The standoff lasted maybe ten seconds before the door slammed open.
A man strode in without announcement or permission—tall, lean, with the wiry build of someone who lived by the sword. His topknot was disheveled, his clothes worn but well-made. A ronin, my mind supplied. A masterless samurai. The sword at his hip looked expensive, its scabbard decorated with intricate metalwork.
"Captain Oda," the ronin said, his words slightly slurred. Drunk, or close to it. "I heard you caught something interesting."
The Captain's jaw tightened. "Nakamura. This doesn't concern you."
"Doesn't it?" Nakamura's eyes fixed on me, and I saw the same calculation I'd seen in the Captain's gaze, but mixed with something uglier. Contempt. "A foreigner. In our land. Claiming to have survived the demon forests through luck." He laughed, sharp and mocking. "Let me guess—he's begging for protection? For charity?"
"He's being questioned," Captain Oda said, his tone warning. "Return to your quarters."
"In a moment." Nakamura moved closer, circling around me like the guard had done earlier. But where the guard had been cautious, the ronin was theatrical, performing for an audience. "You know what I think, Captain? I think this foreigner is exactly what he appears to be—a liar and a coward who stumbled upon our checkpoint and invented a story."
I kept my mouth shut, my eyes on the floor. Every instinct screamed to meet his challenge, but I was kneeling between two armed guards in a room full of weapons I didn't know how to use. Pride wasn't worth dying over.
"Look at him," Nakamura continued. "Won't even meet my eyes. Just another foreign dog, coming to our lands thinking we'll—"
My stomach cramped so hard I gasped.
The hunger surged, sudden and vicious. Not the gentle insistence from before—this was demand. The Ghost Stomach had tasted demon flesh, and my body's natural stress response was triggering it, making it search for threats to consume.
I doubled over, fighting for control.
"What's wrong, foreigner?" Nakamura's voice dripped with false concern. "Feeling unwell? Perhaps the demon forests weren't as kind as you claimed."
"Nakamura, that's enough—" Captain Oda started.
"No, Captain. With respect, it's not enough." The ronin's hand moved to his sword hilt. Not drawing it, just resting there. A threat. "This creature walks into our checkpoint covered in suspicious stains, tells obvious lies, and expects hospitality? In my homeland, we had a way of dealing with such... uncertainty."
"This isn't your homeland anymore," the Captain said coldly. "You're a guest here, same as—"
"A guest?" Nakamura's voice rose. "I've shed blood for this checkpoint. I've killed three yōkai in these forests while your men cowered behind their walls. And you would equate me with this thing?"
The hunger in my gut recognized the challenge before my conscious mind did. My enhanced vision sharpened, details coming into brutal clarity. Nakamura's stance was wrong—too forward, weight distributed poorly. His sword hand rested too lightly on the hilt, more for show than readiness. Drunk and arrogant, dangerous but sloppy.
Weak, the Ghost Stomach whispered. Easy prey.
I pushed the thought away violently. This was a man, not a monster. Human. I couldn't—wouldn't—
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you, foreigner."
Nakamura's foot lashed out, catching me in the shoulder. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to knock me off balance. I caught myself with one hand, and the guards' spears shifted, tracking me.
"Nakamura!" Captain Oda was on his feet now. "Stand down. That's an order."
"You have no authority over me, Captain. I'm not one of your soldiers." The ronin smiled, ugly and sharp. "I'm simply... testing our guest. Seeing if his survival was truly luck, or if he has some hidden strength worth noting."
He kicked again, harder this time. I rolled with it, putting distance between us. The guards moved to intercept, but Nakamura waved them off.
"No, no. Let him up. Let's see what the foreign dog can do." His hand closed properly on his sword now, thumb against the guard. Not quite drawing it, but ready. "Come on, scholar. Show us how you survived those demon forests. Or were you lying about that too?"
Captain Oda's voice was ice. "Draw that blade in my command post, Nakamura, and guest or not, I'll have you in chains."
"Then perhaps we should take this outside?" The ronin's grin widened. "The courtyard. No weapons—wouldn't want to make it unfair for the foreigner. Just a friendly... sparring match. Unless he'd prefer to admit he's a liar now and save us all the trouble?"
