phone and entered his username with quick fingers. She followed him and he followed her back.

“Whoa,” he remarked, peeking at her profile. “You’re a volunteer? That’s so cool.”

In Takayuki’s college days, he had frequented a casual baseball appreciation club in which the primary activity was drinking together. Yukiko, on the other hand, was a member of an education-related volunteer group.

“Someone told me it’s valuable experience to have if you’re aiming to be a teacher, but…trust me, I’m not actually one to parade my life around on social media.” She shrugged uncomfortably.

“Nah, it’s fine! You don’t need to explain yourself. I just think it’s cool that you’re doing it at all.” He clicked the group’s account and looked at their latest post. “Hey, you’re providing free meals to kids?”

The volunteers were helping run a few dozen child-focused soup kitchens in the prefecture, he read. Tomoe Town Hall’s municipal workers’ union also volunteered at regular intervals—and that very week, he’d signed up to serve food at the site in his hometown of Akitakata.

“Right. I wanted to take the chance to help out while I’m still staying with my parents.”

“Gotcha. Are you working one this week?”

“Probably.”

“Really? I’ll be at one with the town hall union. What if it’s the same one?” Perhaps he would get to see Yukiko on Saturday regardless of whether Moriyama materialized at the end of the workday and proclaimed the case closed. He watched Yukiko’s reaction carefully.

Her eyes widened in surprise before a broad smile spread across her cheeks. “Seriously?! Oh, that’s a relief! It’ll be my first time at the kitchen here, and I was actually kind of nervous about it.”

Hirose internally breathed his own sigh of relief. “I dunno that I’ll be much help, ’cause it’ll be my first time volunteering at soup kitchen, period. I’m the one who’ll be reassured by having you there.”

They smiled at one another as the chime signaling lunchtime finally rang through the building.

Chapter 7: Hot Springs and Kagura

Chapter 7: Hot Springs and Kagura

THAT same afternoon, while Hirose and Yukiko were organizing a list of “special cultural assets” that Moriyama gave them after returning to the office, Misato and Ryouji visited a hot springs resort in Midori District. Called Kagura Monzen Healing Springs Village, the resort was run semipublicly by Akitakata City Council. It was a small theme park that comprised a wide range of bathing facilities, a kagura stage and museum, a townscape with various stores, and an inn. The entire complex was designed to feel historic, creating a sense of being in a totally different world atop the mountain.

On the weekends, a local kagura troupe performed, which, as the name of the resort suggested, drew a large number of both hot springs enthusiasts and kagura fans. Even during the week, day trippers from all over the prefecture came to enjoy the low-heat sauna, open-air baths, old-fashioned stores, and museum.

Yet when Misato ventured into the largest indoor bath, there was no one else in sight. Additionally, the curtain to the men’s bath was rolled all the way down, a signboard outside the entrance stating “Out of Order.”

“Should we really be doing this…?”

“Ehhh, don’t sweat it, man. Either way, it’s too late, so stop worrying.” Ryouji headed for the showers, striding past him.

“I dunno about this…” he mumbled as he reluctantly followed.

The official reason for the baths’ closure was “damage to the tiling,” but the facility was pristine and in perfect condition, the water silently and invitingly steaming.

The true culprit was Shisen. Shisen had exploited his tengu powers to hypnotize one of the employees into reserving the men’s bath exclusively for Misato and Ryouji. For just one hour on a Wednesday afternoon, they had it to themselves. And although the resort’s business likely wouldn’t suffer, the truth remained that Kagura Monzen Healing Springs Village had been hit by an abnormal disaster wholly for their benefit—or Misato’s, mainly. He could not enter baths with other people around, yet his body was in need of the hot spring water’s restorative properties.

Misato timidly perched on a stool by the shower, only for Ryouji to stop him and point to the stairs next to the bath. “I’m pretty sure there’s a cold spring on the second floor, next to the sauna. Leave Shirota there first, or the heat could mess you up for real.”

As a reptile, Shirota did not fare well in extreme temperatures. Misato had not been to a public bath since becoming the serpent’s host. His first instinct was to decline the invitation to the hot springs, but Shisen had interrupted him to say, “Should you not simply have Shirota bathe in cooler water?”

A normal reptile swimming in a public bath was certainly cause for hygiene concerns. Shirota, however, was formed of spiritual matter. So it should be fine…although the definition of “fine” probably varies wildly depending on who you ask. Hmm…

The reason Misato avoided public bathhouses was the expanse of scales visible on his back when Shirota was inside him. The issue of being seen had plagued him since his freshman year of college. He never willingly exposed his back to anyone, and Ryouji, likely the only one who’d ever glimpsed the scales, had first done so under unexpected circumstances.

Filled with trepidation, guilt, and anxiety, Misato climbed the stairs, Ryouji trailing behind him. Ryouji had left his signature sunglasses in the changing room lockers, and even Misato wasn’t sure what his back looked like to Ryouji. He did know that physically concealing the patch of scales did virtually nothing to obscure his secret from those green eyes.

Misato felt Shirota squirm in response to the proximity of cold water.

Should he allow Shirota out with Ryouji immediately behind him? Was that a good idea? To feel so self-conscious when Ryouji had both seen the scales and accepted the snake seemed irrational, yet he couldn’t help but hunch with his arms wrapped around himself.

Peering up at Misato from the step below, Ryouji drawled, “Yeaaah… If there were other people here, I’m pretty sure they’d all be starin’ atcha.”

Misato froze, then swiveled to face Ryouji, certain the psychic was opining on the marred skin. “So, my back does stand out that much? Agh, I knew it…” Stiffly, he reached a hand toward the scales.

Finding his path blocked by Misato, Ryouji halted, tilting his head in confusion. “The hell are ya talkin’ about? I ain’t said a thing about your back—look at that head of yours. Your back is basically all the same color, and folks ain’t gonna notice through the steam anyway. Where did ya even get that shower cap? Obviously a dude in a dumbass shower cap’s gonna draw attention.”

Certainly, his long hair would attract its own attention, but perhaps not as much as a shower cap.

“Why’d ya have to wear that thing?” grumbled Ryouji to himself, mightily offended by the cap for some reason.

Misato turned forward with a slump and a sigh. “Shut up. It takes ages to wash long hair, and it gets dry and nasty if I use the wrong kind of shampoo. What’s the problem? I’m here to soak my body, not my hair.”

An alternative would have been to twist his hair up with a clip, but he hadn’t been able to procure one on such short notice. So he’d bought one of the shower caps that were vended alongside the entry ticket and towel rental.

The ridiculous conversation calmed Misato’s nerves, and Shirota seized the opportunity to slink free and slither up the rest of the stairs to the second floor. Tailing him, the two men soon spotted the slightly cloudy water of the cold spring and the sauna immediately behind it. Aside from the cold bath and sauna were several long benches and a deep, hot bath designed for lying down in.

Shirota dove in, wiggling across the length of the bath.

“Does the water feel nice, Shirota?” called Misato as the snake undulated through the water. The “small” tub was twice as big as their bath at home.

Shirota swooped to the surface and raised his head to brightly reply, “Yeah!”

“All right, then Ryouji and I will be in the hot bath just downstairs. Don’t leave the building, okay?”

“Watch that your scales don’t get all pruney!”

They each bade Shirota goodbye before returning downstairs.

Determined to get the soak underway, Misato inspected the open-air bath. At just past three o’clock in the afternoon, although the sun hung far to the west, the sky remained a clear blue. Dense mineral deposits crusted the perimeter of the pool, the water framed by circular rocks and sun-beaten plants that swayed in the breeze. Concentric ripples pulsed where the spring water bubbled from its source, and subtle flecks of light danced on the steaming surface.

The resort truly did feel like another world. It crowned a rather humble summit adjacent to the center of Midori District, and a quiet farming village at the slope’s foot added to its rustic vibe. Alone in the open-air bath, Misato could easily imagine that all the hustle and bustle of society had vanished. The air was filled with the low hum of the facility’s machinery, the high-pitched trickle of running water, relaxing music subtly filtering through the speakers, chirping birds, rustling leaves… It was not silent by any means, but tranquil nevertheless, no noise grating enough to irritate.

“Ahhh… That’s the stuff,” Misato sighed as he eased into the water. It was slightly hotter than the indoor bath’s.

“You an old man already?” snickered Ryouji next to him, submerging himself to his neck.

Misato had not used a public bath in ten years; the last time was when he was a teenager and before there was anything inhuman about his body. At the time, he hadn’t known how to appreciate a good soak, so he hadn’t really missed the experience. But as an adult, his body and soul utterly exhausted, he sensed keenly how crucial hot springs were. The juxtaposition of water warming him to his core and cool wind caressing his cheeks felt incredible.

The night prior, his appetite still refusing to cooperate, he drank only a gelatin squeeze pouch before tucking himself into bed. Unsurprisingly, he’d awoken hungry that morning. Snuggled under his blanket and racking his brain for anything in the fridge that aided digestion, he received a text from Ryouji. Ryouji had made zousui, a rice soup that was supposed to be good for recovery from illness. “Come find me if you feel up to eating,” the message said.

Of course, he gratefully plodded over to the main building. Ruminating en route, however, over Ryouji’s devoted care and the pathetic picture he’d painted of himself by crying the night before, he felt increasingly uncomfortable. But the reality was that he’d prioritized finishing his work in Tomoe the previous weekend, not stocking his fridge with the ingredients necessary for recuperation. Both physically and practically, he’d had no choice but to yield to Ryouji’s generous offer.

Butting in with an insult about something completely irrelevant when I was feeling self-conscious was probably his way of being kind, too…

Ryouji was plenty talkative yet managed to circumvent subjects that Misato was touchy about. Surprisingly, the thuggish man humming tunelessly beside him possessed exemplary communication skills. Misato’s didn’t even compare—he never did.

