THEY FOUND THE FIRST BODIES around noon, suspended from a branch high above them, arms dangling. Samurai? They could not tell. It was hard to know someone’s social status after they had been skinned.
From the bloat and the stink, combined with the heat, Hiroto guessed they had been dead for three days. He had skinned a lot of game, so even in their sorry state he could tell that this oni was very skilled at butchery. Hiroto was impressed. There were no signs of rope. It would take an incredible amount of strength and balance to haul corpses all the way up there. He had seen great cats cache their kills in trees, but this felt different, as if staged for their benefit. Was it to send a message? Marking territory? He tried not to let his appreciation show. A regular porter should be frightened, so he tried to act that way.
The others, however, didn’t have to act.
“Captain Nasu Hiroto, hero of the battle of Dan-no-ura, hero of the battle of Kurikara, master swordsman, and champion archer of the Minamoto Clan. Some say the finest archer in our history, if not, second only to his father. Yet after the war, there would be no peace for him. No. Hiroto took one of my ships, and was carried about wherever the waves would take him, always searching for a new battle, for new beasts to slay. Over the years, I heard he was hunting tigers in the jungles of Tenjiku or great white bears in the desolate lands north of Joseon. It is widely believed Nasu Hiroto is the greatest hunter in the world.”
There were some exaggerations there but Hiroto did not correct the Shogun’s inaccuracies. When the most powerful man in Nippon wanted to ramble, you let him. So Hiroto simply knelt and waited for Minamoto Yoritomo to pronounce his judgment.
“You were one of my most trusted warriors, Hiroto. Why did you leave? After our victory over the Taira Clan, I would have given you great responsibilities.”
“I left because you would have given me great responsibilities.”
“Your life was mine to spend, Hiroto.”
“Spending it teaching children how to use a bow would have been a waste. I am not trying to be facetious, my Lord, but I would have died of boredom. I am not very good at peace.”
“Then you picked a fortuitous time to return.”
The castle was stifling. It was a miserable day in what had to be the hottest summer in generations. A servant was fanning the red-faced and sweating Shogun. Nobody was fanning Hiroto. He did not rate a fan.
“I should have you executed for your disobedience, you impudent ronin bastard. Yet curiosity gets the better of me. After all these years you returned to Kamakura. Why?”
“I received word that the Shogunate has need of my services.”
Minamoto Yoritomo chuckled. “I should have known that the Oni of Aokigahara would bring you out of hiding. Summer began with it murdering a score of my warriors, picking them off, one by one, and leaving them hanging from trees, skinned. Since then, samurai have been rushing there in order to defeat it and win my favor. All have failed. Witnesses whisper of an invisible demon, stronger than any man, which kills by spear, claw, or even bolts of lightning, before vanishing as quickly as it appeared.”
“You can see how such stories would catch my interest, my Lord.”
“Sometimes, three glowing embers appear upon its chosen victim,” The Shogun held up three fingers, then put them against his forehead, fingertips making the points of a triangle. “Being marked by these fire kami are the only warning before it strikes. So many samurai have perished that they believe the oni cannot be defeated by mortal hand. I seem to recall they said the same thing about the Great Sea Beast, before your father killed it with a single arrow through the eye.”
“A truly heroic moment.”
“I know. I was there. No man has ever equaled his feat . . . including the man who has hunted every dangerous beast beneath the sun. Hmmm . . . Perhaps if you were to defeat the Oni of Aokigahara, you could finally match his legend?”
It might have been in his blood, but that wasn’t why Hiroto followed his path. The Shogun may have been a brilliant general, but he did not understand the compulsion to constantly seek out new dangers. “You are wise, my Lord, but what is one little forest demon when compared to a mighty kaiju?”
“You could never resist a challenge, could you, Hiroto?”
He had never fought a demon before. “No, my Lord. I could not.”
