Chapter 75
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Chapter 75: Title
"We can’t hold on any longer." Abe Masanari choked through the agony twisting his organs, trembling fingers barely maintaining the yin-yang hand seals.
Through blurred vision, he sensed unnatural distortions in the monster’s movements. Disregarding the mysterious energy surge, he desperately hurled talismans with bloodstained hands.
The enraged Yamata no Orochi’s wrath had been fully provoked. Should this primordial fury break free, none could predict the cataclysm that would follow.
"Ancestor!" The young Onmyoji whirled toward the composed figure nearby, "Is there no way to restrain it?!"
"You possess none," Abe no Seimei answered serenely, observing the eight-headed serpent demolishing entire city blocks with enhanced fury. Just as despair began clawing at Masanari’s heart, the ancestral voice resonated again: "But I do."
With fluid grace, the legendary Onmyoji withdrew his yin-yang fan. The ceremonial implement danced through arcane patterns, inscribing twisting sigils that shimmered golden in the polluted air.
Nearby, the chief shaman maintaining the perception-distorting divine spell nearly faltered in his incantations. They’d survived this long only through the monster’s tunnel vision and their own spiritual camouflage – temporary reprieves at best. His warning shout died as spectral energies coalesced behind Masanari.
The manifestation began as gossamer threads of moonlight before solidifying into a youth mirroring Heian-period elegance. Intricate spellwork glowed along his sleeves – authentic yin-yang patterns no modern replica could hope to counterfeit. When the chief shaman’s gaze traveled upward, time itself seemed to pause.
Beauty beyond mortal standards radiated from the stranger’s androgynous features, yet his presence carried the weight of ancient authority. The yin-yang fan whirled in his hand, etching familiar yet profoundly complex formations across reality.
Beneath the thrashing serpent, azure light erupted in concentric circles. Twin yin-yang mandalas materialized above and below the beast, their rotating patterns casting prismatic shadows through the ruins. The Orochi’s panicked thrashing intensified, massive tails pulverizing stone as the celestial geometry tightened.
"Futile." Abe no Seimei’s fan snapped closed with crystalline finality. "Had this barrier been breakable, you’d never have tasted exile the first time."
Somewhere in the smoldering wreckage, a half-formed spell dissipated from unseen hands.
Masanari staggered forward, shame weighing his bowed head. "Ancestor… My failure allowed this disaster…"
The fan’s tip lifted his chin gently, warmth flooding his meridians. "The corruption came from external interference," Abe no Seimei corrected, spiritual energy mending torn tissues. His gaze pierced through swirling debris. "Prepare yourself. True battles are never single-layered."
Above them, the sealing mandalas accelerated into blinding spirals. The Orochi’s final scream shook the earth as spatial fractures swallowed its monstrous form whole. Yet in the sudden silence, ancient instincts warned this victory was merely the prelude.
The backlash from the interrupted formation proved too devastating; delaying further would risk crippling the most promising talents of this generation.
"Gratitude, Ancestor." Abe Masanari felt oppressive weights lift from his limbs as he bowed deeply.
With Abe no Seimei containing the monstrosity, not only had Masanari been spared, but the chief shaman and priestess found themselves unexpectedly liberated from peril.
The approaching shrine officials exchanged perplexed glances between the young Abe clansman and the enigmatic figure. Their brows furrowed at Masanari’s deferential posture. Ancestor? Resurrection? The chief shaman’s mind raced through Zhongxia’s imperial revival legends and foreign cryptid reports, each more implausible than the last.
Utterly unscientific.
Then again – his gaze shifted to the writhing horror beyond – when had science governed this nightmare?
"Master Masanari," the chief shaman ventured, "might we inquire…?"
Fūsāng’s military perimeter tightened behind them. Should extraordinary individuals falter, steel wings waited in the skies – American-made missiles primed to scorch entire prefectures if required.
Masanari studied his progenitor. That others could perceive the spectral ancestor surprised him initially, yet how trivial such concerns seemed when witnessing those elegant fingers weave reality itself into chains. Of course the legendary Onmyoji could manifest at will. Previous invisibility had been mere preference, not limitation.
"This…" Masanari hesitated, acutely aware of the cultural earthquake his next words might trigger.
"Truth suffices," Abe no Seimei interjected, amusement coloring his tone. Centuries of courtly intrigues had inured him to bureaucratic theatrics.
Relief flooded Masanari. "Honored colleagues, may I present Abe no Seimei – progenitor of our clan and architect of the Twelve Shikigami Compact."
The shrine attendants’ stunned silence met his expectations. Let lesser minds prattle about new "white fox scions" – here stood the original, his very presence rewriting their understanding of history.
Unperturbed, Seimei maintained focus on the thrashing Yamata no Orochi. Ethereal patterns drank greedily from the land’s spiritual veins, preparing to hurl the aberration back to its profane dimension. This recurrence troubled him – his previous banishment should have held millennia. What cosmic decay permitted its return?
The ritual’s toll weighed differently now. Last execution had cost fleshly vitality; this spectral reenactment demanded essence itself. When next might consciousness stir? If ever?
Azure luminescence crested. Seimei’s hands flickered through terminal seals.
A collective breath held as spatial fabric tore. The yawning void consumed shrieking scales and cursed flesh alike, leaving only scarred earth where buildings and unlucky souls had stood moments prior.
Cheers erupted across observation posts. Few noted the crater’s human cost – survival’s euphoria drowned quieter griefs.
"Ancestor," Masanari pressed as cerulean traces faded, "that formation…"
"For interplanar expulsion." Seimei’s form began dissolving from the feet upward, crystalline motes spiraling into nothingness. "Never intended for mortal use. The price…"
"No!" The young Onmyoji’s cry held childlike desperation. Twenty winters old, suddenly orphaned from his guiding star.
"Merely extended slumber." The ancestor’s chuckle held autumn-leaf fragility. "Third drawer, right side. Mind your hexagram studies."
Transparency claimed him mid-sentence, leaving shrine officials gaping at empty air.
Masanari stood motionless, deaf to their queries. Let history dissect this later – for now, ancestral teachings echoed where mentor’s voice no longer reached.
Elsewhere, as Orochi’s roars stilled, a silhouette departed island shores. Perhaps only some bat-eared entity witnessed its passage.
World Tree’s apex shimmered. In her crystalline sanctum, Ye Linlang’s nail tapped against the resurrection interface. The ice coffin’s monitor reflected in her pupils, warring calculations behind them.
"Martyr’s theater," she murmured. The grayed-out button seemed to pulse. Probability threads stretched thin, yet…
Fate’s loom weaves infinite patterns from single threads. Mortals glimpse but shuttle’s passing, never the tapestry whole. Her hand withdrew. Time’s river flowed on.
