Chapter One

Chapter One

A strange hallway.

Strange because it was so flat and smooth. Utterly unremarkable. The white walls on the left and right continued on forever. Nothing that looked like an exit or entranceway interrupted the inlaid planks and beams.

“What the hell?” Setsura scratched his head. The sort of mundane gesture that, when made by him, would make any passerby want to stop and lend a hand. “Does this look familiar to you?”

“No.” Pretend Takako shook her head.

Along with the real Takako’s appearance and knowledge, Kikiou must have added a fragment of his own memories, so that if they were not killed in the room below she would lead them into a different maze. All the more reason to have a really bad feeling about these cascades of corridors.

“Well, let’s go,” Setsura said encouragingly.

Her presence weighed on his mind. But he could no more abandon the facsimile than the real thing. For having stuck by him, Kikiou would kill her without a second thought.

Setsura cast out searching strands of devil wire and got back—nothing. No matter the direction, no matter how far—a half-mile out and back. He gave up. The hallway had no beginning and no end, as if space and time turned back on itself through a fourth dimension.

He tested the walls and easily cut them but didn’t penetrate them. They had an infinite thickness.

“No point to that,” Setsura said, reeling the wire back in.

A concerned look came to the face of Pretend Takako. Her eyes were drawn to the hole in the floor through which they’d just come. It had closed. Kikiou or Yakou must have done it. The sealed floor now yielded to the devil wire no differently than the walls.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Pretend Takako.

“I fear it will be the same no matter where we go. Rather than aimlessly walking around in circles, waiting for the enemy to arrive may paradoxically offer the best chance to escape.”

“Yes, but it’s still very frightening.”

“I’m with you on that,” Setsura said. He patted her on the shoulder, as if to suggest this was all just a big misunderstanding.

Pretend Takako burst out, “You’re a strange man.”

“You think so?” Though as he scanned the hallway, Setsura was no less wary than he always was.

“Yes. The memories implanted by Kikiou-sama make you out to be very scary.”

“How naughty of him,” Setsura said peevishly.

Though this Takako looked exactly like the real thing, everything she knew about Setsura had been implanted by Kikiou. Such a reaction wasn’t unexpected.

“But I don’t find you frightening in the least. The way you can cut through the walls and ceiling is amazing, not scary.”

“Sounds like I’m not being intimidating enough. I’ll have to work on that.”

“No.” Pretend Takako shook her head.

A strange emotional tie seemed to be forming between the odd couple that was this young senbei shop proprietor and the counterfeit girl.

Setsura narrowed his eyes. Pretend Takako spun around. The sound of footsteps, short and quick, running toward them. Not bare feet, but shoes like sneakers.

“Who is it?” Pretend Takako asked anxiously.

Setsura cocked his head to the side. The footsteps turned into a human shadow.

“It’s a child.”

“Yes.”

Perhaps noticing them as well, the shadow came to a halt. A boy of seven or eight, about four feet tall, wearing a blue Chinese-style outfit. They were about a hundred yards apart. His ruddy cheeks suggested a child coming indoors on a crisp winter day.

Pretend Takako smiled and the boy smiled back, both expressions of honest delight.

Setsura observed that the boy was holding a black rod in his right hand. The boy ran toward them while reaching out his right hand and touching the wall with the rod. A black line appeared on the wall exactly as long as he’d run. The rod must’ve been made of charcoal or graphite.

The line stopped fifteen feet away from them. And so did the boy. His face suddenly flushed. Setsura was seized by a strange sense of apprehension.

“Hey, kid,” Pretend Takako called out.

The kid set off at a sprint past them, drawing the black line on the floor. This time he stopped and abruptly sat down in front of the wall. As they watched, he drew a figure on the floor with his small hand.

Starting from a stick figure outline, he drew one—then two—then three—soldiers, holding a sword, a spear, and a halberd. There was hardly anything abnormal about boys showing interest in soldiers and weaponry. And though childish in appearance, his rapid brush strokes were nevertheless praiseworthy—a bull covered in armor, a soldier holding a staff, flowers of some unknown species—

He stopped. Pretend Takako said again, “Hey, kid—”

“Keep your distance,” Setsura warned. “Those pictures—they possess a demon spirit.”

“But—”

He grabbed her bodily and pushed her behind him. The hallway filled with glittering light. It reflected off the spear and the sword and the halberd—now in the hands of the three soldiers.

They glared at Setsura and Pretend Takako. There was no telling what historical era they came from, though logic dictated that they were likely soldiers of the Hsia Dynasty over which Kikiou had once wielded his power and influence. The diamond-shaped helmets, the breastplates and shin guards were all different from anything Setsura had studied.

The three marched forward. They appeared to be real human beings, down to the smell of alcohol on their breaths, not the slightest bit like “moving pictures.” Setsura noticed as well that the drawings matching them had disappeared from the floor.