It was a few days’ ride to Aokigahara, the dense forest to the north of Mount Fuji. Despite the blistering sun, Hiroto enjoyed seeing the land of his birth again. He felt eager and alive. Each morning the mountain was a bit closer and so was his next great challenge.
Unfortunately, he was not making the journey alone. The Shogunate had sent a representative, a young warrior born of high status, named Ashikaga Motokane, and his retinue of five bodyguards. Though Hiroto had helped their Lord rise to power, that had been a long time ago. Now, the Shogun’s samurai looked upon him as a dishonorable outcast, a wild man, an anomaly in their orderly world.
Worst case scenario, Hiroto would use them as bait.
The map provided by the Shogunate had shown a small village at the edge of the forest, so Hiroto had picked that as their destination. Upon arrival it had proven even more pathetic than expected, simply a collection of rotten huts and stinking pig pens, yet it would provide a final opportunity to restock their provisions. Hiroto also hoped for firsthand information.
The villagers saw the warriors approaching and abandoned their fields to hide in their huts. That was not surprising. Villages like this were often menaced by one conquering army or another, and during times of peace there were always bandits. One farmer remained in the center of the village to greet them. That would be their appointed headman, the presenter of taxes and hospitality.
“The rest of you hang back for a moment. There is no need to spook them further.” Of course the Shogun’s representative did not listen. When Hiroto dismounted and began walking into the village, Ashikaga Motokane followed, swaggering in the most intimidating way possible.
“I need to ask these farmers some questions.”
“Why bother? They’ll know nothing.”
“You might be surprised.”
Motokane looked upon the village with disgust. “They’re beneath us. We’re authorized to take whatever supplies we require. Let’s do it and get on with it.” It was no wonder the poor farmers saw little difference between bandits and samurai.
The headman had seen their banner bore the Shogunate’s mon, and as they approached, had already launched into a rapid speech telling them how wonderful they were, but that his poor village had paid its taxes, and for them to please have mercy because the terrible heat had caused their crops to wilt and their well to run dry, so on and so forth.
Hiroto didn’t have patience for such frivolous things when there were monsters about, so he cut the headman off. “I am Nasu Hiroto. We’ve come to kill the Oni of Aokigahara.”
“You are not the first. The stories are true. Our land is cursed! It is a terrible scourge. We are so thankful more brave samurai came to fight the demon.” Only the headman didn’t actually sound relieved; if anything he was annoyed. “Many of you have come through here this summer, eating our food, putting our men to work as guides—”
“Yes, I know.” The village had probably seen a parade of warriors by this point, but he needed information. “Have you seen it yourself?”
“No, but I have felt it watching. Many have, though. Young Hagi saw it first, perched high in the trees, shaped like a man, but bigger, with a head like an ox. She thought it was an angry ghost and ran away. Old Genzo saw it too. He heard the thunder when it killed the first samurai. It put the three sparks on him too, but Genzo fled before more lightning came! Lucky it didn’t chase him because it is swift as a horse!”
Any creature capable of effortlessly slaughtering samurai would have an easy time with a place this defenseless. “How many of your people has the demon killed?”
“Who cares?” Motokane said. “They’re just peasants.”
The headman looked nervously between the two imposing warriors, unsure whether he was still supposed to speak or not. Hiroto wished that Motokane would keep his idiot mouth shut. These farmers were probably as frightened by hungry soldiers as the demon plaguing their woods.
“I must know, how many of you have died?”
“It is hard to believe, but none, noble samurai. He has only attacked mighty warriors such as you. Our village has not been troubled by Three Sparks.”
That name would suffice. “All of those men beheaded or skinned nearby, yet this Three Sparks has not harmed a single person in this humble village . . . Curious.”
“Perhaps they’re in league with the oni!” Motokane snarled. “Why else would it leave them be?”
The headman immediately threw himself into the dust and began begging for mercy which, with a hothead like Motokane, was certainly the wisest thing possible. “No! Please! We would never! After the killing started some of us left offerings at the shrine to appease it at most!”
