Despite the twisted, malicious nature of that unwavering, malevolent gaze, he found himself somewhat admiring it. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, how fiercely loyal that sinister stare was to his half-brother, a true monster of pure bloodline.
Inuyasha then turned his gaze aside, casually twirling a wooden stick between his fingers like an unruly overseer who had suddenly taken a liking to authority. His voice rang out, half-command, half-mockery: "And you two, once you finish reading the gate roster this morning, get yourselves to the blacksmith, move!"
"Yes, sir!" Izuma replied with a miserable slump of his shoulders, glancing up at Inuyasha while brandishing the stick as if about to deliver punishment rather than instructions. His deeply wrinkled features sagged with resignation and bitterness.
Once celebrated as the greatest smith under heaven, a master craftsman of demonkind, he was now forced into labor, a fate he could never have imagined in his proudest years.
Yet, he harbored no regret for his surrender. Sebastian, unlike many who rose to power, had kept his promise, teaching him countless forging techniques that others would never glimpse. In return, he forged many weapons for him.
But mistakes carried weight. He had once aided Tsukuyomaru and others in forging a false Shikon-like jewel, unleashing chaos upon their plans. Naturally, Sebastian punished him fittingly: daytime gate duty, with boredom replacing the hammer.
Gazing at Inuyasha standing sentinel before the gate, he could only sigh inwardly. The mighty son of the Western Lands' great general was reduced to a mere guard. Yet, he had little room to laugh; the world spun in its own cruel manner.
Still, the more he reflected, the more his heart settled. Sebastian's power was absolute, like a storm in the night sky. For Inuyasha to join him was not shameful but inevitable. Even the Great General, if still alive, might not have stood as Sebastian's equal.
Deep within an unnamed mountain, autumn painted the world in gold. Leaves shimmered in amber and ochre, a vast, flickering sea, while the forest rustled with a brittle, dying beauty.
From the brush, a gray rabbit lifted its head, ears sharp, eyes alert. It sniffed the wind, listening for threats, breath, even death itself. Only when it sensed the world had softened, become harmless, did it hop carefully into the open, nibbling at a frayed tuft of fading green.
Its paw brushed a brittle branch. A trap snapped upward with venomous speed, but the rabbit bolted, thumping against the earth. The net missed its mark as it vanished into the gold, a gray streak in flight.
"Damn, it ran!" The bushes parted, and three figures burst forth, frustration etched into every step.
The first, a striking youth with long, night-black hair and a face carved with handsome arrogance, reached the sprung trap, staring down at the half-eaten sweet potato as if it were an insult. His expression darkened, storm clouds gathering. He punched a nearby tree, bark splintering under his fist, while a scrawny youth watched, smirking with mockery in his sharp, narrow eyes.
"Can't even set a trap properly, huh?"
"What did you say?"
"You heard me. One day you'll get ahead of yourself, act like a big shot, but you'll never be more than this."
Heat flared. The scrawny demon, hungry and furious, twitched as murderous intent flickered behind his eyes. But as quickly as it ignited, it died. A blade pressed against his throat, cold, silent, whispering promises. A dagger.
The scrawny demon froze, fury dissolving into fearful compliance.
"Enough," came a gravelly voice. A large, middle-aged man stepped between them, face scarred and jaw set like stone. He slid half his heavy blade from its sheath, just enough for the steel to gleam warningly.
"We're supposed to be working together. Or do you two want to slit each other open before winter arrives?"
"Work with him?" The scrawny demon shoved the blade aside and spat, gratitude flickering briefly toward the scarred man before pride swallowed it. "As if he's worth teaming up with."
He sheathed his dagger, gaze flat, voice like frost: "If he hadn't stopped me, your head would already be rolling. But sure, argue if you want. Waste your breath instead of finding your next meal."
The demon shook his head, raising his heavy blade with a semblance of authority. "Enough. Winter's coming. Soon it'll be time to hunt."
The scrawny demon's jaw clenched tighter. His fingers loosened on the half-drawn weapon before he slowly sheathed it again. Hunger gleamed in his eyes like a desperate animal's.
"This territory belongs to the generals now. We'll starve before we get a chance." His tongue swept across dry, cracked lips, starvation's reflex.
They had fled deep into the mountains weeks earlier, hunted relentlessly by military forces. Once, they'd been feared bandits, successful, ruthless, always well-fed. But with the rise of the new lord, the generals swept the land clean, hunting criminals like wolves. So they hid, feeding on bitter wild fruit and scraps of chance, never full, never safe. The rabbit had been hope, and hope had fled.
"We can't rot here any longer," the scarred man growled, bitterness thick in his voice. "Our faces hang in every town. Our names carry bounties. If we stay, winter will bury us."
His eyes hardened, voice steel on stone: "We move. We head for richer lands, gold, jewels, and warm food. A place worth the risk."
At this, the scrawny demon devoured the remaining sweet potato in two frantic bites, eyes suddenly alight with desperate dreaming. A spark, hunger, ambition, greed, flared alive. Once, they'd been powerful. Now, they were cornered animals, dreaming of meat.
And such men are the most dangerous of all.