The darkness of the river began to seep into the corners of Yorimitsu's vision. The Kappa's grip was like an iron collar made of slime, crushing his windpipe until his lungs felt like they were filled with hot ash. The world became a dull roar of rushing water and his own frantic, slowing heartbeat.
Just as his eyes began to roll back, the dull throb on his brow ignited.
The spiral mark began to glow; then it fractured. Inky, obsidian lines thin as a spider's silk but sharp as a razor burst from the centre of his forehead. They raced down his neck and surged across his shoulder, coiling around his right arm like a parasitic vine. Where the black lines touched his skin, his veins turned the colour of dried blood.
A sudden, high-pitched shink echoed through the riverbank.
The Kappa didn't have time to hiss. The dark lines on Yorimitsu's hand lashed out like invisible whips. With a sickening sound of meat being sliced, the creature's webbed hand was severed at the wrist. A fountain of black, foul-smelling ichor sprayed into the river.
The Yōkai let out a shriek that sounded like a thousand dying frogs, clutching its stump as it scrambled backwards, its terrified eyes fixed on the abnormal child who now radiated the scent of a predator far beyond its rank. It vanished into the depths, leaving the water churning with its gore.
Yorimitsu gasped, the air rushing into his throat with a painful whistle. The black lines on his skin retracted as quickly as they had appeared, leaving his arm numb and freezing. With a final, weary shudder, his strength gave out, and he collapsed face-first into the mud.
He didn't know how long he lay there, but he felt a warmth that didn't belong to the river.
Small, trembling hands turned him over. Through a haze of exhaustion, he saw the face of a flower: Himari. She was weeping silently, her lips moving in a prayer she couldn't speak aloud. She dragged his skeletal frame back toward the servant's quarters with a desperation, her silk robes dragging through the filth of the manor floor.
Safe within the rotting walls of his room, she cleaned the river mud from his face. As he drifted into a feverish sleep, he felt something soft and warm press briefly against his forehead, a kiss, light as a falling cherry blossom.
"I hope you get a better life..."
The word was a phantom, a sound his mind might have invented, before she slipped away into the night.
Yorimitsu woke the next morning to the smell of damp mould and something else, a faint, sweet scent of plum blossoms lingering on his pillow. For a heartbeat, hope flickered in his chest. He touched his forehead, remembering the warmth. "Someone came for me. Someone cares if I live."
That hope lasted exactly three seconds.
The door was kicked open with such violence that it nearly splintered. A guard stood there, tossing a heavy, stinking bundle of leather and rope onto his chest.
"Get up, trash," the guard spat. "You're done scrubbing floors for today. The Young Lord is going on a 'hunt' in the eastern woods. He's short on porters because the last one was eaten. You're next."
Yorimitsu sat up, his body screaming in protest. His hand went to the bundle. It was a porter's pack, designed to carry the trophies and spare weapons. He was being sent into the woods as a human shield. Fodder.
The scent of plum blossoms was instantly drowned out by the metallic smell of his own dried blood. The flicker of hope died, replaced by a cold, familiar void. Of course, he thought, his eyes turning dull as he stared at the pack. There is no mercy in this house. Only the wait between one death and the next.
He stood up, slinging the heavy pack over his bruised shoulders, his mind already calculating the paths of the eastern woods thought vague now that he had learnt maps growing up.
"Which way?" he asked, his voice a dry, dead rasp.
The courtyard of the Minakaze estate was a chaotic symphony of preparation. Stable hands scurried between high-bred horses, tightening cinches and polishing brass bits until they gleamed like gold in the morning light. Lord Minakaze stood on the high veranda, looking down at the assembly with his usual tactful disdain. He would not be joining; he stayed behind to tend to the politics of the province, leaving the command to his son.
"Go have a great time, Mai," the Lord rumbled. "The mountain air is thick with filth. Purge it."
Yorimitsu stood at the edge of the gravel, the heavy pack digging into his ribs. He was handed his "weapon", a discarded training sword, rusted and so dull it couldn't cut paper. It was a cruel joke.
At the centre of the spectacle sat Minakaze no Mai. He mounted a white stallion, his movements fluid and graceful. He looked down at Yorimitsu with that same glassy, predatory hunger.
"Try to keep up, wolf-cub," Mai chirped. "If you lag behind, I'll leave you for the Tsuchigumo to wrap in silk."
The retainers roared with laughter. As the horses began to trot toward the gates, the head groom, an old man with a face like withered bark, leaned toward Yorimitsu to tighten his straps. He leaned in close, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"Small mercy for you, boy," the old man muttered. "At least you won't have to watch your sister rot."
Yorimitsu froze. "What did you say?"
The old man looked away, eyes filled with grim pity. "They found her this morning. Hikaru. They found her in the storage shed... a silk cord around her neck. Suicide, the guards say. "
The world turned white.
The sound of the horses and the laughter vanished into a high-pitched, deafening ring. Hikaru. His anchor. The only light in his memory. She was gone.
He felt a scream building, but it died before it reached his lips. Instead, his soul seemed to cave in on itself. The dark lines on his brow didn't glow; they felt cold, like ice-water flowing into his brain. He didn't cry. He didn't shout. He simply broke.
"Move, slave!" a guard shouted, striking Yorimitsu across the back.
Yorimitsu stumbled forward. He didn't look at the guard. He looked at the dirt. As the hunting party passed through the massive vermillion gates, Yorimitsu followed like a ghost.
"You killed her," he thought, his hand tightening around the hilt of the useless sword. "You took the only thing I had left."
He looked up at the mountains ahead, his eyes no longer dull, but burning with a terrifying, focused clarity. He remembered this hunt. He remembered the ambush. He remembered where the blood would flow.
The gates of the manor slammed shut, sealing the past away.