To Break a Sword

Beneath the streets of Kyoto, nestled among the subway tunnels, Imamu Belmitope sorts through a stack of letters. Reports from Kampala on the situation back home. One thing that Imamu has learned in this world is never to trust his records to a computer if he intends them to go unseen by the eyes of others. Carefully sorted by region and importance, they lie around him on the red silk sheets of his bed. With clipboard in hand, he pens replies to each.

A recent attempt to encroach upon their lands from the south, where Corpsedrinker’s wraiths abducted the residents of Mbarara in the night. Just as the High Priest designed it before his leaving, they unwittingly abducted a population of Zombie’s infected. Experience has shown that the wraiths are unaffected by and undetected by the infected. They would deliver the poisoned crop to their mistress, and the threat of the demon Corpsedrinker plaguing south Africa would at last be crushed.

The thought amuses him darkly, that now he is another land’s invading demon. Perhaps to her wraiths, Corpsedrinker was a glorious goddess. Perhaps, brought under his heel, she would be again. Pleased with himself, he takes a chalice of palm wine from his bedside table and drains the last of its fine sweetness through a straw. One of the novelty ones, green with a lot of twists in it. Always very nice to watch the suction pull the color through and then fade behind.

A knock at the door interrupts. “Yes?”

“Mochi reporting, High Priest Belmitope,” a stiffly formal response from the other side.

“Enter and deliver.”

The boy whirrs into the room on mechanical legs, closing the door behind him. “The latest reports from Red Hat have come in.” Ah, yes. One of the few things Imamu still tolerates modern technology for, and the reason he trusts it so little. He raises a hand for Mochi to continue. The boy brings Imamu the printed physical copies and turns them over. “The staff and student roster for Shiketsu’s new school year has been finalized.” But not yet released to the public. Imamu appreciates receiving the information early.

Imamu tugs a drawer open and withdraws a highlighter, dragging it along names that catch his interest. Naturally, Kawano is among them. Time would tell if the favors cashed in to acquire him a place there would be worthwhile investment or too great a risk. Another name catches the High Priest’s eye. Amahagene. On not one roster, but two. He was aware that the granddaughter would be graduating at the end of this year, but not that the young crone had dragged herself from the grave and back into the spotlight.

Internally, Imamu would like to think of himself as a being above petty grudges. But what are the gods of old, if not creatures eminent in their grasp on petty grudges. His fist clenches around the highlighter, causing the plastic to creak and crack before he can stop himself. Exhaling through his flared nostrils, he tosses the ruined implement into a wastebin.

“Use the computer and respond to Kawano. I would like to meet him, in person, tonight. At the Inari shrine. I have a new task for him.”

After the boy leaves with his mission, Imamu lies back on his bed and reminisces.




Three years ago, they had met. It was an early time in the history of the Red Eyes Oni, establishing a reputation and name that would predate Imamu’s and the Temple’s arrival in Japan- in Kyoto. Those earliest expeditions had been in the realm of human trafficking and prostitution, or so the uninitiated would call the practice of pet ownership. Those with a weak or absent connection to their spirit’s blessing are suitable as little more than foot soldiers and pets. Some would even be blessed with a stronger lineage by their master. A benevolent action to assist the spirit in returning to its true incarnation. In the market of trading the strong, on the other hand, Imamu’s motivations were different. To claim them for the Ancient Ones and show them to the true path.

Imamu was careless, then, when compared to as he is now. Bold with the high of victory at home, and the invincibility of youth. His numbers were small, and overseen personally, and in the open. That was the goal. To become a known name. But he sought to become a known name as he would have in Africa, and not in a place such as this.

On a rainy evening, he and three subordinates in the same black suits and kitsune masks he still employs were moving cargo from holding into a transport vehicle. Practically the middle of the day, daring someone to come and try to stop them. Someone did.

Four blades launch through the air, spinning to slice clean through the zip ties binding the cargo’s hands. A fifth, the size of a windmill blade, slams into the pavement in front of them, cutting off access to the open side door of the van. Imamu remembers the voice, words too mature and steady for its pitch. “No, keep back.” The child had distracted her.

Using that moment their heroic assailant looked away, Imamu loosed the sledge from his sleeve into his hand. Extending the collapsible haft of the hammer, he smashed the broad metal pane blocking their getaway vehicle. Surprisingly brittle for its size, it shattered into fragments and then collapsed into metal-scented mist, rapidly dissolving into the surrounding air. Imamu’s subordinates each grab and struggle with one of the weapons assaulting them. None were bleeding despite taking blows.

The cargo gave them the slip, and ran towards the pair down the street. Two mere children, at a glance, one holding the other back with great effort. Energy welled up behind Imamu’s eyes, and he strode towards them, giving pursuit to his property. The fourth blade, left unhindered by the hands of his followers, flew into his path and flourished itself. A thing of metal would be unaffected by the Oni’s gaze, Imamu decided. Instead he collapsed the haft of his hammer into something more suitable in one hand, lighter and more maneuverable to match its size.

