Epigraph
THE MAN-EATING REDCAP, BISCO AKABOSHI, read the piece of paper in ridiculously huge writing. The man depicted in its center had spiky red hair, a pair of cracked goggles on his head, and a feral expression, as though he might leap off the page at any moment. There was a bright-red tattoo around his right eye.
The image of his face made it clear he was a man to avoid. Below was written: AGE: 17. HEIGHT: APPROX. 180 CM. REWARD: 800,000 SOLS, marked with the sign of Gunma Prefecture.
The flyer hung beside the checkpoint window, fluttering in the Rust Wind, as a young pilgrim eyed it carefully.
“Interested?” asked the checkpoint guard, an overweight, hairy-faced individual, looking up from his papers.
The pilgrim looked back at him and nodded. His head was wrapped in inscribed bandages, obscuring his face.
“Any place he passes through becomes infested with mushrooms. That’s why they call him the Redcap. He’s all anyone ever talks about down at the office. The base of Akagi Mountain, one of our greatest tourist attractions, is just a mess of mushrooms now, thanks to him.”
“And what about the Man-Eating part?” asked the pilgrim.
“Well, that’s because he eats people, of course!”
The guard quaffed some cheap booze and, evidently amused by his own words, gave a boisterous laugh.
“Nah, but seriously, he’s a real scoundrel, that one. You wanderers might not be aware, but his mushrooms are no joke. He just fires his bow, like this…” The guard leaned out the window and performed an exaggerated motion. “…Aims it wherever, soil or steel, doesn’t matter. And then, boom! This huge mushroom springs up outta nowhere! No land is so sacred that those Mushroom Keepers won’t wreak their havoc. I mean, just look at him! Don’t he look like he’d take a bite outta ya given half the chance?”
The pilgrim simply stared at the guardsman laughing his hairy face off before turning his attention back to the flyer.
“The Man-Eating Redcap, Bisco Akaboshi…”
“But anyway, you don’t need to worry about him. There ain’t never been a scoundrel who could escape the Gunma police. The Redcap’s reign of terror ends here. He’ll be no danger to your pilgrimage.”
The guard tore the flyer off the wall and eyed it closely.
“Heh, his name’s Bisco, apparently. What a joke. Kid musta had some lousy parents.”
Then, losing interest in the outlaw, he tossed it away. Returning to the pilgrim’s papers, he took the final page and attempted to run it through a grimy old scanner. When the smudges and fingerprints made it impossible for the barcode to scan, he stood up, audibly frustrated.
“Ota! I thought you fixed this piece o’ junk! It ain’t giving me shit!”
The pilgrim heaved a brief sigh and waited, watching the wanted poster as the desert wind swept it up and carried it over the sands.
The southern checkpoint connected the prefectures of Gunma and Saitama, and very few people frequented it. After passing through, travelers were greeted with nothing but the sprawling iron sands of the Saitama Desert, beyond which, in the place once called Tokyo, was an enormous hole in the ground.
Relations between Gunma and the neighboring prefectures of Niigata and Tochigi were strained, and the checkpoints in the north and east had long since been closed off. Travelers heading east were forced to take this southerly route, pass through the Tokyo Crater, and cross the Desert of Death into the prefecture south of Tochigi: Imihama. This route was a critical path for religious groups like the Allspiriters and Flamebound, whose teachings mandated a pilgrimage across the entire country, and there was immense pressure on the Gunma government to keep it open.
Beyond the checkpoint, there was no cover to protect you from the Rust Wind that spewed forth from the hole. Whatever happened to you out there, whether the wind eroded your body away or the Scorched Eels got to you first, wasn’t the government’s concern. That much was known.
The pilgrim squinted into the dusty wind and tended to the bandages around his skin. His mummy-like garb was not particularly unusual, as these were the traveling clothes of the Flamebound, whose monks were a familiar sight farther west. However, with the July sun bearing down on him, even he was feeling the heat, and he wiped away some sweat from around his right eye.
“Right, young man. Sorry about the wait,” said the border guard, returning to his seat. The pilgrim stopped examining the dull-white wall that protected the checkpoint from sandstorms and returned to the window, not once compromising his pious demeanor.
“Eugh… Destination: Imihama. Purpose: pilgrimage. You’re a long way from Kansai, son,” said the hairy guard, shifting his gaze between the photo on the papers and the man standing before him. “Wataru Watarigani… That really your name?”
“It’s my monk name,” replied the monk. “Wataru Watarigani.”
“And your real name?”
“Long gone.”
“Huh… And what’s with the luggage? Can’t see what a monk like you would need with all that.”
The monk looked back over his shoulder at the dog-drawn cart behind him. It was as large as a truck and covered with a cloth. “Bodies,” he replied simply. “Not all survive the Death Breath techniques. I am returning their remains to the Rust Wind.”
“Blech. You guys creep me out,” grumbled the guard, turning away from the window. “Hey, Ota! Go check what’s under the cloth. He says it’s a pile of stiffs.”
As the younger of the two border guards headed out to take a look, the monk called out, “I wouldn’t if I were you. We’ve stuffed the bodies with live centipedes to slow the decomposition. They really don’t like the light, you see, and they’re plenty capable of tearing off a finger or two when they get mad.”
