Chapter 83: The Onmyoji

He quickly pinpointed the trail of Maple Hunt using the divining board in his hand. The towering shikigami allowed him to look down upon the gathered monsters below.

“Hand over the child, and today’s incident shall be written off.”

Even Hyuga Kamo knew this was an empty threat, and he expected no response. After this token observance of the Supernatural Rights Act, he stowed away his divining board and began to perform the onmyōdō techniques that had been passed down for generations in the Tsuchimikado family.

Among the Tsuchimikado, there exists an ancient tome chronicling the words of the great onmyōji. Hyuga Kamo had only been granted the right to read it on the day he came of age, and from that day forward, he became the most powerful onmyōji of modern Japan.

He would always remember the words of Abe no Seimei, recorded at the very start of that tome: anything in this world that bears a name is bound by that name. The moment one recognizes an existence and names it, one casts a spell upon it.

“Wind.” With that single word, the mist that had filled the air vanished in an instant, swept away by an invisible gale that left everything pristine.

“Forest.” The asphalt road trembled as tangled vines burst through the pavement laid by human machinery. Empowered by onmyōdō, they grew wild and unchecked—not driven by instinct, but by their master’s command, encasing Maple Hunt and the Hundred-Eyed Demon in a sea of vegetation.

Maple Hunt, weak and powerless, could only watch as the dusty vines imprisoned her, but her companion, the Hundred-Eyed Demon, refused to surrender so easily.

“Another damn onmyōji.” The Hundred-Eyed Demon glared fiercely at Hyuga Kamo in the distance. Though this man’s threat was not as great as that of Abe no Seimei—the one with celestial fox blood from a thousand years ago—the demon dared not let down its guard. Tearing off its coat, it faced its enemy in the most primal form of a monster.

Though Hyuga Kamo was over forty and long past the age of being ruled by hormones, he could not help but glance over when the Hundred-Eyed Demon revealed its naked body. This was less out of desire and more because, according to records in the Onmyō Bureau, this type of demon used its beauty to seduce, stealing the eyes of men to increase its power. When it had one hundred eyes, it would become an unstoppable abomination—hence its name.

This demon, having survived over a thousand years, had weathered cycles of slaughter and pursuit. It continually harvested human eyes, only to lose them again in battle. Now, only seventy-two eyes remained on its body—a limit it had determined through the years. One more, and it could no longer conceal the aura of its magic, drawing the Onmyō Bureau’s attention.

Hyuga Kamo frowned at the demon whose body was nearly covered in eyes. Such a being would have been legendary, a peer of Tamamo-no-Mae or Shuten-dōji, and even now, it was not to be underestimated.

With its garment gone, what was revealed was more than a grotesque form: the stolen eyes on its body shone with a blinding white light, as sharp as a master-forged blade, slicing through the vines and leaving lifeless husks in their path.

The demon’s aim was not merely escape; its long life had brewed a deep-seated resentment for onmyōji. For centuries, the decline of Japan’s mystical environment forced it into hiding, unable to match the power of its pursuers. Unlike mortals, the long-lived measured time differently—their hatred did not fade, but matured like sake, growing ever more potent.

It stared straight at Hyuga Kamo, who stood in the shikigami’s palm. The seething hatred in its eyes took on a tangible form. Hyuga had no time to evade, but his sentient shikigami shielded him with its left hand, blocking the deadly attack. The gaze of the Hundred-Eyed Demon was not merely piercing; even though the shikigami was a spirit, a black, corrosive venom spread up its arm. Yet Hyuga, experienced and resourceful, quickly severed the corruption, sacrificing the shikigami’s entire arm in the process.

Every onmyōji has their own shikigami. Folklore claims they use various means—deceit or threats—to force these spirits into servitude. But only the onmyōji know that no contract is unbreakable: malice begets only malice, and only sincerity earns a trustworthy companion.

Hyuga’s shikigami was a ghost he had befriended in childhood, only formally bound after he became an onmyōji. He never saw it as a subordinate, but as a friend.