Their martial spirits surged ahead of them like a wave as they drew closer. They’d covered a half-dozen feet when Setsura cast out his devil wire. And felt a response.

The heads of the three should have toppled to the floor. But they continued onward, not a mark on their necks, the murderous vibe brimming from their expressionless faces.

“So there’s no taking scissors to these paper soldiers,” Setsura observed.

The devil wire again danced around them. Severing lines appeared here and there on their weapons—and disappeared.

“Or to their weapons,” he mused. “This certainly sucks.” His voice was soft and his countenance serene.

The swordsman whipped his weapon through the air. Dodging the blows took all of Setsura’s effort and speed. The wind from the sweep of the steel grazed his chest. He ducked and wove as the halberd jabbed at his neck from the side. He felt a funny twinge in his back foot. He stumbled off balance. The sword slashed down at his upper body. Just as the lancer leapt into the fray.

Before the tip of the spear could penetrate his chest, the spear flew from its wielder’s hands. A strange sight indeed.

The spear slanted through the throat of the staggering swordsman and into the stomach of the soldier with the halberd. The swordsman laughed. With his free hand, he grabbed the shaft of the spear and yanked it out and tossed it to the lancer. The three pressed on with their attack as if nothing had happened.

Their bodies were obviously immune to the effects of their own weapons. Determined not to let themselves be so disarmed again, they gripped the hilts so tightly their knuckles turned white.

Setsura shifted his stance. He tested the floor for pitfalls with his devil wire and found a fissure four inches wide. As for its length—

He faced the immortal soldiers. “Hmm,” he said in admiration. The fissure precisely followed the line the kid had drawn with his lump of graphite. It was quite amazing—picture soldiers that sprang into action—a line that grew into a ditch—

Setsura glanced down the hallway. The kid was nowhere to be seen. He’d drawn a rectangle on the wall, with a thing like a handle. It must be a door. The little artist had hidden himself in there.

The blade of the halberd descended like a calving glacier. Setsura jumped backwards, smiling a smile like the rays of a winter sun on a cloudy day. The soldier’s murderous rage momentarily wavered.

Something strange was born in that moment.

The swordsman whirled around and sank his sword into the shoulder of the lancer—just as the blade of the halberd plunged into his abdomen—just as the bloody tip of the spear protruded from the chest of the soldier wielding the halberd.

“Puppeteer,” Setsura Aki murmured.

The soldiers vanished.

“Whoa!” Setsura waved his arms, lost his balance, and sat down heavily on the floor.

“Setsura-san!” Pretend Takako ran up to him. Glancing up and down the hallway, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I think I sprained my ankle. Ouch.” When Takako went to touch it, he said, “No, it’s okay. I think I’ll be able to walk.”

“I hope so. Here, let me help you up.”

“Thanks.”

His smile made her heart melt. She said hastily, “Um, those three soldiers, how did you do it?”

Gingerly rubbing his ankle, Setsura said, “They were immune to my threads and to their own weapons. But not when they were actually holding onto their own weapons.”

“How did you know to make them attack each other?”

“When I sprained my ankle, the swordsman and the guy with the halberd were both swinging at the same target. The swordsman altered the direction of his attack. Reflexively, perhaps, but with obvious effort. This suggested a conscious desire to avoid friendly fire, so to speak.”

He flashed a strained smile in response to Pretend Takako’s admiring glance, and got to his feet. “Yeah, it hurts.”

Pretend Takako quickly supported his wobbling frame. “We’d better go. There are pictures still unanimated.”

“And there’s the artist. I’m sure that kid could draw a door for us.”

“Do you think he’s waiting?”

“Two pictures remain, no doubt for cleaning up whatever the other three couldn’t get done.”

Confirming this speculation, a loud bellow echoed out behind them. The armored bull and another swordsman. They were covered from head to foot with silver metal, looking more like armored vehicles than flesh and blood. Another one of Kikiou’s inventions.

The swordsman’s right hand flashed. The bull shook its head. Nothing reflected in its eyes. Only the swordsman and Setsura knew that his devil wire had been severed.

“The sword and the armor are made of the same materials. They’re safe from friendly fire.”

The bull lowered its head and pawed at the ground, preparing to rush them. It must’ve weighed close to half a ton. Add on top of that Kikiou’s magical armor. This was no ordinary big bull.

The massive hooked horns were each a yard in length and almost a foot in circumference at their thickest, tapering to sharp points aimed right at Setsura’s heart.

Pretend Takako’s fingers dug into his shoulder.

With a harsh screech, the soldier drew his long sword and tossed the scabbard aside. It clattered on the floor, making Pretend Takako flinch.

The bull had torn through the devil wire with a toss of his head, the soldier with a flick of his sword. How would Setsura deflect the attack to come?