Megiddo

Saturday night. May 30th. Shanghai Accords Park, Kokura. The first thing Teresa Mori noticed about this place was that the lights were all purple. And not just in the park; in the streets, at the train stations, and along the ports were square kilometers’ worth of space bathed in a light that seemed the next-worst thing to total obscurity. There was, actually, a straight-forward answer to why this was: the lights used in this city were defective, and the part that was meant to make them shine white shifted them to violet instead. The city of Kokura had not replaced them in years.

In any case, the combination of purplish light and goldish metal made it quite difficult for Teresa to read the names on the Kokura Chugoku War Memorial; a big bronze plaque covering a wall of steel shaped into the borders of the city. Did this name here say Amano or Amane?

Just then, Teresa heard the grass rustle behind her. A big branch snapped. Footsteps with all the grace of a wild animal, but turning around she saw—

“Oh! Sachiko! Good to see y—?!”

It had always been hard to separate Sachiko Godoh from Fuku-chan in anything but personality, but upon beholding her now, these two started to occupy very different spaces in Teresa’s mind. Sachiko’s green eyes were bloodshot and had begun to bear bags, she had applied makeup to her face in a slapdash and glaring fashion, and her hair was tied up in a high and loose bun. She was wearing her usual mink-lined coat, but underneath was a stretched-out T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. She limped along, heedless of what was beneath her feet. Her expression was of one feeling pleasure, but not joy.

“Heyyy, Teresa!” she slurred out.

“S—S—Sachiko!” Teresa cried, rushing over to her out of fear for her safety. “Are you…feeling well? Do you want to sit down?”

Teresa also wanted to comment on the fact that Sachiko reeked of alcohol and looked like she’d gained a little weight, but she held her tongue.

Active listening, active listening…

“Okay.” Sachiko chuckled for no apparent reason. She plopped down on a nearby bench, and Teresa followed her in turn. The onmyoji now stared up at the hazy night sky, listless for a moment before speaking.

“Y’know… The event doesn’t actually start for a couple more hours.”

“What?!” exclaimed Teresa. “But that’s going to be after midnight! Why…”

“‘Cause,” answered Sachiko, “it’s the best time.” She put her head back down and looked Teresa in the eyes. “Plus, I wanted to talk for a bit. And, uh, get the booze out of my system.”

Teresa furrowed her brow. “I could’ve just come to wherever you were staying, Sachiko.”

“Mmnope. This is important. And I like discussing important things outside.”

* * *

“Ohhh… Hic! Masterrrrr… Hic! Thank you… Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…”

The Kokura Catacombs. Tears of gratitude fell like a warm summer drizzle on the boots of Jotaro Niiro, before running down to the soles, and to the earth. Niiro looked down at her, eyes and face no longer hidden beneath a borrowed face. He chuckled softly.

“Did you really think I would abandon you, Karen?”

“No, but… Hic! I was soooo scared… Hic! I—I felt so alone… Hic! Like I was before you found me… Hic!”

“Ahh… I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, then.”

“Of course, Master!” Karen beamed through wet eyes. Niiro cradled her chin in his hand and brought her up to her feet. Then he stepped aside, casting his gaze over the ossuary of Don Francisco once again.

“Your father, Myogen Dokkakuji, was a great man. He saw the mages’ secrecy and seclusion for what it truly was: fear. And, moreover, he comprehended that fear perfectly, and made an example out of it. It’s a shame I’ll likely never meet him in person…but his knowledge, I believe I’ve inherited in full. And so have you, Karen.”

“Master… I knew you never met my father, but how did you come to know about him?”

Niiro paused for a moment. “From the time I was born, I knew nothing about magic. My father, you see, was an illegitimate son of the head of the Niiro family in Satsuma—a family belonging to the Alchemist Court. He kept the name, but was sent to Japan when he was quite young, not long after the Second World War. Little did I think divesting that to anyone would do me any good—until the Miracle of Fire happened, that is.

“Not more than a few months after that incident, I was called in by the high command of the JPA. They knew more about my own provenance than I did, evidently, and they pressed me on my knowledge of mages, as well as any familiarity I had with Myogen Dokkakuji. I told them the truth: I knew nothing. But the gravity with which they treated the matter enkindled a spark of intrigue in me. From there I searched and searched, poring through whatever material I was permitted to see, until my eyes were opened.

“Like a bolt of blue in the sky, the wisdom of Myogen Dokkakuji shone forth for but a moment, witnessed by but a few…”

Then he suddenly turned to Karen. “That reminds me—the reason why we retrieved you. There is another onmyoji coming tonight, to pledge herself to our cause. A young girl, just a few years shy of you. She, too, has borne witness to the great wisdom.”

“Really?!” Karen exclaimed, her eyes beaming once again. “You mean I won’t be stuck with all these old guys anymore?!”

