“I love you.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers. His stubbled cheeks pressed over her. She grazed her head into his, over and over, as though trying to forever imprint the memory of the sensation in her mind.
“When you came for me… I was so happy to see you.” The words were almost incoherent. “Show me your face.” She held Hosuke’s face up to see.
“I’m fucking ugly, you know,” Hosuke muttered.
She shook her head, telling him not to be silly as she brought him closer again. Hosuke raised his upper body, lifting Yuko up. He crossed his legs and pulled her hips in. He used both hands to pull her waist up and down, chasing his tongue over her breasts. Her hips began to accelerate, faster than the movement of his hands. The girl’s pale and slender frame danced, fully naked in his embrace.
“Promise me you’ll be with me,” Yuko said. “Together…”
Her voice was wet, a tactile knot of bliss. Her hips bucked into him as she forced her lips onto his.
No one is gonna kill this fucking girl! He was already coming inside her.
Twenty
Death Brawls
1
At the same time, two people faced off in the grounds of Miwa Ishibashi’s Hachioji residence.
One was tall and youthful, with the delicate features of a girl. The other was short, an old man standing in the grass, wearing black with long, white hair that caught the wind. The two men were Biku and Enoh. Biku had dived through the window of Akio Ishibashi’s escape, ready to give chase through the night, only to find the old man waiting there for him. Drenched in the light of the crescent moon, Enoh’s frame resembled a bodiless spirit, lambent against the powder-blue darkness. Keen eyes shone out from the man’s elderly, wrinkled face.
A wave of razor-like energy burst from the his body like a sudden wind. Sharp as a blade, it bore outwards with the force of a drill. Biku just stood there, indifferent, allowing the energy to wash over him. A feat only possible because of his unique inability to feel pain. His crimson, feminine lips curled into a smooth grin. It was the same perfectly innocent, inhuman smile that had smashed through Iba’s resolve.
“As I suspected,” Enoh muttered. He gave Biku a sly, one-sided grin. The expression was of a boundless joy being forcefully kept in check.
“Enoh,” Biku said, straightening up.
Enoh said nothing in reply, only nodding instead; he repeated the motion a few times. “I’ve heard all about you. About the monk-child, Biku.”
“Just as I have heard of a facetious old-man that is fond of murder.”
“And here, we finally meet.”
“So it would seem,” Biku nodded.
This was more than simple dialogue. The two men were sizing each other up, probing for weakness. Neither acknowledged the buckling pressures of energy searing around them.
“I arrived to find the Shinmeikai scattered over the place. I feared I might have missed you, but it appears I was on time after all.”
“Unfortunately so.”
“Iba told me, you know,” Enoh said, his voice a hushed grunt.
“About?”
“Your disposition; that you don’t feel pain.”
“Iba did quite like to talk. So much more than his appearance suggested.”
“Indeed. A personality trait that resulted in us taking his head.”
“His head?”
“Ripped off, courtesy of Hanko.”
“Oh dear. I feel I should offer my condolences, I had come to know him quite well,” Biku replied levelly, his expression unchanging.
Enoh’s lips leaked a muffled staccato, he was laughing. “First Fuminari, then Hosuke Kumon. I’ve come to appreciate the great reserves of talent lurking in the wilds.”
Enoh was closer now, having closed some of the distance between them without any outward sign of movement. Biku widened his stance a fraction, relaxing his arms at either side and almost imperceptibly lowering his center of gravity. He moved in perfect tandem with Enoh’s approach.
“And how is Hosuke?”
“I just met with him, actually.”
“What was he up to?”
“Lying with a girl, watching the moon.”
“Sounds like him,” Biku laughed.
Branches stretched over their heads, from planted trees lined up to each side. Enoh stepped forward, moving with the casual spontaneity of a man noticing an acquaintance across the road. Just as their bodies were about to meet, his right hand blinked forward, a flash converging on Biku’s throat. Biku arched his head backwards and the attack sailed over him. It was fast enough to leave burn marks on his throat. Enoh’s left hand followed, rushing in from the side, again towards Biku’s throat. The attack was even faster than the first. Biku swung deeper, translating the movement into a backwards roll. Yet no distance opened between them. Enoh had moved forward as Biku dodged.
