Chapter One

Chapter One

The earthy smell and the sound of rolling and kneading clay continued without respite.

Thirty minutes had passed since the old man stated that he would mold Setsura’s face into a mask. Every minute—each second—was more precious to Setsura than rubies. And yet he could not look away from the old man’s hands, transfixed by his exquisite craftsmanship and his steadfast, even obsessive, devotion to his objective. It was in his nature.

It was perfectly possible that right up until Shinjuku’s moment of destruction—even that of the entire globe—he would not budge, and without regrets.

The announcement came unexpectedly, in a voice like the striking of a huge temple bell: “It is finished.” He pulled his muddy hand out of the pot.

“Huh. Mixed it just right?” Setsura said, narrowing his eyes. For the time being, he was saying whatever came to his mind on the spur of the moment.

“With the right raw materials, everything is possible. This time, I will disembowel the bastards who imprisoned me here.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Setsura said with equally intense interest.

The old man scooped out the clay and piled it with both hands on the workbench next to him. He looked intently at Setsura. “Well then,” he muttered. “Whose face shall this mask reveal?”

“Can you make do with what you’ve got here?”

“All right,” the old man decided, and his hands turned into finely-tuned mechanisms.

Without so much as a sculpting knife or bamboo turning tool, he drew the face of a comely young man on the lump of clay. He shaped the eyes, the bridge of the nose, and smoothed the cheeks—at an accelerated pace that suggested it was the simplest thing in the world. In reality, energized by unworldly powers of concentration, he didn’t rely on ordinary sight at all. All that was visible was the whites of his eyes.

“Done!” he declared ten seconds later, followed by a spray of red across his forehead.

Whatever in the dense mist welling up outside had called out to Setsura, proclaiming that reproducing that lovely face was impossible, the old man had done it, though demanding a degree of concentration that burst a blood vessel.

But not in vain. Without a doubt, it was Setsura’s countenance carved into the soft clay mask on the workbench.

“I’m impressed,” was all he could say.

“Whose face do you think that is?” asked the old man, turning his bloody visage toward his speechless model. Though the blood aside, his face was actually quite pale, as if the source of the blood had been severed as well. “But you wouldn’t understand. Only put it on and it will become perfectly clear—which one of you aroused the interest of this uncommon mask maker? That is your true face.”

His boney finger pointed at the workbench and then shifted to the wall behind Setsura. The finger shook violently. “In a world where they should not possibly exist, I have recreated two beautiful faces. Has my reward for doing so come at last? Touch it with these hands and it would surely shatter. Get that—that mask.”

Setsura read the intention in the man’s gesture and expression. He turned to the wall behind him, and hesitated. He knew at once what would happen when he wore that mask.

The ashen skin, the three red eyes, the hair like needles jutting out in all directions, the thick red lips—pretty much par for the course when it came to monster masks. But add in the six-foot long fangs sprouting from the face, and this design was not exactly the same old, same old. The ends of both were turned up like scythes.

“Get that—”

Together with the bloodless, waxlike skin, deep-rooted delusions haunting his voice grew deeper and heavier. And perhaps only the outlaw soul possessed by the most beautiful young man in the world could respond to them.

With a flick of his hand, the strange mask sailed through the air and fell into the old man’s hands. The trembling hands took it, and the old man’s face became that of a magical beast.

“Finally.” The rumbling sound spilled from the thick lips. It was the old man’s voice, but somehow different. “I could not die until I wore this beautiful mask. Ha! Wear a mask over a mask and what becomes of me? Not even I have yet tempted such a fate. What a fearful thought.”

The hands holding Setsura’s face were calm as it covered the face of the beast. Setsura stared in wonder at himself. A moment later, a change arose in the old man’s body. The normally straight back doubled over.

“Whoa,” Setsura said.

With a grinding sound, he literally grew another backbone in order to bear up under the load. The old man frantically tried to tear off the mask. The light dimmed in his eyes.

Setsura’s right hand moved of its own accord.

Deadly strands of devil wire sallied forth. The feeling of it biting into flesh was accompanied by a spray of blood.

