The tiger lunged, its claws burning with fury, flames coiling as it tried to split his head in two.
White Crane's Counter—his yokai-blade shone briefly, but the Qi he tried to channel into it failed. Instead, he felt a backlash. His dantian shook, his arm tingling.
He grunted, jumping back. "What happened!?" he snarled. The katana in his hand released a thick killing intent—cut, cut, cut, cut, cut—it whispered constantly, even as the flames along its edge faded back into cold steel.
Swish!
He ducked as another claw came swinging, but he couldn't move in time to avoid the other—
Its talons dug deep, slicing into his chest like soft tofu. He didn't flinch. His eyes darkened as he chose not to channel Qi into the sword but instead into his feet.
His footwork turned light, his steps almost floating around the tiger's strikes.
"Charge!!!" a group of spear-wielding hunters cried, raising their weapons as they rushed to his aid.
They lunged at the yokai's flanks.
But their attack was short-lived—the wooden poles of their weapons snapped as they pressed against its skin. Their defense crumbled instantly as the beast swept toward them, its form twisting into that of a massive bear with flaming paws.
Its roar shook the battlefield. Fire rolled across its limbs as it slammed into four spear-bearers, claws tearing through flesh and armor. Their skin sizzled and charred as they collapsed, screaming, rolling frantically to douse the flames.
Their cries were cut short as the fire consumed them completely.
And despite witnessing this, Ranmaru's eyes sharpened. A plan began to form. His fingers tightened on his blade's hilt, while his free hand grabbed a fallen stick from the ground.
He watched as the yokai shifted slightly away from the burning corpses. Then it turned to face the second line of spear-bearers—men who had nearly rushed in but froze after seeing how easily their comrades were devoured.
The bear mauled one of them, fire spilling across the ground. And just like before—it avoided stepping into its own flames. That was the spark Ranmaru needed.
He dashed forward, inspiration burning.
Grabbing the spear of a fallen hunter, he coated its tip with red flames and ashes, then charged. He slashed at the bear with the reckless intent of turning it into cinders—
Madness. A stupid idea. Yet when he saw it recoil once more from its own fire, he knew he was right.
"Aren't you quite interesting, yokai!!!" he muttered. He hurled the flaming spear. The bear dodged, and in that instant, Ranmaru closed the distance and slashed at its stomach.
Slash!!!
His blade cut through fatty flesh, cold steel biting deep into its insides. The yokai shuddered at the heartless embrace of death looming over it.
"White Crane's Counter—" he mouthed, pouring all his Qi into his katana. Just like before, it rebounded—
But this time, not only into him. The backlash flooded into the bear as well. The blade trembled violently, vibrating with the clash of human Qi and yokai essence, burning through his arm even as it shredded the beast's vital organs.
"Ahhhhhh!!!" Ranmaru roared, forcing himself through the pain. He cleaved across the bear's body—then pivoted, slicing down its back, severing spine and flesh alike.
The bear's massive form split apart, but before the corpse could collapse to the bloodied ground, a terrible sound like grinding wheels echoed from deep within its body. Flames erupted through the sundered hide, and the beast's flesh blackened and peeled away in sheets, revealing iron spokes and a charred, spinning wheel where its core should have been.
From the broken ribs and severed spine, the new shape tore itself free—a Wanyūdō, its wheel cracked with a jagged missing piece, yet burning with unearthly fire. Its wheel spun with a shriek, dragging sparks across the ground as its flames surged outward.
"Back—!" someone shouted, but it was too late. A storm of hellfire burst outward, scorching flesh and armor alike, burning to ash those who had stepped forward to aid Ranmaru. Their screams rose briefly, then vanished into smoke.
The yokai's booming voice rolled like thunder through the night.
"Hand over the soul of Hayate no Kuro—"
Its eye, molten and burning, turned to the gates of the underworld itself. Flames licked out, and the air shifted into a suffocating crimson heat that pressed down upon every chest. The men staggered, choking as the world itself seemed to drown in fire.
"And hell shall forget this transgression, humans."
The Wanyūdō's gaze swept across the field. Wherever its eye landed, soldiers shrieked as their skin withered, their bodies shriveling as their very souls were torn free, sucked into that blazing wheel. One man barely glanced before his body collapsed into a husk, smoke leaking from his mouth.
The leader, horror paling his face, recognized what had descended upon them. His voice cracked as he bellowed, "Do not look at it! Close your eyes—all of you! Do it now!"
One by one, the survivors obeyed, snapping their eyes shut, trembling in the dark. The heat above them thickened until their lungs felt ready to burst. They heard the grinding wheel shift, dragging across stone, circling overhead like a predator savoring its kill.
Then—it moved. They could feel it, heavy and slow, gliding past them toward the carriage piled with corpses. The fire above them flared once more, heat searing the skin of their faces even through closed eyes—then suddenly, it was gone.
The air grew still.
When they dared to look, the battlefield was empty. The yokai, the other lesser spirits, the Daimyō's broken body, and that of his son—all gone, carried away into hell's depths.
The men collapsed in exhaustion, cursing between ragged breaths.
"Damn it… even in death, the pair causes nothing but misfortune…"
"A yokai from hell… of all the things to stumble upon…"
"We are lucky to still draw breath at all…"
Their curses and bitter relief mingled, but among them, only one stood silent, eyes fixed on the place where the wheel had disappeared.
Ranmaru's hand trembled against his blade hilt. His jaw tightened, but sweat slid cold down his neck. For he knew the truth. The body that had been taken was not merely the Daimyō's son—it was the shell he had used to fake his own death.
And now, hell itself had come searching for his soul.
The name whispered by the Wanyūdō still lingered in his ears like chains:
Hayate no Kuro.
If such a yokai had been sent to claim him, then what blasphemous ritual, what vile covenant, had tied his body's life to hell's ledger?
For the first time since starting this dream, Ranmaru felt not triumph, not exhaustion, but dread.