April 18th, 2012, Hansha Kagoshima, Midday.
Toku moved with a purpose that made the very tatami mats seem to tremble under his weight. His brow was furrowed, his mind churning through the latest disturbing reports from his scouts.
The so-called "Outcasts of Yomi" were becoming bolder, their movements less like whispers in the dark and more like a gathering storm. He needed to analyze the patterns, to find their heart before it could beat a war drum across his island.
He approached the heavy paper sliding door of the war room, a sanctuary of strategy and maps, when one of his subordinates, a badger yokai standing guard, bowed his head deeply.
"Sir," the guard greeted, his voice a low rumble.
Toku gave a curt, almost absent-minded nod, his hand already reaching for the door. His focus was absolute, the security of his land a mantle he wore heavily.
"Sir," the guard said again, more insistently, stopping him. "Lord Susano'o is inside. Waiting for you."
Toku's hand froze on the wood. A cold dread, sharp and immediate, trickled down his spine. Susano'o did not make social calls. His presence was a seismic event, a harbinger of divine intervention or divine wrath.
"Our protector is here?" Toku muttered, more to himself than the guard. "I have a very bad feeling about this."
He slid the door open.
The scene within was deceptively calm. In the back of the room, leaning against a wall painted with a mural of the sea crashing against Kyushu's cliffs, was the God of Storms and Seas himself.
Susano'o was sprawled on the floor, his formidable bronze armor seeming almost relaxed. In his hand was a small ceramic cup of sake, and his eyes were half-closed in a semblance of peaceful indulgence. The faint, sweet-sharp scent of high-quality rice wine filled the air.
The door's sound made him open his eyes. They were not the eyes of a contented drunkard, but of a predator momentarily at rest. A wide, familiar grin split his face.
"Toku! There you are. Come, sit down with me. Let's have a drink. You look like you need one more than I do," Susano'o said, his voice a booming yet casual baritone. He reached for a second cup and filled it from a beautiful, unglazed clay bottle.
Toku accepted the cup without protest, folding his legs beneath him as he sat beside the god. The sake was exquisite, a flavor that spoke of ancient rice fields and pristine mountain water.
'Lord Susano'o always brings the best sake of Japan,' he thought, savoring the complex warmth that spread through his chest.
"My lord," Toku began after a respectful sip. "What brings you to my humble war room?"
Susano'o let out a long, dramatic sigh that seemed to shake the dust from the rafters. "You have no idea, Toku. As much as I would love to be here just to share a drink with a good friend—and you are one of the few who doesn't bore me to tears—I'm afraid I'm here on more serious matters." He refilled his own cup and drained it in one go.
"I understand, my lord. Japan is undergoing a period of great change. All of us yokai leaders fear that tide. We recently had a meeting, all eight leaders of Japan reunited in one place... a rare and nervous event. Your being here only strengthens my worries," Toku confessed, the formality between leader and god melting into the candidness of sharing a moment before battle.
"I overheard my sister talking about it, yeah," Susano'o replied, setting his empty cup down with a definitive click. "Enough alcohol for today."
He plugged the sake bottle and handed it to Toku.
"A gift. Now, talk to me. What is the situation with the rebels following... Izanami..." he spat the name like a curse, "...here in Kyushu?"
"Thank you, lord." Toku gratefully took the bottle and stood, moving to the large table at the room's center. It was covered in detailed maps of the island, with markers denoting sightings and suspicious activities.
"I sent a reconnaissance squad to Tsushima. We believe we've pinpointed a significant base of operations for the Outcasts of Yomi." His finger landed on the island between Kyushu and the Korean peninsula.
"Tsushima..." Susano'o growled, the word a low rumble of thunder. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with sudden ozone. "They are infesting my island, are they?" He fixed Toku with a look that could have frozen the Inland Sea. "You should have told me immediately."
"I did not consider it a matter worth your direct attention, lord. I sent my best. Their orders were reconnaissance and capture—to bring key figures back alive for interrogation," Toku answered, his voice steady. He did not flinch from the god's gaze; he had earned his position through strength and wisdom, not fear.
Susano'o snorted, but a smirk of approval touched his lips. "That's what I like about you. Even in Takamagahara, most have the sense to fear talking back to me. When did your team depart?"
"Before dawn. They should already be on site."
In a single, fluid motion, Susano'o was on his feet, his hand closing around the hilt of the legendary Kusanagi no Tsurugi sheathed at his back. The previously relaxed deity was gone, replaced by the incarnation of a vengeful storm.
"Thanks for the information, Toku. Expect another visit when I'm done." The smile was gone from his face, replaced by a cold, terrifying anger.
"You are going there yourself, my lord?" Toku asked, though he already knew the answer.
