Lord-Campione
patreon
Chapter no.41: Fighting The "Oni" part 2
🕑 Added 2024-11-05 23:16:32 +0000 UTC[ One Year Before Present Day ]
The evening air was thick and humid as Saeko walked through the empty courtyard of her family estate, the glow of paper lanterns casting faint, flickering shadows across the garden path. The scent of freshly trimmed pine and the delicate perfume of cherry blossoms mingled in the night air, but to Saeko, it smelled more like a prison.
She paused by the koi pond, staring at her reflection in the water. The pale moonlight traced her features—a face that was impassive, practiced, framed by her long, dark hair. The perfect daughter of the Busujima family. She’d made this face for herself long ago, a mask forged from steel and duty. But it was starting to crack.
“Why couldn’t you be a boy?”
The words echoed in her memory, as clear as if her aunt had whispered them in her ear just now. She could still hear the low, murmured voices of her relatives, gathered around her mother’s bedside after her birth, lamenting what they called “the family’s misfortune.” The Busujima family was traditional, conservative, bound to an outdated code where daughters were seen as little more than a burden. It had never been spoken openly, but in the dim corridors and private gardens, she’d heard it often enough to understand: her existence was a disappointment.
But her father, Busujima Hideki, had been different. His disappointment was blunt, like the edge of a blade that never dulled.
“If you want respect,” he’d told her once, as she knelt in the dojo at his feet, her hands bloody and trembling from hours of kendo drills, “then earn it.”
She’d been twelve then. Just a child. But he hadn’t looked at her like a father looks at his daughter. No, his gaze was one of a sensei judging his student—cold, scrutinizing, as though he were searching her for weaknesses he could cut away. He was the one who’d handed her the code of Bushido, pressing its weight upon her shoulders like a yoke, and she’d taken it eagerly. If being the perfect warrior would make her worthy, then that’s what she’d become. She’d mask her anger, her shame, and bury her bitterness beneath flawless form and endless training.
But even Bushido couldn’t heal the anger that simmered beneath her skin, couldn’t erase the resentment she felt when her father introduced her at family gatherings as the next generation’s sword arm, while his friends exchanged pitying looks and whispered behind her back. It should’ve been a son.
Saeko clenched her fists, staring down at her reflection in the water. The perfect daughter, the diligent kendo student, the pride of the Busujima family. How much longer could she wear this mask?
That night, she found her answer.
It had been a few months ago. She was walking home from school, a long, winding path through the dimly lit streets. Her thoughts were elsewhere—on her father’s expectations, on the sneers of her classmates who thought she’d only become Kendo Club captain because of her family name. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice the dark shapes following her until they were right behind her.
The smell hit her first—cigarettes and cheap cologne, pungent and invasive. Then came the voices, low and mocking.
“Hey, little princess, what’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone this late?”
Saeko stopped, her hand instinctively reaching for her school bag, as though it were a shield. She turned slowly, her face a practiced mask of calm, but inside, her heart beat faster. Four men stood in the alley, their leering smiles and swagger giving them away as members of the local Yakuza. She recognized one of them—the heavyset one with a snake tattoo curling up his neck. She’d seen him once outside her father’s dojo, talking to one of the instructors in hushed tones.
“Outnumbered,” she noted, sizing them up. Her instincts were already assessing possible moves, calculating angles, measuring the distance between her and each thug. But then a thought flashed through her mind—a thought she hadn’t allowed herself to entertain before.
What if I didn’t hold back? What if, just this once, I let the mask slip?
She knew the code of Bushido, knew it preached restraint, honor, the sanctity of one’s weapon. But she was alone here, miles from the scrutinizing eyes of her family, from her father’s gaze of silent judgment. In this dark alley, no one would see. No one would know.
“Aw, what’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” one of the men jeered, stepping closer, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to reach out and touch her. Saeko’s pulse thundered in her ears, a hot rush of anger rising within her, suffocating her usual calm.
“These men,” she thought, her fingers curling into fists, “are worthless.” Weak. Pathetic. They were nothing compared to her, yet they dared to look at her like prey. Dared to touch her.
In a heartbeat, her decision was made.
Her face broke into a smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Do you know what Bushido is?” she asked softly, her voice like the edge of a knife.
