December 1914


"By the end of the Edo Period in 1868 there were over four-hundred active shinobi in Japan. Now, there are only thirteen. As we stand here, we number four of those. For the past sixteen years I have put you, my sons, through hell, and I will only continue to do so for as long as I live. But you're grown now; born inheritors of the Uzui bloodline. It is your obligation to pass down the sacred way of the shinobi to the next generation, as I have done for you. But there is still one more test. There are three of you left. One must go. You will ascend Mount Gozaisho and begin battling each other. You will not sleep. You will not eat. You will fight like dogs because you are dogs and because I will watch you to ensure it. Only when one of you falls is the test over, and only then will the remaining two earn the right to call themselves men."

Then the father came closer, and held his sons for the first time:

"Now go. Tengenmon. Nishimon. Bishamon."


July 1915


Giyuu's POV

It's a bit of a trope, isn't it? I see it novels all the time. Sometimes in theatre, too. The protagonist goes on this long-winded journey through thick and thin, hell and heaven, to hunt down his adversary, or that who he perceives to be. Then, when they finally meet, face-to-face, man-to-man, the revelation comes about that they're siblings, or old childhood friends.

I should have known. Should have known that it would turn out like this. But now, as the enemy stood before us – the man with the dark hair, the unerring face, the demonically massive build and the same fuchsia eyes as the brother who pursued him – I realised, just how unprepared Tengen had been to face him, just how unprepared I had been to witness it, and how that unpreparedness might've saved my life.

"How've you been keeping, Tengenmon? Or I guess it's Tengen, now," Nishimon said.

Tengen swallowed, sweat pooling his face: "Fine… and you?"

Nishimon nodded. "Dandy as ever. But…" – he eyed Tengen's apartment up and down – "I checked out your place a bit. It's pretty nice. You seem to be doing quite well for yourself. But you don't live here alone, do you? Women's clothing keep on popping up here and there. Let me guess: Hinatsuru?"

Tengen didn't reply, affirming it.

"…Where is she?" he asked.

Nishimon ignored him. "She was always fond of you. Was always the one to protect you whenever father… lashed out. Though, I'd say she was interfering in family business. By the way, how's the kinfolk?"

"Mother's the same old. Father's… gotten worse since you left. More paranoid," Tengen said.

"Of course he did. He had nine children and seven of them died. And now one of the last two upped and left. Come to think of it, Tengenmon, that makes you the last man. And now that I'm out of the picture, I'm guessing the responsibility of continuing the Uzui bloodline falls to you?"

"No… he still wants you to be his heir. That's why I'm here."

Nishimon's face darkened. "To bring me back? Even after everything I've done?" Then he broke into a maddened laugh. "He always was insane, Tengenmon! But tell me, what about you? Why're you here?"

"…To get you back."

"But that's just a mission. Let me rephrase the question. Why're you on this mission?"

"I don't have a choice."

Then Nishimon clapped his hands together and made finger guns toward Tengen. "There it is! There's the problem! You haven't changed! Still the same old timid boy you were a year ago. Tell me, don't you ever get sick of it?"

"Sick of what?"

"The life, older brother. Kill this, kill that. Obey daddy dearest. Watch him treat your mother like shit, and you can't do a thing. Wake up every morning and pray that you haven't pissed the bed out of fear, and that he doesn't find some reason to slap you around anyway. Train, train, train in all your free time; don't get to pick the girl you marry. You never thought of leaving it behind, Tengenmon. Nobody did. But I thought of it every day!"

I looked at Tengen. Had he lied about being a former shinobi and his mission? If so, that would change everything. But as of now, that was the least of my concerns. From the way Nishimon spoke, he didn't seem willing to hand himself over to Tengen. Moreover, there was the question of Shinobu and I. Being his brother, Tengen's security might've been guaranteed if a fight broke out, but what about ours? And he was Lower Moon One to boot. I didn't know about Shinobu, but even I, in my glorified arrogance at the time, recognised that I was in no way prepared to confront him. For the first time, Nishimon's attention turned to me, and his expression became deadly.

"How old are you, boy?" he asked.

"…Fifteen," I replied.

"…A child soldier, eh? Demon Slayers have always recruited young. And you, girl?" He motioned to Shinobu. She looked the most afraid of us all; she stood crouched with her hand on her sword, and furrowed brows formed shadows over her eyes.

"Not telling," she replied. "Where's Hinatsuru?"

"She's on planet earth. You, however, will be in an entirely different place if you answer my question with a question again."

Did that confirm she was alive? I debated this with myself, and Shinobu stepped forward and asked a question which never would've graced me:

"Are you the killer?"

Of course he is!

He confirmed it himself.

"Yes," he replied, sickeningly impassive. "I'm the one. Now, Tengenmon, kill me or bring me home or do whatever you need to do and be done with it. But first…" – he crooked a finger at Shinobu and I – "there's the problem of these two."

"…What problem?" Tengen muttered.

"Don't play dumb," Nishimon snarled. "The third creed of all shinobi… you remember it, don't you? Maintain confidentiality in the mission. Do not let outsiders into the business of the order. And if you do, eliminate them afterwards."

Shinobu sputtered some sort of protest and tried to step up, but Tengen blocked her with his arm, and forced her back behind him.

"…They're good people," he replied.

"And what about it? Who's to say the second you let them go they won't just rat on you? I can see by the way you act 'round each other you haven't known them for a very long time. And yet now you want to let them free… just like that."

"They're my…" Tengen gulped.

"They're your? They're your what?" Nishimon stepped closer, cupping his ear. "Oh… that. That. I know. Not necessarily 'friends', but… comrades? No, 'comrades' doesn't quite suite it either. But let's use that word for now."

He came even nearer to Tengen, and I backed away. His one hand was behind his back, and I naturally took to thinking he had a weapon.

"But you're a killer, Tengenmon. And killers don't need… 'comrades'. Though, luckily for you…"

In the first instant, I blinked, voice still facing me to the front.

"…we're in the same boat."

And in the next, it came from behind me.


Scene TWO, Act FOUR

GIYUU turns around and sees NISHIMON behind SHINOBU. He has a dagger in his hand, and is planning to drive it into her.

GIYUU

Watch out!

In the nick of time, TENGENMON tackles NISHIMON and pins him to the wall. GIYUU draws his sword and stances himself, ready to fight.


What was that just now?

For some reason, I felt…

2D.

Like I couldn't quite move right.

Nishimon struggled against Tengen, kicking and kneeing and elbowing him, and I swore I could've heard something snap and crack, but he resisted, and kept him pinned firm.

