Author's Note: Although I have done my research, I make no claim to be proficient in Japanese culture, folklore or religion. Please allow me creative license. To clarify one of my references: Amanozako is a monstrous, ill-tempered goddess whose name in one Japanese form translates as "tengu (goblin) deity". She is suggested to be the predecessor of the tengu, or perhaps the mother of the original as I've interpreted.

Special thanks to my wonderful beta-readers Sybil Rowan and WingedPanther73!

Disclaimer: Tokyo Majin Gakuen Kenpucho: Tou and all its characters remain property of © Majin Production Committee, Shuho Imai, Shinji Ishihira, AIC Spirits, and many other talented people. All rights reserved. All original characters and events remain property of the fan fiction author and should not be used without permission. No infringement is intended by this not-for-profit fan story.

Demonology

"Manabu, where are you going?"

The 13 year-old halted in his tracks, closing his eyes with a silent curse. He was hoping to slip by unnoticed, but, yet again, his aunt seemed to have eyes in the back of her skull. He hated her accusing looks and the pressure of her constant interrogations. His life wasn't complicated, and considering every day was the same routine, she should know by now. And she did. He was aware she was invariable judgmental, any chance to belittle and scold him.

Manabu turned squarely about and offered a habitual, sheepish bow. "I'm – outside." He couldn't manage a better reply than that. There was no use in lying anyway. "Just for a little while."

His aunt gave a haughty sniff, and the look in her dark eyes was solidly disapproving. She was his father's sister, expression and all. "Not now, Manabu. You know your father likes dinner to be prompt."

He felt his throat constrict against a rebellious response, and he swallowed loudly. He knew if he didn't get his chance now, they would keep stalling him until finally there'd be no choice but to give up and go to bed. Tomorrow is another day, his father would often say. For Manabu, that wisdom was void of emotion.

He opened his mouth to challenge her, but heard himself ask instead, "Please?" As much as his desire wounded him, his brain always knew to stay his tongue. That's right, don't make it worse. As long as I do what they want …

"No. You saw her this morning. Besides, it's getting dark out."

Suddenly a husky female voice said with authority, "Let him go." Manabu stiffened at his grandmother's uncaring voice. "He is a child of darkness, after all."

His shoulders tightened even more until he felt the muscles knot painfully. It was a struggle not to show his hurt and anger before his father's elders. His grandmother's words were always poetic and nasty, as if pretending intelligence made her sneering tone elegant. He never understood her taunting. He sensed a deeper meaning to them, but as always there was no follow-through. He just had to take it.

And he always did, every one a blow to his pride and self-worth. Eventually he would get what he wanted, just like now. So he checked himself, showing nothing but his blank, respectful mask as he turned to bow in thanks to his grandmother; he couldn't look her in the face, gaze instead fixing on the stretched neck holding her head high. Then he turned back to his aunt and bowed a farewell. When he turned away from them, he couldn't stop the dark, slanted smirk that tugged at his lips.

Manabu heard them whispering together as he took his leave, and their derogatory tone hounded his steps downstairs. He knew, however, they were not talking about him.

They were talking about his mother. He often heard them blame her for his "poor attitude". He was just thankful that their complaints didn't cause his father to relent and take away his privileges – or rather, the one privilege he cared about. I couldn't survive without her. I could never face another day if I wasn't even allowed to talk to her, hold her hand. The very thought crushed him.

Hurriedly, he went into the kitchen where the family's personal chef and her twenty-something daughter were busy preparing the evening meal. He was greeted by the tap of chopping knives, rolling shush of boiling water, and steam-filled air. Manabu paid the servants no heed as he went into the fruit storage for one of the freshly delivered Asian pears, a gift from a business associate of his father.

"You shouldn't, Young Master!" the chef exclaimed upon seeing the tan globe in his hands. "You'll ruin your appetite."

"It's not for me," he huffed back with a glare. He never had trouble talking back to the staff, at least. Actually, he enjoyed ordering them about.

He started out. Apparently the women didn't realize he was still in hearing range because what the daughter said was unguarded. "I swear, as long as I've known him, he does nothing but skulk around the mountain to see that mother of his. He's like the tengu of Setagaya!"

"What would you expect? Since his mother is Amanozako herself," the mother said seriously. She sounded almost fearful.

Manabu felt heat rise to his face, and resisting the fresh anger only succeeded in bringing hot tears to his eyes. What do they have against her? They don't even know her! He could never understand the household gossip, their labels, and it bothered him. Everything bothered him. With a constrained growl, he ran for the foyer, wasting no time in throwing on his shoes and racing outside.