Every eye in the room was on me. The two guards, the Captain, and Nakamura. This was a test, I realized. Not just of my combat ability, but of whether I'd submit to open humiliation. Whether I'd accept my place at the bottom of whatever hierarchy governed this checkpoint.
My stomach cramped again, the hunger demanding I respond. Demanding I show teeth.
"Fine," I said quietly, meeting Nakamura's eyes for the first time. "The courtyard. No weapons."
The ronin's grin faltered slightly—he'd expected me to refuse, to grovel. But he recovered quickly, gesturing grandly toward the door. "After you, foreigner. Let's give the men a show."
We filed outside. Word had already spread somehow, and soldiers were gathering around an open space in the center of the compound. Torches lit the area, casting flickering shadows. Someone had marked a rough circle in the dirt.
Nakamura shed his sword and outer robe, rolling his shoulders. Even drunk, he moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd trained since childhood. He was taller than me, longer reach, and his exposed forearms showed the ropy muscle of a career swordsman.
I had enhanced night vision and the growing certainty that the thing in my stomach wanted me to hurt him.
"Captain Oda," I said, not taking my eyes off Nakamura. "If I could make a request?"
"Speak."
"Douse the torches. All of them."
Silence. Then laughter—from Nakamura, from several of the watching soldiers. The ronin slapped his thigh, delighted.
"Oh, this is perfect! The foreigner wants to fight in darkness! What's wrong, scholar—afraid to face me in the light where everyone can see you lose?"
"Just the terms I'm comfortable with," I said evenly. "You wanted a sparring match. I'm giving you my terms."
Captain Oda studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded to his men. "Do it. All torches in the courtyard."
"Captain, that's—" one of the guards started.
"Do it."
They obeyed, moving around the perimeter and extinguishing the torches one by one. Darkness fell across the courtyard like a curtain. I heard soldiers muttering nervously, their confidence shaken by the sudden loss of light.
But for me, everything remained crystal clear.
My enhanced vision painted the scene in shades of silver and gray. Nakamura, suddenly uncertain, squinting into darkness his human eyes couldn't penetrate. The ring of watching soldiers, barely visible to each other. Captain Oda, standing just outside the circle with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
And me, seeing it all.
"Well?" I said softly, letting my voice come from slightly left of where I actually stood. "Shall we begin?"
Nakamura lunged toward my voice, his form sloppy in the darkness. I sidestepped easily, watching his fist pass through empty air. He stumbled, off-balance, and I moved behind him. Silent. Precise.
I tapped his shoulder blade—light, almost gentle.
He spun with a curse, swinging wild. I ducked under the punch, and my modern combat training—years of weekend martial arts classes I'd taken more for fitness than fighting—suddenly felt relevant. I knew how to move, how to position my body. And with vision this clear, reading his movements was almost trivial.
I struck his solar plexus. Not hard—just enough to drive the air from his lungs.
Nakamura wheezed, staggering back. "You—you bastard—"
Another wild swing. I caught his wrist, used his momentum to spin him, and swept his legs. He went down hard, the impact audible in the silent courtyard.
I could have stopped there. Should have stopped there.
But the Ghost Stomach purred with satisfaction, recognizing dominance, and the hunger wanted more. Wanted to prove something.
I moved to where Nakamura lay gasping in the dirt. Close enough that even in the darkness, he could feel my presence. Close enough that when I spoke, my voice was barely a whisper only he could hear.
"Your stance is wrong. Your weight distribution is sloppy. You telegraph every strike." I leaned closer, and let just a hint of the hunger seep into my voice. "In the demon forests, you wouldn't last five minutes."
I straightened and called out to the darkness. "Someone bring light. The match is over."
Torches flared back to life. Nakamura lay sprawled in the dirt, his face a mask of shock and humiliation. Around the circle, soldiers stared in stunned silence.
Captain Oda's expression had changed. The suspicion was still there, but something else had joined it. Wariness. Maybe fear.
"Impressive," he said finally. "Very... impressive, foreigner." He gestured to the guards. "Take Nakamura to his quarters. And you—" his eyes fixed on me, "—we're not done talking. Not by a long way."
The hunger in my stomach settled, satisfied for now. But I knew—and from the Captain's expression, he knew too—that I'd just revealed something I couldn't take back.
I wasn't just a foreigner who'd survived the demon forests.
I was something else entirely.