“You gave gifts to a demon that was killing my brothers?” Motokane bellowed as he reached for his sword.
Hiroto sighed. Clan officials always made his job more complicated. He wasn’t going to get any answers if Motokane started slaughtering villagers. “Please, calm yourself.”
“The Shogun will abide no treachery!”
“And I will not abide you interrupting me again.” The official may have outranked him, but Hiroto was the one handpicked for this assignment, and his patience was wearing thin. “You said it yourself, peasants are beneath your notice. You and Three Sparks have that in common. Now walk away and let me finish.”
Motokane was quarrelsome, but he wasn’t stupid. Rank had privileges, but they were a long way from Kamakura. The young man gave the headman one last threatening glare, then let go of his sword and went back to join his troops. Good. Hiroto didn’t particularly want to murder him, but he would if necessary, and then simply tell the Shogun that the demon had gotten him. “Now where were we?”
“I’m sorry, great and noble—”
“Enough groveling, and stand already. I’m no tax collector.” He waited for the farmer to get up. “I’m simply a hunter, and you’re going to tell me everything you know about this demon so that I can kill it.”
It was hard to tell over the clanking and huffing of Motokane’s bodyguards, but beyond them the forest was unnaturally quiet. The wind did not penetrate far into the Sea of Trees. There were no birds singing, no insects buzzing, just the occasional tap of collected humidity falling on leaves.
It was no wonder the place had been considered haunted even before an oni had moved in.
That morning the others had dressed for war. Motokane’s retinue were wearing their armor and helmets, with bows strung, spears held high, and their swords at their sides. The Shogun’s finest looked like fearsome combatants, a worthy challenge for any demon.
Meanwhile, Hiroto lagged behind them, unarmed and stripped to the waist, with a bamboo pole balanced across his shoulder with a bundle hanging from each end. He had even gone and rolled about in the fields to complete the act. The other samurai thought he’d gone mad when he had left his swords behind, but Hiroto looked and even smelled like a local farmer.
Hiroto tried to appear inconsequential, head down, tired and stumbling from rock to rock beneath his clumsy burden. He would be no threat, especially to a mighty oni. He was simply a porter, conscripted from the village to carry his betters’ supplies because the forest was too rugged for their horses. The headman had told him that some of the other would-be demon hunters had done the same, and each time their porter had come running back alone, terrified, sometimes covered in blood, but alive.
In his experience, most beasts targeted the weakest prey. This oni was different. It attacked the strong. He would use that to his advantage.
They walked for hours. It was slow going across such rough terrain. Thick roots waited to trip them. Each warrior was drenched in sweat. The air felt heavy and smelled of moss. The soil was dark and littered with black volcanic rocks. Between the heat and the uneven ground, the samurai were surely regretting wearing their armor, but they were all too proud to show it. Each of them thought that they would be the one to take the trophy back to their Lord, and they passed the time by boasting of what they would do with their reward.
Hiroto just kept his head down, appearing meek and subservient. He reasoned it did not do much good to use his eyes to hunt a creature which was supposedly invisible. Instead, he listened.
In a forest without sound, the faintest things became audible. The oni was quiet, but not as quiet as a tiger. In trees packed too tight for the wind to rustle through, the smallest movement was a clue. Occasionally he’d hear flesh scrape against bark, or the creak of a branch as weight settled on it. There was another sound beneath as well, barely audible, but unnatural, like the chittering of an insect combined with the slithering of a snake across sand. It made the hair on his arms stand up. All of that information would have been lost amongst the noise of a living place, but in the haunted stillness of Aokigahara, it told a story.
They were being followed.
It was somewhere above them and to the right. He tried not to let his excitement show.
“Over here,” Kaneto called from the edge of a nearby stream. “There’s another.”
This body had been there for a few days, and was missing its head, but from his fine clothing and the broken katana lying in the water, he had clearly been a samurai. Motokane knelt next to the corpse and pointed at the emblem embroidered on the sleeve. “I recognize this from court. This is the personal mon of Hojo Murashige!”
