Chapter 1: The Oni Samurai, the Blade, and Favorability
The night wind carried a grim cocktail of scents up from the village at the foot of the mountain, tainting the forest air with the coppery tang of blood and the acrid stench of something burnt.
Five figures shambled along the forest path, their forms a grotesque parody of humanity. They stood less than three feet tall, their filthy, blue-gray skin stretched taut over stunted frames. Bulbous tumors jutted from their scalps between sparse patches of hair. These were the common foot soldiers of the supernatural world, the low-level yokai known as Blue-skinned Oni, creatures that often attached themselves to greater demons and sustained their wretched lives by plundering human settlements.
The one in the lead clutched a severed human arm to its chest, gnawing on the mangled flesh with a look of deep satisfaction, strips of meat hanging from its maw.
"The road ahead is blocked."
The lead Blue-skinned Oni froze, a low growl rumbling in its throat—the guttural sound of a beast guarding its kill.
Standing squarely on the path back to their nest was a lone figure.
The man wore a battered suit of crimson armor, its plates crudely re-laced with thick hemp rope. His helmet was long gone, revealing a mane of disheveled white hair that fell around a striking, crimson oni mask.
He did not breathe. His chest was unnervingly still, and a cold, gray mist swirled faintly around his feet.
An Oni Samurai.
In this era where humans and yokai coexisted in a fragile, often violent balance, they were a special breed of undead. In life, they had been human warriors of exceptional skill. In death, bound by obsession or weighed down by grievous sin, their souls had refused the cycle of reincarnation. Instead, they had forcibly absorbed the ambient Yoki of the world to reconstruct their physical forms, retaining the deadly combat arts of humanity while possessing the unholy resilience of a yokai.
Typically, Oni Samurai were silent, relentless killing machines.
This one, however, seemed to have a screw loose.
The Oni Samurai blocking their path kept his head bowed, his left thumb gently stroking the guard of the black tachi sheathed at his waist as he muttered to himself.
"I know you're a picky eater. The blood of that pig yokai last time was too greasy, I get it. It disgusted you. Didn't I give you a full rust-removal and polish right afterward?"
The Blue-skinned Oni exchanged confused glances.
The samurai paid them no mind, continuing his one-sided conversation with the sword. "I'll admit, these are just small fry tonight, but they have the advantage of being fresh. Besides, while the meat of a Blue-skinned Oni might be a bit sour, the resentment saturating their bone marrow is quite rich. You should like that crisp texture."
He paused, as if listening to a silent reply.
"You say you want a higher-level offering? Someone famous, like Shuten-doji?"
The Oni Samurai sighed, tapping his fingers twice on the hilt. "We have to take this one step at a time. Your current edge isn't sharp enough to even scratch the hide of a great yokai. Once you finish this meal, your favorability… no, our rapport will increase. Then we'll challenge stronger opponents. Be good now, don't be difficult."
The lead Blue-skinned Oni felt a surge of deep insult. As members of the lowest rung in the Night Parade of One Hundred Demons, they were accustomed to being treated as cannon fodder by their betters. But to be discussed like ingredients on a menu by some lunatic talking to his sword? That was a new low.
"Kill him!" it shrieked, casting the half-eaten arm aside. It ripped a leg-bone club, stained with blackened blood, from its belt. Its hind leg muscles coiled like springs, and it launched itself forward in a violent burst of motion.
The other four fanned out to the sides, falling into their practiced formation for hunting lone warriors.
Kobe Hikaru finally ceased his one-sided negotiation with his weapon.
"It seems my pep talk was unnecessary," he murmured. "The food has decided to deliver itself."
He lifted his head. His pale face was a mask of indifference beneath the demonic visage, but his eyes—solid black orbs with burning crimson pupils—locked onto the foul wind rushing toward him.
His perspective shifted, a semi-transparent panel of text flickering into existence, visible only to him.
[Demon Blade "Muramasa" (Fake): Hungry. Current Mood: Irritable.]
"What a high-maintenance young lady," Hikaru whispered, his center of gravity sinking into a low stance.
As the bone club swung down to smash his skull, he did not retreat. An Oni Samurai's body had no need for air, and thus no concept of "adjusting one's breath."
His left thumb shot forward, violently pushing the sword's guard. The blade slid an inch from its sheath.
Clang—!
A sound as clear and sharp as a dragon's roar shattered the night's silence.
Iaijutsu: Counter-Wind Slash.
The black sword light scribed a physics-defying arc, rising to meet the descending blow.
The lead Blue-skinned Oni was still airborne when its world went dark. The hardened bone club in its grip, along with its own proudly tough hide, proved as substantial as rotted parchment before that razor-thin line of black steel.