The early dusk air was frigid and dry; the mountain peaks above sent light snow scattering down with the windfalls. Manabu didn't stop, but ran for the pathway between the cliffs amid the unwarranted dialogue still in his ears, goading his pace. He'd had enough of them for one day, and now all he wanted was the comforting acceptance of his mother.

His entire childhood had been spent here, within the Ryuuzu estate. It was indeed a noble domain, a life that dictated he not speak unless spoken to, conform to proper etiquette, and respect the hierarchy. Even as a small child, he felt the upbringing wasn't solely about tradition; it was decidedly harsher, almost unfairly so, like a personal attack. No one seemed to appreciate his existence – ever since they locked his mother away.

He stood at the base of the earthen staircase that led to the prison where his mother was now sealed. It sat at the top, like a black shadow against the sky, beckoning him as a flame seduces a moth. The damnable Shinto structure had proven impenetrable and lonely for mother and son, and yet it was also the one place in the world Manabu wanted to be. It was both the bridge to his mother, as well as the wall that kept them apart.

Unconsciously releasing a sigh of resignation, the only Ryuuzu heir began his ascent. Even in the increasing darkness, his stride was steady and sure; he had walked this path too many times to ever fear faltering or falling. Too many times, he wondered what they had done to deserve such a fate. He had been too little at the time of her confinement, so if they had given him an explanation, he couldn't remember it. And he had stopped asking a long time ago.

There was a welcoming stillness in the air, a familiar scent of frozen water and damp stone that set the teenager at ease. This was his world, his escape. A mountain goblin, they had called him. Tengu, huh? So what if I am? I don't care. It would mean I could be malicious and still be revered.

Reaching the summit, he could now make out individual details on the building. The first thing he always saw with hopeful eyes was the immense, hinged, double panels. It was the doorway, but Manabu had never seen them opened, never been allowed inside. All he knew was the façade. Then he dropped his eyes to the small window at the base – an opening meant only to slide food inside for the prisoners – and his face brightened excitedly.

"Mother!" He dashed over to the panel, a smile on his face when he saw her slender hand reach out expectantly. He immediately dropped onto his knees and took her outstretched hand. "Were you waiting for me?"

"Always," she answered joyfully.

His eyes were fixated on her pale hand in his, feeling the texture of her delicate skin and fascinated by the veins. Every time he went to her, he took note of the wrinkles and age spots forming. In his mind, he remembered her lean face, almond-shaped eyes, and silken, golden hair – but that face never aged because he hadn't seen her since. The only signs of the passage of time were in her hands that reached for him.

Shaking away the forlorn notion, he pressed the fruit he had brought into her palm. "Here, I got this for you. I saw the writing on the shipping crate they arrived in. They came from Korea, so I thought you might like to try one."

"Ever the considerate son. Thank you, Manabu." She gave his hand a grateful squeeze. She often spoke in a jovial manner, but he knew she was only trying to convince him their situation was alright, if not normal. He knew her better, hearing the eternal sadness buried inside her voice.

For a great long while they held each other's hands through the sliver of a door. In the silence, Manabu could only think of his grandmother's spiteful words as the evening lengthened to night. Finally, he released her hand and sat down on the frosty stone, leaning his back against the building. By the rustle from inside, he knew his mother mirrored him.

"What's the matter?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

Just like he knew every nuance of her voice, there was no fooling his mother. "Manabu?" There was an urgency that told of her concern. "What did he do now?"

"It wasn't that man," he said darkly. Every time he visited his mother, Manabu's resentment towards his father peaked, and he couldn't even bring himself to say the word; there was too much affection in the term "father".

His mother waited patiently until he chose to continue. "I think Grandmother hates me," he finally declared. "I don't understand half the things she says sometimes, but it seems directed towards me."

"Don't worry about her. She can't do anything to you. She has no real power since her husband passed away."

Manabu arched a tawny brow. He appreciated how his mother never lied to him, not once. He knew he could trust anything she said, even if it seemed unbelievable. A thought struck him, and he felt a thrill. "Then do I have power to use against her?"

"You have all the power in the world, my son." There was a strange clarity in that definite statement, and it caught him off-guard. "But there's a proper time and place to use that power. It's a long-suffering road, but you just have to follow it through to its end. It will twist around bends and drop down hills so you can't see the destination. Yet it will be worth the wait, and the journey will make you stronger."

"It's hard to wait sometimes," he responded dolefully, "especially when everyone calls you a demon."

He heard his mother give a hissing intake of breath, a sharp sound like a threatened tigress ready to protect her cub. "What do you mean? Who called you that?"

