Chapter 23: A Greater Shadow
Ōsaki Hachimangū Shrine.
Its origins traced back to the Heian era, when Sakanoue no Tamuramaro established a Hachiman shrine in Mizusawa, Iwate, as a guardian of the northern frontier.
In Keichō 12, the lord of Sendai Domain—Date Masamune—relocated the shrine to Sendai, renaming it Ōsaki Hachimangū. After the Meiji era, it came to be known as Ōsaki Hachimangū Shrine.
For generations, the lords of Sendai and the city's people had worshipped here, praying for disaster prevention, the banishment of calamity, good fortune, victory, and safe childbirth.
Enshrined within were local protective deities tied to ancient folk beliefs, held in especially high reverence by those born in the Years of the Dog and the Boar.
Tonight, however, the shrine lay submerged in darkness.
The worshippers had long since departed.
What accompanied the ancient grounds into the night was no longer just the whisper of wind through old trees—but the distant mechanical hum of the city, rising and falling like the labored breathing of a diseased beast.
Deep within the shrine complex stood a dimly lit tatami room, adjacent to a thousand-year-old sacred tree bound tightly with massive shimenawa ropes. The air there felt heavy, oppressive.
Inside sat a middle-aged man with black hair, dressed in a dark, subtly patterned kimono. He lounged casually, turning a jade talisman over in his fingers while examining it—and the men before him—with strange, unsettling eyes.
"Honored Priest…"
A plump, sharp-eyed man clutching a string of prayer beads bowed deeply toward him, then respectfully presented a ledger filled with names.
"These are the troublemakers from the dye works—the rabble who refuse to obey, incite unrest, and even collude with reporters…"
"I humbly request that you invoke divine punishment, Priest. Let them vanish quietly. It would benefit both sides."
The man called "Priest" paused, then spoke coldly.
"Another list? The previous one hasn't even been settled yet."
He picked up the ledger and casually tossed it onto a low table beside him, irritation creeping into his voice.
"Do you take me for your hunting dog? Am I to run in circles around your affairs every day?"
"N-no! Please forgive me, Honored Priest!" the fat man hurriedly replied.
"It's just—rice prices have risen sharply. These lowlifes are desperate and keep causing trouble. I had no choice—"
"Hey, Sasaki, what nonsense is that?" snapped another man.
"Rice prices are rising, and you didn't profit from it? Now you're complaining?"
The speaker was Nakashima Ichirō, a titan of the rice trade. Beside him stood others with flickering gazes: Takahashi of the moneylenders, Shingo of the clothing guild, and Morii of the brokerages.
Within this small tatami room sat men whose combined influence could control more than half of Sendai's economy.
Among them, Sasaki of the dye works was the greediest.
Morii nodded.
"Nakashima is right. Sasaki, this is the fourth time this month you've asked the Priest to act. Is murder the only management strategy you know?"
"You should yield a little," Takahashi added coolly, not even looking at him.
"Even I find your stinginess unbearable. Sustainable profit—that's the proper way."
Their bickering grated on the Priest's nerves. He closed his eyes, choosing to wait them out.
Crack.
A faint sensation of fracture came from his hand.
His brow twitched.
Looking down, he saw that the jade talisman he had been idly toying with had shattered without warning—its contained aura dispersing into nothingness.
"Hm?"
He frowned, checking the three remaining talismans in his sleeve. They were intact.
"Someone destroyed my Blood Demon Art?" he murmured, surprised.
His half-lidded eyes shifted uneasily, the strange patterns and numbers within briefly visible.
Lower Rank Two.
Yes.
He was no priest.
He was one of the Twelve Kizuki—Lower Rank Two: Rokuro.
The jade talismans he carried were the true cores of his Blood Demon Art: Shadow Puppets.
These shadow constructs could act independently, traveling to nearby villages to hunt prey according to his will. For the cautious and calculating Rokuro, they had long been his greatest safeguard.
But he soon realized something better.
Rather than using Shadow Puppets to capture humans himself… why not cooperate with ambitious men willing to do his dirty work? They would prepare the "food" for him instead.
From robbery and arson, to hired killings—and eventually, by accident more than design, he became the "priest" of Ōsaki Hachimangū.
