March 20th, 2012, Tsushima, Past Midnight
A feverish, triumphant energy crackled in the heart of the Hakutaku Forest, a stark contrast to the serene, sleeping island of Tsushima around it.
For the assembled yokai, this was not just a night; it was the culmination of a lifetime of devotion, the glorious end to years of failed attempts and whispered prayers in the dark.
Finally, they had done it!
They had achieved a true, tangible connection to Yomi, to their goddess!
The bitterness of decades of perceived failure fueled their fervor. The established yokai factions, with their cowardly councils and endless debates, were fools. They believed themselves just rulers of Japan's supernatural world, yet they allowed the Christian interlopers—the devils, the fallen angels, the remnants of the church—to carve out territories on sacred soil. They were weak, appeasing traitors to the old ways.
That ended tonight. Tonight, Yomi would rise. The glorious Izanami-no-Mikoto would finally stride upon the land of the living once more, and she would drive the foreign invaders into the sea.
She would reunite all of Japan—the eight great yokai factions, the five principal human clans, the very gods of Shintoism—under her rightful, singular rule.
And any who dared oppose this divine reunification would be purged, their souls offered to fuel her glorious reign.
Their faith had been rewarded with a miracle. They had found him: the legendary Kazan Ishikagawa, General of Lord Nurarihyon himself.
History called him a traitor, a thief who stole the Yomi no Kagami and vanished. But they knew the truth. He was a hero, a visionary who had not died, but had gone into hiding, preparing for this very moment, honing his devotion to the true goddess for decades.
He was a living symbol to every member of the Outcasts of Yomi—this alliance of Izanami's believers, rogue yokai, and rebels united by a single goal: the utter elimination of the Christian menace from their homeland.
In a large, sunken clearing, liberated by force from the ancient trees, a numerous gathering of high-class yokai stood in solemn ranks.
They were priests in ornate, dark robes, champions adorned with armor etched with symbols of the underworld, all faces set in masks of grim determination and rapturous expectation. The air was thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and the metallic tang of power.
The trees surrounding the clearing were not mere spectators; they were part of the ritual. Their trunks were carved with complex, bleeding glyphs, and their branches were hung with talismans that fluttered in a wind that did not stir the leaves.
The final component lay terrified in the center of the clearing: the sacrifices. Captured from a nearby human town, they were the key. Their souls, reclaimed specifically for Izanami and channeled into this single, prepared point, would create a "mass migration" of spiritual energy powerful enough to tear a temporary hole between worlds.
Their fear, their very lifeblood, was the paint with which they would draw the doorway.
And they had the brush: the Yomi no Kagami itself, resting on a simple stone altar. The legendary Mirror of Yomi, stolen by their hero Ishikagawa, pulsed with a faint, malevolent purple light. It would act as a focus, amplifying the intrinsic spiritual pollution—the kegare—of the site, making it a beacon Izanami could not possibly ignore.
"Make ready!" a voice boomed, deep and resonant, cutting through the murmured prayers. A large, cloaked figure stepped forward, hefting a long, gnarled wooden staff. He threw back his hood, revealing the head of a powerful ox, his eyes burning with zealous fire.
This was Santhgrim, a Hakutaku—a wise, ox-like yokai from whom the forest took its name. He was the High Priest of this gathering, the chosen voice.
"Today, our goddess will grace the soil of Japan once more!"
At his command, the unconscious sacrifices were dragged to the center of the sunken area. A sharp, collective gasp rippled through the cultists as the victims were roused.
Panic exploded instantly. Some tried to scramble up the earthen walls, their fingers clawing at the dirt. Others turned to fight with the desperate, futile strength of cornered animals.
Most simply screamed, their cries a dissonant chorus of pure, unadulterated terror that echoed through the silent forest.
Santhgrim watched, his bovine face impassive. Their fear was not a tragedy; it was an offering. It was the fuel that would empower the Mirror. It was the fervent prayer that would make their call impossible to ignore.
He raised his staff. "Begin!"
The masters of a forbidden art stepped forward—practitioners of Ketsu no Jutsu, the manipulation of blood, a branch of Youjutsu so dark it had been blamed for history's most infamous massacres.
Their hands moved in intricate, cruel patterns. They did not kill quickly. They began a slow, meticulous process, using their wicked spells to draw out the lifeblood of the victims, using the rising kegare of the spilled blood and terror to enhance the potency of their own magic.
