Demon Sword Marou: Curse of the Yoma #0

The village bell rings - another Yoma attack. Marou's hands shake as he reaches for his sword, knocking over sake bottles. His vision blurs as he stumbles outside. The evening sun is too bright, making him retch. He can barely grip his sword.

He sees the Yoma - it's taken a child's form, but its limbs are too long, joints bent wrong. In his prime, Marou would have ended this quickly. Now, he can barely stay upright. The creature tilts its head, sensing his weakness.

Marou charges, but his timing is off. His sword strike goes wide, and the Yoma's claws rake his side. Blood - both his and the creature's - sprays across the street. The scent hits him hard. For a moment, his Yoma nature stirs, wanting to taste it. He forces himself to vomit instead, anything to fight that urge.

The Yoma moves in. Marou tries to parry but his hands are shaking too badly. The blade clatters away. He ends up wrestling with the thing in the mud, like a drunk in a tavern brawl rather than a trained warrior. His fingers find the creature's eye sockets and he pushes in, screaming - not a warrior's battle cry but something broken and desperate.

The Yoma dies messily, its skull crushed, but there's no pride in this victory. Marou lies in the filth, covered in gore, retching. Villagers who once respected him hurry past, averting their eyes. He crawls toward his fallen sword, but his body seizes with withdrawal. He needs sake.

The Yoma's blood pools around him. Just one taste would end this suffering. Just one taste would make him a God.

And his fingers twitched toward the dark puddle.