“Yes. Though, I wouldn’t call my son old…

“And, furthermore, I’ve decided…that tonight is the night we declare war.”

The air in the room changed. Though none of the mages sitting along the walls, clad in black cloaks, stirred even the slightest, one could sense a very clear disturbance among them. Upon the utterance of the words “declare war”, their breaths caught in their lungs. War had such grave consequences, indeed.

Karen froze, and then hung her head.

“Master…” she said softly.

“Karen,” returned Niiro, “you knew that this day would come eventually, did you not?”

“I did, but… A—Are we going to die, Master?”

“Surely you know that too, Karen. Do not dare to confound the great wisdom. It has been written, since the beginning of the ages, that the knowledge which we bear itself is sin. We must purify, Karen. It is not dying, but a baptism in blood, for ourselves and for the world.”

“But why so soon, Master?!” shouted Karen.

“Because,” answered Niiro, his volume unchanging, “I can feel the spirit of the world telling me it is time. Namely, after your failure to assassinate the archbishop. Not that I hold your failure against you, but I feel as though any more attempts to turn the public to our side are futile. We must make them know through force.”

“But—”

“Master,” interrupted one of the figures along the walls, “the gate has opened.”

Niiro turned to face the ossuary again, and the door of this chamber in turn.

“Excellent,” he said. “Sachiko has arrived. To my right, Caspar.”

“Yes, Master,” Caspar returned, and, rising, came to his master’s side.

“W—W—Wait,” blurted out Karen. “Sachiko? S—Sachiko Godoh?! Oh, God… She’s gonna hate me for sure!”

“I hardly think she knows it was your shiki that killed Ohtomo, Karen,” replied Niiro. “And, in any case, our alliance will only last as long as this war. Now, be quiet.”

“…Yes, Master.”

Quiet clacking echoing through halls, down to the chamber. The truth was that this din had two sources, but Sachiko Godoh and Teresa Mori were idols through and through; they walked together in perfect step, and if one was not listening closely one might have thought it was either one of them alone.

The shadows parted to reveal Teresa first. She winced as her eyes adjusted to the light, but this alone was not the cause of her great discomfort. She had been expecting, as she had implied with Noe and Sachiko herself, a simple social event with a paranormal veneer, not unlike having a tarot reader present at a party. But neither Sachiko nor Niiro and his men would pay her expectations any heed. Now, she looked like helpless livestock, sensing sure danger ahead but prodded along the narrow path forward. Even after adjusting to the light, she could not look any of the people in this room in the eye.

Sachiko, the prodder-along, seemed conscious of nothing—no danger, no salvation, only the mere fact that she was meant to meet Niiro at this time and in this place. Eyes half-shut and mouth half-grinning, her mood looked like a weary vestige of ecstasy. Still, she and her companion walked in perfect time. Their bodies could not shake the habit. At length they finally stood before Niiro, Caspar, and Karen. Teresa looked down, unsure of what they were actually standing before. An altar? A chest? A coffin? Her eyes widened, and her breathing sharpened.

“Sachiko,” began Niiro, “well met. Did you have any trouble in getting here?”

“No, Master,” replied Sachiko. Even her voice sounded languid; not intoxicated, but detached from what was and would be unfolding. “It helped that I knew about alchemy, though. Unfortunately, Teresa here doesn’t.”

Teresa shot Sachiko a nervous glance, which lasted only a brief moment. She tried to cast her gaze back downward, but too late—Niiro now addressed her.

“I see. Teresa, it is good to finally meet you.” The general extended a hand to the young idol. “Sachiko has told me much about you.”

Teresa raised her hand up to meet his, froze, moved it a little further out, froze again, and then finally came within Niiro’s reach, as he swooped his hand forward to seize hers and shake it. Teresa recoiled slightly. It was not only his eager grip, but the expression of his face, sharp like a hawk that had spotted its prey, that unsettled her about this man.

“Hm?” Niiro exclaimed. “You seem nervous, young Teresa. Do you know why you are here?”

“N—No…” said Teresa, hesitantly. “I don’t understand… What’s the meaning of this place? It’s…scary…”

“What’s the meaning? Why, it’s a catacomb. It serves as a reminder to all who walk its halls that we, too, will die. A memento mori, as generations past put it. Now do you understand?”

“No… Please, just…”

“Hmm,” Niiro mused. “Best to start from the beginning, I suppose. You’re an onmyoji, correct, Teresa?”

Teresa looked over to Sachiko again. The onmyoji nodded at her.

“Y—Yes,” answered Teresa. “Only one in training, though.”

“But an onmyoji nonetheless,” concluded Niiro. “A user of magic, the same as I. We have an incredible privilege in practicing it so, incomprehensible to most people. But, at the end of it all, it is a privilege, not a right—certainly not a right given to us by the Creator.

