Batō Kōkyo, Yomi — Yomi’s Imperial Palace the afternoon after Orochi’s assassination. It was a pleasant day, the black sun of the underworld shone brightly and gave off a pleasant warmth. Normally this day would be unlike any other, however after the events of the previous night the entire nation was on the brink of a second war with the Shinigami.

Countless citizens and officials were at the massive palace located within the heart of Yomi’s capital city; all of them were dressed in black to pay their respects. The bloody aftermath was cleaned up, as if nothing had happened. The destroyed pillars and walls were restored using magic and around-the-clock labor. It was a deceptively calm and serene sight.

In the throne room, with the doors open to the public was a massive golden shrine erected to the deceased emperor. Orchids too numerous to count were placed at his alter as dozens wept and more stood stoically. A framed painting of Orochi hung in the center of the gilded shrine, surrounded by incense that burned for the fallen demon lord. The corpse had already been cremated and buried within Soku-no-Kumi, the final resting place of rulers past.

Five individuals stood above the others in attendance, going largely unnoticed on the terrace that overlooked the wake. This group above all the others were regarded not just throughout the entire underworld, but all realms as the greatest team of killers that existed. The Jikininki.

“What became of the mongrel after that entire debacle, Lord Nergal?” spoke a woman in a sultry, raspy voice.

“We arrested him shortly after he had already killed the late Majesty. Unfortunately, we hadn’t arrived in time to save him.” The one named Nergal replied back in a stern, yet unconcerned tone.

One of the figures with messy green hair looked up at the others, as he was currently squatting on the floor. Around his bare feet were beige wrappings, caked with dirt and other foreign substances.

“Quite honestly if you want my input, I say we have a good ol’ fashioned lynching! That usually helps restore morale in the people.”

A blond man, his hair tied into a single braid, smacked the green-haired man with the back of his hand. His piercing red eyes were widened and manic.

“Nobody asked for ya input, jackass!” He yelled, his accent distinctly from the Kansai region of Japan where he spent most of his time while on Earth.

The green-haired man shot him a deadly glare while rubbing his head.

“Don’t forget that I outrank you, asswipe. You may be known as the ‘Golden Devil of Yomi’ around here, but to me you’re still just my subordinate!” The man spat out.

Suddenly a tall figure beside them lifted his hand without saying a word. He had a lean physique as he towered above the others like a stalk of corn. His skin had an unnatural jaundice that clung and stretched across his muscle and bone. He lifted his index finger, revealing long sharp fingernails that were black as a moonless night.

“You forget yourselves. We are here in remembrance, lest you not recall? Our kind do not have the luxury of an afterlife, so do have some respect for whatever void he might currently find himself in.” He spoke, his voice reverberating through his throat like a pipe organ.

It was commanding, foreboding and yet had a sense of serenity. A charismatic charm that compelled the others to immediately take notice. The man turned away, his face masked by a shadowy veil attached to a black conical hat that he wore. He smiled lightly, the others only able to see a vague silhouette of the man’s visage.

“I feel ya, boss. That being said… where are the other six at? We the only Jikininki you could drag up?” Spoke the blonde man lackadaisically.

“They were preoccupied unfortunately. Nevertheless, I have a meeting to attend. The Council of Princes is set to convene precisely at the hour; you are dismissed.”

Meanwhile, in the upper levels of the palace were several gentlemen of all statures, physiques and races. They sat in an ornate circular chamber, each having a comfortable leather-bound chair for lounging in. The atmosphere was clouded by both the thick tension and smoke emanating from their pipes. This was the Council of Princes, heirs to the Empire of Yomi.

“The old codger finally bit the big one, eh??” One of the older men asked bluntly.

“Yes, else we would not have needed to be here! You daft, senile fool…” said another under his breath.

A man clad in black armored robes with purple hair and eyes the color of lavender stood as the others sat. He was not a member of the Council, yet served as adviser to the late Emperor Orochi.

“Hey Naraka, what’s your take on this? Who’d ya think we should elect out of us to be the new emperor?” A man said to the purple-haired figure.

Naraka simply smiled lightly and shrugged his shoulders casually.

“With the way you all are treating this tragic event, I’d say none of you at the moment.” Naraka stated, his tone light-hearted but still heavy with the weight of truth lingering on his words.

“Dammit boy, you’re right… I remember when Orochi was still in his youth, full of piss and vinegar. After the demise of the emperor before him, he had some mighty big shoes to fill and did it superbly.”

Naraka smiled as a servant brought forth a tray of shot glasses, each having intricate designs etched on the glass in silver. The servant laid the tray down on a table and uncorked a bottle of whiskey, pouring some into each glass.

“Let us drink to his memory then.” He said as the servant left without a word. All of the men took a glass from the tray and lifted it before drinking. Without warning, a thick black mist materialized out of thin air. It enveloped the lone, empty chair in the room like a smog. One of the younger men choked on his drink from the shock of the sudden magic.

