Demon Sword Marou #1

The summer night buzzed with cicadas as Marou knelt before the commander's residence. Three other samurai knelt beside him, their armor pristine and new. Marou's was battle-scarred, the lacquer chipped to reveal blood-darkened wood beneath. They cast sidelong glances at his ritual scars and his eyes - one dark as night, the other an unsettling amber that seemed to glow from within. His shadow stretched longer than it should in the evening light, and those who looked closely might notice it move in ways that didn't quite match his own motions. Everything about him marked him as something other than fully human.

"Enter," called a voice from within.

"Ah, the summons to every samurai's favorite activity - kneeling in increasingly formal settings," Marou muttered, just loud enough for the others to hear. One stifled a laugh, then quickly straightened when his superior glared.

The paper screens cast long shadows, and the lamplight flickered as Marou crossed the threshold, but his own lingered in place for a few seconds before taking a step forward. The other samurai exchanged brief, tense glances, their hands subtly tightening on their weapons, a silent acknowledgment of the unnatural presence they were sworn to protect.

Commander Tsunemoto sat formally, a lacquered sake set before him. Two cups. The porcelain gleamed like bleached bone in the lamplight.

"Your victory over the bridge Yoma was impressive," Tsunemoto said, gesturing for Marou to sit. "Three of my best men died facing it. You killed it alone." His words carried an edge of accusation beneath the praise.

"To be fair, my lord, the Yoma was starving to death. Grown weak and old. Terrible form, really. Kept trying to eat my sword instead of dodging it." Marou's voice was hoarse from his pre-battle fasting, his hands hidden in his sleeves to hide their trembling.

"The merchant who saw it said you fought like a demon yourself". Tsunemoto leaned forward, his own eyes reflecting the lamplight like burning coal.

Tsunemoto poured sake into both cups with deliberate precision and a chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. The liquid caught the light like mercury. "Tell me, how long has your family served this domain?"

"Five generations of increasingly creative ways to die in service, my lord. We Fujiwaras have made an art of it. I'm personally hoping to be the first to go by choking on my own witty remarks."

"And in all that time, has any Fujiwara ever turned down sake from their commander?" The question hung in the air like blade-smoke.

Marou stared at the cup before him. The scent reached him - sweet and sharp and promising relief from the constant gnawing need that had replaced food and sleep. To silence his shadow, a shadow that sometimes left him, sometimes helped him, and never stopped talking. Never stopped making promises.

"Forgive me, my lord. I don't drink after battle. It gives me a sour stomach.".

Tsunemoto pushed the cup closer. The sake rippled, drawing patterns like blood in water.

Marou looked at the cup again. He could smell it now - sweet and sharp and promising. Just one cup, to maintain his position. To please Lord Tsunemoto. To keep serving the people. To silence the voice that whispered about demon blood and power.

What harm could there be? Just enough to steady his nerves. He had spent years mastering the thirst, enduring countless setbacks along the way. And now, here he was, seated before Lord Tsunemoto, drinking from the lord’s own bottle

The Imperial sake tasted like snake venom going down, the same taste as Yoma blood. Marou's throat tightened, and for a brief moment, he thought he might retch. But he swallowed, as he always did, forcing the poison down. One cup. Two. By the third, it didn’t taste like anything at all.

With a cheer, Lord Tsunemoto and his retinue joined in the drinking. Marou’s quips grew softer, then faded entirely. Yet the night grew livelier, and for a moment, his nerves unwound, the voice within falling silent.