Chapter 4: Dry Arrow
The thought flickered through Shuichi's mind that it was a shame. With his altered physique and voice, Taro Fukawa hadn't recognized him before losing consciousness. Maybe he should have turned on the light, let the man see his face in that final second. He would have liked to see the confusion and dawning horror in Fukawa's eyes as he realized who his killer was.
Shrugging off the idle thought, he focused. In line with the principle of not wasting resources, it was time to test another facet of the Demon King's power: the Blood Curse.
His right arm began to swell and distort, flesh and bone warping with a wet, tearing sound. It morphed into a thick, whip-like tentacle studded with glistening, bloody spikes. Along its length, smaller, gnashing mouths snapped open and shut. It was a hideous, visceral thing, radiating a palpable aura of corruption.
The tip of the whip-tentacle lashed forward, its spikes sinking deep into the unconscious Taro Fukawa's chest. The appendage pulsed, darkening to a deeper crimson as it began to siphon. More importantly, a fraction of Shuichi's own essence—his demonic blood—was pumped into the dying man's body. This blood, carrying his will, began a violent, systematic campaign: devouring every normal human cell it encountered and overwriting the template of life itself.
The cursed blood could either transform the target into a demon or, if Shuichi willed it, simply annihilate them from within. Today, it was for creation.
Once a sufficient—though deliberately minimal—amount of blood was injected, Shuichi retracted his arm. It shrank and smoothed back into the appearance of a normal, if pale, human limb. He watched, clinically attentive, as the changes began in the body on the floor.
He felt a faint drain, a tiny sliver of his power now invested in this vessel. It was negligible, but it confirmed a truth: creating powerful demons solely from his own reserves would be costly. They would need to hunt, to gather strength independently. They were grown demons now; they had to learn self-sufficiency.
The body of Taro Fukawa began to react.
First, his skin flushed an angry, mottled red. Purple-black veins erupted across its surface, writhing and bulging like worms beneath the skin. Even unconscious, his face contorted in agony, low, guttural moans escaping his lips.
Shuichi watched with mild concern. He'd be genuinely annoyed if this waste of flesh couldn't handle even this small amount of cursed blood and simply burst. That would be a pointless expenditure.
Hold on, you worthless thing.
After a sustained period of violent tremors, the tension in Fukawa's body seemed to plateau. The pain etched on his features smoothed away, replaced by an unsettling blankness. Then, the second stage began.
His frame expanded. The man, who had stood around 170 centimeters, stretched and cracked upwards, surpassing 190 centimeters in moments. His already prominent beer belly distended further, becoming a grotesque, round protrusion that made him look obscenely pregnant.
The flesh on his back split with a wet rip. From the wounds, a second pair of thick, muscular arms shoved their way out, complete with claw-tipped fingers. Now possessing four arms, the overall effect was not one of fearsome power, but of a clumsy, overgrown insect due to his bloated torso.
His short, greasy black hair sprouted wildly, lengthening into a tangled mess of seaweed-like strands in a single breath, the ends bleached a sickly, straw-like yellow.
His skin settled into a sallow, blotchy hue, neither the deathly white of some demons nor a healthy tone.
Finally, his eyes snapped open. The whites were now a sickly yellow, the irises a luminous, predatory turquoise with slitted, inhuman pupils.
"Disgusting," Shuichi muttered aloud, not bothering to hide his revulsion. Taro Fukawa had been unattractive in life. In demonhood, he was an aesthetic offense. Note for future recruitment: screen for acceptable appearance. This is an eyesore.
As the transformation completed, Shuichi felt it—a thin, taut thread of connection linking his core to this newly created entity. It was an unpleasant sensation, this bond to something so vile, but it came with absolute dominion. He could sense the demon's location, communicate mind-to-mind, share its vision, and, with proximity, rifle through its thoughts with ease. He could sever the connection entirely, stripping it of power and life. He was the source, and he held the power to revoke the gift.
Following the precedent set by his template's originator, Shuichi wove prohibitions directly into the Blood Curse itself. The demon could not speak his name, his nature, or the secrets of the Twelve Kizuki to outsiders. It could not act against his will. But he did permit one form of address.
You may call me 'My Lord.'
Finished, he observed the newly awakened demon. It simply stared at him, its turquoise eyes blank and uncomprehending, as if unaware of the new hierarchy of its existence.
"Kneel."
Shuichi's voice was flat, devoid of warmth or volume, yet it carried the weight of absolute command. His gaze was that of a bored sovereign looking upon the lowest of insects.
The word struck the demon's mind like a physical blow. Its body convulsed, the very blood in its veins screaming in obedience. It stumbled, the fat on its body quivering revoltingly, and forced itself up from the floor only to collapse onto its knees. The sight fueled the impatience in Shuichi's eyes.
As Dry Arrow knelt, Shuichi lightly probed the connection, seeking the demon's thoughts. He found only a swirling fog of confusion and base instinct. The mind was largely empty, a wiped slate.
"Subordinate… greets My Lord." The voice that emerged was a coarse rasp, trembling with a fear that was both learned and innate. It did not dare lift its head.
"Congratulations. You are my first demon. Do you remember your name?" Shuichi asked, already knowing the answer. He had scrubbed away the pathetic life of Taro Fukawa during the transformation.
"My Lord… this subordinate does not remember."
"From now on," Shuichi said, his eyes critically tracing the bloated, four-armed, seaweed-haired abomination, "you are called… Dry Arrow." The name fit. Brittle, useless, and unpleasant to look at.
"Thank you, My Lord." The demon—Dry Arrow—accepted the name without question. A name was an identity, and it had been granted one. That was enough.
Shuichi studied his creation for a long moment. As his first subordinate, however unsightly, he needed to gauge its capabilities. He hoped it would manifest some useful Blood Demon Art.
His silence made Dry Arrow tremble harder. Had it already erred?
Just then, the distinct sound of a key turning in a lock echoed from downstairs, followed by the creak of the front door opening and closing.
An old, irritated voice, thick with weariness and anger, grumbled up the stairs. "You good-for-nothing brat! Get out here!"
The old man, Hisao Fukawa, was home. He'd seen the half-finished beer on the table.
The two demons upstairs remained unmoved. Shuichi was indifferent. Dry Arrow was frozen, awaiting command.
"So," Shuichi said, a slight, cold smile touching his lips. He gestured, and the bedroom door swung open silently. "Go and deal with that noise downstairs."
"Stinking boy! Are you up there?!" Hisao's angry footsteps began pounding up the staircase, each step a heavy thud of paternal frustration.
As Dry Arrow shuffled toward the doorway, Shuichi added a quiet, final instruction, his voice cutting through the dim room.
"Remember. Keep family disputes… within the family. No outside disturbances."
Dry Arrow's turquoise eyes glinted in the dark as it nodded, understanding dawning in its rudimentary consciousness. It turned and stepped out onto the landing, just as the old man reached the top of the stairs.
(End of Chapter)
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