Chapter 5: First Employee, First Problem
Hisao Fukawa had just reached the halfway point of the stairs when a massive, grotesque shape loomed under the hallway light. Before his old eyes could process the horror—the extra arms, the bloated belly, the wild hair—the figure moved. Its steps were heavy, unfamiliar, and charged with violence.
Each footfall made the small house tremble. Against the backdrop of its vast, round stomach, its limbs seemed almost comically misplaced. Despite its bulk, it was fast. In a blink, it was upon him, one of its four large hands reaching out.
"Wha—?!"
Hisao tried to scramble back, forgetting he was on the stairs. His feet slipped. With a cry, he tumbled backward, crashing and rolling down the steps until his back slammed into the hard wall at the bottom. Pain exploded through his body, and his vision swam, the wind knocked from his lungs, his mind too stunned to scream.
Dry Arrow stared at its empty hand, then down at the crumpled old man. A deep, guttural rumble of displeasure vibrated in its chest. It had missed. With strength many times that of a normal human, it had missed a feeble, elderly target.
Rage, simple and hot, surged through its new form. It opened its mouth, revealing crumbling, yellowed teeth. A foul, rotting odor instantly flooded the narrow stairwell, thick enough to taste.
In the bedroom doorway, Shuichi Mayumi, who had been observing with detached curiosity, caught a whiff. His nose wrinkled in profound disgust. He took an involuntary step back, the urge to simply will Dry Arrow out of existence flashing through his mind. This is unbearable.
He endured it for only a second longer before deciding he'd seen enough. Silently, he turned and retreated through the open window he'd entered by, seeking the clean, cold night air. It was a relief. In the future, communication would be strictly via mental link and shared vision. Direct contact with this… thing… was to be avoided.
Dry Arrow, unaware of its lord's departure, was consumed by its own failure. The old man, Hisao, choking on the foul stench, gagged violently and vomited against the wall.
This seemed to trigger something in the demon. It took a deep, rattling breath, and its already enormous stomach began to distend further, swelling grotesquely until it nearly filled the width of the hallway.
Then, it leaned forward and unleashed a torrent of acidic, bile-green vomit, mixed with half-digested matter, straight down the stairwell at the prone Hisao.
Sizzle…
Where the liquid landed, it instantly corroded wood and plaster, releasing acrid white smoke. Hisao Fukawa, directly in the path, bore the brunt. His clothes melted away. Skin and muscle dissolved in large, horrific patches, revealing glistening white bone in places. He convulsed, mouth gaping in a silent scream—his throat and vocal cords already destroyed by the acid.
Seeing its target incapacitated, Dry Arrow lumbered down the stairs. With one of its lower hands, it grabbed the twitching, partially dissolved old man. Its jaw unhinged with a sickening crack, opening into a cavernous maw lined with rows of needle teeth. With brutal efficiency, it stuffed the remains of Hisao Fukawa inside.
Crunch. Gulp.
In the cool air outside, leaning against the side of the house, Shuichi Mayumi's face twisted. He had maintained the shared vision out of morbid curiosity, to see the Blood Demon Art.
He instantly severed the link.
"Disgusting," he spat into the night, the phantom smell clinging to his senses. "I could almost smell it through the link."
Was that its Blood Demon Art? He thought, bile rising in his own throat. Some kind of corrosive vomit? The sheer vileness of it was appalling.
His first subordinate. His inaugural demon. And it was a foul-smelling, vomit-spewing abomination. It was an embarrassment.
Should have just let him bleed out, he thought bitterly. Selection process next time. Strict aesthetic and hygiene standards.
A faint, cold trickle of energy flowed into him—the 80% share from Dry Arrow's "meal." It was a meager return, but it was something. The principle was proven: the employee worked, the boss profited.
But any satisfaction was drowned out by the sensory memory.
"So disgusting."
…
Morning sunlight attempted to pierce the tightly drawn curtains of Shuichi's apartment. Inside, he concentrated, his restored right arm shimmering and shrinking, the flesh receding until it once more ended in a neatly healed stump. He slipped the empty sleeve of his shirt over it. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead—maintaining the illusion of disability while his body screamed to regenerate was a constant, low-grade strain.
It was a good disguise. The only major drawback was the sun itself. Being confined to shadows during the day was inconvenient. Bored, he decided to check on his… investment.
Reluctantly, he re-established a one-way visual link with Dry Arrow, wanting to see where the creature was holed up for the day. He couldn't afford for his first experiment to be discovered.
The vision that swam into focus was dark, cramped, and wet. Konoha's sewers. Somehow, the hulking demon had squeezed itself into the murky tunnels. It wasn't idle. In one hand, it held a struggling, oversized rat—or perhaps a small, unfortunate tanuki—by the leg. With a casual, brutal motion, it stuffed the creature into its maw and crunched down.
This, at least, was cleaner than the previous spectacle. Dry Arrow was learning to use its body more efficiently, perhaps driven by the ingrained commands to hunt and remain hidden.
A tiny pulse of energy, thinner than a thread, filtered back to Shuichi. So, it had been hunting all night. The prohibitions forcing it to prioritize stealth severely limited its gains. For now, that was necessary. Open hunting sprees in Konoha were out of the question.
Future plans… might be different, he mused. The stench of the sewer was preferable to the smell of its acid. At least it was working. As long as the employees labored, the boss could advance.
Satisfied for the moment, he severed the link. Dry Arrow was following orders, staying hidden, and contributing, however minimally. That was all he could ask of such a flawed first draft.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A sharp rapping at his door broke his thoughts.
"Hey! Shuichi! You in there?" A young man's voice, familiar and slightly brash, called from the hallway.
Shuichi adjusted his expression into one of weary normalcy and opened the door.
Outside stood a boy about his height, maybe a year younger, with messy brown hair and ordinary black eyes. Katsu Takayama. A childhood playmate, back when such things mattered. Their paths had diverged sharply: where Shuichi's life had curved into failure and tragedy, Katsu had just enough talent to scrape through the Academy. He'd graduated at twelve, was now a fifteen-year-old genin, and was perpetually optimistic about making chunin "this year, for sure."
Since his graduation, their worlds had barely touched. Katsu was busy with missions and training with his team. Shuichi was busy surviving. His visit now was unexpected.
"Katsu," Shuichi said, his voice carefully neutral, holding the door open just enough. "What is it?"
(End of Chapter)
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