A line had been drawn in the sand. Tengen wanted to preserve the peace while Nishimon was out for blood. Though I said I'd consider it when Tengen asked me to help track down and reason with his brother, I'd already made up my mind way back: that this man was despicable, and I wanted to be the one to kill him. And it seemed Shinobu shared this sentiment; because then was the first time in the time that we'd spent and would spend together that I saw her in fighting pose: back arched, shoulders hard, grip swollen around the hilt of the sword that was now drawn.

And what a majestic piece it was – if not unusual-looking.

A good length of the lacquered black blade was hollowed out, and the tip, balancing off a skinny rod of metal, gleamed purple in the light, as if coated with liquid. It had a crossguard akin to a butterfly, gild in iridescent turquoise, and engraved upon the side was the stark motto of the Demon Slayers:

滅殺悪鬼
messatsu aki
"kill all evil demons"

That's right.

She didn't hear my and Tengen's conversation on the beach.

So she won't have any qualms about killing this guy, I'd bet.

Though, I wonder…

With a sword like that, how can she cut off a demon's head?

She began to stab Nishimon lightly, first in the chest, above where Tengen grappled him. Then she moved on to his neck, the bottom of his armpits, and then with deadly dexterity she trailed down his arm and split his hand in two, until she flipped the sword sideways and dug the edge about a centimetre under Nishimon's eye, flicking it upwards and popping it like a bubble, the white-and-red contents trickling down his cheek like the filling of a pie. The whole thing was awesome to see; Shinobu moved swiftly, ever so daintily, and handled her sword with luxurious confidence as if it was merely an extension of her. Though the euphoria subsided, and the holes in Nishimon's chest were filled in, the halves of his arms melting back together. Shinobu tried again to stab him, but he caught the sword, and rubbing his thumb on the tip, he commented on something:

"Is this poison? The end of your sword is dripping with something." Then he frowned, and jerked the blade closer along with the rest of Shinobu. "Seriously, if you haven't the strength to cut off a demon's head…" – and he drew his free arm back and curled his hand into a fist – "just don't become a demon slayer."

Shinobu intuitively hopped away and reposed her sword, but it was then that Nishimon slammed the wall behind him. The thin wood-and-paper screen shattered into pieces, and with Tengen still latched onto him he bumbled into the other room.

Wait.

If I'm not mistaken…

Back there's a balcony.

I chased after Nishimon, damning myself for not decapitating him while I still had the chance. But then I felt the hand tug my back, and it was Shinobu, stopped dead in her tracks, pointing in front of her at the sight I was blind to.

Nishimon Uzui.

A demon.

Stood unaffected in the broad sun.

Tengen was still wrung around his waist, but from where I stood he looked lame and inert. Only when Nishimon relaxed the arm around his neck, and he slumped into his brother's arms, did I realise that he was unconscious.

"See? It's a shame, girlie, but your sorry substitute for swinging strength won't work on me. From childhood we shinobi are trained to resist poisons. I reckon it also helps that I'm Lower Moon One." Then, with worrying ease, he slung Tengen over his shoulder and crooked a finger at us. "So, while you were poking me, I took the chance to pluck our best man out of the picture. I'd kill you know if it was up to me, but… the blood that courses through me… tells me to do otherwise. So I'll deal with you later, when they're not watching. Goodbye, children!"

He waved a crooked goodbye, and then his figure leaned over the edge… and his weight shifted… and he plunged himself over the balcony. I was about to do the same when I remembered that Tengen lived three stories up, and dangling off the railing, I watched Nishimon get smaller and smaller, until he landed on the ground soundlessly and he was but an ant in the vast, baffling forest that was Hiroshima city, darting off into the distance.


December 1914


3rd Person POV

Tengenmon Uzui awoke one morning from troubled dreams to find his father standing over his bedside, mute as the dead. Instinctively, he jumped from bed and saluted him. His father never so much as entered this room – it was always one of his brothers that woke him up – and when he observed the coldness of his figure, the emptiness of the quarters which he'd shared with eight others for the entirety of his life and that would usually be bustling this time in the morning, he came to the natural conclusion that he was in trouble.

"Get dressed," the father said. "You have work to do."

Not daring to delay his orders, Tengenmon did so immediately. The outfit he wore unchanged throughout the years consisted of a severe navy-blue farmer's tunic, an old pair of waraji sandals, and a set of tattered hakama trousers which he'd inherited from one of his brothers. First came the top. You would pull it over your head and fasten the collar – not too tight, not too loose. Then you slid into your hakama and would tuck the shirt into this – and the tuck had to be creaseless, because if it wasn't, there would be hell to pay. Then came the tabi socks. They had to reach up just above your ankles, and their tops had to be folded down exactly five centimetres as to create a doubled layer around your leg. You never knew why to do it, but that's what father said and father was always right. Then you put on your sandals and your yugake glove and your customary Uzui family headgear and you would head to breakfast, quickly, because if you missed it you would not be permitted to eat until the next day.

But today there would be no breakfast. Tengenmon followed his father out onto the courtyard, where his two remaining brothers stood waiting wordlessly. For the past few days talk had risen of a test; a final one. Tengenmon, who performed his familial duties with neither pleasure nor distress and had done so for his entire life, thought nothing of it. To him, his training was something that had been there for as long as he could remember. From the earliest time he recalled he had been shut up in the great wooden halls of the Uzui estate, never allowed to leave – this notion bolstered by a fence that surrounded the property – and that he had his duties from the moment he took his first uneasy steps. Of these formative years his mind retains only monotonous recollections of long morning hours spent sparring with his brothers, and being taught to imitate the automatic movements of his father and the shinobi of yore. Even when he turned thirteen, and was finally allowed to embark on missions that took him outside the estate, he saw these assignments as only slightly less exhausting than those around his home. But now, as he reached the threshold of manhood, the disillusionments of such a life were beginning to set in, and his father saw in him a predetermined destiny that was ineluctable. Nevertheless, it was in the winter of 1914 that he decided upon a final test for his sons. There, at the foot of Gozaisho mountain, he gave his speech, and initiated them…


July 1915


Giyuu's POV

"Fuck!"

It was not I who swore, though it very well should've been. Shinobu Kochou stood fuming in the mass of rubble on the balcony, cursing and punching the air, tossing pieces of wood into the distance. The only things preventing me from doing the same was her being there and my youthful sense of stoicism. Then she cried something out, along the lines of "I'll never forgive myself!", and she zoomed past me and out the apartment door, until I stopped her midway down the stairs:

"Wait," I said.