The hairy guard looked at his colleague, who was staring back, pale-faced. After a moment’s consideration, he spat in anger and gestured Ota back inside.
“Open the gate!”
The huge gate rose, loudly scraping off the rust that plagued its mechanisms, and the monk gave a single, silent bow before returning to his cart. The guardsman sat back and watched him go, when suddenly the shortbow on the monk’s back glinted in the light, catching his eye.
“…Hey. The Flamebound using bows now?”
“Indeed,” said the monk, turning around. “We’re not forbidden from killing, after all.”
“I know that, son,” said the bearded guard, pressing the question. “But I heard you weren’t allowed to use projectiles like guns and bows. Something about not feeling the weight of taking a life.”
A silence filled the air. The monk did not respond. When the guard stared into his burning eyes through the gaps in his bandages, his fifteen years of experience guarding the checkpoint sent alarm bells ringing.
“Listen. It’s been a while since I heard the scriptures. Even an unbeliever like me gets a little nostalgic from time to time.” Behind his back, the border guard gestured the emergency signal to his colleague. “Mind giving us a little reading? No monk would ever refuse a chance to proselytize, would they?”
The tension was palpable. Though the wind kicked up sand into the air, the pilgrim didn’t so much as blink. He narrowed his green eyes, and a single fang peeked through the loose bandages around the corners of his mouth.
“To help kids grow up big and strong…”
“…What?”
“Sweet and healthy Bisco.”
The pilgrim’s voice became harsh and coarse, like grit.
“It’s a good name, filled with loving prayers. You have no right to mock it.”
“Say ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Bisco, sir!’”
The hairy-faced border guard quickly drew his pistol and fired, but the bullet merely grazed the pilgrim’s ear, undoing his bandages. His scarlet hair burst forth, exposed to the bone-dry air.
He cast off his disguise and glared. His green irises glimmered like they could pierce through stone. His blazing-red hair stood on end, fluttering in the dusty wind like a knight’s standard.
He didn’t even flinch at the bullet. He simply raised his hand to his face and wiped his sweat-slick skin, clearing away the makeup and revealing the crimson tattoo around his right eye.
“It’s the Man-Eating Redcap!”
“Who you calling man-eating?!”
Bisco drew his shortbow, which glinted emerald in the sunlight. He reached for the quiver beneath his cloak and hastily nocked a scarlet arrow, loosing it toward the checkpoint station. It whizzed past the guardsman’s head, causing him to cry out in fright, before embedding itself in a pinup calendar on the checkpoint wall. Immediately, an enormous crack ran right through the wall, splitting it in two.
“Wh-what kind of bow is that?!”
“M-Mr. Inoshige, l-l-look at that!”
The guardsman followed Ota’s finger and saw a bunch of small, red, round…buds, of some sort, appearing all over the room, spreading out from the crack in the wall. Soon, there was a pop, and they began to grow, unfurling like bright-red umbrellas, their stalks expanding, pushing at the seams of the checkpoint building, until it was obvious even to the untrained eye what they were.
“Oh wow! Th-they’re mushrooms!”
“Ota, you idiot, get away from them!”
Ota reached for his telephoto camera, but the hairy guard grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and ran for the exit. However, before they even made it to the doorway, there was a series of Gaboom! Gaboom! noises as, one by one, the bright-red mushrooms swelled to enormous sizes, blasting the checkpoint to bits.
Bisco ran to his cart without looking back and shouted to the hemp cloth covering the cargo, “Jabi! Plan B! We’re escapin’ along the wall! Wake up, Actagawa!”
The cover flew up into the air, and the fluttering cloth gently parted, revealing a giant crab. It was about twice a human’s height, and it gave several spins in midair before landing on the ground with a loud bang. It proudly raised its huge pincers, and its orange shell shimmered under the desert sun. Bisco leaped up onto the saddle on the crab’s back as it dashed off across the sand.
“I told you, sonny!” said the old man with a lush white beard and a tricorne hat who sat at the creature’s reins. “If you’re gonna pretend to be a monk, you gotta learn a verse or two! I can do it—listen! Jamonkin’nara, hosuyashai!”
“You said Kanto people just wave the Flamebound through!” Bisco yelled from atop the moving crab. Suddenly, his voice was drowned out by the sound of cannon fire, and a tremendous explosion kicked up dust and sand nearby.
“…Those bastards,” he said. “They’re bringin’ out the hippos!”
Bisco shot a look over his shoulder and peered through the clouds of dust to see a pack of Sand Hippos geared for war, machine guns and artillery mounted atop their backs, approaching in a cloud of dust. The smaller specimens were able to catch up to the giant crab first, and they swiveled their machine guns toward him.
“Out of our way!” he cried. There was merely a twinkle of light as he nocked and released an arrow with incredible speed, scoring a direct hit. The hippo gave a cry before collapsing to the ground, rolling like a ball as bright-red umbrellas blossomed all over its body. Before long, there was a Gaboom! as the mushroom grew to full size, taking out the hippo and all the others behind it. Meanwhile, Bisco let loose a second shot, then a third, scattering the approaching hippos with a barrage of exploding mushrooms. Gaboom! Gaboom!
