Chapter 96: Backstory Chapter 2: The Weight of Flesh (Entity POV) The man who’d called out was a scavenger, one of the vultures who preyed on the dead. He was skinny, with sly eyes and a knife that was meant for cutting purse strings, not men. He froze when he saw me, his gaze dropping from my face to the sword in my hand, then back again. "Your eyes..." he whispered, taking a half-step back. "They’re... red." I could feel the difference. The body’s pupils were contracted to pinpricks in the fading light, but the irises were the color of fresh blood. The body was marked by its new owner. That could be a problem. Or useful. "Trick of the light," I said, testing the voice. It felt like speaking through a layer of grit. "There’s no light to trick," he stammered, his hand tightening on his knife. He was terrified. The fear coming off him was sharp, sour, and utterly predictable. It was the same flavor I’d tasted a thousand times. "Then you’re seeing things," I said, taking a step toward him. "The battle was rough. It can play tricks on a tired mind." He backed away, his feet sinking into the mud. "You were dead. I saw you fall. You took a spear through the gut. There was... there was blood everywhere." "Did I?" I looked down at the ripped armor, the dark, dried stains. "Must have missed the important organs." I took another step. He was cornered now, his back against a pile of corpses. "What’s your name?" "J-Jiro," he stammered. "Well, Jiro," I said, my voice flat. "I’m not dead. And I’m very hungry. So you’re going to tell me what you have in your pockets, and then you’re going to walk away. Understand?" He nodded frantically, his eyes wide with terror. He fumbled in his pouches, pulling out a few dried strips of fish, a half-eaten rice ball, and a small flask of water. He threw them on the ground at my feet and then scrambled away, falling twice in his haste to get away from me. He didn’t look back. I stared at the pathetic offering. This was what this body craved? This dried, tasteless sustenance? I picked up the rice ball. It was hard and stale. I took a bite. The flavor was bland, but the moment the food hit my stomach, a new sensation erupted—a deep, gnawing ache that demanded more. Hunger. I devoured the rest of the food, barely tasting it, then drank the watecr. It was warm, it soothed my throat I hadn’t realized was parched. I left the battlefield behind, just as Kurō had asked. I didn’t look back at the carnage, at the thousands of lives that had ended while I watched. I walked forward, into the woods that bordered the field. Walking was frustrating. The body was a mess of aches and pains. Muscles screamed in protest. The armor, which had seemed light when I was observing, now felt like a crushing weight. I stumbled once, my foot catching on a root, and only Kurō’s ingrained reflexes kept me from falling face-first into the dirt. The night air felt different on skin than it had as a formless observer. It was cooler, fuller, carrying the dampness of the earth and the scent of pine. My feet, clad in leather sandals, felt every rock and twig on the forest floor. The sword, slung over my shoulder, tugged with a rhythm that was both annoying and oddly grounding. For nine thousand years, I had been pure consciousness—light and unbound, drifting through time. Now, I was trapped in this sack of organs and fluids. The crisp air filled my lungs. The pulse in my chest was a constant, heavy beat, reminding me that this fragile, vessel was the only thing keeping me from dissolving back into the void. I had to admit, it was fascinating. As I walked, I thought about a name for me. I had no name of my own. I didn’t want Kurō’s. Humans needed labels, a simple word to hang their fears and hopes on. I needed one, if I was going to live in this world. "Tsurugi," I whispered, testing the word. It meant "sword." It was simple, functional, and honest. It was a tool. And this body was just a tool I was learning to use. It fit perfectly. After what felt like an hour, the trees began to thin. I could see lights ahead—flickering orange flames of campfires. The smell of cooking meat and wood smoke drifted through the air, and my stomach, the traitorous organ, clenched with a desperate need. Hosokawa’s forces. The winners of today’s pointless battle. They would have food. Water. Maybe even a change of clothes. I could walk in, claim to be a survivor, and take what I needed. Or, I thought, a flicker of the old curiosity sparking within me, I could do something else. I moved toward the nearest light, keeping to the shadows. Three soldiers were sitting around a small fire, their armor bearing Hosokawa’s colors. They looked tired but relaxed, passing a flask of sake and laughing about something. One of them was sharpening his