Winding up behind him, Imamu held his other hand in front of him. When the blade detected an opening, it launched. His powerful arm shot up and grabbed the weapon by its grip, blunted blade inches from his face. Its weight was greater than he anticipated, and he staggered back to keep his feet below him against the force. He, too, was stronger than the weapon expected. A twist in his grip, then the hammer fell, and the blade shattered and became dust.

Imamu resumed his march. One of the children held up a hand and two more blades coalesced in the air on either side, larger and broader than the blades that freed the captives but far smaller than the improvised barrier. “Get them somewhere safe,” she commanded the other girl without a glance, radiating authority beyond her seeming years. The other ran with the cargo. Shifting his eyes to that one, Imamu let loose his gaze.

Red light flashed through the air, humming against the back of the fleeing child’s heels. The energy passed easily through the material of her shoes, and her steps became clumsy. She fell, skinning her knees on the pavement. Before Imamu’s rays could skim further and expand their effect, one of the blades interposed itself, the red glow halted by a dense sheet of metal.

“Keep your eyes on me, cretin,” imperious, the voice challenged him. Voice louder now, more force behind it.

“Yes.” Few words then, in clumsier Japanese.

The other blade launched towards Imamu as he walked on. His gaze swung through the air, and a wall of blades formed in the air to protect her. Too slow. Even as the particles of metal come together into blades, rays of red light slipped through the gaps. Their eyes met, and she yelped in surprise, falling backwards. Imamu wore a smirk behind his mask. She could not aim at him without her eyes, he believed, and paced towards her flank for a better angle.

Until the swords began to charge at him on their own. More grew in midair, becoming like a school of fish. Panic rushed in, fueling Imamu’s body with adrenaline as his heart beat faster and his lungs sucked in air. A kick launched Imamu over the pavement and into a sprint, his long powerful strides struggling to outrun the pursuing serpent of blades. More were appearing, haphazardly, without rhyme or reason, pursuing roughly the sound of his heavy footfalls. The gap between he and the summoner widened.

The wall of blades attempting to guard their master fanned out, as if they could no longer tell exactly where he was. Even the ones chasing him, they were following the leader, each on the trail of the one ahead, as if a chain of seeing-eye swords. Imamu extended his sledge again and charged at the gated metal fence into an apartment complex. A swing of his hammer shattered the simple latch holding the gate shut, and he barreled through with his shoulder. There was a painted metal door that guarded the stairwell up onto the layered walkways on the front of the building. Someone who’d fled from their fighting had neglected to lock the stairwell behind them. It was his best chance to break line of sight. He went for it.

Twisting around to swing the door behind him, he slammed it shut and planted his foot against it. Dozens of blades began to puncture through immediately, denting and slicing holes into the metal, nearly skewering the bottom of Imamu’s boot. They were held back only by their guards catching on the other side. Imamu took the moment’s chance and charged up the stairs while they tried to wiggle free, again their movements evoked an image of a school of predatory metal fish swimming in the air.

The upper levels no longer had doors, leading out onto a balcony and open air. “Grandma, I can’t move my feet!” a girl’s panicked voice came from the street outside. Imamu chanced a look from the landing. All of the cargo had fled already, leaving their valiant saviors behind. The sword-conjuror knelt beside the other girl, short on breath and panting, staring at nothing through unseeing gray stone eyes.

Grandma? Imamu had been so confounded at the time.

“It’s,” the ‘grandma’ was at a loss for words, blindly feeling the brittle stone. “Don’t look. It’s bad.”

“I’m already looking!” Then, the one with working eyes spotted him. “Look out!”

Imamu’s gaze bored stone into the ‘grandmother’s’ shoulder. Blades were already surging over the concrete ledge like an overflowing river, and he turned to flee further down the balcony. He leapt from the other side, hangtime spanning the gap between one apartment complex and the next. Not far enough to reach the opposite balcony, but he tumbled and rolled on the ground to absorb his impact and leapt straight back to his feet.

Two vaulted fences later, Imamu stopped to catch his breath. There were no more swords following him. Had he exceeded their range, or only their tenacity? Either way, he had escaped near catastrophe.

The followers had been captured, but he would break them out of prison or kill them before they could talk. Imamu swore it.




And he had kept his word. The families were compensated fairly for the loss, as per their arrangements. He quietly hopes that their offspring since had yielded deeper blessings. Wounded pride led Imamu to keep tabs on those two girls from that day, one of whom he’d learned was no mere girl at all, but a woman many years his elder. The granddaughter had been young enough to recover from her stone feet with no complications, save perhaps for her own wounded pride. The young crone had suffered far worse, nearly losing her arm to the loss of blood flow through her petrified shoulder.

Now, the inheritor of that family’s legacy is becoming a nuisance. Beyond simply targeting the Red Finger’s operations with a grudge, she has begun to protest the Temple of the Ancient Ones along with other disgruntled natives. Does she know? Or are here two vendettas unrelated?

