The night deepened. The campfire flickered and swayed. The evening wind swept in from the surrounding forests, thick with the scent of damp earth.
Shinji's expression paused. Hearing his words, Kikyō turned her head slightly. Their eyes met. Her cool, clear gaze reflected the faint, warm glow of the dying campfire.
"I only started seeing it recently," she said. Her voice was kept very low, just enough to pass between the two of them.
"After the Earth Barrier unfurled, once my reiryoku and faith-power intermingled, my eyes changed. I can see things I couldn't see before. And I've come to know things I didn't know before."
Shinji didn't press for details. He knew Kikyō's talent was astonishing. He understood even more clearly that the Kikyō before him had very likely already stepped onto a path diverging from her original trajectory.
In the future, she would only rise higher and grow stronger. He simply returned his gaze to the illusory outline above Imagawa Yoshimoto's head. To those six tusks. To that colossal, indistinct, spectral white elephant, as though condensed from the very breath of countless thousands. T
hough he didn't know exactly what it was, he could feel it. It was not yōki. Not reiryoku. Not faith-power. It was…
"A Guardian Spirit." Kikyō spoke the name softly. "A Guardian Spirit is neither the result of cultivation, nor a gift bestowed by the gods." She explained in measured tones.
"It is, in some cases, the coalescence of momentum. When a person rises to a sufficiently high position, when they carry the hearts of enough people upon their shoulders, the human spirit between heaven and earth gathers of its own accord, forming a spectral silhouette at their side. In other cases, it is the manifestation of latent potential, the tangible form of innate talent. Or perhaps, the external projection of the heart itself. In any given era, those who possess Guardian Spirits are exceedingly rare. Because the conditions are far too stringent. It requires not only power, authority, and talent, but also the Mandate of Heaven. The Mandate of Heaven is not some nebulous fate. It is the reality that your single word can alter the destiny of countless souls. The closer one draws to the position of ruler of all under heaven, the clearer their Guardian Spirit becomes."
It was, in essence, the convergence of human hearts and earthly power. The weight of a ruler's virtue.
Shinji listened. His crimson demon eyes narrowed faintly. Guardian Spirit. Those three words stirred memories within him that did not belong to this world.
He recalled a game he had played before his transmigration. Nioh. In that game, the daimyō of the Warring States era were all accompanied by Guardian Spirits, spectral entities that manifested in animal form.
They granted their bearers protection far beyond that of ordinary mortals. Through them, powerful demons could be awed and kept at bay, allowing human society to continue functioning in an age overrun by monsters.
And within that framework, Imagawa Yoshimoto's Guardian Spirit was precisely the Six-Tusked White Elephant. The steed of Samantabhadra Bodhisattva. The incarnation of a protective power symbolizing wisdom and compassion.
It was, even more, the final bequeathal of Taigen Sessai before her death, her last safeguard for Imagawa Yoshimoto. The reason Imagawa Yoshimoto had been able to step forward in that moment of peril earlier was, in all likelihood, because her Guardian Spirit had been bolstering her.
The in-game lore aligned with what Kikyō had described. Not perfectly identical, but the core essence was the same.
The essence of a Guardian Spirit was a spectral silhouette born at the intersection of the Mandate of Heaven and the hearts of men. The game had concretized it into a controllable combat tool.
In this world, it was closer to an aura that enveloped one's being. A manifestation of their virtue. A spirit of humanity. And this, suddenly, made Shinji realize something. He lowered his head and looked at his own pale palms.
The four viscera of the Shura projection cycled slowly within his body. Fire, Water, Metal, Wood. Though the circuit was still missing a link, it had already brought his body closer and closer to that of a living being. The Tenth Transformation: Five Viscera complete. Five Elements in perfect balance. The Eleventh Transformation: Constructing the Three Souls. The Heaven Soul. The Earth Soul. The Human Soul.
The Earth Soul, he possessed naturally as a demon warrior. The Heaven Soul, would be granted by the Shikon no Tama upon reaching max Affection. And the Human Soul. He had been searching for it all along, but with few concrete leads.