"Wait for what?!" was her reply.

"We don't know where he's gone."

"Then let me chase after him!"

"The guy's already outta reach, Shinobu!"

"Because you're holding me up here, Giyuu! Now get your defeatist hands off me!"

Then we bickered, like two mad people done broke out of their asylum. It was a massive waste of time and a massive waste of energy, and when I had cooled down and Shinobu had chilled out I acknowledged this in my own twisted way:

"Your logic sickens me. My logic sickens you. Let's call a truce."

Shinobu's reply was swift:

"Whatever, big boy."

I mentioned Hinatsuru, and we broke up to scour the apartment block for her. We looked under rugs, above cabinets, in the crannies and the nooks of this wonkily constructed building, and knocked on the doors of neighbours who wouldn't open them. It was fruitless. Defeated and aimless, we mopped the inexplicable trail of blood running through the hallways, un-pinned the snake from the door, and sat silently with our hands folded in the foyer. Then, one moment she was there, standing before us in the anteroom:

"Giyuu, Shinobu, you look miserable!"

Giyuu and Shinobu were miserable.

"Me?" she repeated, after I'd asked her where she'd been. "I was out buying groceries." She held up the basket dangling on her arm and rummaged in it, flicking something into our hands.

"A sweet. Some western concoction called an éclair. So, find anything in the clinic?"

We shook our heads ashamedly.

"Oh, really? Well, don't sweat it. Then it's just another dead end in a long line of dead ends. By the way… where's Tengen?" She tried to call out for him, but awash with guilt, I stopped her.

In the end, it was Shinobu who broke it to her. She told her all about the trap set in the clinic, the confrontation with Nishimon in the hallway, along with the revelation that he was Tengen's very own brother; Hinatsuru revealed that she knew already, and predictably, that it was Tengen who told her to keep quiet. She talked very quickly, and by the end of it was left gasping and weary for air, and Hinatsuru, strangely composed as if this was a usual occurrence to her, had this to offer:

"You kids done goofed up. But don't worry. I've got a good idea of where Nishimon ran off to. And I'm guessing he knows that we know." Then she pointed through the open doorway, out into the city, seemingly at nothing. "The snake cult, remember?"

The image flashed through my mind of Tengen's briefing that morning.

'…Apparently, there's a cult around here that imports them to boil and drink as tea or something, for the reason of preserving youth…'

"I guess we'll go there, then," Hinatsuru said, still pointing. "That's where your enemy is, after all. I'm sure you'd agree?"


December 1914


3rd Person POV

Tengenmon and his two brothers had made the silent, unanimous decision to stick together till they reached the summit of the mountain, upon which reaching they would split up and linger in nature for a while and hope they didn't run into each other. It was snowy that day – up that high it always was but today more so than usual – and in the alien hours of the morning the world seemed still, clad in a cast of perfect, glittering white, and the skinny trees shooting through the snow glowed purple like witches.

Eighteen years-old Bishamon headed the ascent. Tengenmon liked him, because he was warm and strong and the most brother–ly out of his siblings. Being the eldest remaining, and the most skilled, he was naturally the favourite of a father as superficial as this. Not that there were many left to choose from, anyway. Nishimon, the youngest and most decisive of the trio, skulked behind him with his hands in his pockets, yet at sixteen years old a lingering expression of exhaustion was already burned into his hanging face, and his shoulders were beginning to stoop below the weight of his profession.

And the air was light between the three, because through a lifetime of satanic training and perpetual hazing they had learned not to take their father's words at face value. Many a time had he told them the same thing: ascend this mountain, go to this place, kill him, one of you won't come back alive, etcetera, but they were empty orders meant to teach them the art of deception, for the most part. Even if the occasional sibling did turn up dead or missing or worst of all, had deserted the family, that was their fault, their problem, and the boys were not to concern themselves with that person anymore, and were to take his predicament as an example of the end that awaited them in failure. Perhaps that is why, when Bishamon spoke for the first time that morning, Tengenmon refuted his words so easily.

"You guys doing alright?" He pulled his voice up as to rise above the snow crunching under his feet.

"…You think father's really watching us?" Tengenmon asked.

"No. Of course not. He's always busy this time of the morning, remember? So at least we have now to talk."

"Then speak," Nishimon interrupted, pointing an invasive finger. "Something's on your mind, isn't it?"

Bishamon froze in his steps and the rest of the convoy along with him.

"The way hespoke back then… I don't know… something tells me he's being serious. All that training of how to distinguish lies when a person's talking, and I didn't pick up anything during father's speech. Maybe, this time, one of us really has to–"

"He must've did it on purpose. If he's the one who trained you then he'd know how to fool you. And it makes sense that he'd hide it, too," Tengenmon sputtered. "Because maybe if we knew he wasn't being serious, we wouldn't train as hard. And in the first place, maybe… maybe he just sent us here to teach us to be self-sufficient."

"Maybe, maybe. Everything's 'maybe'," Nishimon spat. "Don't you have an opinion of your own, Tengenmon? It's all just wishful thinking."

"Go easy on him, Nishimon." Bishamon waved his brother off, who slinked back into silence. Then he turned to Tengenmon and said: "You're probably right, Tengen. If only everyone thought the way you did, then maybe we could speak what we wanted into existence…"

On that lukewarm note, Bishamon snapped his fingers and swung back forward.

"We've gone up far enough. I'd say we split up now, to be safe. We'll meet up every day at this time at this spot. If what Tengen said about this being a test of endurance is true, then we'll just have to wait it out. Okay? Now go! Don't get too flamboyant out there!" He splayed his arms and shot off into the distance, Tengenmon and Nishimon following soon after unto their separate parts of the mountain.


July 1915


Giyuu's POV

While en route to the snake cult, Shinobu took the chance to ask Hinatsuru her tale.

"Oh, me? My story's not that interesting," she said, tone a little self-deprecating. "I'm a kunoichi; a female ninja. My family and Tengen's family live in the same area. Well, you couldn't really call it a family. My household's basically the dumping ground for the daughters of the remaining shinobi lineages. See, nobody wants to train a girl to kill and expect her to fulfill such a dangerous role once she's done. We're seen as weaker than men, and for some reason, more likely to rebel. So everyone sends their daughters to us. Of course, we still do get sometraining in the art of ninjutsu. We make good sleeper agents, after all. And a lady is less conspicuous than an over-muscly guy when hiding in plain sight."

