Mitsuri's right hand remained firm on the hilt of her Nichirin blade, her muscles hardened to their limit as Yukishiro had instructed. Six times denser than the ordinary body—she forced herself to hold that state, even though the strain made her arms tremble. She had promised him she would not falter again.
Her eyes locked on the battle. The water demon hurled itself forward, black form blurring through the steam, rushing directly at Yukishiro. Instinct screamed for her to charge to his side. She gritted her teeth, ready to spring—
But in the next heartbeat, the demon's head parted cleanly from its body. The blade's cut was so swift, so precise, that its elegance seemed unreal.
The body slumped to the floorboards.
Mitsuri froze, her hand hovering uselessly over her sword. Relief washed through her chest, mingled with shame. If she had rushed forward, she might have ruined everything. Worse, if she had interfered and the demon escaped, the failure would have been hers to bear.
I'm glad I didn't move… she told herself, swallowing hard. But even now, I'm nothing but dead weight.
The thought twisted in her stomach.
Her relief didn't last long.
A strange fragrance drifted through the air, delicate but cloying, winding into her senses. Mitsuri's heart sank instantly.
She remembered Yukishiro's warning—two demons remained, and one possessed the ability to release a scent that weakened the body.
She tried to raise her sleeve to cover her mouth and nose, but her arms refused to obey.
Her grip slackened, her blade slipped from her grasp, and with a sharp clang the Nichirin sword hit the floor.
"No…" Her knees buckled, her body collapsing onto the planks.
She struggled to lift her head, eyes locking on Yukishiro across the battlefield. Desperation burned inside her chest.
He warned me. And I failed anyway. Again. I… disappointed him.
A choked sob rose in her throat, not from fear of death but from the bitter certainty that he would not forgive her. He had said it himself—if she held him back, he would not come for her.
He won't save me this time.
Her vision blurred with tears.
Across the hall, Yukishiro's brow furrowed.
He noticed the unnatural tremor in her movements immediately. His senses confirmed it—the demons on the second floor had begun to act.
One figure leapt from the window, striding directly toward Mitsuri.
His gaze flicked upward. The other figure, still at the window, was the source of the fragrance.
Two opponents. Both are dangerous.
He could not fight them head-on.
Not yet.
He needed leverage. Capture one of them quickly—reduce their strength, perhaps even force a bargain. To fight demons and think of bargaining seemed absurd, but survival demanded it. And perhaps, through this, he might discover something more.
Yushiro descended lightly, blood collection syringe in hand, walking toward the fallen water demon's corpse. He assumed Yukishiro had already succumbed to Tamayo's blood-confusion art—paralyzed, helpless.
"Lord Tamayo, he's finished," Yushiro muttered with satisfaction. "I'll take the sample now."
"Yushiro," Tamayo's voice rang softly, a warning. "Behind you."
Too late.
An icy gale rushed against Yushiro's nape.
He turned his head just in time to see pale eyes staring down at him, devoid of warmth.
A hand clamped around his neck, cold and unyielding. The pressure was immense, crushing, as though his spine might snap with the smallest twist.
In a blur, Yukishiro dragged him away. In less than a breath, they were back on the main floor. Yushiro's cheek was ground into the planks, Yukishiro's knee pinning his back, the tip of the Nichirin Blade hovering at his throat.
Yushiro struggled furiously, his voice breaking into snarls.
"How—?! Why can you move?! Lord Tamayo's blood should've crippled you!"
His thrashing was futile.
The blade pressed deeper, a reminder that a single motion would sever his head.
Mitsuri, still limp, had watched Yukishiro rush toward her. For an instant her heart leapt—he was coming to save her. Relief flooded her chest.
Then she saw what he held.
Not her. Not rescue.
A man, slight of frame, with light blue hair and a youthful, almost childish face. He struggled beneath Yukishiro's hold, cursing, writhing.
Mitsuri's eyes widened in shock. So he was here all along…
The realization sent a shiver crawling down her spine. This is the one who shared the bathhouse with us last night? He was right there beside me?
Her stomach lurched.
"Blood Demon Art: Hidden Eye, Hidden Form!" Yushiro spat. From his sleeve he yanked a talisman inked with an eye and slapped it against his chest. Instantly, his body blurred and vanished, leaving only faint disturbances in the air.
But Yukishiro's grip did not falter. Invisible or not, the strength beneath his palm was real.
Yushiro snarled, fumbling for another talisman. "Blood Demon Art—Eye Hidden, Spiritual Control!" He tried to thrust the slip toward Yukishiro's forehead, but pinned as he was, his arms refused to move.
A calm voice entered the fray.
"Enough, Yushiro."
A pair of embroidered shoes appeared before Mitsuri. She blinked upward, and a woman's face came into view—gentle eyes, a serene smile. Her voice was soft, kind.
Mitsuri's breath caught in her throat. A demon? But… she looks so human.
Her mind reeled.
Fear swelled again, making her stomach twist and her skin prickle cold.
The woman crouched gracefully, lifting Mitsuri by the shoulders. "Little one, are you all right? Don't be frightened.
The fragrance will fade shortly—it does not harm."
Mitsuri could only stare dumbly. She wanted to speak, to demand answers, but her words refused to form.
The woman—Tamayo—retrieved the blood collection syringe, stooping to draw a vial of the water demon's blood. She held it aloft, the crimson fluid glinting faintly. Turning, she gestured toward Yukishiro as if offering an explanation.
Yukishiro's eyes narrowed. Slowly, he released the frost around his senses. Sight, sound, and smell bled back into the world.
He did not yet release Yushiro, his blade still held firm.
"Who are you?" His voice was low, measured. "Are you truly demons? Why are you not like the others I've fought?"
Yushiro writhed beneath him, face red with fury.
"Let me go, you damned brat! You dare humiliate me in front of Lady Tamayo—I'll tear you apart!"
Tamayo's expression did not change. "The ones you've seen were mindless thralls, low-born demons with no will of their own.
We are different. Let him go. If we meant to harm you, you would not have lived through last night."
Her tone was calm, but her eyes were steady, unwavering.
Yukishiro's gaze searched her face.
No deceit. Her words carried weight. And indeed, if they had chosen to kill him and Mitsuri, the opportunity had been plentiful.
He exhaled slowly. The edge of his blade lifted. His grip loosened.
Yushiro tore free instantly, scrambling up with a roar. Rage twisted his young features. He lunged, claws unsheathed, aiming to shred Yukishiro where he stood.
But the white-haired swordsman was already gone.
Ice traced the floorboards in a phantom line. Yukishiro appeared beside Mitsuri, blade drawn in quiet readiness.
"Yushiro!" Tamayo's voice rose sharply, halting him mid-stride.
The boy froze, chest heaving, fury still blazing in his eyes. His claws shook at his sides, itching to strike.
But Tamayo's gaze remained steady. And slowly, reluctantly, Yushiro lowered his arms.
The hall was silent once more—save for the faint crackle of ice beneath Yukishiro's feet.