sword with a whetstone, the rhythmic ’shing-shing’ sound cutting through the night. I watched them for a moment, observing their postures, their easy camaraderie. They were the victors. They felt safe. That would be their mistake. I stepped out of the shadows. The one with the whetstone was the first to see me. He stopped mid-stroke, his eyes widening. "Who’s there? Identify yourself!" The other two turned, their hands going to their swords. They saw my armor, caked in blood and mud. They saw the sword in my hand. And then they saw my eyes. "Sweet mercy," one of them breathed, his face paling. "The stories... the Red-Eyed Demon..." "I’m looking for food," I said, my voice calmly. "And a new set of clothes. These are... soiled." The leader, a burly man with a thick beard, forced a laugh, though I could see the fear in his eyes. "You’ve got some nerve, strutting in here like that. You’re one of Yamana’s dogs, aren’t you? Lost your master?" "I was," I said. "But I found something better." "Draw your blade, then," the bearded man said, standing up and drawing his own sword. "Let’s see if your skills are as scary as your eyes." The other two stood as well, forming a loose triangle around me. They were good soldiers, disciplined. But they were predictable. They had been trained to fight other men. They hadn’t been trained to fight me. I didn’t draw my sword. I just stood there, my hands loose at my sides. "What are you waiting for?" the bearded man sneered. "Scared?" "No," I said. "I’m just deciding which of you gets to die first." That was all it took. The bearded man roared and charged, his sword held high for a classic overhead cut. It was a powerful, telegraphed move, the kind they taught in every dojo in the country. I didn’t move until the last possible second. Then, I sidestepped, my body moving with a speed that surprised even me. It was Kurō’s muscle memory, taking over. As the man’s sword sliced through the air where my head had been, I drew my own blade. The movement was so fast it was a blur of slash. My blade sliced across his abdomen, a shallow, horizontal cut. It wasn’t deep enough to kill him instantly. He stumbled forward, his roar turning into a confused gasp. He looked down at his stomach, at the dark line of blood already soaking his tunic, and then at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. The other two, shocked for only a second, charged together. One came from the left, the other from the right. A classic pincer movement. I dropped to one knee, spinning as I went. The blade in my hand became a wheel of death. It took the legs out from under one soldier, a clean, efficient cut that sent him screaming to the ground. The other, a younger man with a terrified face, tried to stop his momentum, but he was too close. My upward thrust caught him under the chin, the point of the blade punching through the soft tissue and into his brain with a sickening, wet crunch. He died without a sound. I stood up, shaking the blood from my sword. The bearded man was on his knees now, clutching his stomach, his life seeping into the dirt between his fingers. "Please..." he whimpered. "Mercy..." "Mercy is a human concept," I said, walking toward him. "I’m not human, remember?" I ended him with a quick, efficient thrust through the heart. He slumped over, joining his comrades in the dirt. I stood over the three bodies, breathing hard. The heart in this chest was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, wild drum. A surge of something hot and sharp—adrenaline—rushed through my veins. It was a potent, intoxicating drug. A metallic taste filled my mouth—the blood of my enemies, sharp and coppery. It was... satisfying. I looked down at my hands, at the blood spattered across my knuckles. I had observed violence for nine centuries. I had seen every form of cruelty and bravery imaginable. But I had never ’participated’. I had never felt the thrill of the kill, the raw, primal surge of life taking life. It was different from the outside. And, I have to admit, it is far more interesting. "Interesting," I said to the silent corpses. I wiped my sword clean on the bearded man’s tunic and sheathed it. Then I went through their packs. I found food—fresh rice, grilled fish, and a jug of decent sake. I also found a clean, and simple, change of clothes. I sat by their fire, eating their food and drinking their sake. The adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. The body was tired. It needed to rest. I needed to sleep. I looked out at the other campfires, dotting the landscape. There were more soldiers out there. More potential threats. More potential entertainment. I had a name. I had a full stomach. And I had a purpose, however small and temporary. I was no longer just an observer..