“’Sup?” Ryouji raised an eyebrow, noting the preoccupied gaze lingering on him.

Without his sunglasses or silver piercings, the youthful masculinity and attractive charm of Ryouji’s handsome features were more prominent. His hair, usually spiked with wax, lay wet and mostly flat atop his head. The sunshine glinting off the water lit his silvery-green eyes and spotlessly bleached hair.

People often failed to notice his good looks due to the devastating impact of his fashion sense, but his masculine facial structure and thoroughly trained physique would attract ample attention even if he were to dress normally.

“Nah, it’s just… I was thinking that I’ve got a pretty good-looking guy all to myself here,” Misato said with a light chuckle. Deep in his chest, something stirred, half in embarrassment, half in joy. His eyes softened, his heart brimming for a moment with an indescribable sense of fulfillment.

I don’t mind if that was just an empty promise when he said he’d leave with me. I couldn’t force him to do something like that. He has his own life to focus on, after all.

Ryouji had not condemned Misato’s timorous confession but met him halfway. Ryouji’s vow was enough for Misato, even if it could never be fulfilled. He’d drawn significant willpower from the mere fact that Ryouji accepted his sadness for what it was.

“The hell are ya talkin’ about now?” said Ryouji with a confused sigh. “Flattery ain’t gonna make your rent any cheaper than it already is, y’know.”

“I know. Just…thank you. For both yesterday and the day before.” For saving him from a perilous situation and nursing him back to health.

Ryouji awkwardly averted his gaze. “Sure thing.” Only in response to compliments was he suddenly shy and a far cry from his normally slick self.

Misato chose not to push the topic, instead looking up at the cloudless sky. “Ahh, I forgot that it’s a weekday. Yoshida and Hirose are probably hard at work…which makes me feel kinda bad. I really feel like we’re doing something we shouldn’t be.”

Ryouji straightened with a short huff of laughter. He rose to his feet and began to move toward the edge of the pool; he was overheating, maybe. With a splish, splosh, he waded through the water until he reached the stone steps that led out of the bath. He sat down.

“It counts as medical treatment, dude. For a work-related injury, at that.”

“A work-related injury? I wouldn’t go that far… I mean, I only passed out because I clashed with Shirota. It’s not like the oni actually hurt me.” He’d simply exhausted himself as a consequence of poor self-management. He recognized he’d made very little progress on that front.

Ryouji opened his mouth as if to refute Misato’s downcast self-derision, then closed it again, peering up at the sky as if he’d realized trying to argue was pointless. “All I’m tryna say is that stayin’ curled up on your futon doesn’t count as true rest.” Head angled upward, he submerged himself to his neck once more. After a few seconds of silence, he abruptly got to his feet with an ensuing whoosh of water. “I’m gonna take a break. Don’t you get overheated too, aight?”

“Gotcha. You’re not leaving, right?”

“Nah, I’m gonna check on Shirota upstairs. They had some benches there.”

“Okay.” Misato nodded. He lifted the upper half of his body out of the water while listening to Ryouji pull open the sliding door.

The plan was to eat dinner after bathing, then meet with Shisen and his underlings to hear his stories about the enki’s origins and how Kushinadahime’s mask became possessed. Apparently, there would also be a kagura performance at the resort’s kagura-exclusive Kamukuraza Theater.

Misato’s first reaction was to insist that Shisen didn’t need to go to that much trouble, but Shisen merely saw it as being a good host, joyously proclaiming, “They built a theater right on my doorstep, so I daresay it’s only natural to want to sit in the front row, I do!”

So Misato never had any hope of stopping him. And ultimately, he was a god, so Misato wasn’t exactly in a position to complain.

“Whew… Guess it’s about time I get out. Aghhh, especially when my head’s so itchy!” The cap was starting to feel very stuffy. Had he groused in front of Ryouji, he was sure the retort would have been something like “Then take the damn thing off!”

He would have to buy a hair clip in preparation for any future visits. In fact, he could probably shut himself in a toilet cubicle to put Shirota in his bag, then leave the snake in the changing room while he was bathing.

Meandering between random thoughts, he grabbed the towel he’d left on a nearby rock and stood. Then, amid a clamor of noise, the bathhouse door slammed open.

“Misato! Shirota… He…!” Ryouji leaned through the doorway, and his panicked tone flooded Misato with dread.

“What happened?!” cried Misato, scrambling out of the bath. As far as he could sense, nothing was wrong with Shirota, yet Ryouji’s alarm had ignited immediate concern.

“Follow me!” said Ryouji curtly before dashing back into the bathhouse.

Breaking into a cold sweat, Misato darted after him. Ryouji arrived on the second floor first, and as Misato stumbled up the stairs, he saw that Ryouji was staring into the cold spring where Shirota was supposed to be with a hard expression. Misato rushed forward, his gaze falling to the water. His eyes widened in horror.

If the bathtub had seams, it would be bursting at them, he thought numbly, disturbed. White filled every crevice of the small bath—the white of Shirota’s body. Only his snout rose above the surface of the water, the rest of the bath bulging with pearlescent scales.

“Wha—?!”

“Misato!” said Shirota cheerily in response to his aghast shriek.

“Forget pruney scales—this is crazy as hell! Shirota, are ya all right? Can ya get back to normal?” asked Ryouji in a low voice that vacillated between disbelief and disquiet.

“Bathtime over?” If his mournful tone was any indication, the cold mineral spring must have felt wonderful to Shirota. Slowly, he raised his enormous head out of the water.

“I hope he can… He seems to have, uh…absorbed plenty of the spring’s spiritual energy,” Misato said, answering Ryouji’s query. His shoulders sagged. “Anyway, I guess I’ve recovered a lot of power, so if he can’t go back to normal, we can ask him to wait in the woods near the open-air bath.”

“You’re gonna cast him out into the cold?” asked Ryouji with a look of slight horror.

Misato gave a halfhearted nod and lightly patted Shirota’s wet head. “Bathtime over. Let’s go, Shirota.”

A sigh of relief escaped his lips as Shirota dolefully slid out of the bath.

***

FOR dinner, the pair dared to try the resort’s famous fiery-hot udon. The dish’s slogan, “hotter than the devil,” set Misato somewhat on edge, but the udon at least served to jumpstart the energy that had lain stagnant in his body for two days, warming him alongside the heat from the bath.

And to Misato’s surprise, the spice affected Ryouji more than it did him. After the meal, Ryouji was still complaining that his mouth felt like it was on fire, so they stopped by the vending machine outside the restaurant to buy him noncarbonated fruit juice.

The paper lanterns hanging from the restaurant’s eaves cast a scarlet glow across the twilight-indigo of the sky, curating a sense of nostalgia along the street. The number of people dwindled the farther they walked, as did the number of backlit windows. A forlorn, lonely feeling drifted in the air. Built on a long, thin plot, the “village” mimicked towns of times long past. The hot springs sat on one end of the main street, and the inn, restaurants, and shops at its midway point, while the kagura-related facilities were situated at the far end. The latter had already closed for the day.

Despite that, Misato and Ryouji were heading for Kamukuraza Theater, Japan’s only kagura-exclusive arena… Actually, it was more like a small entertainment hall tacked onto the museum beside it. The theater was in the same building as exhibits showcasing kagura’s history, costumes, and most famous programs. Nightly performances took place on the stage every weekend.

That night, however, darkness loomed beyond the glazed automatic door to the building, and a standing signboard reading “CLOSED” blocked the path.

“I’m serious, Ryouji…” whispered Misato nervously as they slipped past the sign. “We should at least send a written apology for all this …”

The automatic door, which should have been powered off, slid open immediately. Ryouji coolly stepped forward with a light shrug at Misato.

They walked down the hallway between the galleries and the gift shop, the corridor illuminated by ghostly emergency lights. Several sets of double doors lined the wall. Ryouji reached for the closest handle and slowly pushed the door open.

As if on cue, the room burst to life with jubilant kagura music. Flutes, drums, and gongs sounded, though the fuzzy, distorted timbre of every instrument revealed their recorded nature. The music’s dramatic flair signaled the speediest, flashiest genre of kagura and most likely accompanied the climax of a popular modern program.

The room was lightless but for the dazzling video playing on the screen above the stage. One of the people in the film wore a huge kijo mask, and the two others were warriors in tall, black eboshi hats. Wielding weapons, the warriors spun on light feet in a fierce dance as intense as the music. The oni’s long, black hair; the extravagant sleeves and hems embroidered in silver and gold thread; the glinting blades of the soldiers—every detail culminated in a luminous feast for the eyes.

The front of the theater consisted of a tatami-floored boxed seating area, while the back was lined with standard chairs. Sitting cross-legged in the very middle of the front row was a large silhouette.

It belonged to a strong, sturdy man, and a quick glance confirmed he wore not Western-style clothing but a crow-billed mask and the garb of a Shugendo monk: a round, black hat; a hemp overgarment; and a three-strand sash across his torso. It was none other than Shisen Shishido.

The crow-billed mask turned toward them. “Aha, you made it. And earlier than I was thinking!”

“Ya havin’ your own li’l private viewing party in here or somethin’? You’re supposed to pay for that, man,” Ryouji huffed.

“Oh, but of course I paid. I put my fair share in the Fukusuke doll donation box out front, I did.”

“Are you sure? Ya didn’t just chuck some acorns in there, right?”

Ryouji climbed into Shisen’s box and Misato followed, stopping to timidly slip off his shoes. He wasn’t as accustomed to the irresponsible behavior of tengu.

Ryouji sensed his apprehension and whirled around to comment, “It’s pointless to expect a tengu to abide by the rules of society, see?” Clearly, he was using every opportunity possible to aim lighthearted jabs at Shisen.

“Now, now, I’m not a tanuki or any such ilk. I’d never display that stingy sort of conduct. Come, you should watch with me. It’ll soon be over.”