If it were up to me, I wouldn't have asked something so personal. But it wasn't, and because of that, I got to peer a little into Hinatsuru's character. I wondered then if she was also was on the fence about ending Nishimon's life. Tengen was one thing; in theory, I could simply dismiss his wish to keep his brother alive in the name of demon-slaying duty – heartless as it may sound – but as for Hinatsuru, if she too didn't want Nishimon to die, then…

Then that'd just mean one more person pissed off once this was all over.

"Is that why you agreed to jump into the fray a second time?"

Before departing for Tengen, Youma found me ambling in a hallway and presented me this question. It was in response to something Hinatsuru said, that we needn't concern ourselves with this Nishimon business any longer and that we should give up pursuing him, though in the end we did persuade her to let us continue. I answered him, half-heartedly, that this was merely my job, and I did so because I knew he would see right through me and that there was no point trying to be opaque. He grit his teeth, and responded with this:

"This guy's Lower Moon One. We both know you don't stand a chance. Tengen's unwilling to kill his brother, and Shinobu's poison is useless. When Nishimon let you off the hook back then he was telling you to go home. And where's the shame in that? I doubt he'll lay a finger on Tengen, not unless you come barging in and attack him first. Just walk away from this, Giyuu. You and Shinobu. Nobody will blame you."

My reply was swift, and unadvised:

"She won't be convinced. I have to stay."

Youma shook his head and muttered something, and then he melted into the wall. Thus, that's why I'm still here.

"As for how Tengen and I met, well… we just met! I was at the market one day and he happened to be there too. We caught each other's eye, and it was all gung-ho from there. I introduced him to fashion and trends and basically just a life outside of training, and dare I'd say I'm a big reason why he's the person he is today." Hinatsuru continued talking, and because she seemed happy doing so no-one stopped her. "That's why I followed him out here. You may see him as this strong, hard-headed fool, and in some way he is, but in reality… well, it's better for me not to say. By the way, did you notice we've arrived?"

As a matter of fact I did not. I peeled my eyes from the ground and observed the building that stood before us. It was a jumbled complex of old wooden houses, with a dry and charred appearance and an air of frank abandoned-ness. An imposing iron gate and mortar wall divided the road from a dingy courtyard, and whatever flora should have populated the great gardens weaving through the place had the green in them sucked by the sun, replaced by a deadpan brown. A plaque on the wall duly denoted the place: 'Iguro Family Residence'. Someone used to live here?

"Yep," Hinatsuru said, reading me. "And over fifty people, at that."

"What happened to them?" Shinobu asked.

"Nobody knows. One day, they were just gone."

Smoke and mirrors, snakes and mirrors…

The gate was stuck closed with rust, so we scaled it to get in. From there, between the depressing grey walls, the complex looked even more desolate than it had from outside. A dried-up fountain greeted us upon entering, and taking centre stage in the grounds was a great big house that rose above the others and which seeped through its cracked wooden construction an air of austerity. I pondered for a moment, then came to the conclusion that if someone as grand as Nishimon were to take up a spot in hiding, it would be in there. I laid my hands on the cool metal doors and felt a wave of dread wash through my chest. So dubious is the essence of memory that I can't fully recall why I felt the way I did back then. Was I scared? Sure. Not once in my life have I considered myself particularly courageous, only brash. I saw Shinobu in the corner of my eye and wondered if she too was afraid. Though out of us she was the smallest, the youngest, maybe the weakest, it was her who jumped at Hinatsuru when she told us to go home, and it was I who could only follow.

But hey, where do I get off being a pessimist?

I'm a man, right?

And right now – the only way to validate that is to throw open this door and face the enemy.


January 1915


3rd Person POV

After a month spent lingering in the wilderness, Nishimon Uzui came to realise that the order his father gave him was a genuine one. There was this slight notion that buzzed in his ear when he heard the speech – a notion of falsehood – but it was something he always felt whenever his father spoke, and thus, even he had found it easy to dismiss. At the very least, he wanted to. But as his time on the mountain stretched, and he examined his situation with an increasing clairvoyance that comes with isolation, he saw the truth: that his father brought them here to die, and even if they escaped with their lives the death of their souls would be inevitable unless somebody offered theirs to save the rest.

No matter, though.

Nishimon had a plan.

There was this strange lady he knew, and he didn't particularly like this lady, but that's beside the point. When they met about a week before the test began, they struck up a deal. She was looking for somebody, and in exchange for enlisting his skill in reconnaissance as a shinobi she would grant him, what was according to her, a most exclusive power.

A power – unlike any other.

A pact of the blood, if you will.

And Nishimon liked the sound of that, because today, he mandated, was to be the day he received that power. That the mountain he scheduled it to happen on was the same his father chose for the test, was a convenient coincidence. So there they met, at the summit, in the twilight.

Now he didn't know the lady's name, and in his mind, he took to calling her a witch. Nothing was definite about her appearance; sometimes she was tall, sometimes short; on a given day her hair was black and on the next it was white. There were a few occasions where her presence was androgynous enough that he could've mistaken her for a man, and he couldn't decide whether he found her beautiful or plain or neither or in-between. Like a witch; she was always changing form. And today would be no different. He found her leaning against a tree trunk, hiding away from the wine-coloured remnants of daylight. She was as ambiguous as ever, and he might not have recognised her if it weren't for the one feature that remained consistent among every one of her forms:

Her eyes.

Not their colour –

Nor their shape –

But the words burned into them:

"弦弐"

"Upper Moon Two."

She raised both her hands; grasped in one was a cup, and coming out the other was a poppy-coloured liquid that dripped soundlessly. She held the former under the latter and let it drizzle a bit, until the flow thinned and the goblet became full and she raised it back up in offering.

"What's this?" Nishimon asked.

"Drink it to transform. With this, you'll be one of them."

The chalice comes to his lips, and the next thing he remembers is an exploding feeling in his head. There's blood on the ground, blood in his hands, blood everywhere, and he can't move. He stays like this for a while, and the lady remains with him for a good portion of it, till she retreats to a place outside his vision, and the pain starts to fade and his eyes flutter closed and he falls into a deepest slumber. The vague trail of memory picks up again in the morning; he's awoken, the splitting sensation in his skull has gone, and the two brothers who he loved so sorely yet so unequally are standing over him, like witches.


July 1915


Giyuu's POV

Nishimon Uzui sat still on the throne with his hands folded over his lap, and from where I stood at the other end of the room he looked statue-like, godly even. Though he was my enemy, I felt in the far labyrinths of my conscience a bit flippant, as if intruding in the presence of an idol who deserved no less than the highest courtesy. I thought, maybe if I reached out and touched him and talked with him he would become humanised, and we would be adversaries no longer, and Tengen would still have a brother and perhaps in the future, Hinatsuru an in-law. If not, though, as Madame Bovary would put it, the gilt of him would just stick to my fingers. And I knew I was being delusional, anyway.

