22 A Stranger's Token

  [Player: Kazuki Arata]

  [Level: 4]

  Waza: Black Hand, Thread Cutter, Aura Sense, Dark Rider, Retribution, Eviscerate]

  [Kegare: 3%]

  [Status: Training]

  ---

  Kazuki lunged with the bamboo practice sword trying for a quick thrust to Karaba's midsection. He never even saw how the Karasu Tengu deflected it. One moment, the tip of Kazuki's blade was about to connect; the next, Karaba's sword was at Kazuki's throat, forcing him to freeze in place or risk getting choked by the bamboo slat.

  They had been sparring under the morning sun in one of the inner courtyards of the Grand Shrine of Karasu Peak. The stone-lined space had been converted into a training ground. Steep walls of carefully stacked rocks and mortar enclosed them on three sides, and the open side faced a tidy row of cherry blossom trees. While the season had passed for full bloom many delicate pink petals still clung stubbornly to their branches.

  Though his wings were still bandaged from the fall he had taken to rescue Kazuki and Fleet, Karaba moved with shocking speed. The tengu looked almost bored, his eyes dark and alien. Even so, he kept to the ground, barely flexing his wings. Karaba was the master of the Grand Shrine's martial arts and had spent the past week drilling Kazuki in sword forms, footwork, and breath control—ostensibly to help him "rebuild discipline" in the aftermath of his near-lethal run of corruption.

  Kazuki could only guess that Karaba had his own reasons for training him. Perhaps it was to keep an eye on him, or perhaps something else. Either way, the "lessons" felt more like punishments.

  Kazuki ducked free from the bamboo sword at his neck, hopped back a few steps, then forced himself to re-establish a fighting stance. A dull ache radiated through his newly healed ribs every time he pivoted on his feet.

  Damn it, he thought, controlling the ragged edges of his breath. Why am I so slow?

  But he knew the answer.

  Since coming to the Grand Shrine, Kazuki's taint of corruption—once dangerously high—had vanished down to just a trickle, and it stayed stubbornly there. Everyone had celebrated that; he was no longer an immediate threat of turning monstrous or unleashing dark powers. But the cost was that the uncanny strength, speed, and miraculous healing he'd come to rely on were all but gone.

  He felt frail in a way that scared him. Where once he could offset Karaba's superior technique with raw bursts of Kegare-propelled dark power, now he had no such edge. His body felt like a shell of what it had been—hollow and brittle, incapable of the feats that had kept him alive through the strange and violent battles that had led him here. Each morning, he woke expecting to feel stronger, but the emptiness remained.

  Karaba advanced again, bamboo sword at the ready. Though he no longer soared above the battlefield on black wings, he still seemed to float, every step balanced and quick. Kazuki tensed, tried for a diagonal slash, and found himself parried before he'd even completed the motion.

  Their bamboo blades clacked together hard. Karaba flicked his wrist, rotating his practice sword in a graceful arc. Kazuki's attempt to block the follow-up blow succeeded only in preserving his skull from a direct strike—he still took a punishing thwack on the shoulder.

  He hissed in pain and stumbled back.

  Karaba pressed forward, unrelenting. Each time Kazuki tried to guess an angle, Karaba changed his approach. Kazuki's mind whirled: **It's like he can read me the moment I decide to move.**

  Which was probably true. The Karasu Tengu's eyes gleamed with preternatural insight, sharper than any hawk's. At least once, Kazuki felt sure Karaba anticipated a pivot before he'd even shifted his weight.

  Kazuki tried to angle to the side—maybe he could circle behind him. Karaba's bamboo sword cut a swath in the air, flicked Kazuki's blade aside with humiliating ease, and jabbed him in the ribs. Hard.

  Kazuki gasped, doubling over.

  Before he could recover, Karaba swung for the final blow. Kazuki threw his arms up to parry, but the bamboo sword came in from below, hooking behind Kazuki's ankles. All the speed of a whip. Kazuki felt himself tilt helplessly.

  He toppled backward, landing with a thud on the courtyard's stone. All the breath left his lungs in one painful rush. Karaba loomed over him, the tip of the practice sword poised at Kazuki's throat.

  Time to end the match—

  Suddenly everything froze.

  Not just froze in the sense of a standoff, but actually stopped.

  Kazuki starred in alarm. Every color in the courtyard had drained away to a monochromatic gray. Even Karaba, half-lowered in victory stance, was held like a statue. Cherry blossoms, paused mid-tumble, hung in the air as though caught in invisible threads.

  Kazuki's breath was loud in his ears. Karaba didn't so much as blink. The air itself felt still and oddly hollow. If Kazuki focused, he could swear he heard the faint hum of...

  He realized it was coming from something floating in his field of view.

  A game menu. A small, translucent window hovered near the center of his vision:

  And in the corner:

  [Kegare: 3%]

  Kazuki blinked, his heart pounding. "W-What?"

  He recognized these names. The abilities he'd used or glimpsed throughout his battles in the Yokai Realm: Retribution, Eviscerate, and Dark Rider, the monstrous transformations he had stumbled into.