Misato looked back at the screen, catching the beginning of the scene in which the oni was slain. The performance was a “modern” program, meaning that it had been choreographed in the postwar period and took inspiration from widely known myths, Noh songs, and kabuki plays. The story, often used in kagura, featured an oni and the eight-headed serpent Orochi, and its ending was one of poetic justice, in which the gods slew both. Even so, the main character was considered to be the woman-turned-oni.

And this program…is probably Momijigari or Takiyashahime, I think.

On-screen, the kijo grappled with the two warriors.

For Misato, the genre was familiar, one he had experienced as a young child growing up in the suburbs of Hiroshima City. It was gaudy, beautiful, terrifying, stunning, and charming all at once. Contrary to the tale’s moral, Orochi and the oni were the characters he’d always been most excited to see, and he suspected the majority of audiences felt the same way. Regardless of the heroes’ role, the true protagonists were the monsters.

Following that same convention, Shizukushi Kagura Troupe’s Kushinadahime centered on Kushinadahime after she became a kijo. It was a modern program as well, though it differed from other kijo-related narratives in that it focused on the violent Kushinadahime’s ascent back to goddesshood in Shizukushi. Misato had never seen it performed, but from what he’d gathered from the relevant documents, the program had ancient roots.

But what they were about to witness was not Kushinadahime as Hiroshima knew it. It was the story of the enki’s birth, then imprisonment within the mask, choreographed (more likely improvised) by Shisen and his underlings.

In the video projection, the warriors were dancing in joy after enacting divine punishment upon the kijo, who lay face down on the ground. They fluttered their fans and twisted their swords, then faced the front to bow deeply to their viewers. The resulting burst of applause filtered through the speakers in a muffled, lossy haze. After twirling once more in thanks for the ovation, they left the stage. The end.

The film concluded, the light of the projector winked out, and again, only the emergency lamps remained.

In the dim glow, the sound of a real flute began to echo, yet even when straining his eyes, Misato saw no one to the side of the stage, which was where the musicians usually sat. Certainly, the mysterious, disembodied music was perfect for a spirit-run production. Following that sonorous solo came a sharp vocalization, the cue for the gong and a range of drums to join. At the same time, the stage lights flicked on to reveal a pedestal bearing a kijo mask.

Oooh. I’m not so sure I should be enabling this, but…I’m getting kinda excited.

The unexpectedly tasteful presentation reminded Misato of his very early childhood and the thrill he’d experienced at fall festivals watching kagura with his mother. He recalled warming himself by the bonfire, excited at the prospect of being outside at an hour when he was usually in bed.

Hiroshima-style kagura, especially modern programs, prioritized entertainment above all else. Children chased after the oni when she jumped off the stage, grabbed those of Orochi’s tails dangling over its edge, and even ran under it when bored. Normally, such behavior wasn’t tolerated, but kagura was casual enough that the pleasure of the audience came first. Similarly, the adults slurped udon and sipped hot sake to warm themselves while enjoying the show.

Misato had to wonder whether the same excitement stirred in Ryouji’s heart. The man lacked nearly all of his childhood memories of Hiroshima, yet kagura was so nostalgic that perhaps he felt something. Misato sneaked a glance at Ryouji beside him. With the stage lights reflecting off his sunglasses, Misato couldn’t quite discern his expression, although his lips did seem to form the slightest of smiles.

A graceful figure appeared in front of the kijo mask, chanting a lilting poem to the moderate tempo of the music.

For certain there is

the desolation of mountain living,

yet how easy it should be

to find one’s own comfort

far from wretched society.

She wore an extravagant robe with white silk sleeves and red hakama. She held an open fan in one hand and a small bow in the other, her magnificent, long hair cascading all the way to her feet—a style that was typically impossible with the wigs used in kagura.

Mitatsuhime, Misato realized. Uhhh…is it okay for a real goddess to dance this part?

Dance itself was a well of spiritual force, a performing art that retained its power as religious ritual. A bead of cold sweat trickled down Misato’s spine, yet Mitatsuhime stood on stage completely unconcerned. She swayed from side to side and swirled with a willowy grace, clearly enjoying herself. She flourished the fan in one hand, bewitching all who witnessed her, and swished her bow sharply through the air in the other.

She chose a bow…? I’d say the prop fits a shrine maiden better, but okay… he thought absentmindedly, otherwise captivated by her dance.

The bow was a weapon, of course, yet functioned equally as a purification tool and even a divination implement to summon the gods and interpret their will. Several practices in Hiroshima utilized the bow in performing arts as an offering to the gods, such as yumi kagura and divine archery demonstrations. A common role for women in bow rituals was that of the azusa miko, shrine maidens who plucked the bowstring to carry out exorcisms. All such practices relied on the sound of the bowstring to call upon the gods—so why had the goddess picked the bow as her prop?

She raised it and the fan above her head as she came to a stop facing the audience. The second her mouth opened, the music cut to silence, and she began to speak, her tone gentle and dignified.

“I came first to this land as Kushinadahime, the youngest daughter of a husband and wife from Mount Torikami of Izumo. After devoting myself to Yamata no Orochi of Koshi, the deity Susanoo slaughtered Orochi and snatched me away. Warped by vengeance, I became a kijo and strove to slay Susanoo. I was defeated, however, and upon my escape, I settled in Shizukushi. Here I happened upon my peace and became the guardian goddess of this place.”

The music resumed, and she spun to its rhythm, sidestepping the kijo mask as she bounced onto the raised tier at the back of the stage. Primly lifting her skirt, she turned to the front, lifted the bow, and covered her face with the fan.

After a few moments of utter stillness, another figure materialized in the wings. Slowly, it marched to center stage toward the mask and pedestal, brandishing a fan and a staff festooned with paper streamers in time with the music.

The newcomer was a man in the plain, traditional clothes of a commoner, though he sported a gallant, male mask that was customarily worn by those playing a god. Upon closer inspection, Misato spied a pair of triangular ears peeking out from under the actor’s folded eboshi hat and recognized him as Mitatsuhime’s guhin servant.

“I came first to this land as…” The guhin likewise introduced himself as the head of a powerful clan who’d cultivated the fields of Shizukushi since eras long past. He described the deep resentment festering in his daily interactions with the villagers and society at large. He sought to petition the goddess of Kushinada Shrine, hoping to become an oni and inhabit the kijo mask to deliver their comeuppance.

Finishing his lines, the guhin kneeled before the goddess on the dais, raised his staff, and began to pray. Abruptly, the drumbeat accelerated, and the flute started to violently trill. The guhin’s back tremored with how fiercely he rattled the paper streamers until, with two particularly loud beats of the drum, he convulsed and collapsed to the stage.

After an instant of silence, the stage plunged into darkness. When the light promptly blinked on once more, the guhin had donned the kijo mask and a luxurious overgarment. A dull curtain obscured the upper platform; Mitatsuhime was gone.

“Oooh,” Ryouji breathed beside him. The showrunners were enthusiastically reproducing all the highlights of modern kagura, that was for sure: sudden blackouts, quick costume and mask changes. Misato released a laugh of his own.

The guhin’s movements grew aggressive as he waved his staff, stomped his legs wide apart like a sumo wrestler, and fell to his knees. “Ahhh, what joy!” he cried in a deep, guttural voice, his previously even tone assuming a harsh cadence that grated alongside the rush of the drums and gong. “My determined prayer reached the gods, and I have been granted this evil power!”

He thrust his staff into the air, then flung it to the floor with all his might. “Now I shall advance on the village and rip those accursed humans to shreds!” Boom, boom, echoed his feet against the stage as he launched into a fervent dance. The music followed suit, fast and urgent.

While researching kagura for the kijo mask case, Misato had learned that the current tempo was aptly named the “oni beat” and represented evil. More personally, it was the beat he recalled as characteristic of kagura as a child, and his heart raced with excitement whenever he heard it. And although he would be quite happy to never see a real oni ever again, the oni in Hiroshima-style kagura were the stars of the show.

The man had transformed into a kijo (or rather, into a vessel for the soul who’d discarded his physical form in favor of inhabiting the kijo mask—the performance was naturally taking some creative liberties), and she began to dance furiously.

Starting from a standstill, she protruded her jaw, then bent low and shoved both hands high as if itching to attack—a pose known as mie in kabuki. Her head ratcheted from side to side, stiff and sharp and terrifying. Finally, after striking threatening poses at everyone present, the kijo exited.

The oni beat cut off, immediately replaced by a theme signifying goodness, the tempo of the “divine beat” much lighter and more carefree. Two figures, both with the masks of male gods, approached from the elevated walkway on stage right. One, wearing an eboshi hat and the informal dress of nobility at the time, held another staff with paper streamers. Behind him came a warrior wielding a bow and arrow.

The first introduced himself as a master of kagura, a tayuu from a shrine in Bingo Province. In the time in which the “program” was set, those ancient experts of the dance served a similar role to Misato and Ryouji, conducting rituals that relayed deific messages and offered up prayer.

The kagura master had exorcised a great variety of oni and was journeying to Shizukushi after hearing of a man-eating monster that was causing all manner of misfortune—a monster he intended to slay. The second man was his servant as well as a capable warrior. They planned to draw upon the power of Kushinadahime residing in the land to seal the vengeful demon.

The master’s slightly husky voice was that of the old woman who attended Mitatsuhime, Misato noted as he began to dance. Ringing a bell and shadowed by his servant, he circled the stage before halting in the middle. When the master turned his back to the audience, a plush, silvery fox tail poked from his costume, confirming his true identity as Mitatsuhime’s elderly lady-in-waiting.

Misato glimpsed the tanuki tail of the warrior as well, although he had no recollection of ever meeting a tanuki on Mount Goryuu. It was either a servant of Mitatsuhime whom Misato had yet to meet or an acquaintance of Shisen.

Either way…jeez, this is surreal. He couldn’t help but pinch himself. How else could one react when watching a fox and tanuki dressed as humans dance kagura together?

