Chapter 98: Backstory Chapter 4: The Practical Survivor (Entity POV) The camp fell silent. The only sounds were the crackle of cooking fires I hadn’t bothered to put out and the quiet moans of men who weren’t dead yet. I stood in the middle of it all, the metallic taste of blood thick in my mouth. I had just killed over forty men, and my main thought was that my back hurt.
This body had limits. The muscles were starting to ache with a deep, insistent throb. It was an entirely new sensation, and I found it incredibly annoying.
I noticed a pile of bodies shift. A small movement, followed by the quick, shallow breath of someone trying very hard not to be heard.
I walked over and pulled two corpses aside. Underneath was a boy, maybe sixteen, curled into a tight ball. The moment he saw my eyes, he lost control of his bladder. The sharp smell of piss mixed with the coppery scent of blood already thick in the air. His hands were clenched around a cracked wooden prayer bead, his knuckles white.
"Please," he whimpered, pressing his forehead so hard into the dirt I thought it might break. "Please, great lord. This worthless one begs for mercy."
*Great lord?* The title was an unexpected promotion. I supposed the red eyes had something to do with it.
"Look at me," I said.
"This one—"
"Look. At. Me."
He flinched but slowly lifted his head, just enough to see my face before dropping it again with a choked sob. "Demon... you’re a demon..."
"Not quite," I said, crouching down. He tried to make himself even smaller. "What’s your name?"
"T-T-Taro, great lord."
"No family name?"
"I was just a cook’s son, great lord. Not worthy of a family name."
"You played dead while I killed everyone," I stated. "That was clever."
Tears began to cut clean tracks through the grime on his cheeks. His whole body shook with the force of holding back sobs. In any other circumstance, a samurai would have killed him for showing such fear, for the offense of being so weak.
"Are you hungry?" I asked.
The question seemed to confuse him. His shaking stopped for a second. "Great... great lord?"
"I’m hungry," I repeated. "This body needs fuel. Where is the food?"
He pointed a trembling finger toward a large tent. "The... the supply tent, great lord. Rice and dried fish. There’s soup, too."
"Show me."
"Great lord, this worthless one—"
"You can show me the food, or you can join them," I said, gesturing to the bodies around us. "Choose."
He scrambled to his feet, keeping his head bowed and his eyes on the ground. The front of his pants was soaked. He led the way, walking backward so he wouldn’t turn his back on me, his sandals scraping against the trampled earth.
Inside the supply tent, I found a large pot of soup hanging over a low fire. I picked up a ladle and started drinking directly from the pot. It was miso broth with fish and rice that had burnt onto the bottom. The bitterness was a nice contrast to the salt. The boy just stood there, shaking, his head still bowed.
"Sit," I said, between mouthfuls.
"This one couldn’t dare—"
"Sit, or I’ll assume you’re planning to run and I’ll have to stop you."
. He collapsed more than sat, kneeling in the formal *seiza* style right in the middle of a pool of someone else’s blood. His breathing was fast and shallow.
"You know what I am?" I asked, curious.
"This one saw your eyes. Red like blood. Like the old stories of..." He swallowed hard. "Of oni. Or worse things."
"Worse things?"
"Things that wear human skin but aren’t human. Things that eat—" He cut himself off, his fear spiking again.
"I don’t eat humans," I said, finishing the soup. "It’s inefficient. Too many bones, not enough meat. And the diseases are a risk. I understand the confusion, though."
He made a strange noise, half laugh and half sob. His mind was struggling to accept what was happening.
"Why haven’t you run?" I asked.
"Where would this one run, great lord?" he whispered. "You move like the wind. You kill like a plague. Running would just make it worse."
"Practical," I noted. "What did you do before they forced you into this war?"
"I helped my father. He was a cook for a merchant house."
"So you know how to prepare food."
"This one... yes, great lord."
I stood up. He immediately pressed his forehead to the floor again.
"You’re coming with me."
"Great lord?"
"This body needs regular maintenance, and I don’t understand how it works yet. You will prepare my food."
"This one is not worthy—"
"Worthiness is irrelevant. You’re useful. That’s all that matters. Get up."
He rose slowly, his legs shaking so badly he almost fell. He started gathering supplies—sacks of rice and bundles of dried fish. His hands trembled so much he dropped the first sack. Then the second. On the third try, he managed to secure it to his back, though his whole body shook with the effort.
As we left the camp, he stayed exactly five paces behind me, the proper distance for a servant. He kept his head down and whispered prayers under his breath, his fingers constantly rubbing the cracked prayer bead.
"Great lord?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the crunch of our footsteps.
"What?"
"This worthless one begs to know... will you eat this one when you get hungry?"
"No," I said. "You’re more useful for preparing food than for becoming it."
"Then this one will serve, great lord. This unworthy Taro will serve you."
We walked in silence. The boy’s fear was a constant smell—sour sweat and ammonia. It would take days for him to stop shaking. Weeks before he could look at me directly. If he lived that long.
But he was practical, this Taro. That was interesting. In him, I saw a flicker of something I’d observed in humans for centuries but never truly understood: resilience. The simple, stubborn will to keep breathing, even when the world was ending around you.
Night fell completely. The moon rose, a sliver of silver behind the clouds. The dull ache in my back had spread to my shoulders. I had never experienced fatigue before. It was a profound, system-wide failure, and it was deeply inconvenient.
"Great lord?" Taro’s voice cut through the darkness. He was still maintaining his careful five-step distance.