“What the—”

Setsura gaped at the old man and his two layers of masks—an expression that on this man’s face passed for true amazement. The sense of danger arising from the deformed appearance had prompted him to cast a devil wire at this defenseless old man. But the sensation relayed to him next was what surprised him.

The devil wire embedded in the old man’s shoulder didn’t budge.

“Since being shuttered inside this house, I have carved but one mask: the Dancing Flower Fiend.” A red spot stained his shoulder as he searched his memories. “An ogre appears when the peach blossoms are in full bloom, performing a frightening and entrancing dance. Many great heroes sallied forth to defeat it. None came back alive. Because no weapon proved effective against it. Bury a sword in its side, and a moment later the flesh would turn into something like clay, encasing the blade. A hundred men could stab and slash it, and it wouldn’t get cut. All that’d be left for them to do was be eaten.”

The two arced fangs jutting from beneath the chin of the “Setsura” mask swayed back and forth. “When he dons my mask,” Setsura wondered aloud, “Does he become me? Except the monster mask is underneath. When I am added to the mix, does the monster become me, or does the old man inherit the essence of both?”

The old man let out a long breath rumbling in his throat like a tiger.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

A devil wire shot out, and another, one after the other.

The old man laughed, the laugh of the Dancing Flower Fiend, now sporting Setsura’s face. He yanked harder, and the wires slipped through Setsura’s fingers. Blood welled up. Setsura was able to keep it from slipping further thanks to the almost magical techniques his own fingers possessed.

The old man shook his mask. The red hair—that had sprouted in great quantities at some point—danced like a lion’s mane. “I love dancing amidst the flowers. Especially the peach blossoms my kind hates. The villagers go to view the blossoms. I go to eat my fill. Dancing makes a monster hungry.”

The old man howled in an unfamiliar voice and began to dance there on the spot. No, it wasn’t him. His breath ran hot and cold. The feet stamping on the floor moved almost weightlessly, as if prancing on invisible petals floating in the water.

The white flowers bedazzled man and beast alike. Could anyone perceive the true form of the magical creature through the tumbling blossoms?

The petals blew around the humble abode, as if drawn to the old man’s demonic hands waving back and forth. The adobe walls cracked, and transformed into white flowers before crashing to the floor, enveloping the dancer with dazzling light.

Setsura forgot the pain of his own wounds and watched in stunned surprise. If the dead found repose beneath the cherry trees, here was a soul-eating monster amidst the peach blossoms.

Look! Look! said the demon soul.

Look only and ponder nothing and only see.

Look to whence I came. Look to whither I go.

For that is from where you came also.

A curtain of white clouded Setsura’s vision—clouded by the adobe walls—no, by a cascade of petals. Crazed flowers and the crazed creature. All it had to do now was gobble down this beautiful village as he was swallowed up by the veil of white.

A crisp, bell-like sound rang out in the air.

Followed by a painful grunt and groan and an eruption of blood. A splotch of red shot toward a corner of the room as the walls came down and crumbled to dust, along with the disintegrating floor and ceiling.

The foundation alone remained intact among the ruins. Setsura stood there by himself.

“That was some fine cutting,” said the bell-like voice behind him.

Setsura didn’t immediately whirl around. The mesmerizing spell of the dancing demon still had a grip on his soul. And then he turned. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to save you,” Princess said with radiant scorn. “The Dancing Flower Fiend is a rare gem, for it once deceived me also. If it looks into your eyes, you will become its prisoner, down to the devouring of your heart and soul.”

“Bugger off.”

This was without a doubt the same old Setsura. Truth be told, he was not entirely sure how he had evaded the ogre’s attack. As soon as his vision was obscured by the curtain of white, a fierce and repulsive sensation blew like a gale through the abode. His body had reacted to it while in that stupor of thought.

Without understanding why, that ill wind became jumbled. In the momentary delay, the opportunity for a counterattack presented itself.

But how to cut something that could not be cut? He didn’t know that either.

