Chapter Three
At the far end of a rather large hall, a small boy of about seven sat alone. His lips wore a wonderful, gentle, and kind smile—one of absolute innocence. His astonishingly beautiful eyes, reminiscent of cut diamonds, lent his appearance a quiet magnificence. He was dressed in oversized black-and-gold robes and a large ceremonial headpiece with golden accents. On either side of him stood a pair of broad-shouldered men with severe expressions, dressed in the white uniforms of the Paradise Faith cult. They watched the man who had entered wearing the same uniform as themselves.
He walked a short distance into the hall, then lowered himself to his knees, pressing his forehead toward the floor, not daring to let his gaze linger on the "divine" child. Doma's welcoming expression did not shift in the slightest at this display of reverence. There was nothing strange in it—he was an apostle, the earthly proxy of a god, one who was meant to bring salvation to all who sought it. For as long as the boy could remember, he had always received this kind of treatment. It could not have been otherwise.
The child spoke in a gentle voice, in a soft and pleasant tone, and those around him listened as though it were an instinct rather than a choice:
"What has brought you here?" He did not compel anyone to listen—people simply considered it their obligation to do so. Even the most unruly of men had never once dared to interrupt that tender childlike voice. "Raise your head and answer me."
"Doma-sama, please—offer me your counsel and your prayers!" The man snapped his torso upright, staring with captivated eyes into the smiling boy's rainbow-colored irises. How had he ever doubted that this was a divine child? "M-my daughter… She has f-fallen ill. A fever has been tormenting her for two days already! Her whole throat has gone red, and there is a terrible smell coming from it…"
"Ah…" The boy's extraordinary eyes glistened, filling with liquid. A crystal scattering of tears fell to the floor, each drop striking the wood with a clear, distinct sound. The man drew a frightened breath—had he somehow given offense?! "Poor girl… You must give her plenty of fluids, and see that she is allowed to rest. That is what your daughter needs to recover. I will most certainly offer a prayer for her."
The visitor's frightened expression dissolved, and he listened with every bit of attention he possessed. Doma was broadly learned, and giving answers to questions this simple was easy enough. Though for people of modest means, knowledge like this could only be acquired through personal experience. The private tutors in this child's life had never fallen short in the quality of their work.
"Thank you, Doma-sama!" the man exclaimed, and appeared to be on the verge of weeping right then and there. "Thank you so very, very much…!"
Watching the scene now without any trace of his earlier sorrow, Doma smiled benevolently and received the man's fervent gratitude. Only after a full minute of effusive praise did the sick child's father finally take his leave. Such fanaticism saddened Doma, in a small way. Such a terrible foolishness. Though a year ago, the boy had been tormented by it far more strongly and sincerely—in time, his heart would grow completely cold. But that belonged to the future. For now, the "heavenly" child received his next visitor.
***
A white hakama seemed almost to glide across the perfectly clean floorboards as Doma's small, bare feet carried him toward a particular set of shoji screens printed with a pattern of cherry blossoms. Before he slid the barrier open, the boy's face scrunched into a grimace of revulsion. It was entirely genuine—his first real displeasure in a very long stretch of time. A foul smell was seeping through from the room beyond. The stench of iron, of torn flesh, and of human waste.
He pushed the shoji open calmly and looked at the scene inside with undisguised disgust. A male body, mutilated beyond recognition, lay sprawled in a pool of blood amid its own filth. Beside it, in a considerably less degraded state, lay the cold corpse of a young woman. A dagger protruded from her neck. The two bodies belonged to Doma's parents.
And yet this did not appear to be what troubled him. His child's mind was occupied with an entirely different concern—he wanted to air out the room. His father, the father of the miraculous child, had kept rather frequent company with female members of the Paradise Faith cult. He had been unfaithful to his wife without even attempting to conceal it, trading on his authority and position. The woman who had loved him had been unable to bear such grief, and she had driven his own tanto through his body—and then through her own.
The owner of those diamond eyes was not in hysterics. He was not even sad. What gnawed at him was something far smaller.
A faint irritation.
*I'll need to call the servants to clean this up.* A cold and detached thought passed through the mind of the future oni.
***
The infant's eyes opened and began to blink.
The boy, lying in his small bed, had been dreaming—a dream about his previous life, about his childhood, about the role he had played. He was mildly confused, for he could not understand why. Before his transformation into a demon, he had never dreamed. After, he had never slept at all. A demon had no need for sleep—it would never tire, never grow fatigued.
*In that colorful box… the television said that human dreams are based on what a person carries inside them. Am I carrying something? I don't understand…* Doma was bewildered. He had never carried anything before.
Listening inward more carefully, the infant tried to sort through whatever emotions he might possess—but everything was as it had always been. He felt nothing. Only that familiar love for the beautiful Kocho Shinobu continued to bloom, unchanged, within his sinful little soul.
A few seconds later, the infant closed his magical eyes once more.