Susano'o merely nodded, turning his back and raising a hand in a dismissive wave as he strode from the room. The sliding door shut behind him with a sound like a final verdict.
Alone in the sudden silence, Toku looked down at the map, at the island of Tsushima.
'You chose Tsushima to anger me... didn't you, Mother?' The god's thought echoed in the quiet room. 'You were right. I am beyond furious. I hope the vermin following you are ready to withstand the rage of the sea.'
April 18th, 2012, Hakutaku Forest, Tsushima, Early Afternoon.
The Hakutaku Forest on Tsushima was a place of deep, ancient silence, its canopy so thick it felt like early evening even at noon. The reconnaissance team sent by Toku moved with practiced stealth, but the forest itself seemed to reject them.
Their outpost, a small cluster of camouflaged tents set up at the forest's edge, was a hive of quiet activity. Inside the command tent, the squad leader, a veteran kitsune with scars across his muzzle, was receiving reports.
"The local humans have noticed something is wrong," one of his operatives, a tanuki skilled in human disguise, reported. "The Forest Service sent rangers, but they found nothing. It's the yokai who are the real problem. They refuse all communication. They won't even look us in the eye."
"It is likely they are all compromised, connected to the Outcasts of Yomi," another operative, a crow tengu, concluded grimly.
"And the humans?" the leader asked.
"The local authorities are oblivious. The civilians are just scared. We suspect the rebels are using advanced Youjutsu to cloud their minds and hide their activities. But all the clues, all the traces of kegare, lead here. To this forest."
The leader nodded, his face grim. "Then we have our target. We'll divide into—"
His orders were cut short by a sound from outside—a sharp, whistling thwip that was utterly alien to the natural forest.
Outside the tent, two yokai guards were leaning on their spears. "When are we going to start moving?" one, a young bakeneko, asked his partner.
"When the chiefs are done talking, I gue—"
The sentence ended in a choked cry. A projectile, a vicious arrow sculpted from congealed blood, shot from the treeline. It moved with supernatural speed, aiming directly for the bakeneko's forehead. He twisted at the last second, the arrow instead carving a deep, bleeding gash along the side of his head.
"Ketsu no Jutsu!" the injured guard screamed, drawing his sword, his blood sizzling where it dripped onto the earthy ground. "We're under attack! Everyone, to arms!"
The other guard amplified his voice with Senjutsu, the shout echoing through the clearing like thunderclap. Yokai soldiers scrambled into a defensive formation, using the trees and their own makeshift barriers for cover.
From the dark embrace of the forest, figures emerged. Dozens of them, clad in long, tattered red robes that seemed to drink the light. The Outcasts of Yomi moved with a silent, fanatical purpose. The battle was joined.
It was a brutal symphony of clashing steel, the thrum of bowstrings, and the guttural cries of combat. The Kyushu squad, though outnumbered, held their ground with disciplined ferocity.
They were Toku's best, and they fought like it, their ki-enhanced blows meeting dark magic and fanatical strength. For a moment, it seemed they might weather the assault.
Then the Outcasts began to retreat, melting back into the trees.
"They're falling back!" a kappa shouted. "Report our casualties!" the squad leader barked, emerging from his tent, sword already drawn.
"Only one is unable to continue fighting, sir. It's better if someone—"
A new sound cut through the relative quiet—a low, rhythmic chant rising from the forest depths. It was a call, a summoning. The air grew thick and heavy, pressing down on the defenders.
Then came the impact.
It wasn't a sound; it was a physical shockwave. A massive shape, a living battering ram encased in dark, jagged armor, exploded from the treeline.
It was Kazan Ishikagawa, the traitor oni, his form augmented and twisted by the Chariot Shinigami that now shared his soul. His armor, a grotesque replica of his old regalia, was a gift from the shadow's magic.
"RUN!" a tanuki screamed a second before Kazan's fist, the size of a boulder, pulverized him into a red mist against a tree trunk.
The oni didn't even break stride. "I humiliated myself in front of my goddess," Kazan's voice boomed, a distorted echo of its former self, layered with the whisper of the shadow within.
"Destroying weaklings like you will be my penance. Toku has gone mad if he thought you could even scratch us!" He laughed, a sound of grinding stones, and swung a massive, two-handed sword forged from tarnished gold—another creation of his parasitic passenger. The blade cleaved through another yokai, armor and all, as if he were made of paper.
Panic seized the Kyushu squad. This was no longer a battle; it was a slaughter. Kazan Ishikagawa was a ghost story, a cautionary tale used to frighten new recruits. To see him here, real and empowered by a darkness they could all feel, shattered their resolve.
One of the wounded, a young kitsune whose leg was bent at a horrible angle, clutched a family talisman. It was an old, blessed relic depicting a great wave crashing against an unyielding mountain. His blood-slicked fingers trembled as he pressed it to his chest.
