Rebirth

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Above the village of Okushiri—in the vast and hidden land of Inreikai—an unsightly breeze brushed through the moonless night, scattering together the jumbled branches of various timbers. Making its way without course, without thought, it ominously signaled the changes to come.

Against the flattened sky, a faceless figure stood solid upon the highest reaches of an ancient forest. Eyes pulsating through kindled madness, something was whispered from beneath his breath, from beneath his mask—his cloak taken by the winds and swiftly given to the darkness.

In the instant that followed, the ground slowly thundered and shook as if it was splitting at the seams, and freshly spewed across the hillside was a scent of imminent destruction. From this—from between the thickets and from a shredded portal in space and time—, the very image of death approached the unwitting valley below.

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A boy by the name of Kazuhiro Hirashi sat uncomfortably upon his bed, his back held flat against an unwelcoming wall. Its minor wooden contours pinched with reckless passion as they dug deeper into his unguarded flesh, flowing to the rhythm of his gasping breath; his short black hair was frayed from side to side.

It was a perfect night, one mirrored by the fresh tides of a youthful autumn.

Everything had been unnaturally silent, yet the very cry which stirred Kazuhiro from his sleep was anything but. It had been the rumbling roar of broken earth and stone, of the stretching and tearing of ancient timbers, of the echoed cries of maddened tears and anguish—of unparalleled horror.

Awoken with thought, Kazuhiro quickly found himself dashing from his room and into the hallway—his bare feet forced the fitted bamboo mats beneath him into ruffled chatter.

His mother’s room was empty; his face pained by uncertainty.

Kazuhiro’s heart nearly failed at the thought.

Running through an open front door, and breaking past the dried and fickle branches of a few white ash trees that covered his home, Kazuhiro was halted by a terrifying reality. His village, his family, his life: they were all held within the arms of some infernal flames as a fiery youkai swept its way through homes and villagers, crushing all as if they were nothing but discardable trash.

He had only heard about such things, of such unimaginable tales.

Staring off into the distance, the dark haired youth could easily identify from where the monster came; a trail of incinerated white ash laying flat in its wake. To him, it appeared as if a river of sweltering heat had met the forest upon dire terms, and without thought, continued on.

As it slowly rolled forward and into the center of town, Kazuhiro could see the youkai’s featureless face—a metal chain wrapping around its neck then passing through a gapping hole in its chest—held above the crafted roofing of the tallest buildings in Okushiri. He could also see its crusting skin, one molded through times of hell as if ripped from whatever unnatural flesh it once covered. It must have been that pain, that torture which made it shriek with so shrill a pitch that it could have easily curled forth the blood of any normal being.

What was he to do? How was he to do it? He desperately fought off the panic which seemed to impale his shivering pulse, and inwardly wished that his mother was there beside him, but then again, it had always been his nature to act alone—he could only hope that she had somehow kept safe.

For a while longer, Kazuhiro couldn’t move—couldn’t breath—, not until he realized what needed to be done, and as it so happened it suddenly struck him like a feathered arrow in flight, that in that greatest Okushiri building—the one diminished by the youkai’s presence—, there rested the elder’s treasure.

Its tale of ancient might and glory had been childish in memory, but at that moment anything was possible.

A crackling piece of flare-engulfed oak sent soaring his way—his train of thought broken—, forced Kazuhiro to nimbly dash sideways towards safety.

When cleared from harm’s path, the youth with all that he could muster ran for all that he was worth. Towards the Shrine of Hitaki he fled: inevitably seeing faces of those ghostly pale, all dead and none alive, as he rushed through the streets of a once busy bargaining and trading market of self-crafted goods of all kinds. He desperately searched for his mother on the way, but came to no fairer conclusion than the one he had already despised. His emotions were on end and tensioned to snap even as the sky rained with flaming debris and ever the while the earth rumbled with terror. He didn’t think—he couldn’t think. Maybe the heat was getting to him, or maybe he had gone delusional from it all. Either way, Kazuhiro knew that he couldn’t stop. His sole purpose that night was to face and break that creature with all that he had and for all that he had.

He survived someway or another, as he made it through the streets with all limbs attached.

The shrine was towered up with flames, and seemed only capable of standing through the will of some higher force. Kazuhiro couldn’t waste away with hesitation and fear. Jumping into the devil’s pit, the full-grown fifteen-year-old youth passed the first inferno and then the next. Up a flight of fragile stairs he hurried until he finally reached the gigantic relic upon its stand—in all its magnificent gleam and allure: from the Shrine of Hitaki, the Fang of Hitaki.

The engulfed flames were harshly licking at his arms and back.

Running his fingers across the item, Kazuhiro could tell that the hilt had been masterfully entwined with strands of black and red, and that its blade was free of impurities and therefore without need of sheath.

If appearances are everything, than it would have seemed that only the brute might of a dozen men could budge the sword, but once again Kazuhiro failed to hesitate and acted with immediate disregard.

In one gentle motion he seized the elder’s treasure and drew it back as if it was nothing more than a feather. In that instant—that moment devoid of time and thought—Kazuhiro realized that it would forever belong to him, just as much as he would forever belong to it.

Impossible for such a massive blade to be worn upon one’s side, he quickly tied it with a leather-embroidered strap around his body and felt it stretch tightly across the top of his right shoulder. He had always been a lengthy youth, but the straight and impossibly sharp edge of the sword almost nearly matched him inch for inch.

Suddenly—as if a cold chill had risen from the ground—his light skin began to crawl and fold, because except for the crackling flames, he noticed that the air had gone completely rigid with silence.

The eye of the storm had arrived, and would just as soon depart.

With every thread of instinct pushing him on, Kazuhiro ran for his life.