  Now each was listed like a skill in a role-playing game, with the blunt verdict of "inactive," apparently locked behind some threshold of Kegare he no longer met.

  He reached out in confusion, and the window slid aside, staying just beyond his touch. Not sure what else to do, Kazuki *thought* about the "Black Hand" technique.

  A second window popped up, layered over the first:

  [Black Hand]

  [Kegare directs your strikes to your opponent's weakest points]

  Kazuki's eyes widened. He closed the window with another thought, scrolling through the list by simply willing the menu to move. He found *Regeneration*, reading a snippet that confirmed it passively accelerated healing only if Kegare exceeded some minimal threshold. All of them were locked.

  "Just like a game..." he murmured. The monochrome hush of the courtyard pressed in on him, as if waiting for him to finish exploring.

  He noticed that the dust he'd kicked up from his fall was hanging in the air like a powdery swirl, unmoving. Heart pounding, he swung his gaze around. Even the half-shed wings of Karaba's bandages were paused in mid-lash, a single feather frozen in the air.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Had he... stopped time?

  He turned back to the game menu and insufficient Kegare stared him back in the face. On the one hand, for the last week he'd told himself he was relieved to be rid of it, to be normal again. On the other, seeing all those powers locked behind 3% hammered home how small and helpless he felt now.

  The abilities that had saved him, that had made him feel like more than just a lost convenience store clerk. A bitter ache spread through his chest. He'd spent so much time fearing the corruption, yet now he yearned for just enough to access even the weakest of these skills; a glimpse of what he once was.

  The Cursed Prince.

  He let out a shaky breath. Then, as abruptly as it came, the moment ended.

  Color rushed back.

  Karaba's sword slammed into Kazuki's throat, a punishing final blow.

  Kazuki's vision danced with stars, and he tumbled once more onto his back, choking. Karaba stepped away, letting the bamboo sword rest at his side. For a heartbeat, his eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as he studied Kazuki with unusual intensity.

  "Did you..." Karaba began, then paused, head tilting slightly. His gaze swept the courtyard, as if sensing something amiss. The tengu's nostrils flared once, twice, before he shook his head. "Tch." The disapproving click of his tongue.

  Kazuki coughed, pinned by a wave of humiliating pain, but his mind raced. Had Karaba somehow sensed the time freeze? Had something leaked through?

  The sparring match was definitely over. Karaba spun the practice sword once, set it gently aside, and walked off without a word. Yet Kazuki couldn't shake the feeling that the tengu had noticed *something*—a disturbance in the air, perhaps, or a momentary shift in Kazuki's position that shouldn't have been possible.

  For a long moment, Kazuki lay stunned on the dirt. Did that really happen?

  He tried focusing again, searching his mind for that "menu," but this time he came up empty. Reality continued on, color unwavering, and not a single skill window or text prompt floated in his field of view.

  Footsteps approached, but not Karaba's. Too soft, too measured. Kazuki raised himself on an elbow to see the small, bent figure of the old Shrine Master.

  The Master had been propped on a simple wooden staff—apparently, in the past week, he had emerged from his mostly bedridden state for short intervals, though his fragility was a constant worry. He wore layered robes of midnight blue, frayed from age, and his wrinkled face, half hidden by a cowl, parted in a gentle smile. His filmy eyes held... amusement.

  He saw, Kazuki thought abruptly, a spike of alarm mixing with the dull ache in his body. **He saw me freeze the world, or whatever that was.**

  Had the Master glimpsed that phenomenon, or had he just seen Kazuki stand up for no reason, then flop back down? Kazuki couldn't be sure. There was a twinkle in the old man's milky eyes that suggested... something.

  Before Kazuki could find words, the Master only nodded, tapping his staff once on the stone bench at the courtyard's edge—**thock**—as though in approval.

  "The game reveals itself to those who have played before," he murmured, voice as thin as parchment.

  Kazuki stared, bewildered. Then came a distant sound:

  A bell.

  One low, sonorous note carried by the wind, its echo thrumming across the shrine's rooftops. Another, closer. Then a third, piercingly loud from somewhere on the grounds, reverberating across the courtyard.

  Kazuki scrambled upright. An attack?

  He heard Karaba's rapid footsteps returning, accompanied by the flap-scrape of bandaged wings.

  "A breach in the wards," Karaba snapped, voice cold with alarm. "They're calling for me."

  He spared only a glance at Kazuki, then turned to go. At the courtyard entrance, he paused.

  "You," he said, not quite meeting Kazuki's eyes, "come with me. The others have flown out already. My wings are still damaged. We'll take horses."

  Kazuki shoved aside the bruises and battered pride. If the wards were breached, the farmland around the shrine might be under attack.

  Karaba didn't wait for him. He was gone, already striding down the walkway.

  Kazuki whipped around to look for the Shrine Master—but the old man was gone. Only the faint smell of incense lingered.

  ---

  They found the horses near the southwestern gate, below the pilgrims' steps in a side stable usually reserved for supply runs to the lower villages. Kazuki was no horseman—he had barely touched a saddle in his life—but the beast Karaba thrust him onto seemed docile enough. Still, it took all his concentration to keep from toppling as Karaba spurred both mounts into a canter.