A red line wormed over Biku’s throat, the tip of Enoh’s left hand had grazed the top layer of his skin. Enoh kept moving. Biku felt a sudden burst of wind-like pressure impact the side of his face. He reeled back, as though he had taken a sharp slap to the face. He tumbled again, rolling twice before pushing off the ground to vault into the air. He soared lightly upwards and grabbed one of the branches, swinging to land on it. Enoh was nowhere below him. A branch rustled to Biku’s side, revealing Enoh to be standing there.
“You know I chose the ‘En’ in my name for its meaning—monkey. You’ve got guts, choosing to take me on in the trees.”
He stood upright, causing the branch to slump; then, without using his hands for support, he charged directly at Biku. The movement was just like that of an ape.
“Kyaa!”
Biku vaulted from the branch, burden gone it sprang upwards. Enoh launched himself in response, bearing towards Biku, readying to attack from above as Biku landed. His timing was flawless. Biku flipped in mid-air so that he was falling headfirst towards the grass below. But instead of landing on his head he slammed both hands into the ground, pushing them down as cushions and using his elbows to kill the speed of his fall. Even then, the speed of his fall was enough to force his forehead into the ground. Holding himself upright, Biku pulled his knees inwards and curled into a ball.
Enoh continued to plummet towards him, but it was Biku’s turn to attack. Reworking his entire frame into a spring he jerked his arms straight, taking flight as he kicked both legs upwards. Enoh judged the attack and reacted, meeting Biku’s feet with his own before rebounding, dancing lightly upwards as he converted the force of the attack into fuel. They stood off again—Biku on the ground, Enoh up in the trees. Of the branches rustling in the wind, one moved in a heavy yaw. Enoh was standing on it, both legs crouched low towards the center. His balance was astonishing, almost superhuman. He had harmonized himself with the swaying of the branch using nothing more than his knees and the curve of his back-without even grabbing at anything. The man’s dexterity was even greater than a monkey’s.
Blood dripped from Biku’s forehead as he looked up, his skin cut from when he had used his head and arms to break his fall. But he was smiling, apparently oblivious of the fact. A ghoulish laughter descended from the cover of the darkly weaving branches. It began as a small, rhythmic noise, then grew in volume. It was the laugh of someone having too much fun to hold it in. Enoh was cackling, his mouth wide open. The branch Enoh rested on swung deeper, accelerating as the man’s laughter picked up. Enoh was using his weight to rock it.
“You’re fascinating, Biku,” he said. “First Fuminari, and now you; it’s been a long time since I’ve had as much fun. I’d like nothing more than to fight all of you to sunrise.”
It was like the ecstatic call of some nightmarish ghoul that had taken form in the wind-rustled branches. Biku took a careful step backwards, keeping his eyes on the branch. Too dangerous to fight among trees. He thought of Ishibashi, gone now. Of Fuminari and Hanko, probably still inside the building. Even if Ishibashi was a lost
cause, he wanted to avoid giving up on Renobo.
Just then an ear-splitting crash came from the inside the residence. Enoh seized on Biku’s distraction, flaring into the air like a black ghost.
2
A gigantic, disfigured shadow appeared in the doorway.
Fuminari unleashed a storm of energy towards it, deadly like a blast from a furnace. The instinct to fight seared through him as his cells burst into flame, almost vaporizing from the intensity of the stimulation. He gathered everything he had into the attack, accompanied by a roar loud enough to dislodge boulders. The walls of the room shook with the force; any papers would have spontaneously combusted, burnt to ash.
Hanko roared in response, taking the strike head on as his body lashed out with a baleful wave of equally powerful energy. The fiery breath of a lion swept over Fuminari’s face like a physical blow, the beast’s jaw stretched wide before him.
Each had thrown an almost physical wave of energy at the other. The energy sparked with crazed intensity, flashing like invisible fireworks that clashed in the space between them. Fuminari’s nostrils registered the carbon tang of burning air. Perhaps the sensation was in his mind, but it seemed to fit the brutality that had erupted between them. If anything, he felt surprised that their clothes were yet to erupt in red flame. A powerful sensation ran over Fuminari’s spine, something between horror and ecstasy.