Hiroto had no idea who that was, but the Hojo were a family of some importance. The corpse’s identity seemed to shake the others.
“He was a fearsome swordsman,” Zensuke whispered. “The best of us.”
“It didn’t just take his head. It ripped out his spine.” Motokane stood up and glanced around nervously. A full day of nerves and stress had worn him thin. He suddenly raised his voice and bellowed. “Show yourself, demon! Show yourself so I can kill you like the wretched cowardly dog you are!”
Hiroto took a few steps away from the angry samurai. The peasants had spoken of it throwing lightning bolts, and he didn’t think it wise to stand so close to the most tempting target. He listened, but if the demon was still watching, it was being especially quiet, or at least quiet enough he couldn’t hear it over the shouting. So while Motokane continued to rant and threaten the trees, Hiroto looked for tracks. Sign always told a story.
The black ground was too hard to leave good prints, but the moss, once smashed, grew differently than what was around it. There were the marks of normal sandals, and then much larger footfalls, heavy enough to crush the moss flat. The two had fought back and forth for quite some time, covering a lot of distance. He examined a cut on a tree. From the height and angle, it had come from someone extremely tall. Deep cuts. Incredible strength. Twin blades . . . An odd weapon. There were other cuts in the barks. The oni fought with a wild and ferocious style. Then he found the dried blood where the oni had finally struck true. He followed the trail. These rocks had been stained green. Paint? He touched it. No . . . It had the consistency of dried sap . . . So oni bleed green. Curious. The smell was completely alien. He spied something else lying on the rocks, something out of place. He picked it up.
And then Kaneto’s chest exploded.
There was a whoosh-crack and a flash of light. Motokane’s shouting was suddenly interrupted as the bodyguard’s blood sprayed him in the face. Bits of meat and armor rained out of the sky, making ripples across the stream. Kaneto dropped to his knees, lifeless, and then flopped forward with a splash.
The wound on his chest must have been incredibly hot because it boiled the stream around it. Steam rose through the giant hole in Kaneto’s back.
The samurai’s reaction was near instant. Spears were lifted, arrows were nocked, only they
had no target for their wrath.
“Where’d that come from?” Motokane shouted.
Hiroto had dropped his bundles, crouched behind a tangle of roots, and was listening carefully. The lightning strike had made his ears ring, but besides the warrior’s heavy breathing, he caught a rapid series of thumps as the oni danced from tree to tree. It was pulling back to watch from a position of safety . . . toying with them.
That meant they had some time before the killing would resume. The odd item he had found was still clenched in his fist, so Hiroto opened his hand to study it. The thing was too big, it ended in an obsidian claw, and the exposed meat was bright green instead of decaying red, but from the joints and knuckles, it was clearly a finger.
So Hojo Murashige must have challenged the oni to a duel, it had accepted, and lost a finger in the process . . . No wonder it preferred to attack from ambush.
“Why won’t this damned thing come out and fight us like a proper warrior?” Motokane grumbled as they trudged through the forest.
“Because it isn’t stupid,” Hiroto muttered from the back of the line.
“What was that?” he demanded.
They were going back along the same trail they had come in on. Ostensibly to find better ground to fight on—or so the official declared. Hiroto assumed it was because Motokane had realized he was in over his head, but he didn’t want to lose face by outright calling it a retreat.
Hiroto kept his voice down. It wasn’t a low-born porter’s place to offer tactical advice to samurai, but he did not feel that the demon was near enough to eavesdrop. “A clever hunter pits his strengths against his prey’s weakness. He does not pit his weakness against his prey’s strengths.”
“Nonsense,” Motokane spat. “He’s just dishonest like you! Now shut up and keep moving!”
They continued walking, but a few moments later the nearest samurai whispered to Hiroto, “What did you mean by that, hunter?”
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