The Final Selection began. Aspirants streamed through the red torii into Fujikasaneyama. Horitake lingered, feigning indifference but tracking Mitsuri Kanroji closely. When she entered the mountain, he followed her silhouette.
Unlike the vibrant wisteria forests below, the mountain was dense, dim, and teeming with demons—a perilous place. Most swordsmen moved cautiously, hyper-aware of their surroundings. One misstep could mean death.
Mitsuri and Horitake, bold and skilled, strode openly through the woods, daring demons to challenge them. A snarling demon lunged from a tree, swinging at Horitake. Expressionless, he slashed upward, bisecting it—body landing before him, head behind. Ignoring its fading wails, he pressed on, tailing Mitsuri.
Using Spirit Vision sporadically, he monitored her. She's fine—sliced a demon cleanly. That's Mitsuri.
By midnight, the mountain's menace peaked. The witching hour, when darkness and yin energy were strongest, unleashed the demons' full ferocity. Horitake, after killing two, noted a pattern: Fujikasaneyama's demons were mostly weak, but their starvation—pent up for years between Selections—made them vicious, fighting at 120% capacity. They'd devour anything, even if it meant their death.
Distant howls and screams echoed—each marking a swordsman's flight or demise. Horitake shook his head. Too far to help, and I can't leave Mitsuri. But nearby cries? He could act.
Hearing a desperate shout to his left, he confirmed Mitsuri's safety with Spirit Vision, then flashed forward with "Thunder Breathing, First Form: Thunderclap and Flash!" A bolt of lightning streaked as he beheaded a pursuing demon before it could react. The rescued swordsman, awestruck, barely got a "thank you" out before Horitake vanished, leaving no trace.
The first night passed: Horitake tracked Mitsuri, killed seven demons, saved two people. Simple.
At sunrise, demons retreated. Horitake ate, confirmed Mitsuri was resting, and slept in a sunny clearing to recharge. Before sunset, he woke, ate, and prepared for night two. The pattern held: track, kill (eight demons), save (three people). Nights three through six followed suit.
By the seventh day, only a final night remained. Survive it, and they'd pass. But few aspirants were left. Horitake recalled a saying: Today's cruel, tomorrow's crueler, the day after's beautiful—but most die tomorrow night. The Selection's brutal truth.
Demons posed no threat to Horitake. Mitsuri, while not his equal, could handle herself. Yet frustration gnawed at him. Six days of guarding Mitsuri, and no sign of the system's promised crisis. He'd double-checked: "Task incomplete. Negative butterfly effect pending." The system's certainty kept him patient. Tonight's the last night. It's now or never.
Two hours before sunset, Horitake lay on the grass, dozing. A scream—Mitsuri's—shattered his haze. He sprang up, heart pounding, lightning crackling as he sped toward her with Thunder Breathing's full force. I screwed up! Crises aren't just nocturnal!
Reaching her, he saw Mitsuri trapped in a shaded marsh, sinking fast, her legs submerged. Her struggles only hastened it, her face pale with despair. Thanking survival shows, Horitake shouted, "Mitsuri, don't struggle! It pulls you deeper! Lie flat to spread your weight!"
Mitsuri, spotting hope, reached for him. "I can't! Something's grabbing my legs, pulling me down!"
Horitake's blood ran cold. A demon—using Blood Demon Art, hidden underground where sunlight couldn't reach.
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