This was the moment he had been waiting for, dreaming of. Impotent or not, he felt ready to ejaculate; he could hardly contain himself. There was an abject terror that threatened to rip out his spine and sweep his legs from under him. And with it, a peerless euphoria. Into the mix came hatred and something that could have been love. It all came together, smoldering in a heady barbecue of fire.
That night in the mountains of Tanzawa, Hanko had taken Jakou’in and left Fuminari alone—seemingly oblivious to his presence—but now he was responding, issuing a challenge with his entire frame. Fuminari knew the time had come for the fulfillment of his long-held, warped affections.
Hanko was an onyx rock, it stood hunched forwards yet still matched Fuminari’s two-meter height. Its physical mass was greater than even Fuminari’s 145 kilograms of bulk. The beast was a mammoth-sized abomination. But Fuminari’s impressive build was in no way inferior.
Hanko flew into motion, hurling its deadliest weapon—its giant frame—directly at Fuminari. The doorway was too small for them. It would enforce limits on any attack, becoming a disadvantage to whoever came through it first. Hanko had known this and bluffed, suddenly launching an unexpected strike. Fuminari thrust his right elbow out, pushing his left up to protect his heart, arm angled upwards to cover his throat while his hand shielded his face and eyes. His stomach muscles hardened as he twisted his lower body to protect his groin. Nothing less than front-on blow from a samurai sword could punch through his tensed abdomen. Anything else would stop short of a fatal strike, fail to stab deep enough. Protecting himself this way he had made it impossible for an unarmed human to deliver a single, lethal blow.
Bones crunched as the two heavy bodies of flesh collided, shredding the carpet under Fuminari’s feet. He slid backwards as the carpet split. Hanko’s forehead slammed over his with a blunt thud. Their eyes met for an instant, centimeters apart. Hanko’s were yellow and burning with horrific power.
As their bodies collided they each launched a rapid series of attacks. Fuminari jerked his right knee up to crash into Hanko’s, in the same moment forming the fingers of the hand covering his face into a v-shape. He sent them flying towards the beast’s eyes. He knew Hanko would never fall for a simple bluff, that there was no time for artistry. His only plan was to make each attack potentially lethal and compensate with volume.
Hanko took the blow to his knee, stopping Fuminari’s attack dead as the beast dipped its head towards Fuminari’s attacking fingers. His gloved hand crashed into the beast’s forehead. In the next moment Hanko’s left hand was hurtling in from the side, a blur heading for Fuminari’s throat. Fuminari raised his right shoulder to absorb the blow. His joint made a deep sound, followed immediately by a rush of heat and the sound of cloth tearing as Fuminari’s shirt tore around the shoulder, exposing flesh beneath. There were two bloody lines where his flesh had been gouged out and the skin hung loose; the flesh underneath was pink and moist. Tiny beads of blood spread over the surface of the wound.
The two bodies came apart, falling back. In the brief seconds of attack they had expended half a day’s worth of energy. But to relax for even a moment would mean annihilation. A thin line of red snaked from Fuminari’s hairline and trickled down his forehead. Blood. Broken skin, from when their foreheads had smashed together. The blood flowed a straight line to the bridge of his nose, then angled towards his right eye.
The aura radiating from Hanko’s body was perfectly animal. A heatwave that was both hellish and otherworldly. How could a human aura get so distorted? The creature was a work of art, testament to the extraordinary drive and talent of Enoh—the beast’s master and creator. It fought without reference to any school of martial arts. It fought, fundamentally, as an animal would. Like a rabid tiger fighting on its hind legs. But Hanko’s style—his very existence—was beyond the realm of metaphor. Hanko was unique, a creature without antecedent, neither beast nor human. What kind of artistry could give rise to such a creature?
There was a table and some wooden chairs to Fuminari’s left. Behind him was the bed Ishibashi and Renobo had been fucking on only minutes ago. The air was still thick with the heavy stench of blood. Renobo lay sprawled across to one corner of the room, naked and bound with climbing rope. She was unconscious after having cracked her head when Fuminari had hurled her to the ground.