The men exchanged confused glances, their smirks faltering. “Bushido? What, some kind of martial arts thing?”
“Not quite,” Saeko murmured, stepping forward. “It’s the code of the warrior. It teaches discipline, restraint…” She looked up, her eyes narrowing, a feral gleam flickering in their depths. “But sometimes… sometimes even warriors get tired of restraint.”
Before they could react, she moved. Her hand shot forward, striking the lead thug’s throat with a precision that sent him reeling, gasping for air. She followed up with a brutal sidekick to his knee, the joint snapping with a sickening crack. The other men froze, momentarily paralyzed by the ferocity of her attack.
But she didn’t stop.
It felt like a dam had broken inside her, all her pent-up rage and frustration spilling out in every punch, every kick. She didn’t feel like herself anymore; she felt like something else, something raw and wild, a storm that had been caged for too long. Her fists flew, her body twisting and striking with lethal efficiency. Blood sprayed across her uniform, warm and sticky, and she reveled in it, a dark thrill coursing through her veins.
By the time she came back to herself, the men were sprawled on the ground, broken and bleeding, some of them barely breathing. Saeko stood amidst them, panting, her hands trembling with a mixture of exhilaration and horror. Her reflection caught in a nearby puddle, her face streaked with blood, her eyes wide and bright. She looked monstrous. She looked powerful.
And she loved it.
She looked down at her hands, slick with blood, and a smile curved her lips. This is what power feels like.
0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0
[ Present Day ]
Saeko’s heart pounded, but it wasn’t the strain of the fight—it was something raw and electric, a rush that her usual controlled, disciplined life never allowed her to feel. She was used to dominance, to calculated strikes, to her opponents’ fear. But here, in this alley, with Kozen finally pushing back, finally giving her his full strength, the sensation was intoxicating.
As she wiped the blood from her lip, her fingers trembled, but not from pain. It was exhilaration—pure, unfiltered excitement that set her pulse racing, that made her blood sing in a way even the coldest kendo matches couldn’t. She felt alive, every inch of her body buzzing from the blows he’d managed to land, every nerve attuned to the next movement he’d make. For the first time, her opponent wasn’t breaking or crumbling. He wasn’t begging, pleading, or stumbling. He was standing there, calm, steady, challenging her in ways no one else had dared.
Is this… what I’ve been craving?
The thought hit her with an unexpected clarity, like a blade slicing through fog. She’d spent years burying the darker, twisted satisfaction she felt in fights like this, rationalizing it as honor, as discipline, as duty. But here, as Kozen faced her with that infuriating smirk and unwavering stance, she could admit—at least to herself—that part of her loved the thrill, the unpredictability, the messy, bloody chaos.
“Still holding up, I see,” she taunted, voice thick with something between amusement and hunger. She was breathing hard, her body aching, but she didn’t care. In this moment, it was her unfiltered self facing Kozen, not the restrained daughter of the Busujima family, not the diligent kendo captain. Just Saeko, craving the rush, the danger, the wild thrill of a fight without rules.
His response was just a raise of his brow, that same maddening calm. Infuriating, she thought, but the edge of frustration only deepened her intrigue. Kozen wasn’t like the other men she’d fought—those who either crumbled under her strength or threw empty bravado her way. He was… different. Here he was, not backing down, even daring to hold back until she’d practically forced him to go all out. Her instincts told her he understood that on some unspoken level, they were the same. Both of them thrived in combat, in the moment where skill met chaos, where restraint fell away.
She let her eyes wander over his stance, noting the firm grip he held on his staff, the calculated movements that betrayed training beyond the ordinary. He wasn’t simply fighting; he was matching her, move for move, in a silent, intimate exchange that few could ever understand. A strange thought flickered through her mind, one that she quickly dismissed but couldn’t quite silence.
What would it be like if we fought side by side?
She shook the thought away, instead focusing on the crackling tension between them. As he lunged forward with his staff, she blocked, parrying the blow with her katana, feeling the shock travel up her arms, into her core, igniting that part of her that hungered for more. The intensity in his eyes mirrored her own, and for the first time, she felt like she’d found someone who could peel away the layers she wore, who could challenge the fierce spirit she kept locked away beneath her mask.