He shook himself while the duo neared the curtained platform at the back of the stage. They bowed to it. Still facing the curtain, they moved in a loose dance, accompanied by the leisurely peal of the tayuu’s bell. Both of them, as well as the guhin playing the part of the kijo, were excellent dancers, which was perhaps only natural for spirits connected to such an ancient goddess.

While the kagura master chanted and shook his bell, the warrior shuffled to the left side of the stage and pretended to fire his bow. The music pounded faster the further he drew the string—and dropped silent when he “shot” the arrow. When the melody recommenced, the warrior danced his way back to the master, and they walked another circuit around the stage before repeating the sequence while facing the audience. They replicated it again on the right-hand side of the stage, then the back. At last, as the warrior loosed a swift strike directly above, the curtain covering the back of the stage lifted. There waited the goddess, her fan concealing her face, and the two men prostrated themselves at her feet.

The goddess detailed in beautiful, antiquated language her guardianship of the land, the kagura mask that lauded her prowess, and the evil man who’d stolen it and become the worst of avenging spirits—an enki. She hoped to lend her power to the brave hunters and have the enki sealed.

With her free hand, the goddess passed a staff over the pair, brushing the tops of their heads with the trailing paper streamers. They bowed yet lower, and in tandem with the swelling music, the curtain gradually descended in front of the goddess once more.

“This plot is ass,” Ryouji whispered in Misato’s ear. “Didn’t the goddess give him the power to become an enki to begin with?”

“Hmm, maybe the man just assumed that was what happened? Becoming a monster like that depends on a change that occurs inside a human, so… That’s a total guess though,” Misato whispered back.

“Yeah, maybe…” Ryouji settled back in his seat to face the stage again, pursing his lips as if unconvinced.

Shooting an arrow in all four directions plus the heavens… Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s a method of calling upon the gods in another type of kagura in the prefecture.

The dance invoked the deity of the local soil, or as most called it, an earth spirit. Although the name of Kushinadahime came from mythology, Inada Shrine was most likely dedicated to an indigenous earth spirit, similar to that on Kamiki Island.

On stage, the tayuu and warrior danced in circles. The warrior must have swapped his props while kowtowing before the goddess, because he’d discarded his bow and arrow in favor of a sword and staff. The men did a lap of the stage, then came back to the middle, a move indicating travel. It could convey a change in location or the passage of time, and on that occasion, it expressed that the characters had excused themselves from the goddess’s presence to find the oni’s hiding place.

Each gripping his staff in his left hand, the warrior pointed his sword at the curtain at the back of the stage while the master rang his bell. Down the sword slashed, and the curtain sprung open. A white mist (dry ice in a human production) spilled from the platform, and a silhouette with wide-stretched arms and legs emerged from the fog.

“How regrettable, how vexing! Sure I was that I would consume every single loathsome villager, but this tayuu dares stop me!” growled the kijo in a low, threatening tone. She brandished a prop known in kagura as an oni staff, a thin stick with a burst of white paper strips on either end, then hurled it to the floor. “You have forced my hand, and I have no choice. These dark powers of mine will rain down upon you. Now…”

“Fiiight!” declared the kijo and kagura master in unison.

Both the enki and the two hunters twirled their weapons in time to the music, sizing the other up. They spun, twirled, whirled as they swapped positions over and over.

Once more, they readied their weaponry. With a sharp shout, the warrior crashed his sword into the oni staff as the ring of the bell accosted the kijo. Boom, boom sped the drum while the three characters crossed weapons in a furious dance.

Around and around they spun, twirling their weapons even faster as they wheeled around the stage. In the blink of an eye, their drab costumes morphed into shawls with dazzling embroidery that sparkled even from afar and golden tassels that colored the air with shining afterimages.

“Splendid, splendid! Oooh, that’s the stuff!” Shisen bellowed a laugh, casting both hands in the air, and the three actors’ bushy tails twitched amid their frenetic dance. All three wore masks, yet Misato guessed that the compliment had reached them.

The performance was reaching its peak; before long, the enki would be defeated.

The drums thundered and a flash of light strobed. The warrior’s blade sliced downward, and the enki bent backward, staggering.

She slumped to the floor on the second strike. On his knees, the warrior asserted the third as the final blow, and the kijo sprawled on the upper tier of the stage to cue the final curtain. It drooped downward as the drums and gong continued at a sticky pace, their struggle to drive forward seeming to represent the oni’s slow death. The victors kneeled with their backs to the audience as if to see it to its end.

With a shout, the tempo recovered once the curtain fully obscured the oni. The divine beat was bright, relaxed, and the master and warrior leaped to their feet, throwing themselves into a triumphant dance.

Typically, only two actors performed the number, yet a beautiful woman in a resplendent scarlet robe slipped from the wings to join the fray as if she simply couldn’t help herself—Mitatsuhime, of course. The guhin, too, ducked under the curtain from the upper level. He’d removed the kijo mask but had otherwise made no effort to change from his costume.

“Like hell that happened!” muttered Ryouji.

“Ahaha… I’m inclined to agree.”

While the two humans shook their heads in disbelief, Shisen clapped his hands and shouted in delight, “And me!”

He began to rise to his feet, and Ryouji instantly lurched sideways to stop him. “Stay right there, or else they’re never gonna stop!”

Fortunately, the invisible musicians finished the piece as planned, and the spirits on stage gladly concluded their dance with Shisen still half standing in the audience. He plopped back down with a reluctant sigh and applauded the cast, as did Misato and Ryouji. Though only the three of them clapped, the resulting round of applause was that of a crowd far more numerous.

In truth, Misato had hoped for more answers given the length of the show. All they’d discovered was that the enki had once been the chief of Shizukushi and that a tayuu was summoned to the village to seal it. Plus, the story hinted that the tayuu had tapped the power of the deity worshipped at Inada Shrine—most likely a local spirit—to execute said sealing. What they had learned from the twenty-minute performance could be summarized in two sentences.

Misato’s applause was nonetheless genuine. The wonderful bath, nice meal, and treat of a kagura performance, had truly alleviated the heavy pressure in his body and soul. He didn’t presume that all of Shisen’s machinations were for his sake, yet he couldn’t help but smile.

He was still smiling when he caught Mitatsuhime’s eye on stage, the content quirk to her lips apparently aimed at him. “Hehe. My wish to answer your magnificent dance with one of my own has finally been granted, don’t you think? Let us reconvene elsewhere and celebrate the end of our performance!” She covered her mouth with her fan and giggled.

Her mention of Misato’s dance immediately prompted crimson across his cheeks. “O-Oh, um… Thank you…very much…”

Ryouji and Moriyama had told him they shared the details of the hospital incident with the Mount Goryuu group. Ultimately, the kagura performance served a purpose that was not informative but appreciative. Of course, his mind was as blank as a sheet of paper; he was unused to being praised with such overblown gestures—to being praised at all, really. He had no idea what to say.

With a slightly exhausted chuckle, Ryouji rose to his knees and turned to Shisen. “That’s fine with me, but where should we do it? We’re parked in the lot here, so you’d better not whisk us away through a nawame.”

To return at a later date just to pick up the car would be a pain. The public transportation between the hot springs resort and the Karino estate left a lot to be desired.

“What has you so concerned? There’s a perfectly good inn right next door!” protested Shisen with wide, offended eyes.

Certainly, they were at Kagura Monzen Healing Springs Village, which encompassed an inn that served the best remote mountain village fare. But Misato sincerely doubted that the Mount Goryuu gang had made a proper reservation.

“Are ya serious…? Those guys do have some way to hide their ears and tails and whatever, right?”

“Her Highness and her servants will return home, leaving only the three of us to stay at the inn. You need not worry!”

Misato considered whether that made him feel any better—no, Shisen’s attire ensured unwanted attention. Misato glanced at Ryouji, green irises meeting Misato’s through his sunglasses. He had to be thinking the same thing. Ryouji twisted his lips and narrowed one eye as if to say, “Do we have any choice?”

“Aight then,” Ryouji sighed, finally getting to his feet. “We’ll come with ya. And if anyone calls you out, we’ll just pretend we’ve never metcha in our lives.”

Shisen, then Misato, nodded. The trio said their goodbyes to Mitatsuhime and her servants, then left the theater.

Before exiting the building, however, Misato made sure to remind Shisen to return the kagura costumes the cast had borrowed to their rightful place in the museum.

Chapter 8: Strife at the Station

Chapter 8: Strife at the Station

FOR three days, itlurked at the back of a cabinet in the detectives’ office in the Akitakata police station, quietly awaiting its chance.

The shoddy talisman in which it was wrapped was no more binding than some wet paper string. In fact, the only reason it remained for three whole days was that no suitable human host had wandered close enough.

It—the kijo mask haunted by a powerful enki—was waiting for one clothed in flame.

In dvesha, a vengeful fire that consumed those hearts full of hatred. The deeper the loathing and resentment, the bluer the flames burned. And the bluer the flames, the deeper the enki seeped into one’s skin, enabling it to consume the soul and flesh in its path.

Twilight hung in the air, yet human presences lingered around the cabinet. None were aware of the enki that lay dormant in the mask. But there, on the other side of the wall, in the corridor past the office door that led to the cells, the enki sensed that long-coveted blue flame. Quietly, carefully, it began to move.

The evidence cabinet was locked, of course. With utmost caution, it silently reached into and pulled the latch free.

The enki inhabiting the mask had no physical form. It manipulated the mask via willpower alone, and the telekinetic energy required to achieve each movement was exhausting. Its stamina was almost depleted after its escape from the seal and its failure to consume enough humans. So it bided its time, patient. Like a snake stalking prey through long grass, it waited for a potential host to enter its radius.

The cabinet door opened with the tiniest of squeaks.

