Imamimi Notanobu - II

It’s really cold. The first thing I think about as I step out of the taxi is that it’s freezing, and I want something warm to drink. But at the same time, I realise that somewhere not far away, a possibly half-dead guy is waiting, and that dispels whatever desire I have for a beverage.

I continue walking down the street, sticking close to the lamp-lights from above. The sound of my footsteps and breath keeps me company. It reminds me I’m alive. Somehow. A subtle reminder that I’m still capable of the basic functions of a human being, I guess.

While my march continues, I find myself looking around, checking for any sign of life.

No one. Not a soul.

With the realisation that I’m the only idiot here, a deeper sense of fear begins to worm its way in. Only to realise in hindsight that it would be quite darn obvious I’d be here alone.

Because, after all, why else would anyone come here? It’s only twenty minutes away from Imajuku Station, located in a dead residential district, and doesn’t exactly have any cultural monuments to its name. No cultural monuments save for this one, I guess.

Fukuoka’s Historic Ninja Town.

As the internet tells me, it was used some fifty years ago as a model replica of an old ninja village. Antique shops. Tour guides. An amusement park for the more historically inclined, if you will.

And right now—I’m about to enter it.

I work up the courage with a long breath and move past its rickety wooden gate. I navigate without a flashlight, relying on scant moonlight and vague intuition. Following the instructions below the address written, I end up stopping at one of the old Machiya-style houses here.

A square of chewed-up, all-white, all-wood; so old that the protruding roofs dip like honey off a spoon, tits off an old grandma, water off a—oh, whatever!

I break into an excited chuckle.

Man.

What am I thinking?

Seven murders. Supposedly, the lunatic I’m about to deal with has a record of seven killings. All done within the span of a year. That’s pretty exciting, don’t you think? Seven.

Seven!

Something about the number endears itself to me. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s one after six. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m kinda crazy myself, and am looking for a way to distract my mind from what’s ahead.

I enter the abandoned building. My footstep kicks up a cloud of dust, and for a moment, I think the building will crumble on me.

It doesn’t.

The place has a creepy vibe to it. I’d like to affix the adjective ‘oddly’, but that’s not really the case.

Time wears at buildings the same way it wears at people; weirdly.

Kids? Not creepy.

Old folk? Super. With their big, empty eyes and the soft folds of their wrinkled skin, yuck.

And this building’s a remnant of a different era. A worn-out square of wood. Paint peeling. Dust setting in like mould after a storm. It might’ve been occupied some hundred years ago, but now it’s just a testament to an older time. Filled with all the gloomy nonchalance of something left to die.

Slowly, surely, with a degree of necessary caution, I ease myself into the situation and acknowledge what might come ahead. Maybe what they sent really was a hoax, or a prank, or something harmless.

But.

Call it intuition.

Call it delusion.

A sense of holistic intuition tells me that it might be otherwise. And on the off-chance this is real…

Well.

I have nothing to lose besides my worthless life.

“William.”

I pull out a novelty lighter I got from overseas.

Pzzt.

I flick open its metal clamshell and tap my heel. Something dances inside me, like a gush of blood down under. It’s my soul, mixing with my body, mixing with my mind, and creating a monster in a shape I once studied, learned and loved.

White fire burns at the end of my lighter’s fuel-soaked wick. ‘William’ appears out of thin air. A white Will-o'-the-wisp, resembling a disembodied flare of a man.

“Follow me. If things get rough or I die, feel free to run. But before then, I’m gonna need you to shine a little.”

William playfully floats around me, turning around in distinct, Will-like circles. As he makes his way around the space, he illuminates things. Posters. Furniture…

Someone used to live here. And someone’s living here now.

I open an old door and take the stairs up. I try my best to be quiet, but I’m not a trained assassin and struggle to do so. The old staircase reaches its end; the second-floor platform. William stops moving. He floats in place at the door’s entrance.

I can see dried blood under him.

…Human blood.

Judging by the quantity and spray pattern, I’m assuming an artery might’ve been cut. Or two.

My wings begin to twitch, pushing gently against the weight of my winter coat.

A feeling of impending danger encroaches on my being. In the silence of it all, my instinct tells me something is ahead.

I smile nervously at that thought.

For some reason, William also stops moving. And no sooner, he turns in great, little circles.

He can sense something ahead. Something’s heat. And so far, he's been revealing the very path to that source.

I move to the second floor. Back pressed against the wall, with one hand on the doorknob. The cold of the night air seeps past my linen shirt and forces a chill down my spine.

I can feel the presence of something… But whether it’s The Tearer themself beyond this door or a person by any other name, I have no clue.

I turn open the door and move in at once. The former living room stretches in a dark expanse. With the light offered by William, I can see something in the far corner. A hunched figure. Long black hair. And clothes caked in darkness.

Did another investigator get the drop before me?

Unsure, I give the figure time to explain.

“Hello?”

My breath forms a white cloud. The figure doesn’t answer. In the span of this silence, I find my eyes falling to the centre of the room.

—A corpse.

The eighth murder scene. Organs and body torn to pieces. Scattered ashes at the foot of the corpse. The very mark of this infamous killer. It resembles the remains of a meal left to dogs. And in the dim white light, it looks very fresh even now.

What are the chances this person came just in time as a killing took place?

“Drop to your knees and put your hands behind your back. I’m with the—”

The figure doesn’t let me finish. It lets out a cry like a dog’s howl, and turns on its heel.

Actually—‘it’ isn’t really a ‘it’ at all.

But… a woman?

My line of thought ends there. A deeper feeling; a signal in my bones and muscles takes over. This woman is an enemy. A mage responsible for the ritualistic murder of 7 people.

Realising that, I summon my next familiar.

“Jīnjī!”

I throw a pendant of the mythical bird forward. It transforms into an imitation of the creature, a red-bellied bird with a snake clutched to its chest. As it closes the distance on the woman, I draw my baton and close in.

She lets loose another growl. Falling to all fours, she sprints at Jīnjī and bites my golden bird out of the air. He lets out a terrible screech and falls to the ground before returning to the shape of the pendant. I clench my fist at the sight.

“That’s my chicken, you asshole!”

I dash in and raise my baton. Before I’m able to bring it down, the woman leaps forth on all fours and extends her hand in a death grip. She’s fast. Beyond anything I’ve seen. Blurring into a whir of air-shredding black, that trembles even the ground itself.

I back-step.

Her hand catches onto my heel. She pulls. Weightlessness graces my body, and I fall back-first.

I slam the ground before I hit. It disperses the force of my fall. Somewhat. Enough to keep me conscious anyway. As the woman closes the distance, falls on me, and slams my head into wood.