Gyakkyou: Chapter Four

Chapter Four: Little Oni

Little oni's glare burns,

Red hair sways in mountain winds—

Hatred undying.

***

The march stretched long, the horizon offering no promise of reprieve. Dust clung to Gyakkyou's skin, turning his sweat into a gritty layer that only reminded him of his discomfort, of the unnatural stillness in his heart. He walked a few paces behind the Taishō’s standard, the man leading this ragged trail of soldiers with the same cold disregard Gyakkyou had seen since they set out. Kurosawa Mitsuharu had said nothing more to him since the day he took him in, letting the boy trudge along in silence among the troops.

Gyakkyou’s mind was a battlefield of its own, each thought a soldier struck down, memories replaying on a loop. The charred remains of his village, the bodies strewn like broken dolls, his life reduced to ash. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into flesh, but he welcomed the sting. It was the only feeling that could still cut through the numbness. Anger was a fire that kept him going, kept him from drowning in sorrow.

The men surrounding him spoke in low voices about the rebels they hunted—the Akaoni. They scorned the Ten'nō’s rightful rule and sought to corrupt their more obedient kin. They called themselves the Tenshinryuu—Heaven's True Path.

The soldiers called them Mushika—"Insect Beasts."

Gyakkyou didn’t care what they were called. He simply wanted them dead.

The boy had learned quickly to observe the soldiers, the way their hands never strayed far from their weapons, how their eyes constantly scanned the trees or hills. They wore their scars like armour. Gyakkyou did the same, though his vestments seemed to weigh him down.

The journey through the mountainous lands was gruelling. It had been days since they left behind the ruins of his village, and they had met little resistance from the rebels so far. But the closer they drew to the next hamlet, the tighter the atmosphere became, as if the land itself knew of the bloodshed to come. The Taishō’s scouts had reported movement ahead—rebels fortifying the remains of another village. Gyakkyou had heard the words “last stand” murmured among the soldiers, their voices grim with expectation.

"They're desperate," one of them had said, shaking his head. "Cornered animals."

That night, they camped near the outskirts of the village, the smell of ash and burnt flesh faintly hanging in the air. It was a familiar scent to Gyakkyou now. He stayed apart from the others, sitting just beyond the fire’s light, watching the shadows stretch out like ghosts across the landscape. His eyes drifted to the men who surrounded the general’s tent—the Taishō’s closest retainers. They seemed eager.

In the dead of night, one of Mitsuharu’s scouts returned, slipping into the camp like a whisper on the wind. Gyakkyou watched from a distance as the man knelt before the general. Even from afar, Gyakkyou could see the grim set of the Taishō’s jaw, the subtle nod that followed.

At dawn the next day, the army prepared for battle. A ritual fire was lit. Priests began to chant and beat their drums. Gyakkyou felt his blood warm at the sound, his heart beating in sync. Mitsuharu’s orders were clear and swift: "No mercy! Cut down those Akaoni dogs! Break their spirits! None must escape!"

A battle cry rippled through the mass of armed men as the army began its approach.

As they marched toward the village, Gyakkyou could see smoke rising from the thatched roofs, burnt corpses hanging from rafters. The soldiers charged, their war cries mixing with the clash of steel and the screams of the dying.

Gyakkyou found himself screaming alongside the men as he charged toward the enemy. His smaller frame saw him slip through the barricades first, impaling a rebel on his yari. Blood and guts spilt on his face, warm. It fueled the boy’s bloodlust. His madness.

Swooping down, he snatched the enemy’s katana as it clattered into the dirt. With a crude form, he swung, mindlessly chopping down on the thigh of another man. The blade struck bone. It broke. Gyakkyou leapt, stabbing the rest of the blade into the eye of another rebel.

The next few seconds were a blur as Gyakkyou tangled with the corpse he had just made. Men trampled him underfoot, crushing the body that shielded him from above. Blood and mud got into Gyakkyou’s eyes, blinding him. Someone stepped on his exposed arm—PAIN!

“Get up, fool!” a voice growled as Gyakkyou was dragged to his feet. A simple tanto wrapped in a bamboo hilt was pushed into his good hand, and he was turned back toward the battle. “Fight! The Taishō is watching! Impress him, and you might be saved!”

Half-blind and cradling an injured arm, Gyakkyou stumbled toward a blur with a mop of red hair. He didn’t care that the Taishō was watching, nor did he care to impress him. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to be saved. Perhaps dying on this field, so he might follow his family, was his only salvation. But Gyakkyou knew the voice that spoke to him wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Fight!”

He would fight till his heart gave out, till his chest stopped heaving.

His blade sank into the back of another man. The fellow screamed; Gyakkyou was struck in the face by a flailing limb. He felt blood pool in his mouth. Pain. More pain. But he didn’t stop.

With a snarl, he twisted his weapon before pulling it out the side, disembowelling his victim. A putrid stench filled the air. Feces. Gyakkyou turned, half-blind still, as he searched for another rebel.

Then he saw him—a man dressed in superior armour, naginata in hand, his face twisted in a grimace of pain as he fought against a mob of the Taishō’s soldiers. Without thinking, Gyakkyou ran and lunged forward, his blade flashing in the early morning light. The rebel leader looked up just as he reached the apex of his jump; Gyakkyou could see the whites of his eyes behind the gap in his oni mask.

Terror.

The naginata rose, but it was too late.

Gyakkyou’s blade cut deep, blood splattering across his face, warm and sticky. He pulled out his tanto and stabbed again. And again. And again. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. His strength left him, but his rage fueled him until even that faded away.

Panting, Gyakkyou looked up to meet the gaze of an unfamiliar samurai. The battlefield had grown calm. The enemy had been broken, and their remnants scattered, fleeing from pursuing soldiers. A wall of men had formed around him, their gazes strange—intent.

“Give it to me,” the samurai said. Gyakkyou looked down at the bloody tanto in his hand before quietly returning it. Exhausted, he watched the samurai crouch before him and begin to saw off the rebel leader’s head. Grabbing it, helmet, mask, and all, the samurai appraised it for a moment before tossing it back into Gyakkyou’s lap.

“You’ve done well, boy,” he said as he sheathed his blade. “Present it to the Taishō, so he might reward you.”

Gyakkyou looked down at the head in his lap, unsure what to make of it. The samurai walked away, and the men around Gyakkyou congratulated him on his… victory.

Ichiban yari, they hailed him. Kimetsu no Yaiba.

Victory? If so, why did it feel so hollow? He had avenged his family, yet the hole inside him remained. The blood on his hands had not washed away the pain. His hate remained, burning him from within.

Undying.