Unfortunately, no one stood within line of sight of the cabinet. The forensic investigator sitting closest had their back turned, and the three total in the room were wholly occupied with other work; theirs was a tiny division in a tiny police station.

The mask, meanwhile, easily shook off the crude talisman before emerging into the open air. It popped out of the cabinet at a height lower than the desks, near the investigators’ knees. Time was of the essence if it was to catch its host before they moved out of its range. Homing in on the presence on the other side of the flimsy wall, the kijo mask headed for the exit.

Just as it was about to shift the sliding door with its telekinetic powers, a human happened to pull open the door from the other side. The mask darted between the male detective’s legs and sprung into the corridor. Naturally, the man did a double-take, staring wide-eyed at the mask as it skimmed the hallway floor.

“Hey! What the hell is that?!”

His alarmed shout caught the attention of everyone both in- and outside the room, and despite his shock, he instinctively lunged after the mask.

The enki increased its speed. It would soon reach its target, a teenage boy in a school uniform who appeared just as startled as everyone else.

He was thin, small, and wreathed in licks of crimson flame that suggested his dvesha was not yet ripe. But the enki needed a body, and the boy would serve well enough as a pair of legs with which to flee the building and a temporary alleviation to its hunger.

The deep-seated dvesha of its previous host had made him the perfect prey. Alas, the mask had been peeled from the man’s body by a rogue ascetic at a most crucial moment, and it missed its chance to devour the man whole. So the hunger that had festered within the enki for hundreds of years was yet unsatiated.

The boy was no feast, but immature souls were the easiest to eat.

“Dost thou not detest those who condemn thee?” the enki whispered in a sweet, intoxicating voice that reached only the ears of the burning boy. It floated upward, hovering face-to-face with the child to lure him closer. Frozen in terror, the boy gawked at the kijo mask.

“Wherefore should anyone blame thee?”

The boy’s eyes glazed over as the enki crooned its poison. His expression contorted in pain, and as if delirious, he reached forward, helplessly straining for something that could never be his.

His fingertips brushed the mask, and the enki within its grain cheered in jubilation.

“They shall know our pain. They shall know our resentment.”

The enki knew well what its host hoped to hear. Those words he craved more than anything else would become the fuel to his flames—the fuel to the dvesha that roared within him.

***

Dvesha (noun)

Definition

Aversion to anything that differs from one’s own perspective. It is one of the three root kleshas in Buddhism believed to cause harm to the human psyche, along with moha (delusion) and raga (attachment).

Example

The flames of dvesha smolder among all people and blaze to life when we do not get our way. These flames lay in constant wait for the opportunity to lick the earth and scorch the heavens, to burn everything that does not agree with us.

***

MISATO was at his desk in Akitakata City Hall, preparing to go home after a day of working out-of-office, when he received word that the kijo mask had escaped.

At a meeting first thing that morning, he shared the information he’d gleaned from Shisen and company. Afterward, he and Moriyama visited Nakahara from the Shizukushi Kagura Troupe, then went to inspect what would become the kijo mask’s temporary home. Both stops took longer than expected, and by the time he returned to the office, Hirose and Yukiko had gone home—which meant Misato and Hirose had exchanged basically no words all day other than a very awkward greeting that morning.

“I told them, damn it! I freakin’ told them! That talisman was as effective as a square of toilet paper!” cried the very man who’d applied said “toilet paper.” Ryouji was the most anxious about their failure to recover the mask from the police station. Long-term charms such as barriers and seals were a weak point of his, and he knew it.

Were Misato in charge, he would have transferred responsibility for the mask to City Hall as soon as possible to reseal it. But, as Shisen told him after the kagura performance the night before, the sealing process would be difficult, so they’d shifted their focus to finding securer storage for the time being. The mask’s tardy return to their jurisdiction was no fault of any of the exorcists but rather a delay in proceedings at the police station. The scale of the case required that the prefectural police preside over the investigation, and permission to relinquish evidence to an outside party had been slow in coming.

“This is why…I absolutely hate…that dumbass bureaucratic red tape!”

“Yeaaah… I really can’t disagree with you this time,” sighed Misato.

Strict adherence to procedure at all times was crucial to avoid wrongdoing. On the other hand, the restrictive nature of policy made one want to scream, “We can play it by ear!” or “We’ll just get approval after!” where matters of common sense were concerned.

“I’ll be right there!” Moriyama assured them, running around gathering paperwork after being held up post–working hours by a member of a different department. Go ahead without me was the hint.

“Aight, gotcha! We’re off!” Ryouji nodded, snatched his khakkhara and dashed out of the room, Misato following behind.

The city hall and police station were situated on the same side of the road and about five hundred yards apart. They had no time to consider whether walking or a detour to the parking lot to take the car was faster. Instead, Ryouji sprinted out of the building as if there were no other option. He streaked down the street, the dusky sky dyed indigo, with Misato desperately scrambling to keep up.

The road branched from the main thoroughfare of National Highway 54, and it boasted a drugstore and grocery store in addition to City Hall and the police station. Vehicles passed in either direction, headlights glowing in the twilight while some weary commuters returned from work and others dropped by the stores. Ryouji’s instinct was true; they would have wasted time with the car.

Misato’s legs were no match for a Shugendo ascetic who’d trained to exhaustion in the mountains as a teenager, and Ryouji did not wait for him. Yet he was only slightly out of breath when he finally arrived at their destination, so the daily exercise he’d undertaken since Golden Week of that year seemed to be paying off. Ryouji’s breathing, of course, was wholly undisturbed.

An officer, Nishino, met them in front of the station. After Akagi expedited the kijo mask case, Nishino gradually shifted roles from its lead investigator to liaison between the Special Cultural Assets Team and the police. Moriyama had never worked with the police before, after all, and Nishino was familiar with Misato and Ryouji due to his prior acquaintance with Akagi.

“So, it took a hostage?” asked Ryouji, confirming the details of the phone call.

Nishino nodded. “It possessed a high schooler in custody for shoplifting, then…seized the female officer who brought him in.”

Internally questioning Nishino’s evasive wording, Misato gave a professional, knowing nod.

“So there are effectively two hostages, huh? How’s the situation lookin’ otherwise? I guess they’ve gotta be totally surrounded by cops, huh…?” Ryouji tutted, scratching the back of his head in frustration. Naturally, engaging in spiritual battle amid so many nonspiritual witnesses was rather difficult.

“Well, aye,” said Nishino plainly. They were ina police station—and officers from the prefectural force had joined the fray as well.

The incident occurred in the second-floor hallway of the main building, Nishino told them, between the investigation division and holding cells. The corridor ran through the building’s center, so the kijo mask wouldn’t be able to crash through a window.

Misato peered up at the second story and noticed bars inside each window—a preventative measure against jailbreak and suicide, or so he had once heard. “Then if it’s planning to escape, the stairs are the only way,” he surmised. “I did see some stairs on the back of the building on our way here, but…would I be correct to assume that with the flight inside, there are two sets in total?”

“Aye,” Nishino answered, eyeing the staircase that was sure to become the epicenter of a violent storm.

The external staircase adjoined each floor, and on the second level, there was also a passageway that connected to another building most likely used for training.

“Should we split into two groups, then? Not that it’ll get those cops off our backs…” Ryouji sighed.

Unlike at the hospital, the kijo mask was not attacking the surrounding officers. Meanwhile, the officers could not act due to the delicate hostage situation, putting the fight at a standstill.

“I took a look meself, but…the officer he took hostage isn’t being threatened at knife point or anything, uh… The boy seems to be holding her in midair with some invisible force, yeh see. Well, the tips of her toes are touching the floor, but she keeps grabbing at her neck as if she’s being choked. None of ’em have seen anything like it before, and they don’t want to act too rashly.”

“Then we gotta save her first.”

“Agreed. We can’t confirm why, but let’s just count our blessings that the enki seems less powerful than before…” Misato hummed in thought. It was likely constricting her with the appendages they’d seen extend from the mask. “We won’t know for certain until we see it with our own eyes, but I should be able to blast a few tentacles with a shikigami or paper charm so long as we have the element of surprise.”

“It’ll probably flee in the other direction when it’s attacked. Misato, your shikigami have gotta be more powerful than my charms, right? So I’ll be on standby at the other exit. Best-case scenario, the hostage is released, and we manage to capture the poor kid somehow, but…if it ain’t that smooth-goin’, I should have a pretty good chance of blockin’ its way.”

Misato’s shikigami, the creation of which was a secret Narukami art, were far nimbler and sturdier than anything Ryouji could make. Conversely, Ryouji was far more physically capable than Misato. With that slapdash strategy in mind, Misato rushed for the stairs inside the building, while Ryouji darted toward the external flight on the back wall.The gate to the back staircase was locked, so Nishino tailed Ryouji to grant him access after directing a young officer to accompany Misato.

The young man hung a short distance back, maintaining a lookout so Misato wouldn’t be interrupted by any staff unaware of the situation. Once in the stairwell, Misato twisted paper cord together to swiftly craft two assault swallows.

He could feel turbulent energy emanating from the hallway even from his position. Cautiously, he stepped into the corridor and discovered that the gaggle of officers surrounding the oni was around the corner and down the hall. The front of the station faced south, meaning that the two shorter sides of the rectangular building faced east and west. Misato had emerged into the corridor that ran along the eastern side of the main building, and the commotion was taking place on the western end of the corridor that bisected the building lengthwise.

The exit to the external staircase sat right in the middle of the rear wall, and the hall leading to it formed a plus sign with the central corridor. If the oni was around the corner, that placed Ryouji closer to it than Misato.

LED tubes overhead illuminated the crowd at the far end of the central corridor. Misato observed a variety of officers, some in uniform and others in plain clothes, all calling out to the oni—well, to the boy that the oni had possessed.

Yikes, this is bad… All I can see are people’s heads. How am I supposed to get a look like this?