There was no sign of Tengen anywhere. Besides Nishimon, Shinobu, and I, the room was devoid of life. Hinatsuru chose to stay behind, citing the reason that she couldn't be a part of what needed to be done. So it was just us demon slayers, come forward into hell. I received the slight impression that, once upon a time, the interior was supposed to be a glamorous one. Aside from the imposing bronze throne in which Nishimon sat, on the walls there were grand scrolls depicting scenes from history, and for whatever reason, a plethora of mirrors – intact and smashed – peppered the floor. Nishimon's eyes were closed, and only when I drew my sword did they open. He didn't move, only kept a hard gaze on me as I tip-toed to the centre of the room – Shinobu remained back – until he stood up, and I snapped into fighting pose.

"Look at you," he said, pointing an invasive finger. "You're scared of breaking mirrors that don't belong to anyone. How can you have the heart to kill me?"

"I'm wearing open sandals, y'know?" I replied. "Just don't want the glass to get under my feet."

Nishimon produced a paper from his pocket and started reading it.

"My ability… already foretold you'd come here. Yet I hoped this time, I was wrong. Tengen, too…" – then he retracted his finger and tossed away the script and his hands slinked back into his pockets – "and you brought the girl with you, too. You really are… a fool."


Scene FOUR, Act FOUR

NISHIMON takes his dagger out its sheath, one hand still in a pocket, and jumps over to GIYUU. The latter responds by trying to slash him across the chest, and NISHIMON dodges back, but he is flanked by SHINOBU, who stabs through his shoulder and pushes the sword upwards, lifting the rest of his arm with it, and the hand out of the pocket.


There's that feeling again!

What is it?

"Hey!" Shinobu calls. She's struggling against Nishimon's arm, and it's clearly a downwards struggle, but she still finds time to talk to me. "You felt that too, right? Whenever he puts his hands–" Though before she can finish, she caves in when a fist is slammed into her stomach. Her little body nearly snaps in two and she becomes weightless as she's flung into the air. It's the first hit she's taken in the two days of the assignment thus far, and it almost kills her. Naturally, this pisses me off. But I can't do anything because Nishimon's already there right by me, and he has an uppercut headed for my chin, and, and…

And I dodge.

I pull back, just far enough, just in time, and though his knuckle still grazes my nose it's a perfect evasion – barely perfect, but perfect enough that Nishimon stumbles a bit, and that was all I needed. I swing the sword into his side and his arm is severed like string. Blood gushes out the stump, and the residual momentum carries the blade into his ribcage.

By all means, it was a magnificent slash. But a magnificent slash misplaced. Because if humans could defeat demons with mere spirit alone, they would be long dead. I've sliced halfway through his midsection, yes, but I blink and his arm has regrown, his torso has healed, the hole in his shoulder filled. My sword's trapped in his chest, and I'm indecisive as to let go of it or continue trying to yank it out, and this costs me. Nishimon raises his dagger overhead, and with the force of a guillotine, he severs my hand from its wrist.

I don't – can't – remember the pain of the blow. There was a quick glint of light on the dagger above me, and in the next moment, it was below me, covered in something red. I tried to pull on my sword again but felt no inertia at the end of my arm. Then I looked down and saw the gleaming white ulna bone sneering at me, the blood pooling out both ends of the bisected wrist, split hand slowly uncurling its grip on the hilt.

And I screamed, not for the pain, but for the notion of my loss.

Trivia –

The concept of 'breaths' works not by saturating the entire body with oxygen as to heighten its performance (this is an advanced level of total concentration breathing, something which Giyuu hasn't attained yet) but by efficiently managing this oxygen supply to correlate with whatever action is being performed. For example, a slash requires more oxygen in the arms, a dash in the legs, etcetera. And whatever body parts that aren't involved in or are less involved in this action would have their oxygen diverted to those that are. As a side effect this makes losing limbs more dangerous than it normally is. If the limb lost is the same that was saturated with oxygen taken from around the body, the combatant experiences what's called an 'oxygen crash'. Effects of this in addition to complementary blood loss and pain may include: blackouts, loss of sensation in other limb(s), confusion, heart palpitations, irregular breathing, immediate loss of consciousness, nigh-immediate death.

Through my cry, I see Shinobu, who's lying with her back against the ground, pick herself up. There're pieces of glass in her arms, her legs, her waist, her cheek. A cut above her one eye and the blood coming out it renders her bloodshot. She looks crazy, but no amount of crazy can kill someone who's already insane. Nishimon charges at Shinobu, and she manages to stab his chest once or twice, but by the time he reached her she's backed into a corner, on her haunches and seemingly out of options. Yet like this, she spoke:

"You know where I hit you, motherfucker?"

"In my chest. In my shoulder," Nishimon replied.

"No, no." She's smiling like a maddened dog. "Your heart. Your lymph node. Your spine. Your spleen. You think my poison's useless, but that's where you're wrong."

"I'm not dead, girl. Your boyfriend, however–"

Nishimon breaks off, and from where I lay with the glass next to my eyes I see he himself looks surprised at this. He lifts his hands to his mouth but retracts them when they start flaking away, a bit like how baklava does under pressure. Then his legs fold into themselves and the wooden floor shakes when he collapses by Shinobu's feet, facing me as he begins to writhe and burble when foam starts seeping through his teeth. It's the only time I see and will see him so vulnerable, yet I can't even savour it. I'm wallowing in a pool of my own blood. Even if by then, the elastic nature of veins and arteries should have already to a degree, self-cauterised the wound, the stump doesn't stop bleeding. I tried to lift my arm so that gravity would somehow cinch the flow, but to no avail. Nishimon still twitched on the floor, in this weakening pattern of repetitive and senseless motion, and I see Shinobu rush over to me. In her hands she's made taut a kind of cord, and she wrings this cord around my arm, muttering and pleading something, though I can't hear what. I myself start to gurgle. A jangling sound comes from my throat, and in retrospect, it may have very well been the death rattle. Hell's whispering in my ear, and yet, in the threshold of my sight –

Nishimon Uzui's there, gathered from the ground, all well.

It's an unfair trade, isn't it?

I'm losing my life while he gets to keep his.

