The ruined shrine was a fitting meeting place.
Crumbling, forgotten, and saturated with the kind of silence that discouraged visitors. On the seventh night, as promised, a patch of shadow on the mossy stones detached itself and resolved into Scale.
The little demon's posture was different now: less cringing, more purposeful, though the awe in its slitted eyes remained undimmed.
"Master", Scale hissed, bowing low, "Kakunodate outpost. I have watched."
Hitoku remained seated on the broken altar, his central eye a steady, glowing beacon in the dark. "Report"
"The outpost is small. A fortified house on the town's western edge, behind a wisteria hedge. I counted twelve slayers in residence at any time. Their ranks… mostly Kanoto and Kanoe. One Tsuchinoto, likely the commander. They patrol in pairs, a strict rotation. They received the news of the convoy's loss. They believe it was Gutsu's work, as you intended. They have not connected it to Genji's disappearance… yet."
"Patterns? Weaknesses?"
"The night patrols are diligent, but their routes are predictable. They avoid the main gambling district in the east. Too many civilians, too much noise and smell to mask a demon's presence. The district is run by a human named Bando, a brute who controls the dice games and the loan sharks. He has maybe twenty thugs. No slayers bother with him unless there's a blatant murder"
Hitoku's eye pulsed softly. A gambling den.
A place of chaos, greed, and human weakness, ignored by the slayers.
A place where money changed hands, and information flowed like sake.
Money could buy anonymity, a safe house, supplies.
Information could reveal targets, both human and demon.
It was not a fortress to conquer by demonic rage, but a system to subvert with calculated pressure.
"You have done well", Hitoku said. Scale straightened, a flicker of pride in its reptilian features. "Now, a new task. You will accompany me to this gambling district. You will be my unseen eyes inside the walls. When I give the signal, you will create a specific distraction"
Scale's tail twitched with nervous excitement. "I understand, Master"
The demon slayers would find out about Genji's disappearance and link it with the destroyed convoy. He might have left traces, but it was messy. He only had until sunrise after all. The crow breathing forms had left marks. On the wood, on the bodies. At the same time, he was not in any immediate danger. He did not regret trying his swordsmanship against living targets.
But now that he did, he needed to take precautions. To avoid slayers. To avoid hashira.
They would look for a demon, they would attempt at tracking him.
But they would never expect him to hide under their nose.
'I will take over the gambling district, and feed from the scums there', he thought, 'The demon slayers will see nothing'
=====
Kakunodate's eastern district was a world away from the silent, demon-slayer-guarded outpost.
Lanterns painted the narrow streets in garish reds and yellows. Fear and desperation were drowned in laughter and lust. Shouts from the gambling houses spilled into the night. Alluring gazes of prostitutes drew many in.
The largest establishment was not a house of pleasure, but instead, "The Crimson Pavilion," a two-story wooden building with paper lanterns bearing the character for 'fortune'.
This was Bando's seat of power.
Hitoku did not enter as a monster. He entered as a client.
He kept his nichirin blade sheathed on his waist. His blood-soaked bandages were focused on hiding his central, horizontal eye, rather than his whole body. Apart from that, he did not look much different from a regular human. As long as he did not show his monstrous strength or demon powers, that is.
Inside, the noise was heavy.
Men and a few women crowded around dice tables, card games, and a large shogi board where serious-looking players made slow, deliberate moves. Money clinked. Bando, a mountain of a man with a scarred scalp and arms like tree trunks, held court from a raised platform, sipping sake and watching his empire with piggish satisfaction.
[Bando – Lv. 6 Human (Thug Leader)]
His thugs were levels 1 to 4. They were weak, even compared to regular town guards, not to mention demon slayers or demons.
Hitoku went straight to the shogi board.
Shogi, also known as Japanese chess. It was a game of strategy, prediction, and psychological warfare. A game perfectly perfectly suited to train the mind. It would not make one more intelligent. However, there were many parallels that could be drawn between shogi and real life.
The importance of strategy.
The sharpness of the mind to recognize patterns.
The need of cautious preparation against a trained opponent.
The current champion was a wiry, elderly man with a keen gaze. He had defeated three opponents in a row. Hitoku sat down across from him without a word, placing a small, stolen gold coin on the table. His stake.
The old man raised an eyebrow but accepted.
Gold was a rare currency, even in gambling den. This was equivalent to a farmer's yearly income. Not something you could gamble in one match.
The game began.
To the spectators, it was a curious match.
The old man moved carelessly. He was overly aggressive, making sacrifices to obtain a better position. The tiniest of mistakes could spawn defeat for Hitoku.
But Hitoku had not come here to lose.
His perception was raised to the utmost. His senses, when focused on one game, could allow him to see beneath physical movements. In a way, such high perception allowed him to think as if time slowed down.
He did not just see the game.
He saw a tree of possibility.
He analyzed the old man's micro-expressions, the slight tremble in his hand when he bluffed, the subconscious flick of his eyes towards a threatened square. It calculated dozens of moves ahead, pruning possibilities with inhuman speed.
