Book 1
Chapter 24: Journey Southward: The Undead Caravan Comedy
Pigaro's Catastrophic Allergies
The road south unraveled before them, a faded ribbon of dust and despair. It was dotted with the occasional shrine, but these shrines were so broken they couldn't even be bothered to bestow a blessing.
The party plodded onward. Their spirits were growing thinner than the last few crumbs at the bottom of their supply sack. Until Pigaro let out a sneeze so truly violent it rattled his wings. The sneeze was so loud it sent birds bursting from the trees three fields away.
Narutama adjusted his sword strap, accepting his fate and bracing himself for another nasal explosions. "If the very heavens fall every time he sneezes," he muttered, "we should invest in reinforced umbrellas."
"And tissues," Fluffy added, her tone solemn. "Heroic-grade tissues."
The poor pegasus shuddered, his whole frame convulsing, then unleashed another sneeze. A spectacular spray of mud and other, less identifiable things splattered across Ken's fine cloak, leaving intricate patterns.
Fluffy pinched her nose. "That's the third apocalyptic sneeze this morning. We're doomed, I tell you. Every time he blows his snout, something cosmically creepy shows up to audit our existence."
Laluna, already scribbling furious observations on her rune-pad, let out a sigh that carried the specific weight of unpaid overtime. "Correlation confirmed," she announced flatly. "The severity of his allergic events corresponds directly with the latest unauthorized withdrawal from Ken's Mone account."
Ken's jaw dropped in theatrical offense. "What? I only overdrafted three times yesterday. And maybe twice the day before. Fine, five. But who's counting? It's basically a professional discount at this point!"
As if on cue, Pigaro sneezed again, a wet, desperate sound that seemed to shake the very air. This time, the ground ahead of them groaned in direct, unhappy response.
---
The Debt Collectors
Out of the disturbed earth and the clinging mist shuffled a procession of gaunt figures draped in shredded clerical cloaks, their skeletal arms dragging abacuses and ledgers carved from yellowed bone. Their hollow eye sockets glowed with a cold, uncollected intent.
"Pay up…" they rasped in a dry, rustling chorus that sounded like old parchment being crumpled. "All debts… come due…"
Ken paled visibly. "Great. Zombie accountants. Just what my financial portfolio needed. Do you think they accept charitable donations as a write-off?" he asked, genuinely thoughtful. "Maybe I can declare this a business expense? 'Exorcism via accounting'?"
"Or," he continued, tapping his chin, "do they take installment plans? Maybe a trade-in for a slightly used ego? I can even throw in Fluffy's bow if they're running a seasonal clearance."
One of the creatures raised a quill that dripped black, oily ink, reaching toward his chest to scrawl the amount due directly over his heart. But before it could make contact, Ken's ATM card pulsed warmly in his pocket. A sharp, authoritative chime rang out, clean as a cleared balance, and every undead accountant froze mid-shuffle. Their jaws snapped shut with the finality of faulty cash drawers, and a profound, almost reverent silence swallowed the road.
Fluffy gave a tentative wave at the now-collapsing horde. "That's it? Not even a late fee?"
Laluna deadpanned, not looking up from her notes. "The system waived it. Consider it a mercy write-off."
The entire procession collapsed where they stood, dissolving into piles of dust and scattered, meaningless numbers.
"See?" Ken puffed out his chest, dusting off his shoulders with immense satisfaction. "They know better than to bill me. I'm untouchable. Financially enigmatic."
Laluna folded her arms, wholly unimpressed. "No. You're a glitch in the system. An error code they can't process. That's not immunity, that's..."
Another monumental, earth-trembling sneeze from Pigaro ripped through the air, cutting her off. It was a wet, trumpeting warning that something far, far worse was on its way.
---
The Sphinx of Interest
Beyond the husks of the vanished caravan, the party reached a crossroads. Sitting atop a toppled milestone was a Sphinx with fur the pale color of old parchment and eyes like freshly stamped coins. Its wings bore the faint, alluring shimmer of gold leaf, though its expression was one of profound bureaucratic annoyance.
"Answer me," it boomed, its voice like a heavy ledger slamming shut for the night, "or pay the penalty of ignorance! What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening—while still accruing compound interest?"
Ken raised a finger, his face lighting up with misplaced confidence. "Oh, I know this one! The shampoo commercials always have the answer hidden in the fine print!"
The Sphinx blinked its coin-like eyes, processing this heresy. Then it sneezed—a ridiculous, undignified achoo!—in perfect, horrifying sync with Pigaro's next nasal eruption.
