"Is that so?" The man in the purple kimono nodded noncommittally, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "I'm curious, though. You're all yōkai, aren't you?"
"Since you are yōkai, why do you stand on the side of humans? Giving your lives for them, and for what? You can't even preserve your corpses; they're dissected and taken away by humans... And if I'm not mistaken, you're a half-demon [Hanyō], aren't you?"
The man pointed at Nura Rikuo, his voice becoming sharp and piercing.
"You chose the human blood in your veins? Then where do you place the yōkai who trust you with all their hearts?"
Swish—CLANG!!!
Rikuo lunged forward, but his blade was parried by a metal pipe the kimono-clad yōkai had snatched up. He could see the man's face twisted into a smile of pure toxicity—unprovoked loathing, a desire to see everything descend into its worst possible conclusion.
Without a doubt, this was a most troublesome enemy. He didn't just attack the flesh; he targeted the will and the spirit. Rikuo could no longer afford to let him speak. Such words wouldn't make him drop his sword and surrender, but as for his inner resolve... Rikuo knew that even he felt a flicker of hesitation.
"Your name," Rikuo said expressionlessly, pressing his blade down against the man's defense.
Forcefully shoving Rikuo's sword aside, the man in the purple kimono whispered his answer.
"...Naraku."
Naraku. The Sanskrit-derived name for the Avici Hell—the eternal, inescapable abyss where all trapped souls repeat the cycle of struggling against the darkness only to fall again.
Ominous. Extremely ominous. Even without being a Buddhist practitioner, Rikuo understood the weight of that name. A yōkai bold enough to take such a title was likely far more dangerous than he currently appeared.
"Together!" Rikuo called out—his signature move: bringing friends.
Charging alongside Araragi Koyomi, Rikuo carefully stayed by the vampire's side, using Araragi body as a shield against any unexpected strikes. In a game sense, compared to this "tank" with an infinite health bar, a Nurarihyon like himself was a "glass cannon," far too fragile for direct risks.
At the very least, if he had been touched by that toxic miasma earlier, he wouldn't have shrugged it off as easily as Araragi.
Despite being outnumbered two to one, Naraku didn't seem overwhelmed. His body possessed an incredible, almost liquid flexibility. His arms and legs shifted between thick tentacles—like the one used to ambush Araragi—and short, hardened spikes.
Beneath that masculine shell, something else seemed to hide, tearing through him like roiling sludge.
Suddenly, the pustules on Naraku's swollen right arm burst. As Araragi and Rikuo scrambled to dodge, Naraku released a cloud of corrosive, highly toxic gas. This was the source of their stalemate—the reason they fought with such hesitation.
"Fear… truly an interesting power. Plundering the strength of other yōkai and gathering it within oneself. This power is quite similar to—Hm?" Naraku, who had been mocking them, suddenly snapped his head toward a specific direction. The malicious smile vanished, replaced by an expression of extreme gravity.
There. In that direction. A familiar burst of spiritual energy. That hazy, unmistakable sensation.
"The Shikon Jewel..."
Muttering the name in a voice only he could hear, Naraku suddenly retracted his mutated limbs and fled toward the source with startling speed. Araragi and Rikuo, not wanting to miss such an opening, immediately gave chase.
Though Naraku's counterattacks and miasma remained as potent as before, after a brief exchange, he dissolved into a pile of mud right before their eyes.
"...A puppet substitution technique," Rikuo said, his face darkening as he covered his nose and looked at the sludge.
"Huh? Can we still catch him?" Araragi scratched his head blankly.
"Unlikely. This yōkai is too experienced. He's probably some old demon who crawled through the portal," Rikuo sighed and called his subordinates over. "Did you get a picture? Print copies of this yōkai and distribute them. Tell everyone in the clan to be on high alert."
"…And the human military. Send it to them too. Remind everyone that this yōkai is an expert at manipulating the darkness in people's hearts. They must be extremely careful," Rikuo added, deciding to treat both sides equally for the sake of the city.
"Yes, Supreme Commander!"
Naraku was in a hurry.
Though it was somewhat embarrassing to admit, the moment he felt that familiar spiritual energy in this strange world—that power he craved above all else—his blood boiled. If not for the risk of attracting unnecessary trouble by flying, he would have taken to the skies to reach the source at maximum speed.
He crossed ruins and bypassed clashing yōkai, appearing to them as nothing more than a passing gust of wind. He sped past humans pouring "metal storms" of lead and fire into the demons. Such wondrous weapons momentarily caught Naraku's eye, but they were not the priority.
Likely sensing the same irresistible attraction that the jewel held for all yōkai—all life—countless demons had already swarmed the small mountain by the time Naraku arrived. They marched upward in a feverish trance, remarkably refraining from killing one another for once.
Trash.
Naraku judged the rabble with a single glance. Having no intention of revealing himself to such failures, he followed his invisible intuition.
He heard the sound of flesh being torn, the screams of dying yōkai, the thick aura of resentment, and that long-lost name being shouted in desperation—the Shikon Jewel.
Among the chaotic noise and the dance of demons, Naraku saw them instantly.
Red robe and white hair; green skirt and black hair. The former held the latter, dancing amidst the swarm.
A dance of slaughter.