Chapter 45: The Hair Demon's Quarry
Suda Shigenobu's head hung from the flagpole at the city gate. Blood, still wet, dripped slowly down the rough-hewn wood, staining it a sticky, dark crimson.
Panic was a sickness spreading through the city's samurai.
Their lord was dead—killed in a manner so inexplicable, so clean, that it defied comprehension. He had been beheaded in a single, indefensible strike by a man who called himself an Oni Samurai, without even a chance to draw his own blade.
What was more terrifying, however, was that the killer had simply walked away, his departure as brazen as his arrival.
No one dared to pursue.
The shrine maiden in her white robes and red hakama had stood silently by his side, yet her mere presence was a crushing weight. The spiritual pressure she exuded made it difficult for the castle's onmyoji to even draw a proper breath. To chase after beings of that caliber was not bravery; it was suicide.
And so, with the cat away, the rats came out to play.
"Hurry! While no one is watching, move the things out of the warehouse!"
A few foot soldiers, clad in crude armor, scurried low to the ground, their destination the storehouse behind the main keep. They were Suda Shigenobu's personal thugs, the men who typically helped him collect taxes and break bones, carrying out all manner of wicked deeds. Now that their master was dead, their first thought wasn't revenge, but to grab what they could and flee.
The warehouse door was kicked open with a splintering crack.
Inside were stacked crates of copper coins, heavy bags of rice, and a miscellany of valuable items extorted from the common folk.
"We're rich! We're finally rich!" the leader of the foot soldiers shrieked, his eyes wide with avarice. He lunged forward, ready to embrace a crate overflowing with coins.
Then, something constricted around his neck.
It wasn't a hand.
It was hair.
Pitch-black, unnervingly slender tendrils of hair, coiling around his throat from behind. They tightened, and kept tightening, until his face turned a mottled purple and his eyeballs bulged from their sockets.
"Wha—"
The other soldiers hadn't even processed what was happening when more black shadows flashed through the air.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
The strands of hair moved like razors, effortlessly slicing open the throats of the three remaining men. A fine spray of blood misted the air, spattering across the piles of gleaming copper coins.
"So noisy."
A lazy, feminine voice drifted from the warehouse entrance.
"Chirping and chattering like a nest of rats."
The last surviving foot soldier, the one who had been about to loot the rice, froze solid. He didn't dare turn his head, but he could tell the voice belonged to a woman. A very young one.
And at that moment, standing in the doorway behind him, was indeed a woman.
She possessed a stunning figure, her delicate curves accentuated by dark red ninja attire. The neckline was cut low and the hem barely reached her thighs, revealing a generous expanse of snow-white skin under the moonlight. Her waist was slender, her hips rounded—a silhouette designed to make a man's blood boil. It was a pity no one here dared to look.
Her face was pretty, almost doll-like, with an exquisite and slightly cute cast that would have better suited a young girl. She had a bob of short, pitch-black hair, but what made one's skin crawl was the dense, writhing mass of longer black strands that surrounded her. They moved without wind, clawing at the air like a vortex of living shadow, each individual tendril a sentient viper.
"A… A demon!" a soldier finally screamed, his terror breaking his paralysis. He turned to run.
He didn't make it two steps.
A single strand of hair shot from behind him, piercing clean through his back and heart. It twisted once, violently, then retracted. It emerged slick with blood and some indescribable, viscous fluid.
"Disgusting," the woman murmured, frowning. She flicked the blood-stained tendril away with a gesture of revulsion. "The blood of this kind of trash is foul and bitter."
Her gaze swept over the fresh corpses, then across the mountains of treasure, before finally landing on an empty hook on the wall. Something had once hung there.
Now, it was gone.
"The Hiraikotsu from the demon slayer village… and the scent of the legendary Shikon Jewel…" the woman muttered, her eyes narrowing into slits.
Those eyes were a brilliant, predatory gold, with vertical pupils like a cat's, or perhaps a snake's.