Hanko and Fuminari stood still, holding each other’s gaze for a couple of breaths. Then, just as the blood from Fuminari’s forehead began to trickle from his eye towards his mouth, they exploded into combat again. A raging battle ensued. Fuminari could not let his guard lapse, even for a moment. There was no time to let pain distract him. The fight unfurled with an intensity that would have buried a normal person in ten seconds, their head crushed in five, maybe six. Either that or they would just collapse, hysterical from stress. Fuminari’s body was on fire. There was carbon deep in his nose. He sucked in blood. He was a wild animal in his own right, launching an attack for each he took.
As he unleashed a blazing kick, Hanko’s enormous frame took to the air. It was the leap of a monster, completely negating any sense of weight. But a ceiling was a thing too low for a beast like Hanko, whatever the building’s size. If it jumped a meter, it would hit the ceiling. But it had leapt regardless, seemingly heedless of this fact.
Then, as the beast ascended, Hanko raised its arms, pushing its palms flat against the ceiling and using its elbows to buffer the speed, pausing as it tucked in its legs. It looked like the ceiling was sucking in Hanko’s immense frame. Then Fuminari sensed a disturbing swell of energy begin to radiate towards him, signaling the beast’s intentions. He funneled all his strength into a sideways dive and rolled away as Hanko’s overwhelming bulk came flying towards him, body growing as the beast unravelled itself feet first. Hanko had curled inwards only to use itself as a launching pad, pushing off the ceiling to attack. Fuminari scrambled under the table, covering his head as Hanko came crashing down from above.
The heavy bone and wood table, covered with Indian carvings, groaned and cracked as it split in half. By the time it gave way Fuminari was already clear, but Hanko closed with two, then three rapid attacks before he could even get to his feet. Fuminari used his elbows, blocking each attack as he pulled himself up. Blood flowed from his arms, each time he blocked Hanko’s nails tore rents in his flesh. Fuminari backed into against something solid—the counter. Hanko made a thunderous roar and charged in.
Fuminari threw himself down, sending his right leg whistling up in the same movement. For the first time his attack found a direct route to the beast’s body. A critical hit. He felt his nai
ls dig into Hanko’s abdomen, it felt like kicking a boulder made from wood. Only his training kept the bones in his toes from shattering. Hanko lurched upwards, tumbling over the counter to crash down on the narrow far side. Shrunken heads and kapala rained down.
A chance. Fuminari felt a thrill of elation. He kicked his right leg up, timed to connect the moment he expected Hanko’s head to show. A killer blow. It would be too late if the beast’s head was already up. His tree-stump leg boomed through the air as the incredible attack scythed a horizontal line behind the counter. It met with empty space.
Hanko had seen it coming.
There was silence, then a sudden jagged tearing; wood being wrenched apart. The bar counter pitched massively in his direction, leaning forwards as it groaned and splintered. It was home-made but substantially built. And Hanko was physically tearing it from the wall, up from the floor. Hanko was more than just strength, he was fearfully smart. Fuminari’s skin prickled, he shuddered. Could anything human take a kick to the stomach like that and still command this kind of strength? Fuminari thought of his training in Taiwan, he felt it drain from his body and mind. The fear came—that he was no match for Hanko, even after all he had done. He wanted to howl in terror, smash through the window and bail. Shit! His legs were trembling, maybe from fear, maybe from the fever of battle in a last attempt to revive his inner warrior. All he knew now was that if he ran he would be condemning himself to forever be worthless, less than a dog. A fate equal to death.
He felt a sudden doubt, a terror that he would never again be able to call on the fire necessary to take Hanko on. He was still trembling.
His legs buckled, the shaking was from fear. But it was not a fear of Hanko; he was afraid of himself. That he might get up and run. He concentrated on the horror of having his fingers eaten before him, on that night. The feeling came back, more powerful than ever. Once bitten and fear takes root, even harmless dogs become monsters. This was the same. Fuminari held his ground—if death was coming regardless, he would choose to die here. He had strength enough to make that decision, and while the images from Tanzawa consumed his will to fight, they also strengthened his will.
The Psyche Diver Trilogy: Demon Hunters Page 38