Chapter 23: The First Game
Huff… Huff… Huff…
Dry Arrow's immense bulk shook the ground with each lumbering step, his heavy breathing a labored bellows. Birds scattered from the trees in panic at his passing. If it were up to him, he'd never lay eyes on the Ghost King again. Being forced to run this distance, with his physique, was sheer torture.
But the end was in sight. Only a hundred meters to go, just past the treeline. He could see the open path beyond.
"Dead fatty. Run faster."
A woman's voice, laced with mocking amusement, drifted from a nearby branch.
Who dares?! His temper, always short, flared. He loved the tender flesh of women and children most of all.
With a grunt, he twisted his neck, spotting a figure reclined on a thick bough. Without a second glance, he distended his jaws and spat. A torrent of green, acidic vomit shot towards the figure.
"Ugh, what a stench." The woman sounded disgusted, but didn't move. She simply waved a hand languidly before her. "Blood Demon Art: Layered Space."
The vomit, mid-air, simply… vanished. Erased, as if wiped from reality. Not a drop hit the tree.
Hiss…
Dry Arrow's jaw hung slack, residual acid dripping from his chin. His eyes bulged. What kind of ability is that?!
Only now did he get a clear look. Crimson hair tied high, golden serpentine eyes, a stark black war-paint stripe bisecting her face. And the aura… unmistakably demonic.
A fellow demon. But her flippant posture, contemptuous gaze, and mocking smile infuriated him. He wouldn't be looked down upon, even by his own kind!
Yet, the memory of that bizarre space-warping technique gave him pause. He could only manage a final, impotent glare before wheezing and continuing his desperate shuffle towards the path.
"Pfft." A soft laugh followed him.
"Damn her… I'll deal with her later," he muttered, the humiliation burning. Finally, he burst from the tree line onto the open road. Relief washed over him.
"Dry Arrow. Do you know how late you are?"
The voice, cold and flat, froze the blood in his veins. Shuichi Mayumi stood on the path, his expression impassive. The killing intent radiating from him felt solid enough to touch.
Dry Arrow's brief smile died. He suddenly wished he'd stayed in the forest. But the Ghost King's will was an inescapable gravity.
THUD.
He dropped to his knees, his massive forehead slamming into the dirt. "My Lord! This lowly one is incompetent! This… this is my absolute fastest! Please, have mercy! Spare me! I'll remember your great kindness forever!"
"Heh. Very well. You may go."
The trembling stopped. Dry Arrow looked up, stunned. He saw the Ghost King's smile—a chilling, mirthless curve.
"I'll give you five seconds. If you're still here after that… you can go to Hell instead. Five… Four… Three…"
Dry Arrow scrambled to his feet, panic overriding his bulk. He turned and fled, not daring to look back, fearing the countdown would reverse.
"Listen well." Shuichi's clap was soft, but it carried. His crimson eyes tracked the fleeing mass. "The first one to bring me his head… will receive my personal reward."
As he spoke, he exerted his supreme authority as the Demon King. With a thought, he severed most of the regenerative immortality woven into Dry Arrow's Blood Curse. The demon's famed healing was now crippled. He could still survive briefly if beheaded, but regeneration was gone—a deliberate choice to leave him identifiably demonic, yet vulnerable.
In the distance, Dry Arrow felt the terrifying drain of his vitality, the safety net of his immortality yanked away. His heart hammered against his ribs. He pumped his legs faster, but his size made true speed impossible. He was just a lumbering, terrified piece of meat.
Damn it all! I knew he wasn't merciful!
Thus, the first Ghost Game began.
"Hey! Who wants first crack at that oaf?" The ghost crow, Onigarasu, landed beside Momiji, its crimson eyes gleaming with predatory excitement.
Momiji spared it a glance, his gaze still fixed on the distant, fleeing figure. "I have no interest. You should worry about the others."
"Tch. No passion at all."
"I don't enjoy playing with prey."
The crow gave Momiji a suspicious look, then shrugged its feathered shoulders. "Your loss." With a beat of its powerful wings, it took to the air, joining the hunt.
Shuichi noted Momiji's lack of participation but didn't mind. The Game was a whim, a way to evaluate his new pieces. He wouldn't force participation. Besides, he had four other, highly motivated players.
Besides Tenmu, the newly transformed Hyuga, there were two others. Shuichi had named them 'Kagemi' (Mirror Shadow) and 'Mushiji' (Insect Lord).
Kagemi, formerly Kizugawa Sakiko, had awoken a spatial Blood Demon Art almost immediately: "Layered Space." It was not the teleporting fortress of an Infinite City, but a replication of the current environment into a separate, artificial pocket dimension. She could transfer objects, living beings, or attacks between the real space and her layered one, maintaining their relative positions. It also lacked a true sun, offering temporary refuge. However, it had severe limitations: a time limit before collapse, an inability to transfer large structures, and no intrinsic mobility. It was a hiding place, not a vehicle. The expelled contents returned to reality when the space disintegrated. Useful, but not what Shuichi ultimately sought.
Mushiji, the former Aburame Fumihiko, was… disappointing. His demonization had killed nearly all the chakra-fed parasites symbiotically living within him. His form had become that of a half-man, half-insect grotesque, covered in a black chitinous carapace with thin, cicada-like wings. His physical stats were enhanced, but the "swarm" concept Shuichi envisioned was absent. Shuichi had a strong suspicion this one would eventually awaken an art that fully transformed him into a giant insect, a far cry from a swarm commander. Perhaps it's an individual quirk of the Aburame, or maybe males can't become brood mothers. He made a mental note to acquire more Aburame test subjects in the future.
The hunt also revealed a pattern: the speed of Blood Demon Art awakening seemed tied to the subject's latent talent in life. Kagemi (good shinobi potential), Onigarasu (an exceptional crow), even Dry Arrow in his own crude way had shown his corrosive vomit quickly. The less gifted took longer. Talent persisted, even through demonic rebirth.
As the first Ghost Game unfolded in the dark forest—a chaotic chase between a terrified, crippled demon and four hunters with varied, deadly abilities—Shuichi Mayumi watched, a cold, evaluating spectator. The weak would be culled. The strong would prove their worth. And he would learn exactly what tools he now had at his disposal. The night was young, and the game had just begun.
(End of Chapter)
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