His hands have solidified, and he's no longer trembling. His voice is back, and manhandling Shinobu, he starts to shout, clearly furious at the notion of poison nearly taking his life. He pulls her off me and throws her in a direction I cannot see, following after. There's the sound of metal clashing and a girl screaming, but more and more the cries are uttered with less and less strength, until it goes silent altogether, and then he's there. Youma, kneeling over me, grips the stump and whispers in my ear. Then he puts a hand over my eyes, and things blur into one another and slide into darkness.


January 1915


3rd Person POV

Tengenmon, Nishimon, and Bishamon Uzui sat clumped around a fire, and had their breakfast of fish and soup as was the first course of the routine they had adopted in their time spent on the mountain. Abrasive Nishimon had learned to look forward to this part of the day; back home, they usually ate under the eye of a watchful father and a subservient mother, not allowed to talk, or make a move before him. He remembers especially well being told to line up with his brothers by the wall, during which their father would proceed to pick the best pieces from a selection of dishes that remained unchanged through all his life; from the bits of meat with the least fat, to the chunks of fish with no bone. And like dogs, the boys and their mother would get the leftovers. But here, sharing a meal in this small part of the world, they were as equals. For the youngest brother Nishimon, this was a first. The circumstances, however, which made such a thing possible could be ignored no longer. And it was this which formed the basis of their final conversation, at their final breakfast, the final time the three brothers would be together.

"He meant it, didn't he? He wasn't lying. He wants one of us to go."

Tengenmon spoke first. He was the most jittery and most skittish, and when he talked the makeshift chopsticks in his hands rattled. Bishamon fished a bone out of his teeth and stared for a moment into the fire. "Nishimon," he said, ignoring Tengenmon, "are you… fine? You're all soaked in blood."

Nishimon nodded and did not speak. Something else had his mind. During the tenure of his stay on the mountain, he never could've said that he particularly enjoyed the fish and soup he had every morning. The gratification he experienced in mealtime came more from the company of his siblings. But today, something was amiss. The food, he found, tasted all kinds of terrible. The rotten kind of terrible. The putrid kind of terrible. Both bitter and nauseatingly sweet, like how he imagined the smell of wet socks in the form of a flavour. Was it off? No. They'd just caught it today. A parasite, maybe? And there was also the beguiling question of the gaping cut on his hand he'd sustained a few days earlier climbing a tree – a cut that was now gone. If the ability to heal wounds instantly was an effect of his transformation, then so be it! But as for the warping of his sense of taste, he feared only the tedium it would bring.

Tengenmon continued talking. "If… if one of us really have to go, then…" He stopped there, and looked at Nishimon as if expecting him to say something he could not. Then he steeled himself and said it: "I'll run away!"

Though Bishamon shot him down promptly. First of all, the mountain was fenced off. Secondly, even if you did somehow bypass that, the immediate area around it was all shinobi family territory. If they found you, they'd just turn you in. And that means you can't take up lodging with them, either. Thirdly, if the instructions their father gave them were real (speaking introspectively here, about everyone had already come to the conclusion that they were), then by the end of the test when someone had supposedly been killed, he'd likely need to see a body to verify it. Nishimon couldn't help but agree with all three of his brother's points. Escape was impractical, and right now, impossible. He looked at Bishamon and saw the weariness seeping into his damp pink eyes.

"I miss home," he said. A month of prowling in the boondocks had eroded his composure to the point that the homesickness began getting to his head, and it showed in his weak expression. "I miss our room. I miss our mother. I miss…"

Then he stood up, suddenly, and began ruffling underneath his shirt. He pulled out a metallic object, shaped like an 'L', with a wooden handle on one end and a smooth barrel sticking out the other.

"I have an idea! You see this here?" An outburst. Something was wrong with Bishamon's voice, forever proud, now cracking. "It's a pistol. Yeah. You know where I got it? I mean, you wouldn't know where I got it, but you know where I got it?"

A gun – symbols of unrefined, unreserved power. Naturally, considered taboo within shinobi circles, and the cultivated brand of espionage which they stood for.

"I found it… by the stream nearby. It was just there. Yeah. And to think we didn't notice it before, huh?" Bishamon continued. "You know what happens when you get shot with this thing? Hmm? I'm asking, do you know what happens?"

By now Tengenmon and Nishimon realised something was awry.

"You… die?" the former said.

"Of course you die. But how do you die? Wait. Don't answer that. You don't have to answer everything."

"Bisha–"

"You die quick. That's how you die. You die quick and you don't feel it. I… I."

Bishamon starts waving the gun around, wildly, erratically, and he approaches Tengenmon, touching his shoulder.

"I wonder… if I get back, will I be chosen as the heir? No, no. He wants you, Tengen."

"What?" Tengenmon replied, confused. Bishamon starts circling the gun over his temple, squeezing the handle tight, and Tengenmon tries to take it from him a few times, but he keeps flicking it away.

"Tengen… you're my brother, and I love you, but…" He bites his dry tongue. "You should be the one to go. I–I mean, you're the weakest, right? We all know that! You always come last in races, you barely win any of your sparring matches, and you really don't make that good of a shinobi. So, I say, I shoot you with this. Here. Right now. You won't even feel it, and then we get to go home. Hey, Tengen? How's that sound?"

"What the fuck?" Nishimon said. He stands up, but then Bishamon puts the gun on him, aiming him down, trying to get him back in his seat. When he fails, his attention turns again to Tengenmon.

"Stay there!" he cried. He made the grip on his brother tighter and jerked him closer. He continues waving the gun in the air, menacingly, and stares at Tengenmon, as if trying to intimidate him. The latter's too shocked to say anything. He opens his mouth, but the words evaporate from his tongue.

"You're okay with that, aren't you? You've always been okay with everything. Was never one to say no. Hey, Tengen, take one for the team, will you? Then I… Nishimon and I can go home, huh? Whaddya think of that?"

He stops bobbing the pistol, and slowly, ever so slowly, he draws it to Tengenmon's chest. He cocks the hammer and the sound pulls Nishimon closer, warily closer. The youngest brother mutters something and continues padding over, and when Bishamon's finger locks on the trigger he tackles him. They land in the snow, mauling over each other, struggling for the gun. There are punches thrown, elbows landed, but Bishamon's grip is iron and unyielding.

"Get outta here!" He's shouting through a clutched jaw. "Get outta here! Go home! Don't you understand? We ain't got no life! Ain't got no choice in who we are! It's all shinobi this and shinobi that. So what's the harm if I kill him!?"

"Fuck if you decide!"