"G-great Susano'o," he stuttered, his prayer a desperate breath against the onslaught. "Please..."
Kazan saw him. The oni's grotesque helmet tilted, amused. He took a step toward the helpless fox, raising his golden sword for a final, crushing blow.
He never finished the swing.
A wind howled through the clearing—not a natural breeze, but the furious exhalation of the deep ocean. It was a gale force that tore leaves from branches and forced Kazan to plant his feet wide to avoid being thrown back. The very pressure of the air changed, becoming dense, salty, and charged with the promise of annihilation.
Kazan looked up.
Something was falling from the sky, a meteor of divine wrath. He had only a split second to raise his golden sword in a desperate cross-block.
The impact was cataclysmic.
Kusanagi no Tsurugi met the blasphemous gold. The ground beneath Kazan's feet did not just crack; it cratered, the earth screaming as he was driven into it up to his knees.
The shockwave radiated outwards, shaking the forest to its roots, stripping branches bare and sending every living creature fleeing in primal terror. Kazan felt every bone in his body shriek in protest. A coppery taste filled his mouth as he vomited a stream of blood onto his chest plate. Without the Chariot Shinigami reinforcing his very essence, that single blow would have vaporized him.
Through the cloud of dust and splintered wood, a figure emerged. Susano'o stood there, Kusanagi held casually in one hand, a wild, exhilarated grin on his face.
"It's not every day I see someone still standing after blocking Kusanagi!" the God of Storms chuckled, his voice booming with manic joy. "You've got a strong back, oni!"
'The God of Storms! Himself!' The thought screamed through Kazan's pain-fogged mind. He stood before one of the three noble children, a being of primordial power. His grip on his sword tightened until the metal groaned.
"You are Kazan Ishikagawa? Even I've heard of you!" Susano'o exclaimed, genuinely impressed. "What a waste. It's a shame you're on Mother's side."
The god moved. There was no telegraphing, no wind-up. One moment he was standing there, the next his sword was a blur of motion. Kazan parried, the impact jarring his arms to the bone, his boots grinding deeper into the shattered earth.
"Drowning Gash!" Susano'o yelled, his voice thrumming with excitement.
The technique was terrifying. Kusanagi moved so fast it burned the oxygen around it, sheathing the blade in a sheath of fire while simultaneously creating a vacuum in its wake.
Kazan's instincts screamed. He threw himself backward, leaping meters away just as the space he'd occupied imploded with a deafening CRACK. Had he been there, his lungs would have been crushed inside his chest.
"You're fast, Ishikagawa! Bravo!" Susano'o praised, like a master appreciating a talented student before an exam he knew they would fail.
Again and again, Susano'o used the technique, not to kill, but to herd. He was driving Kazan away from the few surviving Kyushu yokais, his movements a display of overwhelming control and power. He was toying with him.
'You are defending your people...' The thought burned in Kazan's brain, a coal of bitter, ancient resentment. 'Why weren't you there when I needed it? When my people needed it?'
The rage, the decades of betrayal and pain, boiled over. It synced with the dark whisper in his soul. 'Collect. Collect. COLLECT.'
"STOP TOYING WITH ME!" Kazan howled, the sound inhuman, layered with the shriek of the shadow.
Dark energy, thick and suffocating, erupted around him. His golden sword glowed with malevolent light. And on his face, over his helmet, a mask materialized—a smooth, featureless white oval, the same as the Chariot Shinigami. His power skyrocketed.
Susano'o's grin widened. 'Now we're getting somewhere!'
He blocked Kazan's empowered, rage-fueled strike, the clash sending out a ring of black and blue energy. The god's expression shifted from playful to serious. The game was over.
"Behold an attack able to kill dragons! Eight Tidal Slashes!"
It was too fast for the eye to follow. Susano'o didn't move; he flowed. His arms became a blur, and to Kazan, it seemed as if eight identical blades of raging water were striking at him from every conceivable angle simultaneously. It was the fury of a kraken, the inevitability of a tsunami.
But, again, the blow never landed.
At the last possible nanosecond, just before the eight strikes could connect, Kazan's form dissolved. In his place stood a grotesque, life-sized replica of himself, woven from purple, thorned vines and pulsing, black branches.
Susano'o's eight strikes shredded the wooden statue into splinters and mulch. The god skidded to a halt, his boots scraping on the torn earth. He stared at the decoy, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated annoyance.
"Tch. Someone saved his ass," he grunted, sheathing Kusanagi with a disgusted sigh.
The adrenaline of the battle faded, leaving behind the grim reality. He turned to the survivors. Only six of the twenty remained. The young kitsune who had prayed lay bleeding in the dirt, his eyes wide with a mixture of agony and awe.
"M-mighty Susano'o..." the kitsune coughed, blood flecking his lips. "Y-you came..."