With a feral grin, she whispered, “Finally taking me seriously, Kozen? I was beginning to think you’d never stop hiding behind that calm exterior.”
He just smirked, twisting his wrist and shifting his stance. “You’re not the only one who’s been holding back.”
A thrill ran down her spine. She knew this was dangerous—she could already feel her body pushing past its limits, muscles straining, her breath coming faster. But she didn’t care. She relished the burn, the exhaustion creeping in, because with it came something real. She didn’t have to pretend, to hide behind her family’s expectations or the rigid control of Bushido. Here, with Kozen, she was free.
Saeko shifted her weight, dropping into a low stance, her katana angled slightly to the side as she eyed Kozen. He stood across from her, his stance impeccable, his spear held with a deceptive ease. She noticed the way his breathing was slow, measured, each inhale and exhale synchronized with the rise and fall of his shoulders. No movement wasted. It was a stance of complete control, one that sent a flicker of tension down her spine.
Kozen made the first move. He lunged forward with a thrust of his spear, a swift, precise attack aimed at her midsection. Saeko sidestepped, bringing her katana up in a sweeping arc to parry, the edge of her blade gliding against the shaft of his spear in a controlled clash of steel and wood. But Kozen was already adjusting, pulling his spear back with a fluid twist of his wrist, transitioning seamlessly into a circular sweep aimed at her legs.
Saeko leapt back, her feet barely touching the ground as the spear’s tip cut through the air where her knees had been. She landed with the lightness of a cat, her katana raised as she prepared her own counterattack. Without hesitation, she stepped in, swinging her blade in a horizontal slash that aimed to cut across his torso. But Kozen shifted his stance again, angling his spear vertically, the shaft blocking her strike with a dull thud. The force of her blow reverberated down his weapon, but he absorbed it with ease, pivoting to redirect her momentum off to the side.
In the next heartbeat, he retaliated, rotating his spear in a downward arc toward her shoulder. Saeko barely managed to raise her katana in time, intercepting the spearhead as it came crashing down with deadly precision. The impact jarred her arms, and she felt the power behind his strike—a controlled, efficient force that pushed her back a step. Kozen’s breathing remained steady, his expression focused, his grip unwavering as he spun the spear back into a defensive position.
Saeko reset her stance, her gaze narrowing as she circled him, looking for an opening. She darted forward, closing the distance between them, her katana flashing in a rapid flurry of strikes aimed at his chest, shoulder, and neck. But Kozen anticipated her moves with an almost uncanny foresight, his spear twisting and shifting to intercept each blow with minimal movement. He parried her strikes with small, precise adjustments, his spear snapping back and forth like a dancer’s rhythm, each block deflecting her blade just enough to dissipate its force.
Then, with a sharp twist, he extended the spear in a long-reaching thrust, forcing her to retreat. She pivoted to avoid the point, but he advanced immediately, pressing the attack. His spear cut through the air in a series of swift jabs and sweeping arcs, each one calculated to close off her avenues of escape. Saeko found herself moving back, her stance adapting as she blocked and evaded, each step she took reacting to the relentless onslaught of his spear.
Kozen’s attacks were relentless, but never wasteful. His grip on the spear was firm yet fluid, allowing him to change direction in an instant. He alternated between short, sharp thrusts and wide, sweeping strikes that forced her to stay on the defensive. His movements had a rhythm to them, a calculated efficiency that kept her off balance, unable to fully commit to an attack of her own.
In a moment of desperation, Saeko saw an opening—or rather, what she thought was an opening. She darted in, her katana poised for a quick thrust toward his exposed side. But Kozen was already ahead of her. He shifted his stance with deceptive speed, bringing the spear’s shaft up to redirect her blade, knocking it off its intended path. Then, with a seamless transition, he stepped forward, closing the distance as he drove the blunt end of the spear toward her midsection in a powerful strike.
The impact hit her square in the abdomen, knocking the breath from her lungs and forcing her backward. She staggered, her stance momentarily broken, but Kozen didn’t relent. He advanced with relentless precision, each move methodical, every strike flowing into the next like water. He pivoted, spinning the spear in a sweeping motion aimed at her legs. Saeko jumped to avoid it, but as soon as she landed, his spear was already swinging toward her in a powerful downward arc.