Fluffy doubled over, howling with laughter. "A legendary beast of lore, undone by allergies. Ken, you've officially weaponized hay fever."
"I prefer to call it strategic biological warfare," Ken replied, puffing out his chest with pride.
Dust and stray feathers swirled in the air, covering Ken from head to toe. The majestic riddle garbled into pure nonsense mid-sentence, and the beast wheezed itself into a stunned, sputtering silence. It shot Ken a glare so venomous it could have liquidated assets, then slunk away into the mist without another word.
"Wait!" Ken cried after it, holding up a scroll he'd produced from nowhere. "I have the answer right here! It's all in the terms and conditions!"
But the Sphinx was already gone, leaving behind only a single, glowing feather and the faint, confusing smell of peppermint.
Laluna shook her head slowly, a scientist witnessing the collapse of physics. "Even ancient riddles can't survive your interference. The system itself is censoring you. It's rejecting your unresolved tickets."
---
Narutama's True Blade
While Ken sulked over his lost moment of glory, the group noticed a lone figure cowering in the roadside weeds. A villager, mud-streaked and trembling, clutching a rusted hoe like it was a sacred sword. The undead procession's passing had left him half-mad with terror.
Narutama knelt beside him, his normally rigid posture softening into something protective and calm. "Breathe," he said, his voice a low anchor. "You are safe now." His hand rested lightly on the villager's shoulder, a gesture of steady, unshakable calm.
The villager whispered through choked tears. "I thought… I thought the collectors had finally come for my children."
Narutama's jaw tightened, a flicker of storm in his eyes, but his tone remained that steady anchor. "Then let them face me instead. Your debt is not your curse."
As if summoned by the words, three skeletal collectors lurched from the mist, clutching bone-ledgers chained to their wrists. Their ink-dripping quills scythed down like executioners' blades.
Narutama rose in a single, fluid motion, his katana flashing free without a sound. He stepped forward with the precise, practiced motion born from countless solitary mornings of drill. His blade whispered through the dusk, tracing arcs of silver light, parrying each quill-strike with quiet, inevitable grace.
One clean cut split a ledger in two, the numbers dying on the page; another sheared through chains without touching bone, the links falling apart like rotten string.
Each stroke was measured and deliberate, aimed not at killing, but at severing the bondage that gave them form.
The undead clerks staggered, disarmed and confused. Where Ken's ATM glow would have simply silenced them through divine error, Narutama's strikes cut straight to the truth of their enchantment. The spirits dissolved into harmless mist, leaving behind a single ledger drifting to the mud, its corrosive ink now still and black.
For a single, humming heartbeat, his katana gleamed with a faint, pure resonance. It was not the blinding glare of unearned Mone, nor the cold authority of the system, but something quieter, earned—an echo of genuine merit. The lingering mist itself seemed to recoil from that sound, scattering like a chastised animal.
Where his blade had passed, the corrupted Mone of the undead clerks didn't just vanish; it sublimated into the air as a faint, honest silver—a tiny, necessary correction in the world's ledger.
Laluna noticed. Her sharp, analytical gaze caught the essential difference immediately: Ken's ATM glow broke the system, but Narutama's compassion and steel spoke to a truth the system was built upon. The world, she realized, recognized him (if only faintly) as the hero Ken only pretended to be.
She scribbled quietly in her rune-pad: Subject N emits anomaly: merit-based resonance. Recommend: audit cross-check.
Then she glanced at Ken, who was busy striking poses over the villager's hoe like it was his reflection. She sighed, tore the note out, and stuffed it deep into her sleeve. Some truths, for now, were better kept hidden.
Pigaro, half-drowned in the throes of another impending sneeze, croaked one last wet thought into the silence. "Merit… never sneezes."
The villager pressed his forehead to the dirt in tearful thanks, but Narutama only sheathed his blade and turned away, leaving the fallen ledger resting in the mud. Unnoticed by all but the samurai himself, its cover flickered faintly with runes only his bloodline could read.
The road southward lay open once again, but the shadows now felt thicker, more attentive, as if the world itself was recalculating their worth.
Ken strutted ahead, already humming a triumphant tune about his own invincibility...and the brilliant business plan he'd just conceived. "Picture it," he announced to no one in particular, "armored undead accountants for hire. They'll collect your debts, ethically, of course—or die trying! Again. Branding slogan pending."
Everyone ignore him, Fluffy thought, projecting the message as hard as she could.
The rest of the party walked on in the heavy silence that only honest dread, and the faint, lingering glow of a truer blade, can bring.