Only the single thread of Sword Will. But now, gazing at that spectral white elephant above Imagawa Yoshimoto's head, something suddenly clicked.
Guardian Spirit. A product born at the convergence of the Mandate of Heaven and the hearts of men. It was something that belonged to humanity.
A power unique to humans. A power a yōkai would never, ever possess. Because yōkai did not have human hearts. Yōkai had Truth. They had osore. They had countless transformations condensed from yōki. But they had no Guardian Spirits.
However, he could. He was a transmigrator. The core of his soul was human. He retained human morality. Human memories. Human emotions. He even loved a human woman in a human way.
If a Guardian Spirit was the intersection of the Mandate of Heaven and the hearts of men, if he could cause a Guardian Spirit, or even multiple Guardian Spirits to manifest upon himself, that would be the Human Soul.
The most crucial link in the Eleventh Transformation. From what he recalled of Nioh, the power of Guardian Spirits could indeed be wielded by others. The protagonist of that game had repeatedly drawn upon the power of other people's Guardian Spirits.
At this thought, a light flickered in Shinji's crimson demon eyes. It dimmed just as quickly. Not yet enough. The direction of his thinking was correct. But the fire wasn't ready.
After all, the so-called Human Soul could never be born from mere contemplation alone. Nor could it be seized casually. He had to wait. For a certain moment. For a certain catalyst. Just like Sword Will. When the time came, it would arrive on its own. It required a trigger. Or, an external force.
Shinji withdrew his gaze. He suddenly asked a single question. "Kikyō. Have you ever heard of Hidechiyo?"
Hidechiyo. The protagonist of Nioh. A being who carved a path of slaughter through countless terrifying demons. If this world also contained Nioh, then theoretically, he or she should exist in this very era.
Kikyō leaned against his shoulder. Her black hair cascaded down, veiling half of her cold, clear features. At these words, she paused faintly. Then shook her head. No. Shinji didn't press further.
He only frowned faintly. No Hidechiyo? Or had he simply not yet appeared? He fell into deep contemplation. Kikyō, in turn, did not ask what he was thinking. Their ten fingers remained intertwined in the shadows beside their knees.
The campfire crackled and popped. The night wind gusted through the gap in the valley, swirling up a few withered leaves.
In the distance, the ashigaru of the Imagawa camp clustered in small groups around their own fires. Some drank. Some polished their blades. Some murmured idle chatter.
Time pushed forward into the deep hours of the night. Yoshimoto, accompanied by her maidservants, returned to her great tent. Matsudaira Motoyasu had curled up in a corner behind the supply carts, hugging her knees.
She was already fast asleep. Her round spectacles sat crooked on her nose. Drool had trickled down onto her cuffs. The camp gradually fell silent. The campfires dimmed from their earlier ferocity to a lazy glow, only scattered flames still licking at the firewood.
The patrolling ashigaru yawned as they passed between the tents. Kikyō retired to the tent behind them to rest. But before leaving, she laid down three layers of barriers before the tent entrance, thin as cicada wings, invisible to the naked eye, yet sufficient to render any approach by unnatural forces utterly exposed.
Only Shinji could pass through undisturbed. This was her habit. And it was the division of labor they had agreed upon since setting out. He guarded the outside. She guarded the inside. As expected, Kikyō was, in truth, a deeply traditional woman. He loved that.
Shinji remained seated beside the campfire, leaning against the stone. His crimson demon eyes were half-lidded. He did not sleep. He could sleep, but he did not need to. He was merely waiting. Waiting for a presence he had sensed half an hour ago, slowly approaching from the northeast.
That presence was not weak. Neither was it strong. It carried a very unique power within it. Reiryoku. Of the same origin as a miko's, yet utterly different in its application. Far more intricate. Shinji's demon eyes opened a sliver.
The violet veins within his crimson pupils swirled slowly. Beneath the manifestation of the Illusion-Breaking talent, he saw it. A thread. Extending toward him from the distance. Reaching out. Touching. That thread was impossibly fine. So fine that an ordinary yōkai would never perceive it.
