14
For Daigo, this is how it goes down:
The moment the stranger vanishes, the last piece of the puzzle falls into place. Daigo instantly realizes the true scope of the situation—not to mention just how badly this is all going to turn out for Ichikawa and his crew. The shopkeeper feels his entire body go rigid with sick anticipation.
And then people begin to fall from the sky.
Three men leap from behind the edge of Daigo's vision, launching themselves from somewhere above the building. The bold perfection of their descent is all the confirmation Daigo needs.
Shinobi. Of course it's fucking shinobi.
Daigo has less than a moment to wonder where the stranger's comrades were hiding all this time. A half-moment more to consider how absurd that notion actually is. Less than the length of a blink to realize that they aren't other men at all.
All three look exactly like the traveler himself. A trio of flawless copies, hair and long coats streaming behind them in the sirocco wind. Utterly identical—down to the same mud stains speckling the edges of their coats.
Daigo's fingers curl tight over the doorframe. Splinters dig at his fingers.
Ichikawa and his lackeys don't even have time to react as the stranger's doppelgangers burst forth. Each landing summons a cloud of dust. The disheveled figures are moving the moment they impact, fanning out fast as hounds at the hunt.
Out to Daigo's left, one of the doubles zigzags over the chalk yard as if on ice skates. He bobs and sweeps his way behind Ken, then strikes in a towheaded blur. There is a moist snapping sound, loud as a loosed cork. Ken's ankle suddenly rests at a physically impossible angle. His eyes pull wide as platters. The sound he produces as he collapses is thin and high and not entirely human. He never even gets a shot off with his scattergun.
Hiroshi, however, manages to at least squeeze off a single fusillade. A second version of the stranger—as if possessed by some wild precognition—is so far away from the spray of birdshot it's almost laughable. The double careens out to the edge of the yard, executes a turn so smooth it defies the concept of inertia, and comes skidding back. A storm of hands and palms thunders against the back of Hiroshi's head and back. The scattergun leaps from his hands and clatters end over end across the front yard.
It's clear that Ichikawa has no comprehension of what's going on. He spits and growls and squeezes the trigger of his wheel-gun twice before the final copy of the stranger reaches him. Smiling like a wild dog, the stranger weaves between the bullets without so much as a flinch. He hits Ichikawa hard, driving an elbow down into wrist holding the pistol. Another chorus of splintering bone. The pistol drops. Ichikawa screams and rocks backward, clutching at the useless ruin of his hand.
Start to finish, it takes less than thirty seconds. Thirty seconds from the stranger's question about coffins to a yard full of mewling bodies.
A lovely picture: Ichikawa stands swaying and groaning, shattered forearm boneless against his side. Ken shuffles in the dirt like a dying animal, still clutching the barrel of his scattergun. Barely conscious, Hiroshi avoids dropping to the dirt only with the help of the stranger's steadying hand on his shoulder.
Three identical strangers prowl about the yard. Feral smiles play about their faces. They gaze down at the bandits with gleeful imperiousness.
Goddamn ninja magic. It's been more than a decade since Daigo's seen it in action. Every time he has, it's made him feel as if he's come unhooked from the moorings of the world. Today is no exception. Even as he can't look away, Daigo's head swims with something akin to childhood terror.
Of course, he really isn't at all surprised when the whole situation goes spectacularly, absurdly wrong.