The Hand That Feeds

April 1st, 2102

10:47

The back board behind them buckled first, then collapsed with a violent crash as both Itabashi and Iteza slammed into it. Metal groaned, plastic cracked, and a rain of loose products scattered across the aisle.

Ukira flinched and instinctively opened his mouth but Kaitos’s hand snapped over his face, pressing him silent before even a murmur could escape.

The emergency lights strobed red.

Each pulse washed over the megastore in a deep crimson. As if the building was breathing in panic.

Between the warped boards of the metal shelf. He instinctively covered himself in the shapes dragging objects across his body, he knew if this pretty buff guy was telling him to shush. Whatever was out there definitely shouldn’t see them.

Itabashi leaned close, lips moving without sound.

Ukira swallowed hard, barely daring to breathe as the echo of the crash bled away into the endless aisles.

This figure wasn’t one of the clerks.

It stepped into the red light, and the floor beneath it cracked, not shattered but distorted, spiderwebbing outward as if the ground itself were bowing under pressure rather than weight. It wore a faded blue kimono, the fabric split at the seams by coarse, feather-like fur forcing its way through. A cloak hung from one shoulder only, heavy and asymmetrical, swaying despite the still air.

Then it bent its legs.

And vanished upward.

It perched atop the nearby shelving in a single controlled motion, metal screaming as talons chomped down and reshaped the units frame to suit it. The structure warped, curling inward like soft clay under a sculptor’s hands. The figure unfolded to its full height, towering, easily over ten feet tall, too tall to feel real in such a cramped space.

What terrified Ukira most wasn’t the size.

It was how fast it had moved.

Crooked talons flexed and settled, gripping securely as the creature adjusted its stance, perfectly balanced, perfectly at ease. It wasn’t pacing.

A mask covered its face.

Long. Angular. Entirely red.

The nose jutted out grotesquely far, exaggerated almost to parody, yet somehow stripped of humor by the stillness of the body beneath it. From a distance, the mask mimicked a human face just enough to deceive, up close it was an insult to the idea of one.

Carved markings ran across its flesh face like warnings, deep grooves worked into the surface and deliberately obscured by shadow. No eye holes broke the mask’s surface. No lenses. No gaps. Just painted eyes staring forward, lifeless, paired with a scruffy black beard and brows drawn on in thick strokes.

It did not need eyes to see.

The robes filled out its frame now that it stood fully revealed. Thin, almost wiry beneath the layers. Scrap had been bound across the cloth like improvised armor: bent plates, torn signage, even what looked like a ribcage fragment jutting from one shoulder, wired into place as a trophy rather than protection.

The air tightened.

Then the thing launched itself skyward again.

Shelving crumpled beneath the force like foil as massive wings tore free from its back, unfurling in a rush of displaced air. Feathers real and synthetic caught the red light as it circled the aisle in a wide arc, gliding with predatory patience.

Its head twitched.

Tilted.

Judged.

The wings snapped shut as it dropped, landing hard enough to dent the floor but light enough to stay perfectly upright.

And then it spoke.

The voice did not echo. It rode the air, every word pressed outward with authority sharpened by restraint. It sounded like a decree shouted from a mountainside, or a sentence passed long before anyone thought to argue.

“I have no interest in hunting mortals,”

“Entertain me, and I will spare your lives.”

The red lights flickered once more,

“If I wait longer than one minute,”

it continued, tone unchanged,

“You will die where you stand.”

The aisle seemed to shrink around them, Ukira’s teeth clenched.

“Now who do you think you’re bossing around, tomato, and why can you talk? I thought you were a yokai right?!”

He crawled out from cover and stepped into the open aisle, both arms igniting in a burst of flame that lit the space like a flare.

The response was instant, A sonic crack split the air.

The winged shape hit him at impossible speed, close to Mach 2, claws closing around his throat as he was driven into the floor hard enough to crater concrete. Pain exploded through him, but instinct kicked in, his fire rerouted along his spine, flaring into a shell across his back.

A new use of his fire that appeared to work like armor fusing his body with his other self temporarily. Although neat, a brand new, on the fly, accidental power-up wouldn’t save him.

He was hurled upward, flung several meters into the air, still no where close to the ceiling, barely above the shelves.

A blur of shadow and feathers followed.

The last thing Ukira saw before impact was a taloned foot descending.

The kick sent him rocketing back down, his body smashing into the floor with a force that rattled the aisle.

Itabashi stared, eyes wide- almost sticking out his sockets.

The Zodiac with mass amount of potential, the one his Lady had spoken of, had been tossed aside like a toy.

Silence followed.

Kaitos slowly exhaled and sighed. 

