The air in the mountain pass was thin and cold, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. Tsuruji Hatake, thirteen years old, paid it no mind. The weight of the supplies in his pack was a more immediate fact. He'd been gone three days, sent to the valley town for iron ingots and salt. A routine errand. A test of responsibility for the heir of the Hatake family.
The Hatake compound came into view as he rounded the bend. Not a grand estate, but a sturdy collection of wooden buildings nestled against the mountain, home to a family of swordsmiths. Smoke should have been curling from the forge. The sounds of hammers on steel should have echoed.
There was only silence.
A different scent reached him now, coppery and thick, cutting through the pine. Tsuruji's pace didn't change, but his knuckles tightened on the strap of his pack. The main gate was splintered, hanging from a single hinge.
The courtyard was a charnel house.
He didn't see them as people at first. Just shapes. Ruined shapes, painted in violent strokes of crimson against the weathered wood. His father, near the forge, his favorite hammer lying just beyond his outstretched hand. His mother, closer to the house. His cousins, his aunts. The silence was a physical weight, broken only by the buzzing of flies.
And the sound of wet, tearing consumption.
In the center of it all, squatting over what was left of his uncle, was the thing. It was unnaturally long-limbed, its skin a pallid grey. Its head, devoid of features except for a gaping, vertical maw lined with needle-teeth, was buried in its meal.
Tsuruji's mind did not scream. It did not recoil. It simply… emptied. The world narrowed to two points: the monster, and the heavy, rusted chain coiled near the forge's water pump.
He moved. Not with a cry of rage, but with the silent, efficient purpose of a falling stone. He dropped his pack, his fingers closing around the cold, heavy links.
The creature heard the clank. Its head lifted, blood and worse dripping from its maw. It made a gurgling, curious sound.
Tsuruji didn't break stride. He swung the chain, not at the demon, but at the support post of the nearby woodshed. The post cracked. The roof sagged with a groan. The demon shrieked and scuttled back, confused by the attack on the environment.
It was fast. It lunged, claws extending. Tsuruji dove, the claws ripping through his jacket instead of his flesh. He felt the burn of the cut, a distant, informational signal. He rolled, coming up with the chain again. He didn't try to strike the demon. He was herding it.
He smashed a rain barrel, sending a wave of water across the stones. He kicked a brazier, sending coals skittering. The demon, enraged now, followed his movement, its single-minded hunger turning to annoyance.
He led it, step by step, toward the great oak at the courtyard's edge. The demon charged in a blur. Tsuruji stood his ground until the last possible second, then sidestepped, whipping the chain around its torso and spinning, using its own momentum to slam it against the thick trunk.
Once. Twice. On the third impact, he twisted the links, binding it fast. The demon thrashed, its claws shredding the bark, its shrieks piercing the twilight.
Tsuruji stepped back, his chest heaving, his body aching. He looked at the thing, then at the eastern horizon. The first sliver of sun was cresting the distant peaks.
He stood and watched as the light touched the demon's pale skin. It began to smoke, then scream in a new, higher pitch of agony. It burned, thrashing against its chains until it was nothing but a blackened stain on the tree and a fading wail on the wind.
The sun rose fully, bathing the carnage in cheerful, golden light.
Tsuruji Hatake looked at the ruins of his life, at the remains of his family. He felt the warmth on his face.
He felt nothing at all.