Then, almost like the will of an unstoppable god, a massive arm broke through the roof and proceeded to rip its way down into the second floor of the shrine and then the first. Dashing out of its path, through a window, and onto safer ground, Kazuhiro turned with all intent to face this adversary in final war—his dark eyes starring through the broken roof.

The beast had stopped as well, only to stand there and gaze back at him with a pair of soulless eyes.

Off in the distance, there was a hidden onlooker who watched the two with patience.

“Is that—?” He slowly questioned the judgment of his own two eyes. Perhaps they were worn out from age, but then of course he knew that it wasn’t so. “To think,” he chuckled, “that in such a village as this…”

Drawing forth his newly gained ally, Kazuhiro accepted the challenge, and breathing in what could have been his last breath—hands gripped tightly upon the hilt of an ancient blade—, he charged forward with the piercing will to save everything and everyone.

With his sword freely bending to his will Kazuhiro slashed out, but missed, again and again—his hopes of victory seemed to wobble alongside his inexperience. Easily stepping out of reach, the youkai had proven its speed and would soon enough prove its strength, but the ruined village alone could attest for that. Leaning backwards, the hungering beast coiled its fist in a charging motion and then launched it straight at the would-be hero. Kazuhiro couldn’t even see what had happened until the very instant it hit him, or rather the edge of his blade as it softened the blow. He couldn’t even remember how he had reacted, or rather how the blade itself had reacted as it saved his life through no power of his own.

Forced across the market grounds—the elder’s treasure released from his grip—, Kazuhiro laid bloodied and battered. He couldn’t die; he couldn’t let that happen. Not yet.

With his vision marred by the free-flowing hue of crimson, all that was left in Kazuhiro’s mind were the images that would forever be deeply burnt into his soul: those crying in death, those broken in life, and of those who were tormented by such innate fears of reality.

His heart was torn at the thought of his mother. Where could she have been? Kazuhiro feared the daunting possibilities.

He wanted to fight, to protect.

With that as motivation, he slowly but surely stretched his hands from out beneath him, supporting his quivered body as blood from his arms trickled down onto the rubble-laden ground, but before he could move any further, his dark eyes widened at what he saw.

“Who—” he gasped for air as his throat quickly dried. It seemed as if it had been forever since he last spoke. “Who are you?”

Dressed in humble garments—ones which suited him—, the figure turned his face slightly and answered, “I am the strong, and you—kid—are the weak.” He paused as if to mock the youth’s predicament. “But today… today is your lucky day, because I will grant you my services, free of charge.” Though having never been in the presence of one before, Kazuhiro could tell by the man’s voice that he was indeed a kensai—a genius in the art of Kai—and someone to be trusted. His clothing and manners however, did more than belittle this fact.

“And you,” the warrior focused on the lunging youkai, which seemed to have taken interest in him as it sat there watching with mindless intent, “you should run now, as fast as you can and back to whatever hell hole you came from.” The smoldering beast tilted its featureless face sideways, as if amused.

It seemed the kensai’s bluff—if it were a bluff—had failed.

Stretching both of its arms up and into the air, the youkai threw down a pair of crackling tar-encrusted fists directly at its opponent’s seemingly frail physique—the power was ten times that which was used on Kazuhiro.

What ensued was an expanding wave of incinerating death. The warrior was no less spared then the air around him, but as the billowing ash began to dissipate, Kazuhiro could identify the dark outlines of the warrior who had yet to move from his earlier position.

Taming the youkai’s strength in a single grip, he managed a smile. “I warned you.” Seeing how nothing more was needed to be said, the skilled warrior dragged the bewildered beast forward—throwing it off any previous means of balance—and with the same powerful hand, snapped its elbow inwards and calmly proceeded to fiercely rip the same arm off with effortless ease. All the while this was happening, Kazuhiro laid there in his own imminent demise. Having lost an extreme amount of blood, he was only waiting for the moment to pass, as he too would likely depart after that.

Detached at the right elbow, the youkai anguished as its nerves twitched with an unnatural sensation—its cries echoed across the vast expanses of the valley and into the further mountains. Tossing the then disintegrating arm onto the burning streets, the brazen warrior leapt forward in an attempt to end the matter, but as he did a glimmering seal of stained blood formed beneath the youkai. In a flashing moment, the symbol engulfed the beast and swallowed it back through the nightmarish portal it came from.

There was a silent sense of disdain as the gusting winds which carried the beast to Okushiri, swiftly carried it away.

“A kekkon seal.” Exclaimed the warrior. “So, it is you.” Though the incantation had been made with haste, the warrior was without doubts as to whom had enacted it. It had to have been Shosen: a ranked member of the Oketsuakki. For years he had known of their movements, but to think that they had gone so far as being able to direct their will through the minds of youkai: he could sense the darkening of times, and of a future where everything would be a bleak shadow of its past.

Focusing back onto the situation at hand, the haunted warrior turned to face an unconscious Kazuhiro—the Blade of Hitaki close to his side.

The warrior frowned at the sight. “Well, it’s no good if he dies,” looking up at the sky, “but, it seems like the stars agree, so I guess he’ll live.” Throwing the dying youth onto one shoulder, and the massive blade across another, he vanished into the forest: his image broken with the brambles of nature.

That night had ushered in the fate of an epic journey—one beyond all imagination—, and so, with one life shattered another was born.

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A/N: Well that's about it, so how was it? If you care to reply, it'd be an honor if you could drop a review. Of course, I'll make sure to return the favor as soon as possible. Since this was only a fun little writing exercise, which I just had to get out of my mind, there likely won't be any future updates. Also, if you actually liked this piece, go ahead and check out my other short, Death to the Innocent.