They go on grappling, and though Nishimon's miles weaker than Bishamon, he manages a secure hold on the gun. It goes off several times, bullets ricocheting against trees and stones, and some graze Nishimon's shirt. Tengenmon tries several times to break them apart, but his actions are weak, and words weaker. Eventually though, when the clash wears on, a battle of strength becomes a battle of stamina, and it's a battle he starts to lose, and Bishamon presses the barrel against Nishimon's chin, finger hovering over the trigger, cold steel boring into his conscience. Something's streaming down his face, and it's unclear whether it's sweat or tears or both. But the granite expression in his eyes was unmistakable, and the brutal determination for which they stood for was even more apparent. Thus, a decision was laid out before him. Even if, under any other terms, the choice would've been an arduous one, right now, a line had been drawn in the sand: Tengenmon wanted to preserve the peace while Bishamon was out for blood. Therefore, to Nishimon, the mandate came easy, and the answer to it more so:

That here and today, one of them needed to die –

And that Bishamon Uzui was the one most undeserving of his life.

So with a final force of will, Nishimon struck Bishamon's wrist, turned the gun on him, and shot.

It hit him in the throat, and he lets go of Nishimon and tugs on his collar, as if it suffocated him. His Adam's apple's been torn open, white cartilage peeling along with the skin, and blood gushes out and fills his throat and bubbles up through his teeth. It stains the snow, and with a last spasmic action, he goes limp onto the ground. And it was then that the father revealed himself from the shade of the wood, frowning impassively, clapping his hands.

"Well done," he said. "Nishimon, Tengenmon, you have passed. Rejoice. The baggage has been filtered."

Tengenmon's crying. There're tears pooling out from under his eyes, but he doesn't dare sob. He reaches for Bishamon, but the father kicks his hand away and pulls him up.

"No crying," he said. "Don't mourn the infidel."

He takes the pistol from Nishimon and racks the slide to eject the last bullet, before tossing it in the fire.

"And if you need to know, it was I who put the gun by the stream," he said. "I got sick of watching you do nothing, and I reckoned that would push you over the edge. Now let's go."

The father starts walking off, and the force of his presence pulls a grieving Tengenmon off of Bishamon and towards him. He stops, though, when he looks back and sees something:

Nishimon Uzui, still bent over the sight of his dead brother's body and no less tearful than Tengenmon…

Is drooling.


3rd Person POV


Giyuu Tomioka lay limp over the glass floor, one arm sagging, the other purple and veiny and ending in a stump. In another part of the room, a beaten and senseless Shinobu Kochou had been throttled into the wall. Between them stood Nishimon Uzui, foreboding and unharmed. He curled his shoulders and flexed his fingers, but stopped when he heard ruffling in the next room, where he'd stored Tengenmon. Was that Hinatsuru? No matter. He pressed the knife in his hand against Giyuu's neck. He saw that, unconscious like this, he looked younger, and uncannily serene, as if only asleep, much like another boy he knew. Hey, come to think of it…

The last time he was in a position of this sort –

Was when he killed Bishamon.

He wondered, then, if this boy was anyone's brother. If so, then this sibling would have to forgive him. The best he could do for him now, that'd alleviate his guilty conscience, was to give him a quick death. He squeezed the knife and slit his neck, ragged breathing devolving into a gurgle, shoulders slacking.

Only that he did not.

There was no blood, no movement of the dagger, no cessation of life. Only a stillness, a crunching of glass, and a hand grasped around a wrist.

A right hand, one should add. The right hand – of a certain Tomioka Giyuu.

Or was it?

In any case, his dominant arm had risen and wrapped its way round Nishimon's own. And there was power behind his grip. Though his eyes hadn't opened, Nishimon couldn't help but feel read and watched and in a way, outclassed, as if someone unknown to him, unknowingly powerful, had entered the fray. It was this instinct which pushed him off Giyuu and drew his hands back into his pockets. Taking out a paper, he read it:


Scene SIX, Act FOUR

NISHIMON dies.


"I wonder, can your ability predict the actions of the dead?"

It was a masculine voice that couldn't have belonged to Shinobu, was uncanny of Tengenmon, and surely unsuited to Nishimon. And neither was it to Tomioka Giyuu. Yet, when the words had been uttered, it was his mouth that moved, his throat that churned. Nishimon turned around and saw in the half-light the coal-coloured hair, the mismatched haori that was now all red, the impassive dignity of the enemy who stood before him and whom wore on his shoulders an obligation to eliminate the demon enemy.

Though, in this form, he hardly appeared different from one himself.

"What?" Nishimon said.

"You heard me, Lower Moon One."

Then he opened his eyes and Nishimon witnessed it: blue had turned green. He remembered Giyuu's eye colour because it was a standout feature on an otherwise plain-looking boy, and by recognising the change in them and what they'd changed into was what led him to his final conclusion:

"I see… you're the one she was looking for…"

"…Nisegami Youma."

"Well done," Youma replied. "You drew me out."

Though save for his eyes, his appearance remained the same, it was immediately palpable to Nishimon that something in the boy had changed, and the instincts beaten into him from childhood told him that he may not have even been that boy any longer. There were the slight protrusions in his teeth that when he talked, Nishimon observed had not been there before, and aside from the change in eye-colour his nails became angular and overall he had grown a little taller; all signs of a demon possession. But it was the stark change in character that grounded the condition. Indeed; Nisegami Youma had come back to life.

An immediate change of tone, and then:

"Our leader wants you back," Nishimon said. "The revolution will not succeed without it."

"Revolution?"

"Our mission to restore the Great Nation of Yan"

'Great Nation of Yan' – the name of an experiment that resonated with demons and their demon slayer counterparts who were old enough to remember it, and which meant nothing to the rest.

"Oh…" Youma said, scratching his chin. "My brother's going through with that."

"Yes," Nishimon replied. "She told me the dream you two had. To create a place where… people 'like you' could be free. Demons, half-demons, whatever. A place free from human persecution. Pretty rosy-sounding."

Youma ignored him. "She? Oh… her."

"Your brother's deserted the Muzan contingent of demons, and has left her in his seat of Upper Moon Two. Though, they still retain contact. She sent me to come escort you to him."

"Escort me? But back then you just tried to kill this boy, Giyuu. Kill the vessel, kill the spirit inside that vessel. I'm sure that's not what she ordered."

"It was a means to force you to possess him. Now, the transformation will begin."

"Ah…" Youma said, mouth widening. "That's right. But it was inevitable, anyway. In any case, if you think I'll hand myself over just like that, you're wrong. I hate my brother, and this boy will exact my hate. So I can't allow you to hurt him."