“Mother of god! The hell do you always have to teleport here, Mara!? Nearly pissed myself!” The man exclaimed as the black mist dissipated, revealing the man with the black concealing hat.

Mara smiled contently behind his veil, happy he could make an impression on the others. He cared little whether it gave the others a heart attack; less competition for him either way. He outstretched his hand lazily, using telekinesis to bring the lone shot glass left on the tray to his fingers.

“My dearest apologies, gentlemen. Do forgive my sudden intrusion, I was simply paying respects to my departed friend.” Mara calmly bellowed before lifting the veil with his free hand to take a drink. Naraka peered over, curious to see what Mara looked like underneath. No one had ever seen him without it on, supposedly because he was ashamed of his human appearance. He could make out his lower face and it looked absolutely pristine, like the statues of Roman gods carved from ivory marble. His skin was slightly yellowed like old paper and he had long, flowing grey hair that rested upon his shoulders. Despite this, his appearance was no different than a man in his early twenties.

Mara finished his drink in one quick shot before placing it down upon the table by his chair. He reclined, folding one leg over the other while placing his fingers together not unlike a tent.

“Gentlemen, we are here today to place votes for the next emperor of this wonderful land I call home.” Mara stated in a refined voice, taking command of the others attention.

“I can no longer sit idle while we as a people face hardship after hardship. Oppression and strife at the hands of those who think us their slaves. The shinigami take from us our finest men and women, putting them on the front lines of a war against our own kind. We were the first creatures to live upon the planet those humans call Earth. It is ours by right, it is our birthright. Our true home, not this subterranean abyss.”

Naraka crossed his arms as the other men gave Mara their full attention, listening on with great interest. He knew Mara had the reputation of a supremacist who only deals in absolutes. Mara believed demons were the dominant species while all other forms of life were inferior, especially humankind. However, it seemed to Naraka that the Council wouldn’t care for another pacifist ruler. Especially not after this recent string of events.

Mara continued his speech while Naraka looked on from across the room.

“Now, do not mistake my words. This is the realm that I have spent most of my life in, and I love it and its people greatly. However, I also aspire for greater things. New horizons, new ventures. I will not allow a foreign empire to dictate us, nor shall I bend my knee before a master that provokes war and murder and expects us to graciously turn the other cheek! Does a hound not bite the hand of the one who beats it??”

The others in the room began to murmur to each other, nodding in approval at what Mara was saying.

“We have grown far more powerful than we once were! All of you present should know this, as descendants of the original devils that were born from Lord Kagutsuchi’s blood as it rained from the infernal heavens. I promise you this, the shinigami believe they have stoked a fire with this attack on our empire. But they shall soon realize they fueled not a flame, but an inferno. One that shall raze their species and civilization until only cinders remain!”

Naraka looked on in silent horror as the words Mara spoke curdled his blood. He was talking about a full-on massacre. Another war that would ravage all the realms; potentially even more so than the previous war at the beginning of history. The other members of the Council cheered and clapped loudly as Mara simply sat in his chair and relaxed his posture.

❇ ❇ ❇

Elsewhere in the slums sat Mura, still caked in mud and grime from the night earlier. He was eating breakfast, some garlic-grilled shrimp he had bought from a street vendor using the coin the old lady had given him.

—I can’t believe that in the course of a single night, the Empire was attacked and the Emperor assassinated. By a shinigami no less…

Mura slid the shrimp off the wooden skewer that pierced it. This was without a doubt his favorite meal, and he figured if anything would cheer him up it would be the hearty food he loved. Passing by, Mura noticed a magazine on display in a rusted dispenser. The glass protecting the magazines from theft had long been broken and no one seemed to bother with repairing it, so the magazine was free as far as Mura was concerned.

“Emperor Orochi assassinated. Zoroaster Tournament to be dedicated in his honor” He said, reading the headline aloud.

—The Zoroaster Tournament, huh? I guess not even regicide can stop folks from getting their entertainment.

It made sense to Mura though, the tournament was held once a year and provided the victor with promises of fame, glory and untold riches. That is, if they survived the onslaught of other fighters in the arena looking for the same thing. The winner typically won a cash prize, along with the prestige of allowed membership into the Deepcut; Yomi’s most esteemed mercenary guild.

“Wait just a damn second. That’s right! They usually have a cash prize in these things, don’t they?”

Mura quickly flipped through the paper for more information until he reached the article regarding entry.

“All applicants must apply within the city of Ashuradō at the Zoroaster Memorial Arena, blah blah blah… Participants must be fourteen-hundred years of age to apply, yeah yeah…”

Suddenly his eyes fell on the words he was looking for.

“One million sols to the grand prize winner… That’s enough to pay back Belial and still keep the remaining half for myself! Holy shit…”

Mura clenched the magazine in his hands, eyes shining with newfound hope. This was it, this was his new ticket to freedom.