He hesitated to dispatch his swallows at an enemy he couldn’t see. On the other hand, the oni failed to spot Misato when he ventured into the junction of the plus sign. While he was helplessly peering around for something he could stand on, the officer escorting him asked what was wrong.

“Oh, it’s just, I’m not tall enough to see what’s going on, and…I wondered if there was something I could use as a stool.”

Misato’s height was exactly average for a Japanese man of his generation. He’d never been particularly self-conscious of his height, yet at that moment, he was keenly aware of the fact that he was surrounded by men far more blessed in stature, as well as a little ashamed to admit that he was too short to assess the scene. The young officer had merely happened to be nearby; he hardly could’ve known what Misato’s or Ryouji’s jobs were. So although Misato was trying his very hardest not to care what the man thought of him, he couldn’t help but scratch the back of his head and give a silly, awkward laugh.

Utterly ignoring Misato’s timid behavior, the officer loosely held open his burly arms. “Then allow me to pick you up, sir.”

“Huh?!” Misato squeaked automatically before clapping his hands over his mouth, flustered. Why would that be his first suggestion?!

While Misato stood frozen in shock, the man tilted his head in innocent confusion. “Don’t you think it would be the quickest way?”

As Misato dithered over whether to accept the officer’s offer, his gaze wandered, and his eyes suddenly met Ryouji’s where the monk was skirting the wall of the corridor to the external staircase. The glower on his face demanded, “The hell are ya playin’ at?”

Sure enough, there was no time to search for a stool. Steeling himself, Misato nodded. “Okay. Please go ahead. I need to have both hands free; does that work for you?”

“Just leave it to me. I’ll face you and lift you from your thighs, so you should be able to brace your knees on my chest. I can bear your weight.”

And so, the young officer turned his back to his cohort and bent down. With a quick “pardon me,” he wrapped his arms just under Misato’s behind and lifted him into the air as if hoisting a feather. Certainly, Misato was probably lighter than average—but trust a trained officer to have absolutely no problem picking up an adult man.

As directed, Misato pressed his knees into the man’s torso as he looked for his target. He could easily see over the wall of people: there was the school uniform–clad oni, and from the top of his mask stretched a long, tentacle-like arm that coiled around a female officer’s throat, dragging her onto tiptoe.

Misato held the swallows between his palms, then cast his eyes down to draw upon his spiritual power. “O sacred flame, holy water, divine wind—kyuu kyuu nyo ritsu ryou!” He opened his hands, and two white swallows shot through the gap, charging forth so furiously that they almost grazed the ceiling.

His first challenge was to release the officer from the kijo mask’s grip. Heeding Misato’s prayer, one swallow rammed its beak into the arm wrapped around the officer’s neck. The second swallow aimed for the same spot in case the first was overwhelmed, yet they were met with surprisingly little resistance. The arm readily swung free and dispersed into thin air. The officer collapsed to the floor, coughing violently on her hands and knees.

The boy’s body swatted at the circling swallows, and the birds easily dodged before swooping back to Misato, drawing the oni’s attention to him. In that instant, however, the surrounding officers launched themselves at the oni—the boy—and pinned him to the floor. Ryouji, readying his stance, stepped from the shadows.

Maybe the enki is still exhausted from our battle the other day…? For a split second, hope sang in Misato’s chest.

If only.

The boy’s thin, weedy limbs shook off the officers, and he slipped out of the throng. As Misato was being lowered to the ground, he glimpsed the arc of Ryouji’s khakkhara. Noticing Ryouji as well, the enki-boy skidded to a stop, and the officers charged him again. A tentacle, invisible to most people, mowed them down. Several of those heading the stampede were blown backward and hurled into the people behind.

Abruptly, the kijo mask stilled. Then, with a wet squelch, it expelled a large, round mass from its mouth.

Misato’s eyes widened.

It was a human head.

It was followed by a torso, arms, and legs, dropping out of the mask’s gigantic, gaping grin. As if magnetized, the body fell limp to the floor with a slimy thud. It was that of an old woman with ashen skin in a shabby kimono.

She sluggishly got to her feet, her eyes cataractous and sunken. The boy was doubled over, and two, three more bodies sprouted from the kijo mask’s mouth in no discernible pattern of age or gender. Slowly, heavily, they clambered upright, all in garb from long-gone eras. Nothing about them suggested they could possibly still be alive—and judging by the chorus of horrified screams through the corridor, they were visible to the average human eye.

The corpses were stumbling not toward Ryouji, but the quivering crowd of officers. “Zombies…” the man next to Misato muttered in disbelief.

Crap.

Misato unleashed his swallows once more. They sped toward the staggering old woman…and she simply batted them to the floor.

These things are nothing like the arms we saw before. They’re hard, opaque and— Wait, do they have physical form?!

If that was the case, they could have once been possessed just like Shinohara and the boy, then consumed by the enki. Shinohara was already dead by the time he showed up at the school and the hospital, and Ryouji had managed to pry the mask from his corpse. (They’d also heard that a proper funeral service was held.) But according to Shisen, the ultimate fate of the enki’s host was to be devoured body and soul, then trapped for eternity in a space that was, in a way, the enki’s own spirit realm. Confined within the enki’s very essence, they augmented its power with their shared grudge.

So, the main vessel’s power has likely weakened after coughing up those corpses, but…Shisen did mention he had no idea how many people were consumed the first time. We can’t let our guard down.

As he realized Misato’s swallows stood no chance, Ryouji’s eyes flicked between the oni and the corpses, probably torn over whether to prioritize the safety of the officers or the boy.

“Ryouji, I’ll deal with the zombies!” called Misato, scurrying toward him. They had no reason to discard their original plan; it was best to leave the boy to Ryouji.

Eyes trained on the oni, Ryouji nodded curtly. The boy was still doubled over, clutching his shoulders and breathing raggedly. The physical burden was huge for one possessed. The strain of performing superhuman maneuvers had injured Shinohara’s body from head to toe, for example.

That the kijo mask cared was unlikely.

Misato jogged past the boy to pursue the corpses plodding toward the officers, several of whom had leveled guns at their ponderous advance. He was particularly wary of an attack from behind, but after the zombie trick, the enki didn’t seem to have the stamina to even try.

Even if I go all out and summon Gyoukai-bo’s sacred katana…I doubt it’ll work against these things. I’m pretty sure a spiritual sword can’t slay something that Shirota can’t digest.

His uncertainty wasn’t borne from a hesitance to wield the katana in front of a bunch of police officers. And the reason he’d opted not to use it at the hospital (aside from the delicate situation with Hirose and Shirota’s inability to follow directions at the time) was because the oni was an amalgamation of human sentiment—a dish that Shirota upturned his nose at without fail.

Misato had received the sacred katana on an island in the Seto Inland Sea from a tengu deeply connected to Ryouji. It was stowed inside Shirota for safekeeping—and the moment it had entered the serpent’s stomach, it became an extension of Shirota himself, no longer just a powerful blade. Testing it out a few times during more routine cases, Misato had concluded that any spirits slain by the katana were then eaten by Shirota.

“Something inside. Alive? Not alive?” the snake asked in a confused tone.

Evidently, he sensed a semblance of life within them. Yet Shirota could see through Misato’s eyes and just as plainly observe their deathlike appearance, and the contradiction clearly puzzled him.

If they’re the people trapped in the enki, they must still have their souls. That’s probably what he’s sensing. Either way, I need to stop them, and if I wanna defeat all three at once…I just have to try something!

He didn’t have time to deliberate. If the katana wasn’t an option, he would have to restrain them himself.

“Rin, pyou, tou, sha, kai, jin, retsu, zai, zen! O unfaltering chains of Acala, lend thy power to me. With the fundamental vow of Acala, I urge that you apprehend this fiend!” Forming a mudra, Misato invoked a spiritual rope, casting it toward the corpses as a method of paralyzation.

“Namah samanta vajranam ham,” he chanted.“Om sumbha nisumbha hum vajra hum phat. Om amrte hum phat. Om strih kala-rupa hum kham svaha. Om vajra-yaksa hum.” Speaking in tandem with the deft motions of his hands, he imbued the rope with the devil-conquering power of the Five Great Wisdom Kings. “Om vish vish hara hara sivali svaha!”

Although the corpses halted, Misato felt the impact whenever one strained against the binding. Gritting his teeth, he fought to hold them in place as he shouted at the officers staring at him in sheer bewilderment. “Evacuate the building now! While you still can—please!”

He had no idea what the officers thought of the random man with long hair, a white button-up and black slacks who had suddenly materialized at the station. To those with no spiritual perception, Misato’s actions surely resembled insanity. But given the lack of sanity in the corpse-ridden fiasco before their eyes, the fact that the zombies had stopped moving thanks to Misato, and then a call of “This way! Evacuate as quickly as possible!” from Nishino in an office doorway, the cops complied.

Nishino was supposed to be with Ryouji but had apparently wound his way through another entrance to the office to help Misato. At his command, a few officers assisted the injured while others guarded the evacuation route with guns pointed at the corpses, the force making a swift retreat. From behind, Misato could hear Ryouji calls to the boy and the fierce rattle of his khakkhara. He seemed to be attempting to separate the mask from its host.

After ensuring that the officers had safely escaped, Misato took a few cautious steps backward. Behind him, the presences of Ryouji and the oni were growing more distant. Once he was as far from the corpses as possible, he let his mudra fall.

Now, straight into my pockets for my tessen and a sealing talisman!

After his blunder a few days before and some reflection concerning emergency preparation, he’d vowed to keep the two items on him at all times.

Feet thudding dully, the corpses revolved to face Misato. Three pairs of bulging, clouded eyes zoned in on him.

“These things are literally real-life zombies…” he muttered in reluctant awe. “Please, please just get sealed and go away!”

While the hot spring water and kagura performance had replenished his spiritual energy, he was still in the process of physically recovering. After a whole day of work, his stamina was struggling in the wake of binding three bodies.