“Is this the blood of the ogre?” Princess glanced down at Setsura’s feet. “I have heard rumors, but I have never seen it before.” She did sound honestly impressed. “You wounded it severely. Was that before it began its dance?”

“Naw.” He added, like a poor student unraveling a difficult problem, “I got help.”

“Who was that?”

“Ah. What I do know for certain is that something interfered at the last moment.”

“No one and nothing in this world would call you its ally. And even if there were, the odds of fending off an attack by the Dancing Flower Fiend are slim to none.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Setsura stopped thinking about it and blankly turned his gaze back to her. “You said you came here to help me. Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking me to where the prime minister is.”

“That’s what I intended to do.”

“In that case, good,” Setsura said with a nonchalant nod. Princess abruptly drew closer. “What?” he said.

She took hold of his right wrist as he backed away. At first glance, there was hardly anything out of the ordinary about the situation. But imagining a relationship between these two truly stretched the mind.

Setsura hadn’t given her cause to touch him, and Princess was never so casual about getting close. The heavens and the earth might pass away before the little bundle of pride that was the vampiress would lay her hands on anyone of humble birth without hesitation.

“A lot of blood,” she said, gazing down at Setsura’s palm. “I can’t help feeling concerned.”

Setsura went to pull his hand away, but couldn’t move it. This wasn’t an opponent who could be defeated with raw strength. Nevertheless, not getting an evil vibe from this unusual demoness, he entrusted his bloody hand to her.

“That wound is from your devil wire. Hoh, what a trifling thing.”

“What’s so funny? Would you like to try it yourself?” he threatened, although his physical strength aside, there was no hint of intimidation in his voice or words. This was the threat of the virtuous.

“I have just the medicine for that,” Princess said.

This time, Setsura exerted all his effort and pulled back his hand, tearing open the wound in the process. Fresh blood poured out, but he didn’t notice. “I can do without your poisons, thank you very much.”

Princess smiled. “What makes you think of poison?”

“How would you propose that I not think so?”

“Even the kind of face that might better stare at clouds from sunrise to sunset knows the nature of his enemy. Don’t worry. I am not a woman of such good character that I would pile on the poison in order to hasten you to an easy death.”

“That is certainly so,” Setsura heartily agreed.

“So put out your hand.”

“I’d rather not.” Setsura covered his right hand with his left and backed away.

“What an unreasonable boy, and at your age. Hardly the same person who once sliced me in two.”

“That was then, this is now.”

“Come here and stop acting so strange.”

Ah, such words from the Demon Princess who shook the dynasties of ancient China and toyed with the fates of millions.

To which he responded, “Stop pulling my leg.”

Had a man ever uttered such words to this one and lived?

“I’m doing nothing of the sort.”

“Well, maybe just a little then.”

Setsura slowly extended his right hand. Her slender fingers gripped his wrist like a vise.

“Hey.”

“Relax. I swear—on my life. And I’ve never done that before either.” Princess lifted his hand to her red lips.

“Yeah, the bitch is back.”

“Shut up.”

Princess turned back to the wound and pursed her lips and spit into the palm. Setsura flinched. The translucent saliva burned the wound like hot acid.

“If I didn’t do that, you would end up in your very least-desired state,” she cheerily said to Setsura, as he constrained himself by biting his lip. She painted the skin with her saliva and then raised her own hand to her mouth.

Setsura watched quizzically as the vampire queen bit into her own flesh. The bright red blood spilled over the white skin. Without hesitation, she smeared the pool of blood over Setsura’s wound.

“Huh?” he gaped a moment later. The moment the blood touched the wound, the pain vanished completely.

“When it comes to staunching a wound, there is nothing to match my blood. You should know that. Because those capable of regeneration are the product of blood. Mix even a portion with yours and you would become my servant. Don’t worry. My saliva will prevent that from happening.”

“So I’m saved by spit,” Setsura said morosely.

“Thanks to me the pain is gone, right? Come along.”

Princess turned and walked away.

“Just to be clear, that ogre just now isn’t dead.”

“I know that.”

Setsura shrugged and set off after her.