Chapter 13: The Thunder Hashira's Fall
A lone figure sprinted frantically along a narrow mountain trail.
His yellow haori snapped in the wind, sweat drenched his brow, and his breath rasped like thunder struggling to escape a broken sky.
It was Mingzhu, the Thunder Hashira.
His heart pounded with dread.
Yesterday, one of his disciples had gone to investigate strange disappearances near a town at the mountain's base. No word had returned. No crow. No sign.
That silence could only mean one thing.
Raikou…
Mingzhu clenched his jaw, driving his battered body harder. Despite a leg injury that screamed with every step, he forced himself onward. He had traveled without rest—day and night—through rain and stone, through exhaustion so heavy it blurred his sight.
At last, lanterns flickered ahead.
The town.
He staggered into its outskirts, knees threatening to give way. Shops glowed on either side, laughter spilled through the doors, men and women in bright kimonos strolled the streets. Children darted between stalls, chasing fireflies.
On any other night, it would have been beautiful.
But to Mingzhu's weary eyes, the liveliness looked monstrous—like a great beast waiting to devour him whole.
He straightened, tightened his grip on his Nichirin Blade, and stepped into the throng.
---
"Master!"
The voice split the noise like a bolt of lightning.
Mingzhu froze. His breath caught.
He turned sharply—and there, not far away, stood Raikou. His disciple.
Alive.
Relief surged through him, a flood so sudden it nearly broke him. He stepped forward—
But before he could call out, a wave of people surged like a tide, swallowing Raikou into their flood. His figure vanished in an instant.
"Raikou!" Mingzhu roared, plunging into the crowd.
He shoved past shoulders, forced through bodies, eyes frantic. His heart hammered. His voice cracked with desperation.
Then—
There.
A glimpse.
Raikou again, at the far end of the street. Standing still. Staring directly at him.
Mingzhu exhaled, relief flooding again. He rushed forward.
But Raikou's form wavered. Melted. Dissolved into the shadows like smoke.
Gone.
Cold dread coiled through Mingzhu's chest.
What is this…?
Still, he refused to give up. Hope drove him deeper. He followed the direction where Raikou had vanished, turning corner after corner until he reached a deserted street.
No lanterns burned here. The silence pressed down heavy, broken only by the whistle of cold night wind through wooden shutters. His footsteps echoed against empty stone.
He lifted his blade, every sense alert.
---
"Master…"
The whisper slid behind his ear. So close he could feel the breath.
Mingzhu spun, eyes wide. "Raikou? Where are you!?"
No answer. Only shifting shadows.
Then—light flickered ahead.
He squinted. A figure emerged from the dark.
Raikou.
"Master," the boy said, smiling gently. "You finally made it."
Relief. A step forward.
Then the smile twisted.
Raikou's skin sagged, flesh sloughing off in chunks. The stench of rot flooded the street. His eyeballs burst, dripping down his cheeks. His arm withered into bone, fingers clawing as blood dripped from exposed marrow.
He raised that grotesque hand.
"Master… why did you come so late? It hurts… it hurts so much. Stay with me…"
The boy's body convulsed, then collapsed into a bubbling puddle of pus and rot.
Mingzhu staggered back, bile rising in his throat. Even as a Hashira, hardened by countless horrors, his breath faltered.
This was beyond nightmare.
---
"How foolish of you, Mingzhu."
The voice slid through the silence.
He turned.
A figure stood calmly behind him.
Red hair like burning coals. Black kimono. Eyes glowing faintly crimson.
Unchanged face. Familiar face.
Akira.
Once his disciple.
Now—undeniably—a demon.
Akira smiled coldly. "Did you like the little gift I prepared for you?"
Mingzhu's eyes blazed. Rage cut through dread like lightning through storm.
"Akira! You—became a demon!" His voice cracked with fury. "You killed Raikou! You killed them all! I'll cut you down myself!"
He surged forward, blade flashing.
"Thunder Breathing, Fifth Form: Heat Lightning!"
Lightning tore the air, a streak of death.
Akira raised his hand.
"Blood Demon Art: Blood Crow!"
A scarlet bird erupted from his palm, its wings trailing streams of blood. It shrieked as it dove, talons rending the air.
Mingzhu roared, slashing. Thunder split the night, cleaving the crow into two halves.
Blood rained.
Mingzhu pressed forward, relentless, his blade howling with strike after strike. Thunder Breathing filled the street, sparks scattering across the stone.
Akira dissolved into feathers, splitting into a storm of crimson crows. They circled Mingzhu, wings beating like war drums. Voices echoed from every direction, taunting, whispering, laughing.
Mingzhu turned, blade ready, chest heaving.
"You and Raikou," he growled, "master and student, both swallowed by darkness. I should have never let you live."
Akira's voice wove through the storm. "And you think your blade has meaning? That you could make me surrender?"
Mingzhu's grip tightened. "When a man loses both brother and apprentice to demons, how can he keep living with pride?"
The air trembled.
"And you," he spat, eyes narrowing, "didn't you have a younger brother? What happened to him? Did you eat him too?"
The words landed like blades.
Silence.
Then—
Two glowing red eyes snapped open directly before him. Burning. Unbridled. Furious.
Hook. Line. Sinker.
Mingzhu smirked inwardly. Got you.
He raised his blade to strike—
And froze.
His muscles locked. His arms stiffened. His body would not move.
What—?!
Akira stepped from the crows, calm, unhurried. His eyes gleamed with cruel delight.
"Did you really think I would fall for such bait?"
Mingzhu's breath hitched. His body trembled against invisible chains.
Akira raised a hand and drove a finger straight into Mingzhu's eye.
White-hot agony exploded. Mingzhu screamed as blood burst from the socket. Pain tore through his skull, his vision collapsing into fire.
Akira's finger burrowed deeper, scraping against brain.
"You were always the weakest of the Hashira," Akira said softly, calmly, as though reciting truth. "Killing you brings no pride. But… since you were the beginning of everything, I'll start with you."
Blood poured down Mingzhu's cheek. His blade slipped in his failing grip. His knees buckled.
"Akira…" he gasped, shaking. "If my death… convinces you…"
"That no longer matters."
Akira's voice was serene. Detached.
His claws gripped Mingzhu's skull. With a sickening rip, he tore the head clean from its shoulders.
Blood erupted, painting the street crimson.
The body fell. Lifeless.
Akira lifted the head, staring into the dim, glassy eyes. His expression unreadable.
Slowly, softly, he whispered.
"Chitose… this is the first one."
The crows circled above, shrieking triumph into the night.
And the Thunder Hashira's fall was complete.