She raised her katana in a desperate block, feeling the force of the blow drive her downward, her knees bending to absorb the impact. The spear pressed down against her blade, and she struggled to hold her ground. Kozen’s strength was unyielding, his weight pressing into the spear as he held her there, their weapons locked.
Then, with a sudden shift, he withdrew the spear and stepped to the side, allowing her own force to propel her forward, off-balance. Before she could recover, he whipped the spear around in a controlled arc, the shaft striking her across the shoulder in a brutal, pinpoint strike. The impact made her stumble, pain flaring down her arm as she struggled to regain her footing.
Kozen didn’t give her a moment’s respite. He advanced again, the spear a blur as it moved through precise, controlled thrusts, each one narrowly missing her as she twisted and ducked to evade. But with each dodge, she felt herself losing ground, her movements becoming more erratic as she tried to keep up with his relentless pace.
Finally, with a burst of speed, Kozen spun the spear in a sweeping arc that forced her back. She raised her katana, bracing for another strike, but he stopped short, adjusting his stance with the grace of a predator toying with its prey. His breathing remained calm, measured, as if the fight had cost him nothing at all. Saeko, meanwhile, could feel her own breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps, her muscles aching under the strain of his unyielding assault.
In one final, decisive move, Kozen shifted his grip on the spear, pulling it back for a thrust aimed straight at her chest. Saeko reacted instinctively, sidestepping to avoid the lethal strike, but he’d anticipated this as well. With a fluid adjustment, he redirected the spear’s momentum, sweeping it across her exposed side. The blunt end of the spear struck her ribs with a force that sent her sprawling to the ground, her katana slipping from her grasp.
She lay there, breathing heavily, watching as Kozen stood above her, his stance still perfectly balanced, his spear angled toward the ground with a quiet, composed power. His expression remained calm, his breathing controlled, as if the fight had been nothing more than a warm-up. He took a step back, his grip on the spear loosening slightly, his posture relaxing, but still radiating a sense of effortless dominance.
Saeko struggled to push herself up, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. Pain radiated through her body, a raw, throbbing ache from the internal damage she could feel with every shallow breath. Kozen watched her efforts, an amused smirk crossing his lips as he finally spoke.
“You’re a tough one, aren’t you?” he said, voice laced with a hint of admiration. “Most people would’ve blacked out by now from the damage you’re carrying.”
Saeko looked up, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. She managed a defiant, bloody smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her defeated.
Then he surprised her.
“Want to join me?” he asked, his tone casual, as if he were inviting her out for a drink rather than offering some unspoken opportunity.
She blinked, taken aback. Join him? The rumors she’d heard around school flashed through her mind—whispers of Kozen being part of some mysterious gang, a dangerous clique that stayed mostly out of sight. She’d dismissed it as gossip, but this question—this strangely genuine offer—made her pause.
Before she could answer, the distant wail of police sirens cut through the silence, growing louder by the second.
“Looks like Miku called them for me. Thoughtful girl,” Kozen said, his voice oddly disappointed, like a kid who’d been told his playtime was over.
She frowned, picking up on the hint of amusement in his tone. To him, this fight hadn’t been a struggle, a clash of wills—it had been entertainment. He’d seen it as nothing more than a thrilling game. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but smile. Yes, it had been fun.
Without warning, Kozen stepped forward, reaching down. His hand slipped beneath her arm, pulling her upright with an ease that startled her.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting you out of here,” he replied, glancing in the direction of the approaching sirens. “Wouldn’t want the cops catching you. Besides,” he continued with a grin, “I’ve got you on my team now.”
“Your team? What team?”
Kozen chuckled. “Don’t worry—you’ll understand in two weeks.”
Her brow furrowed, but he gave no further explanation, leading her down a side street, away from the flashing blue and red lights. She could barely process his words, still caught between disbelief and the lingering adrenaline.
“And what about your date?” she managed to ask, her voice laced with a hint of sarcasm, unable to ignore the curious tug of jealousy creeping up.
Kozen gave a soft laugh, glancing at her with a spark of amusement in his eyes.
“That fight was better than any night I could’ve had with Miku.”
