~~~

Right ahead, right ahead, go, go, go, go, Akira told himself as he ran at ninety per cent top speed through the forest, a full hundred out of the question in case it made him trip.

Somewhere behind him, another scream rang out, the same notes as the others when they were butchered by whatever that purple smoky shit was.

Shingen’s pet mage probably.

Or one of those child-eating demons Junto was going on about.

No, don’t think about it, he told himself, focusing on the dozens of trees blurring past him. A few more yards and I should re-connect with the path. From there…the ryokan? The forest on the other side? Or just keep running, and hope the purple stuff doesn't catch up?

He had no idea which was the correct answer, and worse, couldn’t figure out how to calm his breathing long enough to make a rational decision.

This whole situation was insane.

A dark-skinned woman rising out of a box, turning into a bank of purple mist, massacring his comrades. At least, that was the logical assumption. He’d caught the smallest sight of what it’d done to Gen and that had been enough to start him running. But perhaps the others had survived?

Junto was a decent fighter, so was Takuya…the less said about Yasu the better, but maybe they’d done okay.

In the distance, another scream.

Or maybe not.

He slowed down to 80% speed and glanced backwards, not really expecting to see anything, but trying anyway. Nope, nothing, only the trees he’d passed, some of them with the same green paint from the human skulls smeared on them.

Okay, they’re all dead, he decided. You can’t kill smoke, not by stabbing it, and katanas were the only thing they had. So they’d all died. Together. While he ran away in the opposite direction.

Ah, perhaps they lasted long enough to slow it down.

Or they struck it in the head?

If just one of them could hold out on dying and taunt it for a-

The scenery in front suddenly lost all its trees, all ground, replacing them seamlessly with more sky. Akira stopped running and leaned backwards, the latter action enough to stop him stumbling forwards and plummeting down the side of the cliff that had just materialised in front of him.

‘Kuso…’ he said, mostly spit and panic.

Getting his breath back and thanking the universe [then cursing it for putting the cliff there in the first place], he edged close to the edge of the precipice that had almost eaten him up and peered over.

‘Ah, not that bad,’ he said quietly.

He was right. The drop below was more of a steep slope than a cliff and, by his own estimation, wouldn’t be impossible to traverse. As long as he avoided the sharper rocks poking out here and there and kept close to the grass root clumps then it shouldn’t be too bad.

‘Are you going to jump, little dog?’

Akira spun fast, almost tripping over his own boot as he made a grab for his katana guard. Luckily, he had just enough experience as a soldier to steady himself at the last second, and pull out his blade in an orderly fashion.

For all the good it would do.

The dark skinned woman observed him from the nearest tree, her back leaning casually against its trunk, as purple mist wisped and swirled around her body. There was a simple, white kosode fitted around it, but Akira had no idea if it was made from actual, physical cloth or just another part of the magic show.

‘Well?’ she asked, miming a jumping action with her fingers.

Akira’s training told him not to respond. Not yet. His voice might tremble at the beginning of his words or the end of them, or any part to be frank, and he couldn’t allow the enemy to see his fear. Even if they were oddly attractive.

Instead, he pointed his katana vaguely forward and put himself into a hunched position.

‘You humans are very tedious,’ the woman said, purple vapour rolling out of her mouth as she spoke. ‘Using your silly metal toys to attack things you cannot comprehend. Not answering questions when asked. Imagining sexual activity with something that is about to mutilate you.’

Akira closed his eyes, cancelling the picture he’d just conjured up of himself and the smoke woman in an onsen; him massaging her shoulders, her saying she’d never met anyone as resilient as him before.

The woman laughed, creating an eerie whistling sound to accompany it. ‘Ah, I was right, wasn’t I?’

He squinted, moving weight to the other leg.

‘Humans are simple creatures. Especially the males.’

Okay, he thought, she’s not telepathic then. Which means I can still strategise. Attackable targets? Possibly the head. But not guaranteed. Could be more mist. Escape? Better.

Turning his head an inch to the left, he glanced down at the slope.

Detecting his movement, the woman glanced too.

It’s right behind you, Akira told himself. If you turn and jump, there’s a chance you can make it down there without getting hurt.

‘I really think you should try,’ the woman said, her left arm now turning back into mist and creeping towards him. ‘If you make it down unscathed, you can run to Shingen. Tell him what happened here. Persuade him to send reinforcements.’

Akira gripped his katana tight, looking at the smirk on the woman’s lips as her head and torso evaporated into purple then slowly rebuilt itself into a more familiar form.

‘You…’

‘I thought you might recognise me.’

Akira nodded out of habit, but didn’t say anything more. The whole thing…was unreal. Atta Noe, Shingen’s advisor, lover, whatever her role happened to be, was a demon. A fucking purple smoke demon. Or a fucking purple smoke demon was pretending to be Atta Noe. And it was standing there, unarmed, toying with him. Like a fucking wretch.