Suppressing his anger, Hyuga looked towards the Hundred-Eyed Demon, whose eyes brimmed with hatred. After that brief probing, the fated clash spanning centuries at last began in earnest.

Inside the izakaya, the tengu had already drawn his sword. Though his blade seemed to move slowly, it cut unerringly toward Zhao Tianxing’s heart—a masterful iaido strike, renowned for its lethal efficiency. Even without supernatural strength, a sword technique tempered by years could not be parried by ordinary men.

Zhao Tianxing brushed past the tengu. The quiet izakaya seemed deserted until the sound of dripping liquid broke the silence.

He had dodged the fatal blow, but the tengu had not come away empty-handed. The fabric at Zhao’s left shoulder was slashed, blood dripping from the wound.

From the moment he drew his sword, Zhao Tianxing knew he could not defeat the tengu by skill alone.

Yet the Deer Academy was never a school of swordsmanship; its trainees were not meant to become swordmasters. What they taught was but a means to an end—victory, victory, that alone was their pursuit.

The reason Zhao Tianxing won the praise of nearly every professor at the academy was not just his swordsmanship. Beyond his indomitable spirit, he possessed a strength truly worthy of admiration.

“Let’s make a deal. It’s simple: give something, get something. Out here, souls are the universal currency. I’m happy to inform you—your soul is pure and enduring. It looks like you’ve got many years left in this world.”

“Ten years.”

“Oh, you mean to give up ten years of your soul’s lifespan? That’s—”

“I only need ten years. After ten years, my soul is yours.”

“Wow, now that’s a lavish bargain. As you wish.”

Zhao Tianxing would never forget that brief exchange. The reason he was called the “Star” at Deer Academy was not merely his prowess, but because, when he unleashed his soul’s flame at full force, he shone like a burning star in the cosmos.

Azure flames engulfed him in an instant. Bathed in soul fire, he gave the tengu no chance to react. Every second in this state was precious, for the fire’s fuel was nothing but the human soul itself.

Not even the academy’s greatest magic professor could divine his remaining lifespan, and Zhao would never know when the fire might consume the last remnant of his soul—a cruel joke left by the dealer. Zhao had the right to ignite his soul for power at any moment, but when only ten years remained, the dealer would come to claim his due.

That being, who delighted in toying with mortals, knew well that uncertainty was humanity’s greatest fear.

Ablaze from head to toe, Zhao Tianxing appeared as a god descended upon earth, his sword too wreathed in flame. This fire, which burned all things to ash, made no distinction between beings: once ignited, any life—no matter how long its span—would be reduced to nothing.

The tengu had never seen such terrifying fire, but needed no experience to sense danger—instantly, the roles of attacker and defender reversed.

Zhao Tianxing did not fear injury in exchange for victory. No human, in principle, could endure or wield such fire, but the dealer had not enjoyed such a straightforward bargain in ages. He admired Zhao, and so granted him extraordinary power. In this state, Zhao’s flesh became something other than human, able to withstand the soul’s flames. Few attacks could break such a body.

The tengu, seeing Zhao’s intent, grew visibly frantic. It was uncertain if it could deliver a killing blow, yet the destructive aura of Zhao’s fire reminded it of death.

The moment the tengu felt fear, the outcome was decided.

A swordsman’s heart must remain untroubled.

When Zhao Tianxing finally left the izakaya, the battle outside was nearing its end.

The shikigami had vanished. Hyuga Kamo, his hat lost and hair disheveled, lay sprawled on the ground, his former composure gone, his eyes wild. Except for the eyes on her face, the Hundred-Eyed Demon’s magical eyes were all spent; she too glared venomously at Hyuga. Both waited for their magic to replenish—too much had been spent, and now it was a fight to the death.

As Zhao Tianxing stepped into view, Hyuga summoned his last strength to look at him. “Kill the Hundred-Eyed Demon! On behalf of the Onmyō Bureau, I promise you—we’ll fulfill any demand you make.”

The demon said nothing. She didn’t even bother to look at Zhao; she had caught the pure scent of humanity on him the moment he’d appeared. So she simply waited, gathering her magical energy.