"Over one-hundred and seventy years old, and that's the way you think. You're still blind…" Then Nishimon's eyes widened, and he said to himself: "I wonder… who was that speaking just now?"

"Dunno."

On that utterance, there was a pause, a still pause, and then Nisegami Youma was there, hand on Nishimon's shoulder, other strained back behind him, until he slams that into Nishimon's jaw and crumples the whole left side of his face. He flies into the wall behind him and simultaneously causes a piece of the ceiling to crumble on him. In came the light, afternoon-unto-evening light, jangling against the pile of debris he sat in. But in a way, he was content to be like this. Though he couldn't have called himself close with the woman who turned him this way, he remembered with uncanny clarity what she'd said back then, explaining the conditions of his transformation and the form he'd be taking on:

"I'm a different kind of demon. All those turned by Nisegami Doumaare. As to what makes us different, there are two things: one, the ability to resist Muzan's control, mind-reading, all that, and two, the ability to walk in the sun. And when I transform you, you'll inherit these traits."

And from the way she made it sound his condition was one of utmost rarity.

So, like this, he was safe.

If this man stepped in the sun to reach him, he'd just burn away. He could rest here, heal, and then run away with Tengenmon, and then everything would be alright.

But then, why?

Why, if he was so special, so different to the rest, could this person –

This demon, who'd possessed this child

Stand in the fullness of the day, unaffected, just like he did?

"How long've you been transformed, boy? You haven't even developed a Blood Demon Art yet. What's that whole future predicting ability about? Were you a visionary playwright as a kid? It's pretty useless. Against me, at least."

Nishimon's mouth had regenerated somewhat, and he stuck his hand from the rubble and pointed an invasive finger at Youma:

"Even though you're the guy she was looking for… I want to know for myself…" His words mashed in his half-healed mouth.

"Know what?"

"Who you are."

"Me? Me?" Youma repeated, as if to affirm it to himself. "Nisegami Youma. A dead man who cheated death. You know that, by the looks of it, and this this boy…" – he twirled a strand of his vessel's dark hair and pinched his haori – "well, this boy will be forced to know it too."

Nishimon didn't try to resist when Youma stepped forward and pulled him from the rubble. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he thought that if he showed no hostility he would receive no hostility, for he had recognised him as an opponent by which he was decidedly outclassed, but this was a foolish notion, and a knee driven into his core nearly forces the organs there up his throat, and there's blood coming out of his nose and out of his ears and from under his eyes and the crimson reality that he was going to die flit through the back of his eyes. In another part of the battlefield, a bewildered Kunoichi excavates her male counterpart from under a pile of carpets and unravels the cord that restrained him. Upon leaving Shinobu and Giyuu to face Nishimon on their own, Hinatsuru looked to the other structures of the complex lest Tengenmon had been stored in one of them. When thought of through the lens of brotherly assailant Nishimon, a granny flat tucked away behind some trees looked the most sensible place to do that, and upon entering Hinatsuru pulled off a sheet of wriggling tatami mats to uncover tied-up and tied-down Tengenmon Uzui, mouth taped, body bound.

"Who would've thought my own brother would try bondage on me?" was what he said when freed. "Fuck, my arm hurts. And my toes. Hey, do you hear that? Sounds like fighting…"

"Get a hold of yourself!" Hinatsuru replied. "Nishimon's getting killed out there. I–I don't know how, but Giyuu was losing and Nishimon was boutta get him but he suddenly went crazy and really strong and now Nishimon's going to die and Shinobu's out of it too and, and–"

"You get a hold of yourself! Shit!" He darted out the flat and saw it under a sky of burning gas: in the lit courtyard; Nishimon Uzui, skull split open, body folded over like a butler's towel; and the boy who held him by the jaw, Tomioka Giyuu.

But Tomioka Giyuu who?

This was not him.

The Tomioka Giyuu he knew…

Now grasped in his other hand was Shinobu's sword, still liquid-coated, glimmering in all colours in the light.

"Giyuu!" Tengenmon cried, held back by Hinatsuru. She would not allow him to go and he resorted to splitting the two apart with words. "Earlier, when I poured my heart out to you, you didn't say anything really, but I sensed, sensed it a little bit, that you were sympathetic to me! I've always been a fool, and maybe that was just wishful thinking, but if it wasn't, then remember! Don't kill him! He's, he's…"

All he had left? No.

"…He's not the killer! I lied! Lied about everything! Okay? It was a way to get you to help us! You were after the killer and I was looking for my brother! And I admit it! When you first agreed to the whole thing, I was planning to get rid of you once we found him. But… even in that little time spent we spent together, I saw that you and Shinobu were good people. Sure, we weren't 'friends' per se, but I feel like if we had met under different circumstances, things would've been different. So, please, you don't have to kill him! Just… stop, and we'll never bother you again."

It was a blatantly obvious lie made in the heat of emotion, as much as it was a most desperate upturning of truth done as a last resort. Whatever the case, it made Giyuu freeze for a moment – a safe freeze, since Nishimon was too broken to use the chance to retaliate – and he turned his head round and uttered his condolences:

"I am sorry, Tengen. Do not hate Giyuu for what I am about to do."

And with the sword of highest beauty he stabbed him through the chest and the death rattle sounded itself.


"Growing up on this estate, the sight of the walls surrounding you was always a familiar one, and I am sure as you have grown older you have equally grown to detest them. And it is only natural to want to see the world. But, I'm here to tell you now, on the other side of these walls… is the enemy. A demonic enemy. A human enemy. An enemy which will rip you apart and put you back together and then do it all over again. An enemy which kills unjustly. That is why I have kept you locked inside these walls. It was to protect you. It was also why I trained you so. You've come of age now, and it is time to let you go. This is the moment Bishamon sacrificed himself for. Thus I say this with great sadness: the minute you step out there, into the land of the infidel, you will become tainted. And I say this with greater sadness: it is only when you come back from that upon which your training will be complete."

Six months ago, when Tengenmon heard his father give that speech the day he returned from Mount Gozaisho, he couldn't help but feel his blood sear, throat boil, and he looked at Nishimon beside him and saw that he felt the same. Perhaps that was why his brother left the very next day with no precedence, nothing as much as a note to explain it, and perhaps that is why he accepted the assignment from his father that same day to follow and retrieve him back. But now, six months later –

Immersed in the perceived hell that was the outside world –

Immersed in the inhabitants of this outside world –

Immersed in the battlefield in which his innocent brother was mauled and in which he could do nothing but kneel as a dog did and watch –

He saw the truth:

That they truly were unjust demons, just like father always said.