As powerful as Bisco’s mushroom arrows were, the Sand Hippos had sheer numbers on their side. Eventually, one of them got close enough to fire its machine gun at the legs of the giant crab. The creature expertly deflected the shots with its steellike carapace, taking out a few of the pursuing hippos, but the sea of enemies drew relentlessly closer, and tiny beads of sweat, not entirely owing to the heat, began forming on Bisco’s forehead.
He gulped. “This isn’t looking good,” he said, before turning back to the old man and shouting over the wind. “We’ll have to use the King Trumpet! Give me ten seconds!”
“That again?” said the old man, slightly annoyed. He closed one eye and added, “Well, at least we get a soft landing.” Then he whipped the reins, shouting, “Fire away, Actagawa!” The giant crab turned around, brandishing a vicious claw, and smashed it into the herd of hippos like a sledgehammer.
As sand and bodies erupted into the air, Bisco nocked his King Trumpet arrow and aimed it at one of the falling hippos. The arrow landed in the creature’s ear, and Bisco heard a satisfying bubbling noise as it began to grow.
“Jabi!” he yelled.
“Aye, aye!”
As the hippo fell toward them, Bisco grabbed its body, holding it aloft as though it weighed no more than a stuffed toy.
“Snakes alive!” cried the border guard. “That kid’s a monster!”
Meanwhile, Bisco squatted down, and with a herculean grunt, he tossed the infected Sand Hippo’s body into the path of the giant crab. The King Trumpet disappeared underfoot before suddenly swelling up to incredible size, almost the same height as the one-hundred-foot wall. The crab carrying Bisco and Jabi was launched up into the air like a tennis ball, before tumbling down on the other side of the border. As they fell toward the ground, Bisco righted himself and grabbed onto Jabi, who was clutching his hat for dear life. Then he turned and fired an anchor arrow toward the crab. The crab caught it in one claw and wound its two friends toward it like it was reeling in a catch. When they reached it, it embraced them in its eight legs and curled up like a ball before touching down on the opposite side of the border and rolling away across the sands.
“I-it’s huge…” Ota gazed at the mushroom, dumbfounded. Even the bearded guard could do nothing but stare in shock at what he had just witnessed. The King Trumpet stood tall like a marble column growing out of the desert sands, slightly curving toward the wall. Sand fell from its cap like rainwater off an umbrella, and even now its white skin churned as though it was not done growing. It was a majestic sight, life growing tall and proud from the barren land.
“I’d heard the Mushroom Keepers could grow mushrooms in the desert, but I didn’t think it was true…”
The Mushroom Keepers were a group of people who lived alongside the mushrooms and used them as tools. Mushrooms were unpopular these days since it was rumored they spread the Rust. The Mushroom Keepers were similarly ostracized and forced into hiding. To see their techniques in person was a rare event indeed.
The bearded guard nodded, slack-jawed, at Ota’s words, before coming to his senses and shaking his head. He marched over to his subordinate, who was snapping some shots of the King Trumpet with his camera, slapped him over the head, and shouted in his ear.
“You dimwit! Look at you getting all weak at the knees! It’s them spores that’re causin’ the Rust, y’know! We gotta get rid of this massive pain in the backside before things get any worse around here!”
“Hey, pork chop! Yoo-hoo!”
From across the wall came a voice. The two turned, rushed up a nearby maintenance elevator, and looked down at the source.
“That mushroom can’t live on just sand! For best results, it needs hippo manure once a week!”
The red-haired outlaw shouted from atop his giant crab. Beside him sat an old man in a tricorne hat, holding the crustacean’s reins with one hand and leisurely puffing on a pipe with the other.
“You… You want me to look after that thing?!”
“Just listen to me, lard ass!” Bisco took on a serious tone of voice. “That mushroom feeds off rust! Take care of it, and before you know it, this place’ll be—”
Bisco was cut off by the border guard’s bullet grazing his shoulder. For a moment, he stared in awe. Then his face changed into a visage of wrath. His scarlet hair flared, and his emerald eyes glinted.
“I’m trying to help you! Why does no one ever listen?!” he yelled. His hand went for his bow, but Jabi decided now was a good time to book it and lashed the reins. The giant crab jumped to its feet as if it had been waiting and scuttled off, putting the Gunma southern checkpoint behind them and disappearing into the distance.
“I know what you look like, Akaboshi! Next time we meet, I’ll cut out your tongue!” yelled the border guard. The wind kicked up immense clouds of dust, but Bisco didn’t even blink as he turned back and flipped his middle finger, giving a diabolical scowl with his jade-green eyes.
Ota snapped the shutter on his long-range camera. The photo that came out depicted wrath incarnate.
“Man… If looks could kill, huh, boss?”
That photo would go on to become the new face of wanted posters across the land, kick-starting Ota’s career as a professional photographer. However, that’s a story for another time. Today, we look out onto the horizon, and follow those dust clouds, to see just what becomes of Bisco Akaboshi.