Zhao did not answer immediately. He noticed Maple Hunt not far away, and Arthur, who was pulling her, clearly preparing to escape.

“Stop them! Kill that child, and you’ll be the hero who ended the millennium tide!” Hyuga kept shouting after Zhao.

At the word “child,” Zhao paused and walked over to Arthur and Maple Hunt, who had halted. He gazed at the infant in Maple Hunt’s arms. “Is she a monster?”

Arthur shook his head. Maple Hunt nodded. Then, both hesitated, glancing at each other—Arthur began nodding, Maple Hunt shaking her head.

“She’s just an innocent child, who knows nothing. If there’s any fault, it’s mine. Please spare her.” Maple Hunt had sensed the scent of tengu blood lingering on Zhao, and guessed what had happened in the izakaya.

Arthur’s face was pained. His low voice was thick with a nameless anger. “They’ve done nothing at all. Must they die simply for being monsters?”

Zhao Tianxing looked at Arthur, as if trying to discern the true source of his rage.

He too had known that same helpless feeling, and had never dared vent it. Calmly, he looked at Arthur, then after a moment’s silence, turned and walked away, deciding to pretend he’d never been here.

If every question had an answer, what fun would God have in toying with mortals?

Yet he had barely taken a few steps before the sound of a car engine echoed from the distance.

Arthur’s relief turned instantly to despair. GOC agents. It had been twenty minutes since they’d entered the izakaya. Though the Night Parade’s mist had cut this district off, the agents had surely found a way in by now.

Sure enough, within seconds, a squad of agents in GOC uniforms burst out from every corner, surrounding them completely.

“Filthy humans, as countless as ants and just as hard to kill,” muttered Shuten-dōji, leaping down from a high building. The asphalt shattered beneath his impact, yet he seemed unfazed, his chest—previously pierced by the anti-demon sniper—already healed. Aside from a few bloodstains on his face, he looked almost unchanged.

The moment Shuten-dōji appeared before the GOC, the battle erupted anew. Zhao Tianxing spared the scene only a brief glance before looking away—he had no desire to be caught up in a slaughterhouse.

“Kill the child!”

Zhao turned and saw a GOC agent, having bypassed Shuten-dōji, rushing furiously at Maple Hunt and Arthur. His cry was less a command than a desperate attempt to steel his own courage: look, the infant in the monster’s arms is our target, kill it, kill the monster child. However terrifying monsters may be, at this moment it is only a baby.

Arthur and the agent grappled. Zhao Tianxing kept walking; none of this was truly his concern.

A shrill scream rang out. “Don’t hurt my child!” The weakened Maple Hunt was powerless to stop another agent who rushed at her. She fell in her struggle to protect her baby. Just awakened, Shiori did not notice her mother on the ground. A stranger seized her in one hand, the other holding an unfamiliar black toy pointed at her.

Curious, Shiori reached out to touch the cold black object, fiddling with its hollow barrel. The agent, half-crouched above her, was trembling. He kept repeating, “She’s a monster,” and after several repetitions, his finger finally settled on the trigger.

“No!”

Time seemed to freeze. Shuten-dōji, bloodied and ferocious, burst into wild laughter in the distance. Arthur, still grappling with his foe, roared in rage. Maple Hunt, unable to rise, screamed in agony—a mother whose heart nearly stopped. The agent had already closed his eyes, decision made, his finger tightening.

But the gun never fired, for it was now in Zhao Tianxing’s hand.

Shiori stared at the unfamiliar big brother before her, watching as he slowly reached out and then, to her surprise, picked her up.

Zhao Tianxing sighed. He knew this would be trouble—his heart should have been hardened by now. Yet, just for a moment, something soft inside him was stirred.

Looking at the wide-eyed infant in his arms, Zhao suddenly recalled something someone had told him long ago: there is but a step between a firefighter and an arsonist.

He whispered, so only he could hear, “Of course, I am the arsonist.”

A soul-searing fire once again lit up the Tokyo dawn. The sword was drawn, and in every eye, blood began to burn.