To the greater world, Shuuichi Minamino died today. A bus accident, the body pulled from the wreckage matched his profile and DNA, though it was horribly burned and disfigured. It was a tragedy that rocked Japan, newscasters mourning the death of the child prodigy.
Shiori Minamino wept for hours at his grave. She questioned the universe that had given her her son, taken her health—and then given her her health, and taken her son. She never knew he was watching her, weeping too, one hand pressed to his mouth to stifle the noise.
If his eyes were red when he returned to Sakyo's compound, Toguro didn't comment.
He'd taken nothing from his room but the things he didn't want his mother to find, seeds and seedlings and weapons and tunics. His life as Shuuichi was over, but his life as Kurama had just begun.
Toguro situated him in a massive chamber that was still, he was informed, a fifth the size of Sakyo's. His new accommodations boasted pressed hotel-type sheets and clean hotel-type furniture, the height of luxury and impersonality, all in one.
He left his things in his new room and wandered over the manse, noting security, placement, logistics. He climbed from the laundry rooms to the attic, exploring. He counted the number of false chambers and secret passageways. He mapped out escape routes.
In the basement, there was a floor he avoided entirely, a massive underground ring of torture chambers and cells, some with chained-up demon slaves. On another floor, the fourth, he was propositioned several times by beautiful women with dead eyes, high class prostitutes who lived here full-time.
It was a disgusting place, Kurama decided finally, a temple to lust, perversion and greed, and he preferred the booby-trapped woods beyond the wide, manicured lawns. The grounds were the last place he mapped.
As he circled beyond the hedges, a well-traveled path took his interest. Demonic energy was lashing from that direction, and he smelled blood, burning forest, and gunpowder. A training ring, he was sure.
He followed the dirt road out of curiosity.
At first, all he could hear were the sounds of thunderous explosions. Soon, though, as the trees thinned into burnt-out husks and the undergrowth became ashy wrecks, he heard voices, alternatively bantering and roaring. Finally, he came to the lip of a wide, bare bowl of dirt, all rocks and vegetation blasted away.
Two men, one in a mask, the other in full armor, were in the midst of an amiable, but still deadly struggle. Kurama crossed his arms and leaned his weight on one hip, watching the laughing man in the mask gesture at the armored demon. In moments, the armor was consumed in bombs reeking of gunpowder, the same stench he'd smelled all the way down through here. The masked man, violet eyes sparkling crimson with bloodlust, and the joy of a fight, circled for a better position. He looked up at Kurama, and Kurama was surprised to see his eyes narrow into an incredulous, invasive stare.
Just then, an armored fist blasted into his face, both Kurama and his admirer surprised by the return of the second fighter.
"Karasu," the man in armor chided as his opponent somersaulted in mid-air and skidded back on his splayed feet. "You're going to get yourself killed; you're lucky I pulled that blow."
The masked man, now revealed to be Karasu, held his hand up imperiously to the other and then prowled over the lip of the wide depression to Kurama.
Kurama realized, seeing the undisguised way Karasu's eyes started at his toes and undressed him, dragging all the way up, that it may have been foolish to come here.
Still, he held his ground, refusing to balk at the scrutiny.
"My, my, my," Karasu purred. "And who are you? A new whore come to watch us fight?"
Kurama's eyes narrowed. "A whore I am not. My name is Kurama, I'm a new contracted man of Toguro's."
In a blink, Karasu went from meters away to behind Kurama. A curious hand began to run through his hair, petting it like a favored animal. "A fighter? Even better. I'm Karasu, child. Say my name with respect and this will all go easier on you. That one's Bui," he said, crouching to whisper in his ear. "He's not as fond of pretty things as I am, so you'll forgive him if he's a little shy."
Kurama twisted, a grass blade scything from his arm in an instant and resting next to Karasu's jugular, adrenaline beginning to pump enough that he'd begun to sweat. "I prefer shyness to rudeness, Karasu. Get your hands out of my hair."
"You're miles too young and weak to be any match for me, boy," Karasu cackled, seeming not to notice the threat to his neck.
A large hand scraped over Karasu's scalp and dragged him back. "Leave him be," Bui growled. Karasu snarled at him, murderous intent on his face, eyes flashing red. "You know no one may fight those newly-brought until Toguro's tested them," Bui continued.
"I wasn't going to fight him," Karasu bleated, eyes narrowed in rage.
"Whether you fight him or he fights you, the effect is the same," Bui responded, censorious. "I'm not earning another punishment on your behalf."
"Bastard," Karasu snorted, though it sounded almost playful.
Kurama, listening with disdain, simply turned and walked away, radiating his lack of regard for the two fighters as he left the practice ring behind. He would prefer to be nourished and hydrated before Toguro administered whatever test he intended to.
Kurama was well aware that Karasu's gruesome eyes stayed on him throughout his retreat, even after Bui dropped him and bent to pick up an axe.
This could prove to be a problem, Kurama acknowledged.