"Yes," Susano'o said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He knelt beside the fox, a profound disappointment settling in his own heart—disappointment in himself.
His brother had been right to counsel patience, but he had been right all along. He should have ended this long ago. He should have slain his mother in her prison.
He gathered the survivors, his divine energy a stabilizing force against their fatal wounds. He looked toward the interior of Tsushima, his island, and felt the deep, pervasive corruption of his mother's influence seeping into its very ley lines.
Taking them to a local village was too risky. With a resolve as hard as the deep ocean floor, he decided. He would take them directly back to Kagoshima.
April 18th, 2012, Mount Fuji, Afternoon.
Consciousness returned to Kazan Ishikagawa with a slow, painful ebb. He opened his eyes to a vastly different world. The crushed earth and bloodstained leaves of Tsushima were gone. Instead, he found himself lying on the pristine wooden veranda of a large, traditional Japanese estate.
The air was thin, crisp, and carried the faint, sacred scent of the mountain. Before him, the majestic, snow-capped peak of Mount Fuji dominated the skyline.
"Ishikagawa. You're awake." The voice was calm, familiar.
Kazan turned his head, every muscle protesting. Santhgrim, the hakutaku high priest, sat on a simple straw chair, facing not the mountain, but the dark, dense line of the Aokigahara Forest that sprawled at its base.
"Priest," Kazan grunted, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His body ached, but the wounds from his divine encounter were already closed, sealed by powerful magic. "Where are we?"
"We are on the northern slope of Mount Fuji," Santhgrim replied, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "Our goddess, in her infinite foresight, managed to translocate me, you, and Yakareo—the kappa you always see near me—here mere moments before Susano'o's final strike would have concluded." He gestured to a small table where a steaming iron kettle sat. He began the meticulous process of preparing tea.
"Why this place?" Kazan asked, his voice strangely flat. The humiliation of being so utterly defeated and then rescued like a child was a colder fury than any battle-rage.
Santhgrim didn't look at him, his focus on the tea. "Aokigahara is a place brimming with kegare, a wellspring of negative energy. We were already planning the relocation of our base of operations here. Susano'o's personal intervention... was a variable we anticipated, but hoped to avoid. Fortunately, our goddess is always prepared."
He handed Kazan a cup of green tea. The oni took it, the heat seeping into his hands.
"Who is the owner of this estate?" Kazan asked, his skeptical eyes scanning the luxurious, silent grounds.
"This is a gift from an ally," Santhgrim said, a faint smile touching his lips. "A sign that even among humans, there are those who recognize what must be done for the future of Japan. The Himejima family was gracious enough to grant us one of their secondary estates and the surrounding land to use as we see fit."
Kazan's cup froze halfway to his lips. His red eyes narrowed. "The Himejima? One of the Five Principal Clans? Why would they help us?"
"Kazan, my old friend," Santhgrim said, sighing softly. "The current policy of Takamagahara, of appeasement and cooperation with foreign factions, is deeply unpopular among many humans as well. No one wants devils, fallen angels, angels, or the Church dictating terms on our sacred soil. Still, they cannot voice this aloud, not without facing ruin. So, they assist us covertly. They provide resources, information, and... sanctuary."
"This is cowardice, Santhgrim," Kazan spat, the tea tasting like ash in his mouth. "These humans are spineless. They hide in their mansions while we bleed on the front lines."
"Perhaps," the hakutaku conceded calmly. "But it is pragmatic. Freeing Japan and ushering in a new era of glory, where we yokai receive what is rightfully ours—dominance over our land, revenge against the colonial usurpers who wronged us—this is our shared objective. I know it is difficult for you to trust, but this is our goddess's will. We must follow her path if we wish our goals to come to fruition."
Kazan Ishikagawa looked from the serene, treacherous beauty of Mount Fuji to the dark, beckoning depths of Aokigahara. He looked at the elegant house provided by the treacherous humans.
It was a web of alliances built on shadows and convenience, a far cry from the honorable war he had once envisioned.
But the memory of Susano'o's overwhelming power, of the god's casual dismissal, burned brighter than any ideal. He had been saved for a purpose. Nodding slowly, he drained the bitter tea.
"Understood," the oni said, his voice a low rumble.
———
A/N:
This chapter wraps up the "Shadow Izanami's Birth" arc (same arc that started this second Volume with Nyarlathotep paying a visit to Yomi).
What to say?
This arc was a distorted mirror to everything that happened in the first Volume. In the first one we saw Makoto as the good force of change in the DxD's world diametrically opposite to this current one that featured mainly Nyarlathotep and his Shadows.
Now with Izanami fully introduced as well as the rest of supernatural Japan we can return to the main dynamic of The Blue Messiah's Burden: Makoto turning the DxD world upside down for the good.