Letting the thoughts of the past subside, Imamu turns over and swings his feet out of bed. He has a meeting to keep, and godly pettiness to enact.


Fushimi Inari Taisha. Night has fallen over Kyoto, leaving deep and dark shadows. A towering oni sits at a low wooden table among the trees behind the large shrine. Footsteps crunch in the grass, and voices approach. “… their new server. I’ve got it all- oh, there’s the boss,” leading their asset along, Mythopoesis leans against the back wall of the temple. A nervous-looking boy in a black hoodie walks behind the creation-god, hands stuffed into his front pockets and posture slouching.

Red Eyes holds out a hand, inviting the boy to sit. “Join me.” There is a pitcher on the portable folding table, along with three bowls and a clasped box. “What server were you speaking of?” intimidating eyes land on Mythopoesis, who looks aside and rubs the back of his head, curly hair bouncing in the wake of his fingers.

“Oh, nothing really. Just a Minecraft server.”

Raising one of the bowls, the Oni pours sake into it and hands it to Mythopoesis. “You play?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we do,” looking down at his face’s dark silhouette reflected in the alcohol against the backdrop of the moon. “…Raid and troll servers, stuff like that.”

It is no concern of the Red Eyes Oni what his subordinates do with their free time, so long as it does not interfere with their mission. “Mh,” grunting with complete disinterest, the Oni pours another bowl. “You are discreet, I trust.”

“Totally. No work talk online, boss.”

Nodding his head, the Oni hands the second bowl to the hooded boy. Reiji Kawano. With an apprehensive look on his face, the boy sniffs the drink and then takes a small test sip, licking his lips and considering it. Not his first drink, but not his poison of choice, Imamu reads. “The records you acquired have been valuable to us.”

Clearing his throat, the boy attempts to speak more deeply and maturely, “Of course. I do good work.”

“Have you reconsidered my offer of full membership?”

“I’m flattered,” the placating answer is hesitant, betraying the response, “But I’m more of a freelancer. A free agent.” Under the withering gaze of the Oni, young Reiji squirms. “A professional one, who keeps his client’s confidentiality,” he quickly adds, taking another sip of his drink to fill the gap in conversation that follows. Calculatedly awkward, on Imamu’s part.

“I appreciate your dedication to doing a job right,” in his deep and now more practiced Japanese, Imamu breaks the moment of silence. “I have called you here because I have a new task for you.”

“Sure thing. Who or what do you need cracked open?” looking more in his element, the Red Hat- as he calls himself- lifts his chin and sets down the bowl. He stretches out his fingers.

“This is not the usual kind of task,” adds the Oni, slowly and deliberately drawing out the anticipation as he unclasps the box on the table and opens it. Inside are three cigars, a cigar snip, and an ornate silver-inlaid light. “Because it is outside of our usual arrangement, I have prepared a gift.” Delicately, he lifts one of them from the container and presents it to Reiji. “Nube del Artica¸” he introduces the brand. “The sweetness of white chocolate, enhanced by the bitterness of coffee, and a minty aftertaste that leaves your breath fresher than before. All three are yours’, and you may keep the box and amenities. Would you like to try one now?”

“Ah,” eyes flicking up to the Oni’s implacable mask, the boy tries to calculate whether it’s a question. He glances around them and excuses himself with, “We don’t plan to stay out here all night, do we? I’ll look suspicious just smoking that around so, better I enjoy it when I get home.”

“A reasonable answer,” with a voice that suggests he is pleased, to ease the boy’s nerves, the Oni returns the cigar to the box and pushes it across the table. Reiji takes it and stuffs it into his hoodie pocket. Imamu imagines it will more likely find itself sold, but it does not bother him. “The task I have for you is to sabotage Amahagene Takako, a senior at Shiketsu Academy.”

“You want me to sabotage another student? A senior?” the mission catches Reiji off guard, and he chews at his lip. Realizing he might be looking weak, the boy straightens his back and takes another drink of the sake, acting as though he was merely thinking and not dreading. “Sabotage how?”

“The method does not matter to me,” Red Eyes admits. “You would know better than I.” Play to the ego. “She represents a thorn in my side, and I would like her prevented from graduating if at all possible. It would be even better if her provisional license were revoked, for some reason. Impair her assignments, distract her, adjust her grades, do what you can achieve- without getting caught. Your expulsion would benefit neither of us. If you require his assistance in your task, you may make use of Mochi Uranus. Simply tell him what you need him to do. I trust your expertise,” he repeats himself, reinforcing the confidence.

Pouring himself the remaining bowl, Imamu lowers his head to sip from it beneath his mask without showing any of his face, allowing young Kawano to weigh his response.

“If…” Reiji is about to ask what happens if he refuses, or if he fails, Imamu interprets. But his pride will not allow him to address that possibility. “If I need help I’ll let him know,” he plays it off as part of the agreement.

“Very good. Please, finish. It is poor form to discard good drink.”

Looking down at the bowl, Reiji picks it up and solemnly takes another sip.

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Pub: 02 Jan 2025 19:59 UTC
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