The talismans should stop their movement. And I have several of them. Everything will be fine. Reassuring and encouraging himself, Misato held his tessen at the ready.

***

MEANWHILE, Ryouji faced the enki.

The boy was hunched over, motionless and reeling after regurgitating three corpses from the kijo mask’s abyssal mouth. Ryouji tipped his sunglasses down in assessment, hoping he could tear the mask off while the oni was stationary.

That thing’s possessed him head to toe, damn it. I might hurt the kid if I do it by force… What else can I do?

Ryouji had watched the mask manipulate its host at the hospital a few days before. Akagi had given him a stern lecture afterward, but Ryouji had opted for the violent solution only because he could see that the man was obviously dead. The boy, however, was yet alive, hence Ryouji’s reluctance to take the same approach.

The thin tentacles sprouting from the kijo mask resembled a net, enmeshing the boy’s whole body.

“Hey, can ya hear me in there? I’m gonna save ya for sure, aight? Don’t let that mask get the better of ya. I’m definitely gonna save ya, you got that?”

No reply came. He hadn’t particularly anticipated one. More important was whether the boy had heard him. The child was sure to be in pain; the monster was an apparition of malice, and to be possessed by such an entity, to be controlled in body and mind, had to be traumatic. Worse, the enki hardly cherished the body it had found. Ryouji had seen its careless treatment of the boy’s limbs with his own eyes. Whether its host’s legs and arms broke was of no concern to the demon.

“Don’t give up. I promise I’m gonna get you outta there somehow.” He offered the same words of encouragement that they’d been trained to give during disaster relief efforts: console the victim and inform them that someone knew they needed help.

Slowly, the boy raised his head, knees dipping slightly as if in preparation. Ryouji reassumed his stance in response. He had to restrain the boy before the enki did anything reckless. If it moved with inhuman motion, attempts to subdue it while protecting the boy would become increasingly difficult.

“Om ha ha ha vismaye svaha. Om ha ha ha vismaye svaha.” He rattled his khakkhara while intoning the mantra of Jizo Bodhisattva. Also known as the guardian of children, the divinity was believed to destroy obstacles and save those who had succumbed to a world of pain.

At the sound of the high-pitched, purifying jingle, the boy clapped his hands over his ears and screamed.

“Don’t cover your ears! I ain’t the one makin’ you hurt, aight? Om ha ha ha vismaye svaha! Listen!” urged Ryouji. “This is the sound of me savin’ ya from that pain! Stop pluggin’ your ears and start pullin’ that monster off your face! Om ha ha ha vismaye svaha!”

Finally, the boy pulled his hands away ever so slightly, and his mask-covered face turned toward Ryouji.

“That’s it. It’s okay. I’m gonna make the pain stop for ya, aight? I’ll save ya, so please, hang in there. Don’t give in to the monster.”

Its command over the boy was weakening, and with trembling fingers, the boy touched the kijo mask. Watching him closely, Ryouji continued to chant amid the peals of the khakkhara. Through his tengu eyes, he could see the enki’s hold loosening arm by arm under the onslaught of the boy’s defiance. Ryouji crept closer. He had to secure the boy’s safety the moment he peeled off the ma—

“My Yuuya!” shrieked a woman from behind him.

The boy flinched and froze still.

“Please stay back! It’s dangerous to get any closer!” That was Moriyama.

A screeching cry pulsated down the length of the windowless corridor. She was the boy’s mother, most likely, yet he displayed no hint of relief at her appearance. The tentacles had reanimated and were constricting him once more.

In addition to Moriyama, Ryouji heard a policeman trying to console her as well, but Ryouji could not afford to look at them or add to their discussion. Chant, rattle, chant, rattle—that was the only way he could help the boy fight back.

A kid in a school uniform in a police station, huh? The mask musta gone for him just as he was being taken into custody…and now, his mom finally shows up. I dunno why he was shopliftin’ or whatever…but either way, it looks like his mom’s arrival is makin’ things worse.

Typically, a guardian made for good reinforcement, yet the opposite seemed true for the boy.

Things might get a bit violent, but maybe I should get the fire out, he thought, referring to the flames of Acala. The purifying blaze could not harm humans, it should burn only the tentacles. But the boy and demon shared similar feelings of resentment, and to ignite the enki in that state was risky.

While Ryouji deliberated, a new problem arose. One more presence joined the three behind him. An adult man entered the panicked conversation in a low, booming, unhappy timbre. Immediately after scolding the boy’s mother, he—the boy’s father—stepped forward with a blunt shout.

“What on earth do you think you’re playing at, Yuuya? Aren’t you embarrassed about all the fuss you’ve caused?!”

Instantly, the enki’s tentacles strengthened. The boy’s shoulders began to tremble as if his father were the real monster.

Yeah, okay, I get it. I’ve got no chance. Ryouji stopped chanting, his decision made. The boy’s parents would only hamper the exorcism. You could at least act a li’l bit worried about him, ya bastard! Is that too much to ask, huh?! Screw you!

“Namah samanta vajranam ham!” It was a drastic measure, but he had no other choice. The flames of Acala burst into life, and Ryouji watched them engulf both the mask and the boy, the fire invisible to most humans.

Hijacking the boy’s throat, the enki let out a cacophonic scream.

Ryouji tossed his khakkhara aside, the clang of metal against the floor echoing through the corridor. He whipped out his single-pronged vajra, wrapped his arms around the boy, and, gripping that thin, writhing body, Ryouji jammed the vajra into the mask’s temple. Anywhere on the face would have worked, really.

The mask sprung off and flew into the air. Shielding the boy, Ryouji tracked it with his eyes.

“Ryouji!” Misato came running down the hallway, apparently done disposing of corpses.

The boy fell limp in Ryouji’s arms. “Misato, get the ma—!”

Before he could even finish his sentence, the mask leaped from the floor in wholesale rejection of gravity, rocketing straight at a man’s face—that of Yuuya’s father.

“Whoa! Waaaaaagh!”

The kijo mask obscured the man’s face. Frenzied, he swiveled around, then dashed toward the external staircase, Misato in pursuit.

Moriyama sprinted after Misato, and as the second round of chaos ensued, Ryouji stayed put, prioritizing the safety of the unconscious boy. Carefully laying Yuuya on his side near the wall, Ryouji took the boy’s pulse, then checked for signs of physical trauma. His arms were probably injured after the enki’s wild grappling with the officers.

The middle-aged woman and a young policeman walked over to Ryouji.

“Hey. Can ya see spirits or somethin’?” he asked the officer before he could stop himself. The man’s lack of caution in approaching Ryouji was unusual. People unaccustomed to ghostly happenings were normally far more anxious.

The young policeman shook his head. “No, sir. I have absolutely no sixth sense. But what you and your partner did today intrigued me. More importantly, allow me to carry the boy to the infirmary.”

Aha. The man was a very rare case of an open-minded ordinary person—the sort of person Misato was far more likely to encounter than Ryouji. Ryouji recognized him as the man who had lifted Misato above the crowd.

“Could I leave him with ya? There’s nothin’ else I need to do for him, so… Oh—and if it ain’t breakin’ any rules, could ya give this to the kid once he wakes up?” Ryouji stood to give the man some space, then handed him a business card.

The policeman took it, head listing slightly in confusion. “For aftercare?”

“Nah, uh… Well, yeah, that’s part of it. You guys should keep an eye on him for any aftereffects or signs of trauma. If there’s somethin’ we can do to help, contact Nishino or Moriyama. But, really…” He paused. Stifling the oppressive feeling in his chest, he turned back to the policeman. “Could ya give him a message from me? Say that if there’s anythin’ he wants to tell someone—no matter what it is—call me. And that strangers might not know your story, but when they’re kind to ya, remember that they genuinely mean it.”

He didn’t know whether the intention behind his words would get through to the boy. But looking at him, a child whose father had yelled at him with such vitriol, Ryouji was raring to help him somehow. When Ryouji was Yuuya’s age, he’d just barely survived thanks to the kindness of complete strangers.

After glancing at Ryouji’s business card, the man crouched next to the boy and looked up at Ryouji with a sad smile. “Understood. But please, I urge you to tell him those kind words in person. I’ll put in a request to have his progress shared with City Hall.”

“Thanks.” Ryouji scratched the nape of his neck, flustered, then picked his khakkhara off the floor.

***

MISATO bolted toward the back staircase. The man possessed by the enki—the boy’s father—was screaming, flailing his arms in an attempt to break the mask’s hold. The enki had managed to take full control of his legs, however, propelling them forward at full speed. His legs careened down thirty feet of corridor and onto the external stairs at a pace fully at odds with his torso.

If I were Ryouji, maybe I’d be able to keep up, but I’m not!

Despite the oni’s peculiar movement, Misato was falling behind as the man galloped down the stairs with a stream of expletives. Twilight was upon them, and the nearby floodlights burned Misato’s retinas. Echoing the events of a few days before, flashing red lights encircled the building, contributing to an air of urgency. Misato even noticed a riot squad among the surrounding police officers. The force hurriedly surged into motion, preparing to apprehend the kijo mask—no, the man.

While they hold him down, I’ll cast a binding incantation, and—

The moment Misato’s feet hit firm ground, the man was already scuffling with the officers. While they sharply ordered him to halt, the man’s voice rose in confused panic. “Stop it! Help me! Why am I the one surrounded by cops, huh?! I haven’t done anything wrong! Stop…!I haven’t…I haven’t done anything!”

Misato edged closer. But just as he was forming the mudra, one of the officers noticed him.

“You. Who are you with?” He latched onto Misato’s right wrist.

Internally tutting in frustration, Misato turned to the officer. “City Hall—under Detective Nishino’s orders, to be specific. I’m here to capture that man.”

“City Hall?” The middle-aged officer raised a dubious eyebrow.