The blade bit into muscle and slid through the gaps between bones without the slightest hint of resistance.
Two halves of a bisected corpse, trailing a hot rain of blood and viscera, slammed into the forest floor.
Hikaru twisted his wrist, the blade flowing not back into its scabbard but into a fluid horizontal sweep.
"The first course. How does it taste?" he asked.
The tachi in his hand, the blade named "Muramasa," seemed to thrum in response. A strange, violet light flickered across its once-dim hamon pattern. The blood of the Blue-skinned Oni coating the steel was instantly absorbed, vanishing as if it had never been there.
[Demon Blade "Muramasa": Mood changed to 'Slightly Placated'. Sharpness increased by 5%.]
Seeing their leader dispatched in a single, beyond understanding moment, the four remaining Oni faltered. But primal fear quickly gave way to savage ferocity.
The two on the left threw their heads back, their mouths gaping wide to spew twin globs of viscous green acid. The two on the right scrambled low to the ground, claws extended, aiming to tear at Hikaru's legs.
It was Corrosive Poison Saliva, the Blue-skinned Oni's only ranged attack, capable of melting through standard iron armor with ease.
Hikaru, however, advanced.
His straw sandals stomped into the earth. The mud beneath his feet exploded as he erupted forward, his entire body blurring into a streak of motion that cut straight toward the two yokai on the left.
Ghost Step.
It was a technique he had developed himself, a method of using Yoki to detonate his speed, achieving a near-teleportation dash over short distances.
The two globs of acid sailed through empty air, landing where he had been a second before with an angry sizzle.
Hikaru was already upon the two poison-spitters. The Muramasa in his hand eschewed fancy swordplay, instead descending in the simplest and most brutally effective of cuts: the Kesa-giri, a diagonal slash from shoulder to hip.
The blade fell.
The head of the Blue-skinned Oni on the left flew into the sky.
Without breaking the motion, Hikaru used the momentum of the slash to pivot, his body spinning like a top. The blade drew a perfect circle behind him, intercepting a clawed hand that was sneaking up from his blind spot.
Clang!
The sound of metal striking bone echoed through the trees.
The ambushing yokai's claws shattered. It shrieked in pain and tried to pull back, only to find the black tachi clinging to its arm like a leech.
Hikaru held the sword with one hand, the tip vibrating slightly as he executed another self-styled technique born from countless battles—a simple, brutal thrust.
Pffft.
The tip of the blade punched through the yokai's throat, pinning it to the thick trunk of an old locust tree behind it.
"It's still warm. Eat up," Hikaru said to the sword, then ripped the blade free with a savage tug.
The corpse slid limply down the bark.
The last Blue-skinned Oni finally broke. Its nerve shattered, it dropped its weapon, turned, and dove headfirst into the bushes, scrambling up the mountainside on all fours in a desperate bid to escape.
"Don't let it get away. That's dessert."
Hikaru's left hand formed a simple seal, and a cluster of ghostly blue fire condensed on his pale fingertips.
Demonic Art: Ghost Firefly.
Though it was merely a basic spell for illumination and tracking, when infused with the potent Yoki of an Oni Samurai, the ball of ghost-fire shot out like a guided missile. It latched onto the back of the fleeing yokai in an instant.
The fire erupted, and the Blue-skinned Oni went down with a final, piercing scream.
Hikaru walked over, his pace unhurried.
The yokai rolled onto its back, shivering uncontrollably as it watched the approaching samurai. A pathetic whimper, a plea for mercy, escaped its throat.
Hikaru raised his sword, examining the blade in the pale moonlight.
"You say you're still not full?"
He glanced down at the trembling creature on the ground.
"Sorry," he said, his voice flat. "My kid is still growing."
He raised his hand and brought the blade down.
A head rolled into the tall grass.
The forest fell into a dead silence, broken only by the now-overpowering stench of blood. Hikaru gave his sword a sharp flick, shaking off the last few drops of residue—not that there was much left. The blade had already devoured most of it.
He called up the system panel again.
[Demon Blade "Muramasa" (Mass-produced) has ingested the blood and essence of five Blue-skinned Oni.]
[Sharpness: 52 → 53]
[Favorability: +5]
[Current Favorability: 15 (Friendly)]
[Bond Dialogue Unlocked (1): It feels that while this low-level blood is average in taste, it has the advantage of being plentiful and filling. It hopes to try the blood of human Exorcists with spiritual power next time.]
Hikaru stared at the panel, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly.
"The blood of an Exorcist is too spicy. You'll burn your tongue," he muttered, slowly sheathing the long sword. "Let's stick to the buffet for now."
Click.
In the silent night, the sound of the handguard locking into the mouth of the scabbard was exceptionally clear.
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