The sunken floor began to fill, not with water, but with a dark, shimmering lake of blood, its surface reflecting the pale moonlight and the frantic, purple pulsations of the Yomi no Kagami.
The atmosphere grew thick, heavy, and charged with a power that was both divine and utterly profane.
"High Priest Santhgrim," a kappa said, bowing low, its shell glistening. "All is ready."
Santhgrim nodded, his expression one of beatific solemnity. He walked down into the growing pool, the warm, viscous liquid soaking his robes.
"I shall be the voice of our Great Goddess!" he declared, and with a final, devout breath, he plunged beneath the crimson surface.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a sound like a thousand panes of glass shattering at once rent the air. The Yomi no Kagami on the altar exploded into a cloud of glittering, violet dust.
A wave of pure, primordial dread washed over the clearing. It was a cold so deep it felt like burning, a fear that spoke to the lizard brain, the instinct to flee from something utterly unnatural and hostile. But the cultists did not perceive it as dread. Their faith, twisted and absolute, filtered the sensation. To them, this crushing, soul-chilling aura was divine presence.
This was divine justice! This was a blessing! They fell to their knees, pressing their faces into the blood-soaked earth in awe and submission.
The surface of the blood lake broke. Santhgrim emerged. But he was changed. He stood upright, but his movements were jerky, unnatural. His eyes, once burning with zeal, were now completely white, devoid of pupils or iris, glowing with an internal, sickly light.
A voice issued from his throat, but it was not his own. It was a distorted, multi-layered thing, the rasp of a corpse mixed with the melodic cruelty of a young woman and the thunderous weight of absolute authority. It was the sound of a goddess speaking through a meat puppet.
"My dear and beloved children."
The words were sweet, patronizing, laced with an insane energy. The cultists trembled, not in fear, but in ecstasy. She was here! She spoke to them!
"You have done so very, very well." The possessed Santhgrim's head lolled on his neck before snapping back into place. "You want revenge. Such sweet, gorgeous revenge. You shall have it! It will be done!"
The declaration was a shriek of delirious joy.
Inside the confines of the High Priest's mind, which she had shoved into a tiny, locked box, the true Izanami was shrieking with laughter.
'Father! Father, look! Look at them! They are bowing! They are so pathetic, so deliciously stupid! I can feel it! The Sea of Souls... it's so close here! Their idiotic, single-minded faith... it's creating a conduit! AHAHAHAHAH! They are building our very own Collective Unconscious with their devotion! YES! YES! YES!'
The ox-yokai's body began to shake with the force of her internal laughter, a grotesque parody of religious ecstasy.
To the cultists, it was a sign of the goddess's overwhelming power filling her vessel. They bowed lower, their prostrate forms a testament to their complete and utter obliviousness. They saw a messiah. They were worshipping their own damnation.
Today, Izanami had truly returned. This was year zero for her faithful. The "Outcasts of Yomi"? What a pathetic, idealistic name. Ideals were boring. Ideals were chains. Her Father had taught her that. Only beautiful, glorious, unrestrained chaos could remain.
She laughed at them—these tools who believed themselves disciples. She laughed at the Shinto gods in their heavenly court, soon to be her playthings. She laughed at everything. For the first time since her creation, the Shadow of a goddess felt truly, vibrantly alive.
Her thoughts, ever loyal, turned to her Father. He had told her of an interesting group—the Khaos Brigade. Now that was a name! It had flair. It promised beautiful destruction. She liked it.
'I hope they will entertain you, dearest Father,' she prayed inwardly, the thought a venomous caress. She knew the plan. When the Khaos Brigade had outlived their usefulness and were inevitably overthrown by her magnificent parent, she would be waiting, ready to claim the pieces.
Patience. That was the lesson he had impressed upon her. Patience. They were not invincible, even if her Father was the strongest being in all existence.
The process of creating Shadow Selves was a long one, a true work of art. They could be defeated if the target was chosen poorly, and their manifested forms could be killed. And her Father had warned her of one more thing: Philemon.
That sore loser, his supposed counterpart, would not accept his withdrawal from their tiresome wager. He would send someone.
A Wildcard.
That title, unbidden, sent a shiver through Izanami's essence—a cold spike of something she couldn't identify and didn't like. An anomaly. A variable. She dismissed it. It was irrelevant. Nothing could stand against the glorious chaos she and her Father would unleash.