Misato didn’t have the time to explain. He desperately glanced around for a familiar face, and luckily, Moriyama was just catching up. Recognizing Misato’s dilemma, he cut between Misato and the officer and gently removed the man’s hand. He met Misato’s eyes with a look that said, “Leave this to me.”

Misato gave a minute nod, then stepped a few paces backward.

In the meantime, the possessed man was trying to wrench himself free. Worse, his voice was becoming tarnished by something else as he shrieked and shouted that it wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t done anything—and his strength was dramatically increasing.

Crap, crap, crap… The mental stress of being dogpiled by cops is amplifying the enki’s influence. I need to stop them, and quick. I need… I need…

When Shinohara was possessed by the mask, he’d traveled from the high school to the hospital at an impossible speed. Most likely, he’d taken a shortcut through a nawame with the enki’s power. If Misato failed to catch the man in the next few seconds and the oni slipped into the spirit realm, they would have a much bigger problem on their hands.

In urban areas, portals to the spirit realm were most commonly located in intersections, such crossroads creating an opening for spirits to cross to the Other Side. Unfortunately, Akitakata’s police station was in the most inconvenient position possible: a three-way junction. In other words, a rift lay immediately beyond the station grounds—and but a few paces from the oni.

He couldn’t waste critical time on a mantra to summon the chains of Acala. While desperately scanning his surroundings, he chanced upon an unexpected opportunity: the man’s long, thin shadow. As the man thrashed in the riot squad’s grasp, the very tip of his shadow stopped just shy of Misato’s feet.

Mustering all his remaining spiritual energy, Misato stomped on the shadow as hard as he could. “He who flees, know that your path leads only to darkness. Return to whence you came… Avira hum kham!”

When Misato latched onto his shadow, the man stopped dead in his tracks. The officers swarmed him, pushing him to the ground and arresting him.

Misato dashed forward. He couldn’t let the mask take any more captives. “Please make way! I’ll secure the kijo mask!”

Several people turned to look at him in confusion. Some muttered “Mask?” as if they had no idea what he was talking about, while others hesitantly allowed him to pass through. At the center of the crowd, the restrained man—or more likely, the mask—turned to stare at Misato.

SHWIP.

A somewhat damp noise sounded as it stripped itself from the man’s face and promptly whooshed into the twilight sky, the man going limp.

“Shi—!” Before Misato could even utter his “t,” the kijo mask hurtled toward the intersection and instantly dissolved into the dark.

No! It got away?! He slumped, clutching his knees in despair.

Hang on… This isn’t the time to feel defeated. It might’ve just shifted to the next one over. I can still go after it!

The scene had deteriorated into bedlam upon the kijo mask’s disappearance and the man’s sudden unconsciousness. Misato’s head perked up as he scrutinized their surroundings. The area had once been the town at the foot of the Mori clan’s castle. While the historical architecture had not been well preserved, many narrow alleyways intersected each other throughout the neighborhood—meaning there were other crossroads nearby, and plenty of them, too. In the dusk, Misato could perceive little with his naked eye, but he was determined to find some way to track the mask.

“I s’pose it ended up passing through the crossroads, then…?” ventured Moriyama ruefully, standing beside him. Fortunately, he seemed to have convinced the officers that their presence was necessary.

“I’m so sorry. It got away, but…if it passed through the intersection, maybe we can contain it by sealing off all the others close by?” Misato clenched his fists in frustration. He was impatient to act, yet rationally, he doubted he could apprehend the kijo mask by being reckless and alone.

Likewise, Moriyama gazed into the distance as if surveying the next junction over. His eyes softened beneath his long, droopy eyebrows, then nodded. “It’s traveled barely any distance from the forensics department, and considering that it had to possess two people to get this far, it might not be able to cover long distances without the help of human legs. But look on the bright side: yeh managed to keep it from taking anyone, and I reckon it’ll be weaker than ever now. Let’s post guards at the closest intersections and just keep watch for tonight.”

“Post guards…?” repeated Misato, uncertain. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ryouji come racing out of the building.

“Indeed. First, divvy up Karino and the officers to guard the closest intersections. In the meantime, I’ll call my subordinates out here. Their night vision is quite keen, and most importantly, they don’t hold grudges—so no chance of ’em being possessed. They can stand guard while we regroup to talk strategy.” The “subordinates” he planned to assemble were the other foxes in his clan, and much like the mask had, he faded into the darkness.

Ryouji jogged to Misato’s side just as Moriyama left, staring wide-eyed at where he had vanished. “Where’s Moriyama goin’? I just saw him shift into a fox and start sprintin’ like crazy.”

“The mask got away. Through the crossroads,” Misato admitted with a sigh. “So he’s gonna find some foxes to stand guard at nearby intersections. He said we should divide everyone into groups to guard the closest ones for now. Once he gets back, we’ll need to strategize. Anyway…how’s the boy?”

Ryouji nodded, his expression slightly pained. “He’s okay for now. It’s just…ugh, all this crap’s goin’ down, and we were already in a bad enough position beforehand.”

Misato simply nodded in return; Ryouji was right. All day, the pressure of what Shisen divulged the night before had weighed on them: there was only one way to seal the kijo mask, and it wasn’t going to be easy. Hence their occupation that afternoon with finding a temporary place to store the mask, since sealing it wasn’t currently possible.

“Anyway, we should get a move on. I don’t want the enki to get any farther away.”

“What—just the two of us, gettin’ the cops on our side? That’s pretty rough, man.”

Misato looked around them. With Moriyama absent, the only person on their side was Nishino.

“We’ll just have to do what we can. Besides, at this point, it’s not like the police are completely unaware of what’s happening.” A few officers in the crowd had nodded in understanding when Misato declared the necessity of securing the mask. Moreover, some were willing to lend assistance even though they couldn’t comprehend what they were seeing—like the officer who’d boosted Misato above the blockade in the hallway.

“I guess,” agreed Ryouji reluctantly. They turned toward the crowd of concerned officers.

The sealing method Shisen had described was larger in scale than anything Misato or Ryouji had ever performed, and they would need a wealth of time to prepare for it. Having to not only seal the mask, but chase it down again, too? That was adding insult to injury. Nothing was going right, which just added to the restlessness in the pit of Misato’s stomach.

But at least Shisen had an answer. We’ll have to rely on a lot of people, but…the case has already blown up. This isn’t the time to be awkward or embarrassed; we need help. And I’ll ask the police first—because I don’t want that disastrous response from earlier to ever happen again.

Steeling his resolve, Misato straightened his spine, braced his core, composed his expression… In a clear, dignified tone, he announced, “To cut off the kijo mask’s escape route, we will now secure all nearby intersections. Detective Nishino, and all those who are willing, we kindly ask that you assist us. Stay in groups of at least two, and should you encounter the mask, please inform either me or my partner immediately. Thank you!”

Nishino gave a sharp nod, spurring the crowd into action. They swiftly divided themselves into squads, then trotted toward each junction in the vicinity.

Misato breathed an internal sigh of relief at the lack of protest. After sharing a glance, he and Ryouji, too, headed toward a crossroads.

Thus began their mission to seal the kijo mask—an operation involving the largest number of ordinary people in the entire history of the Abnormal Disaster Unit.

Afterword

Afterword

THANK you so much for picking up this volume of Onmyoji and Tengu Eyes. The series has finally made it to a fourth installment, The Tale of Kushinada’s Vengeance, and as those of you who’ve already read the story know, it will continue in the fifth. I’d love for you to see the story to its conclusion, so I hope you’ll stick with me!

This volume was set in Akitakata, Hirose’s hometown. I spelled it with different kanji in Japanese, but it’s based on the real city of Akitakata, just as Tomoe is based on Miyoshi. In my mind, one of the most characteristic things about Akitakata is kagura! Modern kagura, in fact, which is my favorite genre! I’m sure a lot of you don’t really know much about kagura, and I wrote this story hoping I could capture its charm one way or another. Kagura Monzen Healing Springs Village is a real-life facility, so I paid it a visit to make sure I was describing the springs and the local specialties right. Again, I hope I managed to capture its charm in the story.

Misato’s old friend, Hirose, took the lead for a sizable chunk of this book. Well—I say that, but taking the “lead” in this series really just means that we see them confronting internal conflict of some sort. And Hirose is going through a lot with his self-perception. He’s just an ordinary guy. He sees himself as too boring, too much of a supporting actor to stand beside a star like Misato.

Just like Hirose and Yukiko, I lived my youth thinking I was a boring side character next to a bunch of extraordinary, special protagonists. Hirose and Yukiko’s sections are packed full of things I want to tell my younger self, so if anyone’s experiencing something similar, I hope those sentiments will reach you.

Almost exactly five years ago, when I started publishing this story as a web novel, my mental health was honestly just as bad as Shinohara’s. I remember wondering whether there was actually any solution to the suffering I was writing about. Then, once this series was given a physical publication, my environment and my feelings changed a lot. I finally finished the web series just the other day, actually, and my characters have grown so much alongside what I’ve learned over these past five years. I believe that’s thanks to everyone I’ve met through this series.

Again, I have so many people to thank for making this book a reality: the people who read the web serialization; the people who encouraged me through the publishing process; Yone Kazuki, the illustrator of the beautiful cover; Yoshinao Ooka, who handled the cover design; and most of all, Mayuka Onaka, my editor who somehow discovered Onten in the vast sea of the internet. Thank you all so much.

In addition to the Hiroshima-style kijo mask, the cover also includes plenty of kagura costume patterns that are a little different from the ones you see traditionally! I’m genuinely so excited that I can share my beloved kagura with the world through Yone’s art. Although there’s a dark feel to the illustration, I was impressed that it’s still in step with that fresh, colorful design that a lot of other Kotonoha Bunko titles have. I can’t help but deeply admire the talent of professional artists with every cover I see.

Anyway, I hope to see you all again in the next volume.

Yoshiko Utamine

October 2024