Even a high-ranking yōkai, a commander among demons, might not necessarily detect a lock of this level of concealment. But Shinji was no ordinary yōkai. His crimson demon eyes, amplified by the Illusion-Breaking talent of the Black Agate Pearl he carried, could see many things that should never have been seen.
Including this thread. He could see it stretching from the west-northwest of the Imagawa camp. That direction, by fortunate coincidence, formed a pincer angle with the direction of Kiyosu Castle, where the Oda forces opposing the Imagawa were stationed. It was clearly not someone from the Oda clan. It was another faction, suddenly intervening.
The end of the thread carried a faint, almost imperceptible lock. It was shiki-sen in Onmyōdō. Divination by thread. Using reiryoku as the thread and ritual arts as the needle, the caster wove a sensory web across the void, draping it over the target.
As long as the target remained unaware, the caster could, from a great distance, fully "read" the target's yōki density, physical state, and even the rough outline of their combat capabilities. Kikyō had described this technique to him before. But compared to her description, what Shinji beheld now was far, far more exquisite.
Even more delicate, more concealed, than Kikyō's own reiryoku perception. And, of course, far more fragile. After all, Kikyō's reiryoku perception was, in essence, pure spiritual projection. In most cases, it required no ritual technique. It required no amplification from any spell.
But this so-called shiki-sen condensed reiryoku into an absurdly fine "thread." And since it was a thread, the moment it was discovered, it could be snapped with a single tug. This was a technique used by ordinary onmyōji, those who lacked prodigious reiryoku talent and compensated for their innate deficiencies with skill.
However, Shinji did not directly reach out and snap it. He didn't even move. Because, in the next instant, the tent flap behind him lifted. Kikyō stepped out. Her white uwagi and crimson hakama stirred faintly in the night breeze.
Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her face was as cold and clear as the moon. She had been roused by the barriers before the tent. Though those three layers, thin as cicada wings, had not physically touched this concealed thread, they still produced the faintest ripple as it passed.
An ordinary person, or even an ordinary mage, would never have sensed that ripple. Kikyō could.
She walked to Shinji's side. She didn't speak. She simply raised her right hand and swept it lightly through the air. Just once. Exceedingly light. Exceedingly natural.
As though brushing a fallen leaf from the sleeve of her miko robes. Reiryoku spilled from her fingertips, so pure it was nearly transparent. The instant it touched that onmyō thread, it snapped. Soundlessly. Tracelessly. Like a strand of spider silk severed by the morning breeze.
The caster, at the moment of severance, would surely feel the backlash. Faint, but enough to let them know: they had been discovered. And by an existence far, far stronger than themselves.
"Someone was watching you." Kikyō's voice was as calm and even as ever. She sat down beside him. Her longbow rested by her knee. Her fingers naturally covered the back of his hand where it rested on his knee. "Mn."
"And not just watching. They were reading you."
"Mn."
"You know who it is." Kikyō looked at him. It wasn't difficult for her to understand what Shinji was thinking.
The corner of Shinji's mouth twitched. "I have a rough idea."
He glanced in the direction where that thread had dissipated. West-northwest. According to the most recent intelligence the tanuki had just relayed, in that direction lay the ruler of Mino Province, which bordered Owari to the north. Saitō Dōsan.
He had led two thousand men here during the day. They were now encamped on the gentle slopes north of Okehazama, forming a pincer with the Oda forces at Kiyosu Castle. The Saitō clan. The Viper of Mino.
Recalling the existence of Guardian Spirits, Shinji could hardly avoid feeling both intense interest and deep wariness toward that direction. Yet he also understood, Onmyōdō was not something Saitō Dōsan would have mastered.
Though Dōsan was said to have once been a monk in his early years, alongside his time as a merchant, given his conduct, he could never have cultivated onmyō arts to this degree.
That old fox's expertise lay solely in the human heart and the machinations of power. But someone under Saitō Dōsan's command did possess such arts.
Shinji closed his eyes. Fragments of a transmigrator's memories churned through his mind. A name surfaced. Takenaka Hanbei. The strategist of the Saitō clan of Mino Province.