‘How about those reinforcements?’ the demon who may or may not have been Atta Noe said, her mist-arm-tendril still drifting towards him. ‘Shingen will reward you greatly for exposing me.’

‘Yeah, by bringing me back here,' Akira muttered, marking the ground with his blade.

Atta Noe tilted her head, the mist that was previously her left arm pausing on its trajectory towards Akira’s head.

‘Probably not the first time he’s done it either.’

‘A caustic one…’

Akira moved his right foot back a step, positioning himself as best he could to turn and jump. If he was lucky, he’d have at least a full second of observation time to decide on his route before the demon could reach him.

‘I may not be an expert on your kind,' she continued, examining the palm of her own right hand, 'but isn’t it tradition for ashigaru to return to their master, no matter their fate?’

‘Only for the brainless ones.’

‘Ah, individualism. Just like my dear Shingen. Very good.’ Her palm and the arm attached to it disintegrated into purple mist and followed the path of its twin. ‘I admit, you are more of a distraction than your comrades were. It is almost a pity that I must consume a large number of your internal organs. Almost.’

Akira wasn’t at all surprised by her words, he’d guessed she’d be eating some part of him, but the sudden turn of speed from the mist that used to be her right arm did catch him off guard, swiping his neck before he could raise his katana to block.

Not that it mattered.

The blade wouldn’t have penetrated the purple vapour and he had no idea where her vital organs were, or if she even had any. And that was academic now too as the other arm of mist was shooting towards his chest and the only thing he could think to do was dodge.

Pushing his torso backwards, he lifted up his legs and surrendered himself to the gods of chance. The mist sailed an inch past his left arm, which probably would’ve looked impressive to a casual observer if he hadn’t also been falling backwards down an almost vertical slope with sharp rocks sticking out.

As would his last ditch throwing of his katana towards the demon’s head, if that same head hadn’t dissipated into yet more mist to avoid the blow.

Ah well, he thought as he rolled over and up and over and up and over again all the way down the slope. I gave it my best shot. At least I didn’t die while taking a shi-

His thoughts were cut out instantly as his head connected with a sturdy rock and his body continued downwards, finally coming to rest on a path in the clearing below.

It appeared that the gods of chance were smiling on him, though, as he wasn’t dead. Unconscious and bleeding seriously from the back of the head, yes, but not dead.

The mist demon hovered at the top of the slope, still in her most common human form: Atta Noe, advisor to Lord Shingen of Kai Province. From her perch, she surveyed the terrain below, retracing Akira’s path down the slope and making a kind of gothic whistling sound.

It may have been annoyance, or admiration, there were no words from Noe to clarify, but it continued as she evaporated completely into mist form and sailed in three separate channels down to the path.

In response, Akira continued lying unconscious on the path, defenceless, about to be slaughtered in his sleep, katana stuck in the trunk of a tree at the top of the slope, comrades all dead.

Yet the purple mist did not attack.

It swirled in lines of three near the edge of the path, as if taunting the unconscious ashigaru, then merged into one form again, the dark-skinned woman, her hands launching forward and striking some kind of invisible wall.

It didn’t break.

She tried again, this time spinning herself into a purple ball of mist with crackles of electricity escaping in chaotic bursts, and then unleashing it in one ferocious stream.

Again, she couldn’t proceed.

No more than three metres between her and the prone ashigaru and she couldn’t get to him.

The body of the dark-skinned woman re-emerged and looked back up the slope, her head performing sporadic jerking movements. Then she became mist again, gusting up the side of the slope and disappearing into the trunks of the trees.

A minute passed.

The path and the clearing and the sleeping ashigaru became a landscape painting.

Man at rest in rural Japan.

It didn’t last long.

At the top of the slope, the dark-skinned woman returned, casually dance-stepping down the dirt of the precipice. In her left hand, Akira’s katana, the tip of the blade slicing off the taller clumps of grass as she made her way to the edge of the path.

‘I would wait for you to wake up,’ she said, holding up the blade and doing a few practice swings. ‘But I might miss. And that would be embarrassing.’

An obese cloud cruised past the sun, bringing shadow to the scene.

Atta Noe looked up and smiled, then returned to targeting.

‘Torso, not head, torso, not head, torso, not head…’

Making sure the katana was straight, she vetoed her own mantra, adjusted her aim to Akira’s head and let go of the handle.

The sharp strip of metal sailed through the unseen particles of air and landed with an apologetic dumpf about seven inches from Akira’s left ear.

Staring at the katana, then her own aiming hand, Atta Noe morphed her other arm into mist and sliced it clean off. The hand dropped onto the grass and flipped over a couple of times before dispersing into its natural purple state.

‘… … … … … … … …’ she screamed, definitely not Japanese.