The path had exceeded even his expectations, but it was undeniably effective.
Shadow Puppets did more than kill—they drained life force itself, feeding it back to him. Even if Demon Slayers discovered them, it would never trace back to his true body.
A flawless arrangement.
Later still, that Lord took notice of him.
Rokuro was elevated to the Twelve Kizuki, tasked with spreading chaos and disaster throughout the Tōhoku region—keeping those irritating Demon Slayers constantly on the run.
Yet now—
Someone had shattered one of his shadows.
And that meant something far more dangerous had entered the game.
"Either someone saw through the weakness of my Shadow Puppet…" Rokuro muttered, thoughts racing, "…or they forcibly tore apart the demonic aura I left behind with sheer power."
He no longer had the slightest interest in the merchants' bickering.
If it was the former, that was troublesome—but manageable.
If it was the latter…
Then it meant a Hashira had noticed him.
And that was very bad news.
Should I run? Change territory?
Thinking it over, he realized he had been too conspicuous lately.
The growing unrest in Sendai bore his fingerprints. He had also killed three Demon Slayers sent to investigate the abnormalities here. Perhaps he had already been exposed.
"Tch… I should've laid low. I shouldn't have clashed with Demon Slayers just to kill a few worthless workers."
"Honored Priest? Honored Priest?"
"What is it, you idiot?!"
The repeated calls snapped what remained of Rokuro's patience. His fury surged, demonic aura leaking out as he glared at the babbling Sasaki.
The greedy merchant collapsed on the spot, legs giving way beneath him. Even the other men turned pale, fear flickering across their faces.
Seeing that fear, Rokuro's agitation eased—sickeningly so.
Yes… that's it. Fear me.
I am no small thing.
He smoothed his expression, returning to that calm, leisurely facade.
"My apologies," he said mildly. "I was recalling something unpleasant. Well—have you reached a decision?"
"Y-yes, Honored Priest." Sasaki bowed low, voice trembling.
"Regardless of anything else, we ask that you deal with one man first…"
"Name."
"Harada Tadakazu!"
Sasaki ground his teeth as he spoke, hatred burning in his eyes.
"That damned laborer! I don't know what poisonous ideas he learned from those Russian rebels, but he's spreading talk of insurrection in my factory!"
"The absurd poem he published in those Red pamphlets—'Our lives have already seen the light'—what arrogance! Claiming workers can rule the world? He's brought trouble not only to me, but to all of Sendai!"
The other merchant leaders nodded in agreement.
Takahashi added, "That man's gathered quite a few radicals lately. Even cabinet officials are beginning to take notice. Honored Priest—if you deal with Harada, we will offer the most generous tribute."
"…I want two-thirds. Up front."
Before their bows even ended, Rokuro cut in.
His inhuman eyes turned slowly, displeased.
"Last time's payment, plus this Harada—I want the reward before I act."
"…Girls around sixteen years old. No fewer than twenty. How you arrange it is your problem."
The color drained from Sasaki's face. The prayer beads froze in his fingers. Nakashima's thick cheeks twitched, while Shingo and Takahashi instinctively held their breath.
Twenty.
Twenty lives.
They treated the poor like livestock already, and offerings were nothing new—but twenty at once made even them hesitate.
"Th-this… Honored Priest… that may be—"
"Thirty."
Rokuro's voice was flat, absolute. His gaze sharpened, predatory.
"Y-yes! Yes! We'll find a way!"
Veterans of commerce understood immediately: this was the best offer they would ever get. Delay would only worsen the terms.
They agreed at once.
Rokuro wasn't being reckless. Cooperation required trust, after all—long-term profit demanded patience.
But if a Hashira really was nearby…
I might need to flee.
Before that… I should squeeze them dry.
Leaning back in his seat, Rokuro casually discarded the shattered talisman, then issued one final condition that made their hearts sink.
"Three days."
"If the tribute isn't ready by then…"
His lips parted, revealing a mouthful of chilling fangs. His gaze swept across the ashen faces of the capitalists, each word spoken slowly and clearly:
"…I'll come to your homes."
"One by one."
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