"Ohhh, so you know about this mark as well, ha? How odd," Yorimitsu murmured, his thumb tracing the black, pulsing ink on his forearm. He stepped closer to the limbless Yoshiro, his shadow falling over the bleeding man like a shroud.
"Lots of people have been able to identify it lately. I used to think I was cursed, you see, the mark was on my face, eating away at me. I lived in fear of it."
Yorimitsu paused, a cold, contemplative light in his silvery eyes. "But now, I have come to appreciate it. I started experimenting. I found a few... interesting perks. For instance, the fact that I can negotiate the terms of Reiryoku use with myself."
"This is bad," Yoshiro's thoughts raced, his mind fracturing under the pain and the realisation of what stood before him. "I don't know what he's truly capable of, but he's a Fifth-Grade Medium who carries the Mark of the Commander; there is a certainty that all our will be found out, a task I have to do something."
His thoughts were savoured by a sound that made the air feel nauseous.
Slooooosh!
A wet, sickening splatter echoed through the village. Yorimitsu's hand moved with a blurred grace. When it pulled away, he was holding one of Yoshiro's eyes. He didn't hesitate; he tossed the orb to the scorched earth.
"Now, you shall feel the pain you made me go through, though only barely," Yorimitsu said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly soft whisper. A sadistic, jagged smile stretched over his face, illuminated by the dying embers of the burning huts.
"Yoshiro-dono, there is a Buddhist teaching that says most sin is committed because of the eyes. To meet Nirvana, one must cast them away and look inward at oneself and only then can one ascend."
He reached down again, his fingers glowing with a faint, white-hot heat.
"Yoshiro-dono," he corrected his posture as he exerted pressure through his hand, pulling the flesh tether and snapping the eye out of its socket with a wet pop.
"AHHHHHHHHH!"
Yoshiro's roar was a jagged, broken cry, a sound of unrefined agony that tore through the empty streets and echoed off the skeletal remains of the village houses.
Yorimitsu dipped his fingers into the warm, viscous blood dripping from Yoshiro's chin and traced a jagged seal over the black ink on his forearm. He took a deep, rattling breath, and his Reiryoku surged,
Clap!
Clap!
Clap!
"Sabokura", Yorimitsu whispered.
With the third clap, the roaring fires consuming the village houses were instantly snuffed out. The roaring of the flames stopped all of a sudden, then came the haunting silence of the empty village, columns upon columns of black soot and heavy grey smoke rose from the crumbled ruins. The smoke was still; it didn't drift with the wind, but instead it surged toward the centre of the village like a living tide, coalescing around Yoshiro.
The soot solidified into a rigid, cross-like structure, pinning Yoshiro's limbless torso upright in the air. Suddenly, a pale, White Flame ignited within his empty eye sockets. The agonising darkness vanished, and Yoshiro's vision returned with a clarity that was sharper and colder than before.
"What... what is this?" Yoshiro's mind raced as he blinked through the white fire. "Did he heal me? Why would he do that after tearing them out? Does he want me to be grateful? Yes... that must be it. He's a Minamoto. He'll give me a speech about 'changing my ways' or 'finding redemption' and ask me to join him."
A flicker of his old self returned to Yoshiro's gaze. "He may be strong, but he is still just a boy. He won't kill a defenceless man, that's the 'Minamoto Chivalry' for you. I'll pretend to take his deal. I'll cry, I'll repent, and the moment he heals my limbs, I will use the Soul Exchange and take the place of one of my subordinates."
His internal plotting was shattered once more by the booming, hollow resonance of Yorimitsu's voice.
"Yoshiro-dono," Yorimitsu said, his shadow stretching long across the ash. "I was wondering... how many times do you think I will have to remove your eyes before you truly look within? How many cycles until you reach Nirvana like the Buddha, or where the teachings of the monks just bind faith, Mmmm, I do wonder?"
"Wh—"
Splat!
Yorimitsu's hand moved with the same blurred, terrifying speed as his bare fingers, stabbing back into the freshly formed sockets. He wrenched the new pair of eyes out of the skull and cast them onto the dirt like waste.
"Yoshiro-dono, how many people have you killed throughout your life?" Yorimitsu's voice was as steady as a funeral bell.
"Wha… what are you talki—"
Clap.
The white flames ignited in the sockets. The world rushed back into Yoshiro's mind for a fraction of a second, and in that pulse of light, Yorimitsu's fingers moved like lightning.
Splat!
"Yoshiro-dono, I would advise you to think clearly. That is the only way this will end," Yorimitsu whispered, his face inches from the pinned torso. "How many young boys and girls have you violated?"
"What, you litt—"
Splat!
The rhythm of torture began to synchronise. Each time the sight was given, it and each time it was taken in an endless cycle.
"Yoshiro-san, that is not what I asked. Be careful," Yorimitsu's tone grew colder, more judicial. "Tell me: how many families have you broken by dragging their fathers and brothers into your so-called war for freedom against the Yokai?"
"AHHHHHHH!" Yoshiro's voice boomed through the charred ruins as another pair was harvested.
Splat!
The name "Yoshiro-dono" became a haunting mantra. It echoed against the soot-stained walls of the village, repeated with rhythmic tempo.
"Yoshiro-dono…"
"Yoshiro-dono…"
"Yoshiro-dono."
With every pair of eyes taken, Yoshiro felt a piece of his soul being shredded. The physical agony was secondary to the spiritual exhaustion; his mind was ground into dust by the infinite loop of light and dark. In that moment, he didn't want victory, or even revenge. He only wanted to die.
Yorimitsu leaned in, the white-hot light of his palm reflecting in the wet hollows of Yoshiro's face.
"Yoshiro-dono," Yorimitsu's voice was now a low, distorted hum. "Who is the leader that you are working for?"
Yoshiro's head rolled against the soot cross. His jagged, broken breathing was the only sound in the village.
"It is...…."