Chapter 15: Ghost Qi
After his walk past the Uchiha district, Shuichi Mayumi's next stop was Konoha Hospital. He wanted to check on the condition of the surviving genin, Takagawa. Lingering near the entrance, he caught snippets of conversation from two off-duty medics. The boy's injuries, while severe, weren't life-threatening. He was, however, still unconscious.
So much for watching the drama unfold, Shuichi thought with mild disappointment. When Takagawa woke, he'd be questioned extensively. There wouldn't be a convenient, emotional public scene.
But Momiji was still out there, alive and transformed. If Takagawa truly cared for his partner, he'd recognize him someday. In a way, Shuichi was facilitating a future reunion. A strangely sentimental notion that amused him.
With this faint expectation for their twisted future, he left the hospital grounds.
Returning home, he fumbled with his key one-handed. "Momiji, were you—" The words died on his lips as he pushed the door open.
Momiji sat cross-legged in the center of the room, eyes closed in deep concentration. That wasn't the remarkable part. Surrounding him, shimmering faintly in the dim light, was a thin, translucent aura of crimson energy.
Hmm?
Hearing the door, Momiji's eyes snapped open. The red aura flickered and vanished as he bowed his head. "My Lord."
Shuichi stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His gaze was fixed, analytical. "You've already done this?" he asked, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. He'd assumed mastering this new energy would take weeks, if not months. For it to show visible manifestation in less than a night… was the threshold low, or was Momiji's latent talent simply misdirected as a shinobi?
"My Lord," Momiji began, a hint of apprehension in his steady tone. "During your absence, I completed the qualitative refinement of what I have termed 'Ghost Qi.'" He paused, wary of anger for presuming to name the power.
Shuichi waved a dismissive hand. The name was irrelevant. Progress was everything. "A qualitative change already? That was fast."
He had to admit, the crimson hue suited the demon named 'Crimson Maple.'
Momiji, reassured, calmly drew the visible Ghost Qi back into his body. Then, focusing, he willed it to the surface again, coating his skin in that same, nearly imperceptible protective layer. A brief red flash, then transparency.
"Would My Lord be willing to test it once more?" Momiji asked, his expression resolute.
Shuichi glanced around his apartment. A full-force whip would reduce the furniture to splinters. But the determination in Momiji's eyes was clear. He sighed, a theatrical sound.
"Very well."
His five fingernails on his left hand elongated into razor-sharp black claws. In the next instant, he was simply gone from his spot by the door. A gust of wind ruffled Momiji's hair.
Momiji felt only a sudden, icy hollowness in his chest, followed by a wave of debilitating weakness. The Ghost Qi layer shattered like glass. Warm liquid soaked through the front of his new shirt.
He looked down. A clean, fist-sized hole was punched through his sternum, right where his heart should be. It was empty. He couldn't feel its beat.
Behind him, leaning casually against a cabinet, Shuichi Mayumi held a still-twitching, crimson organ in his blood-smeared hand. His expression was detached, clinical. He wasn't looking at the heart; his gaze was on Momiji's back, watching the regeneration begin.
Then, with a casual squeeze of his fingers, he crushed the heart. Pulpy fragments and blood dripped to the floor.
Squelch.
By now, the hole in Momiji's chest was already filling with pulsing, raw flesh. A new heart formed within seconds. He stared at the ruined pieces of his old one on the floor, a complex silence hanging in the air.
Shuichi spoke first, cutting off any unspoken thoughts. "I did feel a difference this time." He licked his lips slightly, recalling the fleeting sensation. It had been brief, almost negligible, but present. "Your Ghost Qi… it drains physical stamina, doesn't it? Upon contact."
The layer had broken instantly, so the effect had been momentary. But for someone of Shuichi's heightened senses, it was detectable. Compared to Dry Arrow and Onigarasu, Momiji was in a different league. But against the Demon King? He needed centuries of practice.
Still, it was… interesting.
"As expected of the Ghost King," Momiji said, his voice flat, devoid of its earlier spark. Being effortlessly dismantled twice in one night was a blow to any ambition. "To perceive it so easily. Yes, stamina absorption is the inherent trait of my Ghost Qi. I theorize the trait may differ for each demon."
Shuichi's brow furrowed. The Blood Demon Arts were random enough. Now there was a second layer of randomness with Ghost Qi traits? Though it seemed this trait was tied to the defensive nature of the Qi itself—a passive, retaliatory effect.
Losing chakra but gaining this… it wasn't a terrible trade. Chakra was a blend of physical and spiritual energy. Perhaps in demons, the physical energy component had mutated into this 'Ghost Qi.' A new energy system, with rules he'd have to painstakingly uncover.
A new project, he thought, a spark of cold intellectual curiosity igniting.
He needed to establish a baseline. A small, immediate goal: generate his own Ghost Qi. He couldn't mold chakra. But he refused to believe he couldn't command this derivative energy. What kind of Demon King would he be if he couldn't?
And the other two—the crow and the bloated fool. They needed to develop theirs as well. It was time for his subordinates to… apply themselves. Idle hands were wasteful. They couldn't go out in the sun; they had plenty of time to grind. He'd find them something to do. They'd roll up their sleeves and work. Everyone rolls.
A faint, unsettling smile touched Shuichi's lips as his plans solidified.
Momiji, standing to the side, watched the subtle shift in his master's expression—the frown melting into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. A chill ran down his spine. He didn't dare ask.
"Momiji," Shuichi said, his voice snapping back to its usual calm. "Clean up this mess on the floor." He gestured with his bloodied hand toward the cardiac debris.
Then, stepping over the gore, he strode towards the bathroom. "My hand is filthy."
One of the benefits of having a subordinate at home, he mused, was not having to clean up after himself. They were, after all, meant to be useful.
(End of Chapter)
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