[242]: Conscious Sword
The audacious teenager storming into the shrine with two yokai raised an eyebrow, a faint, mocking smile on his lips as he looked at the priest:
"You wanted to say something?"
The priest fell silent. Of course he wanted to argue about the audacity of invading a sacred space—but could he actually challenge this person? After all, they had seen him kill.
Cyr had come with nearly ten thousand onmyōji and jujutsu sorcerers across Heian-kyō—a coalition including the Three Great Sorcery Families, the Abe family, the Fujiwara family, and priests and miko from shrines nationwide. Many were powerful individuals, but each who confronted him died. At least one in ten died; the blood-soaked battlefield had yet to be cleansed.
In the end, to sue for peace, the Emperor and all of Heian-kyō's adept and extraordinary figures had no choice but to recognize him as a god. They surrendered the divine identity and shrine of Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto, sculpted his statue, built his shrine—and when meeting him, they had to kneel and pay obeisance. A ritual even harsher than one before the Emperor himself.
Their pride, both outward and inward, was utterly shattered.
Recalling this, the priest's face twisted with humiliation.
Then a miko arrived—composed yet respectful—asking: "Your Highness, what brings you here?"
Her long black hair was tied with a red cord; she wore the traditional red-and-white attire. In her hand was a long sword. Its tip gleamed coldly, as if it had tasted blood.
"I have business here, naturally. But before I proceed…" The silver-haired, blue-eyed youth smirked.
"Remember what I told you? When meeting me—what should you do?"
"Those who believe themselves greater than others refuse to listen."
"Empty minds always lift their heads high."
"But in my view, ears that won't hear and empty heads…should simply not exist." The boy spoke dismissively, as if reciting a proverb.
Almost as soon as he spoke, both the priest and the miko understood his meaning: the usurper of Tsukuyomi's divinity had demanded obeisance—kneeling—when met, and they had not complied.
Realizing this, they immediately dropped to their knees, without hesitation.
At that moment, the youth's words hung in the air—and an invisible edge swept past the top of their skulls like a razor.
A deep, long crack appeared across the shrine's stone threshold. A wide patch of hair disappeared from both of them. Blood oozed from their scalps.
"You knelt too slowly. Next time, be more aware—don't make me remind you," the youth said casually, stepping inside the shrine.
The priest and miko stared at their hands, feeling stabbing pain and seeing blood on their palms. Then—they fainted. Losing their hair had been a trauma too great to bear.
Before them, on the altar, lay the legendary sword Ame-no-Murakumo , unguarded.
Koen, who had followed, gazed at it and asked, "So this is your goal—this sword?"
The famed sword bore a deadly reputation—said to kill spirits and yokai in a single strike.
"It doesn't look like much…" Koen muttered, extending a hand to grasp the sword.
Holding the sacred blade that slays demons and exorcises spirits—grasped by a yokai—wouldn't that be interesting?
Before Koen's hand even touched the sword's body, a humming sound rang out. The blade vibrated with sword-ki.
Koen's outstretched hand was mangled, flesh twisted, blood splattering across the sword. The liquid was absorbed completely; the previously dull blade now gleamed as if polished to brilliance.
"Such a fierce blade," Koen muttered, withdrawing his hand and licking the blood from his fingers.
It wouldn't let anyone barely touch it—a proud weapon indeed.
"It's alive," Cyr's eyes lit up. Legends spoke of divine weapons with spirits. Some would choose their masters.
"It's destined to be with me," Cyr declared without hesitation, seizing the quivering hilt.
Invisible sword-ki swirled around him like blades—but did no harm. Instead, Cyr firmly held the sword.
"See? It trembles with excitement—it recognizes me." Cyr said proudly.
"…Is that so?" Koen watched the blade in Cyr's grip. It trembled intensely, as if conflicted or enraged.
He felt the sword didn't exactly welcome this—it would have cursed its new holder if it could.
"Of course." Cyr tightened his grip. A true treasure belongs to those worthy. If it's found, it's fate.
He swung Ame-no-Murakumo casually, cleaving the shrine's furnishings in two. "Ame-no-Murakumo—it has a nice ring," Cyr murmured as the building began collapsing. He stepped aside, sword in hand.
The blade thrashed violently in resistance, attempting to break free. "Behave, or even a god-forged weapon becomes scrap," Cyr warned coldly.
Under Cyr's blue-eyed gaze, the sword suddenly calmed—almost eager, its trembling softened.
Like a once-reluctant hound turned eager watchdog.
"…Ame-no-Murakumo has nothing to do with Tsukuyomi?" Koen wondered.
He knew the sword's old ties—to Susano-o, then to Amaterasu—but never Tsukuyomi. Why does the blade act like it's reunited with its former god?
"Let's go."
Ignoring the onlookers and the fallen priest and miko, Cyr strode out with Sora and Koen.
After they left, a crowd rushed in and the shrine inside bustled with noise.
°°°
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