Manabu shrugged helplessly. He could feel tension building within the prison. "Just the servants gossiping, I guess." He didn't realize how much it really bothered him until he heard his own voice crack at the end, felt the tears form in his eyes again. "I try to do my best, but no one in that household seems to like me."

A gale swept down the mountain, bringing with it a taste of winter. It howled and whistled like a dying creature as it wafted through the tight nook of the pathway, making its way down to the estate. Manabu sniffled lightly, feeling oddly reassured by the chilly wind that enveloped him; he tried to imagine it was his mother's embrace carried to him.

When she spoke next, it was with a mother's buoyant cheer, brightened to ease his worry and lighten his mood. "Do you want me to tell you a story? I haven't done that since you were little!"

Despite his gloom, Manabu smiled. "Sure," he said happily. It was a relief to be away from his father's family, and he wanted to forget them.

He slid sideways off the door, lying down with his face beside the window. He could see a small candle burning in the corner, set atop a desk with a chair. He couldn't see his mother, even pressing his side into the structure, but he felt her presence. She reached a hand out to stroke her knuckles lovingly against his cheek. Manabu took in a contented breath and stared at the stars appearing in the sky.

"This story is based on true events," she said softly, "so I want you to take it to heart."

"It was a time not that long ago, during an age of dying chivalry and warring tyrants. During this age, there lived a beautiful young girl, who was the envy of all who saw her. However, no one dared befriend or court the maiden – because it wasn't her beauty that attracted attention. Everyone in the countryside, noble and peasant alike, were well aware of the family she came from.

"They were a people born from the mountains and the ocean, and they practiced a magic that was so unique it was feared by all. Many called them demons, and while they garnered great respect from their allies, the hatred from their enemies was tenfold.

"The girl herself was born with a very special kind of power, and many of the warring lords wanted to harness the power for themselves. The other clans were self-righteous and jealous that she existed in the so-called 'cursed bloodline'. A great battle erupted over the girl, because she wanted to stay with her family; she didn't want to help those who called her kin demons.

"But she was kidnapped, and in order to rescue her, the family used their darkest of arts to form an army. Even though their cause was just and the battle unfair, they couldn't defeat the larger enemy. And so the young girl, having too much love and pride for her own people, took her life. It was her final declaration that she would not help the clans that originally degraded her.

"Her people were scattered to the wind, like ashes after the fire. Even in defeat they vowed never to back down from those that thought them demons merely for existing as they were."

Manabu listened intently, focusing on his mother's passionate voice and caressing fingers. It seemed like an ordinary folktale that she told, but it sounded deeply personal to her. He asked with a sense of mysticism, "Is the girl in the story you, Mother?"

She laughed delicately. "No, it's not me. Although when I was little I would often wish it were. Your mother is not so special as all that."

He tilted his head and kissed the back of her hand. "I don't agree. I think you're amazing."

"No," she continued with a wistful quality, "you're the special one. I've known it since you were born. We named you after your father's great-grandfather, but truth be told, I wanted to name you Tendou. It means 'a god disguised as a child'. I thought it fit you better."

A god? Manabu blinked thoughtfully, weighing the meaning, as she mournfully whispered, "It seems so long ago …"

He held her by the wrist firmly, the pang in his heart agonizing. He wanted to give her comfort and strength, but there was nothing he could do for her. Not yet. "Mother –"

She steadied her voice, found her composure before succumbing to tears. "Goodness, Manabu! You feel as cold as this stone! You should go back now or you'll wake up tomorrow ill."

"I don't want to." He didn't feel cold; he only felt empty.

"But you must."

With a reluctant sigh, he rose into a kneeling position. He reached both hands into the window as far as his muscles would stretch. His mother shifted forward on her knees, as if in prayer; at her touch, he cupped her hand in his and held on tightly. "Good night then, Mother."

"Continue to do your best, Manabu. The people down there are jealous and small-minded. They are like the ordinary, spiteful clans in my tale. There is no shame in being called a demon. It means you are distinctive and powerful."

"If I'm powerful, then I swear I'll get you out of here. Someday, no matter what I have to do for them. I will make sure you won't have to suffer anymore." He bowed his head, resting it on the door.

"I know. Now off with you." She let go of his hand.

Pulling away with great effort, Manabu dragged himself carefully along the crude steps. Several feet down, he heard his mother begin to cry and sob. It shattered his heart, but he could do nothing except keep on walking. All the while, a bleak voice echoed in his head, Child of Darkness Tendou.

The End.