  Down the winding mountain road they went, hooves kicking up loose gravel. Around them, the pines and cypress soared high, forming a forest belt that parted occasionally to offer breathtaking glimpses of cliff faces or valleys. But there was no time to admire the view.

  The toll of alarm bells still carried through the wind, urging them forward. Karaba, despite his injuries, maneuvered his horse with smooth confidence. It was obvious he'd done this a hundred times: responding to ward breaches was likely a standard duty for a shrine guardian.

  "Are we under attack?" Kazuki shouted over the rush of air.

  "I don't know," Karaba replied curtly. His posture was tense, eyes scanning the horizon with fierce intensity, his bandaged wings flexing unconsciously as if yearning to take flight.

  They pushed the horses harder, descending through switchbacks until they reached the wide farmland at the base of Karasu Peak. While some farmland nearer the shrine was terraced, this area boasted rice paddies and a scattering of small homesteads. Kazuki knew from bits of conversation that these fields lay inside the protective perimeter of wards that the Grand Shrine maintained to keep out monstrous yokai or worse.

  But as they neared, he could see pillars of smoke rising. Not thick black columns, but enough to speak of destruction.

  They found the first ward post blackened and partially collapsed. A foot-high stone slab carved with protective runes lay half-submerged in charred earth. Talismans of warding, once pinned to a ring of wooden stakes, had burned to ash.

  Nearby, a small farmstead had collapsed into itself, roof caved in. The smell of smoke lingered. No sign of yokai or invaders, just the aftermath of something violent.

  Karaba tossed the reins aside, leaping down from his horse with a hiss of pain as he jarred his bandaged wings. He ignored it, scanning the surroundings.

  "Check the wards," he snapped at Kazuki.

  Kazuki slid off his horse, almost falling in the process, and walked to the smoldering ward post. The orchard beyond was flattened, battered trunks snapped at the midpoint. But not a single body. Not even a hint of footprints in the mud.

  It was cold and as he approached the scorched earth, a chill ran down his spine. For just a moment, he thought he saw a shadow flicker at the edge of his vision—a child or small woman, too still to be natural. Then, when he turned, there was nothing.

  In the distance, villagers were gathering around a second ward post, dousing small fires. Karaba hurried towards them.

  Alone for a moment, Kazuki knelt at the scorched ground. He carefully sifted through blackened talisman scraps, trying not to crumple them further. The markings were foreign to him—some spiritual script in tengu calligraphy. The edges of each slip had burned in a pattern that looked more like intense heat than normal flame.

  Of course this wasn't an accident, he realized. The damage was too targeted. Someone or something had deliberately destroyed the wards. But how? A yokai's fire? Some kind of magic?

  He ran a hand through the ashes. Beneath them, the earth was hardened to near glasslike smoothness. That would take a searing heat.

  Then his gaze snagged on something half-buried at the base of the ward post—an odd glint amid the black ash.

  Metal?

  He reached down, brushing away charred debris. When his fingers closed around the object, he lifted it into the sunlight. A wave of shock nailed him in place.

  He was holding a small keychain. Mickey Mouse, dressed in a blue sorcerer's hat and robe; the Wizard's Apprentice.

  Tokyo Disneyland.

  His heart slammed once, twice, in a wild staccato. This keychain was something you'd buy at a gift shop near the park gates, a cheap trinket with the cartoon mouse swirling stars from a wizard's hat.

  The plastic was partly melted at the edges, but the face was clear: Mickey, wearing the iconic sorcerer's robe from *Fantasia*.

  The world around Kazuki seemed to recede, tunneling his vision until all he could see was this impossible object. He remembered the last time he'd seen this exact figure—a cold winter day when he was eleven, standing in line outside the park with his mother. She'd bought him one just like it after he'd begged for nearly an hour. He could still feel the sting of the winter air on his cheeks, hear his mother's laugh as she handed it to him.

  Another person from Earth is here.

  Was this some bizarre hallucination born of homesickness and trauma? But the weight in his palm was undeniable. The texture of the plastic, the precise curve of Mickey's ears...

  He turned it over in his palm, half certain it might vanish. But it remained. Real. Tangible.

  So it wasn't just him.

  He rose slowly, turning it over and over in his fingers. The stylized lines of Mickey's grin, the lumps of partially melted plastic, all hammered home a single, unstoppable realization:

  Someone else from Earth had stepped foot here, and recently enough to drop this near the destroyed wards.

  A gust of wind tugged at his hair. In the distance, Karaba was coordinating with villagers to douse the fires, checking houses for survivors. But Kazuki hardly heard them.

  He closed his eyes, swallowing.

  He had come so far, He'd lost the Kegare that had nearly corrupted him. He'd made allies, even a family of sorts: Suzume, Fleet... Karaba, in his own grudging way.

  Yet a piece of home, true home, was here, in his palm, linking him to a world he had thought was lost.

  Slowly, he curled his fist around the keychain.

  Who are you?

  ---

  [Achievement Unlocked: Git Gud]

  [Next Chapter: Mud and Petals]

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  Who did the keychain belong to?

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