“Along with many other arts, such as smithing, metallurgy, writing and recording, and cosmetics, magic is an art to be coveted. Men would go to war for metals, for perfumes and spices, for new technologies, so why not so for magic? Magic is even worse a transgression than all the others, for its knowledge has been kept secret for all this time. And why is that? Why would its custodians not want the masses to learn of it?

“Because they fear war. Because they know that their magic makes them strong, but not invincible. Because they fear the tides of war turning against them, and rightfully striking their secret knowledge from all living memory. Once did the Creator nearly succeed, at the dawn of time, and those who survived and their survivors have avoided the light ever since.

“But we shall be the ones to win the war for the Creator. We shall revive the spirits of the first war ever recorded, and put all mages to death—including ourselves. Thus were you chosen to come here. Young Sachiko has pledged her allegiance to us; had it not been for that, she would have died far, far sooner. To atone for the loss of her blood, yours shall be spilled. But do not fear; we shall all follow you soon. If anything, you ought to be thankful you will not have to see the ravages this coming war has in store.”

Teresa simply stood, stone-faced, stricken with a terror that deepened, no matter how much he told her not to fear, with Niiro’s every word. When he was finished, she turned around to her friend.

“…What?” was all she could get out. “Th—Th—This…is a joke, right?”

Niiro finally frowned.

“Sachiko.”

In one fluid motion, Sachiko reached into her jacket and flicked a fuda slip toward Teresa. It landed, and upon contact tendrils of marble began to grow and constrict the girl. They reached around her shoulders, pinning her arms to her side, and binding her legs together. As it turned out, a full body of marble was not needed to produce a statue, as the tendrils sufficed in keeping her immobile. Teresa yelped in shock.

“Wh—What’s going on?! AIEEEEE! He—”

Before she could cry out any more, two tendrils grew around her chin and met, clamping her mouth shut. Now limited only to her whimpers and the gnashing of her teeth, Sachiko was content, with Caspar’s help, to move her and lay her down on the surface of the ossuary. Teresa gave her friend one last pleading look as she reached in her jacket again, this time to produce her dreaded azure dagger. Once it had drawn its own bearer’s blood, and now it would draw the blood of another.

“Don’t be afraid, Teresa,” interjected Niiro. “It is not dying.”

These words made Teresa squirm and gnash her teeth all the harder. But Sachiko simply suspended the blade above her, ten, twenty seconds, perhaps gathering her conscience, or perhaps—

Rmm…

A loud, dull groan of the earth could be heard above. Niiro, Karen, and Caspar all looked to the ceiling.

Rmmmmm…

Another groan, this one louder. Niiro, like Teresa, clenched his teeth, and quickly motioned to one of the figures sitting against the wall.

“Shin’ichi!” he called out, his voice raising, his desperation getting the better of him at last. “The barrier!”

A figure in the southeast corner, one with leathery skin and a wispy gray beard, silently nodded, and then began to rub his hands together while humming out a mantra.

RMMMMMMMMM…

“M—M—Master!” Karen shouted above the roar—and it was a roar, now. “What is that?! A volcano?!”

A white flash. A canopy of light violet energy materialized above the congregants’ heads, stopping just shy of the chamber’s ceiling, and before its doorway. Even so, something managed to poke through; something like roots, reaching deep underground, penetrating not only the stony ceiling but also the barrier. White fibers, interwoven with speckles of smoky black.

“No,” replied Niiro, “if I had to guess—”

BOOOOOOOM!

The walls of the chamber rocked. Bones were jostled out of place and shattered upon hitting the floor. Karen lost her balance and fell; Caspar nearly did the same. All in the room instinctively cupped their ears and shriveled, though it was too late to stop the ringing. While they were all disoriented, and with nowhere else to go, tons upon tons of dirt and stone were flung dozens of feet into the air, cascading down anywhere but their original spot.

Niiro, regaining his senses first, looked back down at the ossuary. Teresa was gone. He looked ahead of him. Teresa was already in the doorway, the tendrils undone, and Sachiko stood between her and him. Sachiko, in the span of the explosion and the transport of Teresa to the door, had wiped away that dopey, slavelike look from her face. Now she stood focused, poised as she always was, and, most of all, emanated intense, burning bloodlust at Niiro. The general popped his revolver out of its holster and drew the hammer back. But it was too late; Sachiko had already assumed her mudra, right hand clasped around index of left.

KAN!

Niiro felt a stinging pain crawl up his right arm. He dropped the pistol instinctively, and looking down saw the azure dagger planted firmly in his wrist. While he pulled it out, only dealing himself more pain, his eyes were drawn toward the ceiling again. This time, moonlight and starlight streamed in through a gaping hole about half as wide as the room.

“Damn,” came a voice from beyond its brim. “‘That the JPA uniform? You’ve had twenty years to move on, man.”

A group of youthful shadowy figures—Niiro counted five—now gathered and came into view. One of them was squatting, making his shades and scraggly chin hairs all the more visible.