"Did I arrive a step too late?"
This woman, without a doubt, had come for the Shikon Jewel. Just as Hikaru had predicted, the spiritual flare from Kikyo's arrow that night had been a beacon, and there was certainly no shortage of demons drawn to its light.
She turned and walked out the door, her living hair drifting around her like a shadowy cloak.
"Kobe Hikaru… and that strongest shrine maiden who protects the village, Kikyo…" she recited the two names, information she had plucked from the final, terrified screams of the soldiers. "How interesting."
A predatory smile touched her lips.
"They shouldn't have gotten too far yet, right?" she licked her lips, a gesture full of deadly promise. "Before that 'lord' arrives, I'll go find them myself."
The demoness strode toward the outskirts of the city, leaving behind a chaotic warehouse and several corpses that had been drained of their blood.
Kobe Hikaru.
From this day forward, that name would spread throughout the region.
As the murderer who killed a lord.
As a demon who dared to raise his hand against human nobility.
And also as…
The prey of a certain demoness.
Outside the city, on the mountain path heading north, Hikaru sneezed.
"Are you catching a cold?" Nura Rihan, who was walking ahead, turned to look at him, a hint of confusion in his eyes. "Do Oni Samurai even catch colds?"
"I don't know," Hikaru replied, rubbing his nose, his expression as placid as ever. "Maybe someone is talking about me."
"It certainly won't be anything good," Rihan shrugged. "You left your name back there. Just wait for the trouble to come knocking."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Hikaru said, patting the Hiraikotsu strapped to his back.
The weapon was truly heavy. Forged from demon bones, its weight was immense, and he could feel the fierce Yao Qi pulsing within it just by carrying it. The favorability system had already registered its presence.
[Hiraikotsu]
[Quality: Demon Weapon]
[Current Favorability: 0 (Stranger)]
[It was sleeping and is very annoyed at being woken up by you. It also thinks the Oni scent on you is too strong.]
'Seems it has a bad temper,' Hikaru thought. He wasn't in a rush. The first step was complete; the system had recognized it. The road ahead was long, giving him plenty of time to wear it down.
Kikyo walked at the very front of their small group, her silence a familiar comfort. Her steps, however, were light and quick, as if she had finally laid down the last great burden weighing on her heart.
"By the way," Hikaru suddenly spoke, breaking the quiet rhythm of their journey. "How do you maintain this Hiraikotsu?"
Kikyo turned her head, glancing at him. "Why do you ask?"
"It has to be returned to the demon slayer village," Hikaru stated, his tone perfectly reasonable. "Before I send it back, I ought to clean it up a bit."
"...Just wipe it down with clean water," Kikyo said after a moment. "It was forged from the bones of a demon. It doesn't need oiling or any other maintenance. In fact, it should be kept away from human grease."
"What about demon grease?"
"...That probably won't work either," Kikyo admitted, her tone tinged with a slight hesitation.
Hikaru nodded. Wiping it with clean water was simple enough. He glanced at the giant boomerang on his back, his mind already calculating the best approach to increase its affinity.
'Conversation?'he mused.'I don't know if this thing can even understand human speech.''Companionship?' That was doable. They still had several days of travel ahead.'Feeding?' Feed it what? Clean water?
"What are you thinking about?" Kikyo's voice interrupted his train of thought.
"I was thinking about how to take care of this big guy," Hikaru answered honestly.
Kikyo looked from the Hiraikotsu on his back to the focused expression on his face. "...Are you always this attentive to weapons?"
"I'm used to it," Hikaru said dismissively. "A weapon is a samurai's second life. If you treat them well, they'll treat you well when it matters most."
Kikyo fell silent.
Her thoughts drifted to the demonic blade Muramasa that Hikaru always carried, which was currently hanging at his waist. In his hands, that cursed sword truly unleashed a power that far exceeded its inherent quality.
Perhaps… this was the reason why.
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