He shifted his body jumping down from his shelf in an A stance, his legs spread out wide to absorb the impact from his fairly high up position. 

The whole reason this situation even happened was his movement earlier, his climb. Once Ukira had more-a-less hidden  himself, Kaitos felt too exposed and swung around going 3 shelves above there original placement. That was what had drawn the Tengu’s attention in the first place.

Guilt tightened his chest. Possibly Ukira’s ghost punishing the coward.

“Well,”

He muttered, squaring his stance.

“I Guess I do owe you one.”

A pool of dark murky water spread beneath the winged tyrant.

The air grew damp,

Cold and moist.

The creature above it shifted, wings flexing instinctively, as if sensing something profoundly out of place. 

“How disappointingly we-“

A giant red tentacle erupted from the ground, thicker then a lamppost, slick and ridged with a white underside adorned in patches of tan, it wrapped around the yokai’s waist in a single, brutal coil, crushing inwards and pinning both wings hard against its back. Grounding this bird

The winged judge was thrashed to the same floor it had previously drop kicked Ukira against- cracking its head against the tiles before being thrashed, left to right, back and forth, one after another. The mask cracked on the floor with a few shards flying off. 

Two more circles of water appeared on the opposite sides. Creating a triangle of tentacles around the Tengu: taking turns to grab and smash it around the floor. 

The grip began to loosen between each toss, with eventually the tyrant spreading its wings fully out now unable to grab, spinning around using the movement from its wings to slash the air chopping the tentacles into shabby sushi.

Kaitos dropped to one knee, skidding across the debri ridden floor, checking across 20-30 items that had fallen off the shelf when he and Iteza collided with it. 

Grabbing a single Fist guard.

He slid it over his kunckle, and flexed. It felt heavy and reinforced. But offered no real advantage beyond what he already had. No addition. No advantage. No edge.

“Seriously?!”

The winged Tyrant shifted above him. 

Kaitos clicked his tongue and reached into his satchel and pulled out a big butcher knife, the blade was stained and yet showed little signs of age. 

Unpractical, Inelegant, Perfect.

He rolled his shoulder sliding across the floor once again slicing at the Tengu barely missing its arm and taking a few fingers clean off. 

“Let’s kick this up a notch, what do you say birdy?”

The Conquerer looked unfazed from the loss of its digits. As if dwelling on the pain would hinder its chance at winning. 

His blade was now coated in blood causing it to drip all over the floor. Kaitos swung his arm back, up and around. Barely missing, summoning a backup tentacle to latch his foes foot as the Tengu tried to counter attack, resorting in Kaitos throwing the cleaver into its chest. 

He reached into another pouch this time pulling out a slightly smaller knife, the type made for cutting chicken or meat, slicing opposed to chopping big lumps of bone.

The Tengu swung his unlatched foot at the tentacle using his claws to break free. 

Aslong as Kaitos could keep it out the sky: he would have a chance at winning.

It flew higher.

Each beat of its wings tightened the air around it, invisible currents locking into place, spiraling upward like ropes only it could see. The creature climbed them effortlessly, step by step, as if ascending a scaffold made of the air itself.

“By right of ascent,”

the winged judge declared.

It rose again, looming above, mask angled downward toward its challenger.

“I claim this height.”

The world tilted.

Kaitos felt it immediately, not flight, not lift, but rejection. The floor no longer accepted him. His boots peeled away as if gravity had changed its mind, the air pushing him upward like a colossal unseen fan.

His knees buckled mid-drift.

Above him, the winged figure hovered effortlessly, wings spread wide. Arching outwards to assert dominance.

Ukira tried to stand.

Kaitos  lost his composure and floated higher upwards.

Arms sculling through the air like water, body twisting awkwardly as he clawed toward the overhead shelving. His fingers snagged metal, and he hauled himself forward, momentum carrying him just enough to fling his body at the hovering yokai.

The Tengu reacted instantly.

It hit him mid-air, tackling him with brutal precision, claws locking around his torso as ordered wind screamed around them.

Too close.

Kaitos reached into a new pouch.

A small blade: no longer than a finger, sharp enough to split skin but never meant for killing.

He drove it forward.

Straight into the mask.

The tip punched through the painted on eye, impaling what lay beneath it. The creature screeched; its talons grip faltered. Kaitos slipped free, He fell. Not far, but hard enough.

He hit the floor shoulder-first, skidding across broken debris as air rushed violently back into place. Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate, but he rolled to his feet before it could settle. Above him, the winged tyrant steadied itself, the blade was still lodged in its face. It didn’t reach to pull it out.

“That is insubordination.”

A large chunk of the mask fell to the floor.  With something behind it ominously glowing.