"You lose", the old man said confidently after ten minutes, "you are a skilled opponent. But I am afraid shogi is a game that favours the old. You have potential"
Hitoku cursed inwardly. He had not expected to lose. The old man was not even a strong player. Although he had not played shogi a lot, he did play a lot of european chess in his previous life. With above-average perception, he expected to crush the old man.
"Again", Hitoku said, throwing two more gold coins on the table.
"As you wish", the old man nodded
Hitoku lost again.
And again.
After the fourth match, however, the stakes had become incredible. Hitoku was doubling the stakes on each game. Enough to earn back what he had invested. Enough to crush the old man's spirit if he lost.
To him, currency was just a tool.
To the old man, it was the ability to retire. To become free from the gambling den.
The old man's confident smirk faded after ten moves. By twenty, sweat beaded on his brow. By thirty, he was trapped in a slow, inevitable stranglehold. Where he was impatient and aggressive, Hitoku was a solid boulder that did not budge on aggression, but counter attacked with fierceness.
He resigned with a sigh, pushing the sack of gold coins back.
"A skilled player", the old man muttered, respect in his voice, "Your style is…flawless. To think you would improve that much in just ten matches..."
Hitoku said nothing. He simply looked up, his normal eyes finding Bando's on the platform.
Bando grunted, intrigued. He waved over his own shogi expert, a cunning, sharp-faced man who had extorted many debts through the game. The result was the same, only faster.
Hitoku didn't just win; he dismantled his opponent's strategy before it could fully form, leaving him flustered and humiliated.
A crowd gathered. Money was bet on the silent stranger. Bando's piggish eyes narrowed, sensing a threat to his prestige, and a potential new source of income. He couldn't have some wanderer beating his best and walking away with the house's money.
Against the old man, Hitoku had barely made even. But against Bando's pawn, he had made a fortune. Fifteen gold coins, enough to make a wealthy merchant gasp, not to mention scums that desperate poor people who visited this gambling den.
"Let's make it interesting", Bando's voice boomed over the chatter. He heaved himself from his platform and lumbered over, "You play a good game, swordsman. A final match. If you win, you get a share of tonight's take and a position here as a shogi master. If you lose, you work off your debt to me. What do you say?"
Hitoku finally spoke, his voice low but confident nonetheless
"I will play you. But not for money or a job"
He pointed a finger, not at Bando, but at the platform. "I win, I sit there. You work for me"
The gambling den fell silent. Then erupted in laughter and shouts.
Bando's face purpled with rage. "You dare?!"
"I do", Hitoku said, "Or are you afraid a man of your… considerable presence, would lose to a wanderer at a board game? Your thugs can still kill me if I cheat. But you won't. You're a businessman. You see the value. If I'm this good, imagine what I can do for your profits"
It was a calculated risk. Appealing to greed, not challenging power directly. Bando's rage warred with his avarice. The crowd watched, sensing blood. Both metaphorical and very real. But greed was perhaps the most apparent in human nature. It was too difficult to resist.
"…Fine", Bando snarled, "But when I win, I'll take your fingers first. One for each piece you lose by"
"That won't do", Hitoku said, "How will I play if you take out my fingers?"
Bando smirked: "True, then I shall cut your pretty face instead"
The board was reset. The crowd pressed in. This was the main event.
Bando was not a master, but he was a vicious, aggressive player, relying on intimidation and brute-force attacks. He was even weaker than his shogi expert.
Hitoku, however, was a fortress.
With his perception and experience accumulated in the past five matches, Bando was like an amateur. Hitoku saw Bando's plan three moves before Bando himself committed to it.
He absorbed the attacks, sacrificed pieces with cold precision to lure Bando into overextension, and then struck with a swift, elegant combination that left Bando's king with nowhere to run.
Checkmate.
The silence was absolute. Bando stared at the board, his massive hands trembling on his knees. The realization of his very public downfall dawned on him, and with it, came the fury. Honor among thieves was thin; honor among gamblers was nonexistent.
"Kill this cheat!" Bando roared, overturning the table.
His thugs surged forward. This was the moment Hitoku had planned for.
He did not need to reveal his demon nature. They were not worthy of it. He could not kill them either, as it would draw investigation from demon slayers if they smelled blood.
He parried the charge of the larger thug, stunning him with one single punch to the side.
*CRACK*
A rib broken, at the very least.
The next came. A simple redirection of momentum sent him crashing onto another thug.
The fourth thug was more skilled. He held a sword. And his level was the highest.
[Lv. 4 Crimson Pavilion Thug]
His shrewdness and lack of proper swordsmanship made it clear that he did not have any demon slayer training, but his instincts were good. When he raised his fist, he retreated two steps.
However, the difference in speed, endurance and strength was far too grand. In one breath, Hitoku shortened the distance, and knocked him out with a simple palm to the chin.
He did not even use ten percent of his strength, then the Crimson Pavilion was turned upside down.
"I believe," Hitoku said, his voice cutting through the terrified silence, "this seat is mine. You will run the day-to-day operations. You will take my orders. Do you understand?"
Bando, his will broken by fear both rational and supernatural, could only nod frantically.
In the underworld, and especially gambling dens, strength was everything. And Ryugo had just displayed enough for Bando to willingly kneel in submission.