A genius girl hailed by later ages as the "Modern Kongming." Alongside Kuroda Kanbei, they were known as the Two Hanbei of the Toyotomi. In the original course of history, she would become one of the two great strategists under Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the man who would nearly unify the entire realm.
Though she was still exceedingly young at presentm frail and sickly, she was said to possess an intellect so prodigious it bordered on the eerie. In the original historical timeline, after the death of the Viper of Mino, she would become one of the most brilliant strategists serving Oda Nobunaga.
In this world, one should say, Oda Nobuna. Of course, that was still in the future. Right now, she should be in Mino Province. Within Saitō Dōsan's camp. And she should, indeed, wield the arts of Onmyōdō.
After all, among the many legends and anecdotes that would surround her in later generations, tales of the supernatural were plentiful.
The title "Modern Kongming" certainly carried a great deal of self-aggrandizement. Yet to be called such, there must be some commonality between them.
At the very same moment that stillness settled on Shinji's side, 30 kilometer north of Okehazama.
At the rear of Saitō Dōsan's temporary encampment, within a small, unremarkable tent. A young girl suddenly bent double, her hands braced against her knees.
She coughed. A single, terribly muffled cough. And then, blood. Fresh blood spilled from the corner of her lips, dripping onto the straw-mat floor. In the dim light of the oil lamp, it gleamed a dark, piercing crimson.
"Lady Strategist?!" The tent flap was thrown open from outside. A maidservant rushed in and dropped to one knee beside the girl. The girl's frame was exceedingly slender and small.
She wore a plain white kimono under a pale blue haori. The sleeves were far too long, swallowing her hands and leaving only her fingertips exposed. Her features were exquisitely delicate. Her small, even features. Her skin was so pale it seemed almost sickly. Her light gray hair hung loose and limp over her shoulders, the ends brushing the ground and stained with blood.
A pair of large, misty eyes were half-lidded, as though they might fully close at any moment. This was Takenaka Hanbei. Fourteen years old. Strategist of the Saitō clan. And one of the exceedingly rare individuals under Saitō Dōsan of Mino who had mastered the arts of Onmyōdō.
But her onmyō arts were not inherited from any school. She had no background in the Kyōto Onmyōryō. No lineage from the Tsuchimikado house. It was simply talent. Pure, innate talent for weaving reiryoku.
Just as some were born able to see yōkai, and others born able to sense the veins of reiryoku in the earth, Takenaka Hanbei was born with the ability to weave her own meager reiryoku into exquisitely intricate spells.
The only pity, was that the prerequisite of "meager reiryoku" was fatal. Her body was far too weak. So weak that using shiki-sen even once often resulted in severe backlash. She would cough up blood directly.
"Nn… I'm fine…" Hanbei wiped the trace of blood from the corner of her mouth with her oversized sleeve. Her voice was so frail it was almost soft and sticky. "It's just that my spell was interrupted."
"But Lady Strategist, your body—"
"It's fine." She braced herself against her knees and straightened. Her misty violet eyes flickered and swayed in the lamplight.
"…Tell Lord Dōsan. Within the enemy's camp, it's not just that yōkai." Her voice dropped very low.
"There is also a miko. Her reiryoku purity is immensely high. My shiki-sen was severed the instant it drew near. She didn't even formally strike. She just swept it aside with a casual motion."
Hanbei frowned faintly. Her lips, from blood loss, grew ever paler. "If Lord Dōsan still intends to cooperate with the Oda against the Imagawa....."
She paused. "Then it would be best… to think of another approach."
Yes. The method Saitō Dōsan had spoken of, to resolve that yōkai, was, without question, Takenaka Hanbei.
Only, Hanbei had failed. The maidservant received the order, immediately rose, and rushed out of the tent with swift steps.
The tent flap fell back into place. Hanbei sat alone upon the straw mat. Blood stained her sleeve. She lifted those misty violet eyes and gazed at the ceiling of the tent.
"That yōkai's yōki… so dense." She murmured to herself. "And that miko…" She narrowed her eyes faintly. "Such beautiful reiryoku."
After speaking these words, she coughed once more and buried her face into the folds of her oversized sleeves. It seemed as though she had directly fallen unconscious, fast asleep.