The Devil in Me

'...In the heart of the forest, young sir. Near the valley's end. You'll find those grounds.'

'...Some heathens once occupied that haunted place. That was even before the eruption. They burned the whole forsaken thing down long ago. Gave them what they deserved. Why are you so interested in a long dead clan of heretics?'

'...Some odd, wayfaring pilgrims, perhaps. Other than that, there is no one that wanders there. No one that resides there. There is nothing. Don't waste your time. There will be no one for miles. And they say blood-sucking monsters lurk in those woods at night. Don't be foolish.'

Freshly imprinted tracks in the snow. Akaime has followed one print after another, trying to grasp at these illusory shadows. For a time, it'd felt like chasing ghosts. Few wanted anything to do with such a cursed, foolhardy endeavor. It'd been difficult to continue tracing the lines on to the next point. But his long and taxing journey brings him here now. To this remote corner in the northern land. Through miles of woodlands and tundra beyond civilization. After venturing beyond where humans dared wander, he sees, too, as the fauna thins with enough distance. As though somewhere along the way, he has crossed the boundaries of where life is permitted to thrive.

He stands now at the foot of a crooked slope, where a jagged, meandering pathway leads him to the end of his pilgrimage. The destination ahead is the bounty of a couple hours' pursuit. His desperation pressed him into the depths, to unearth anything that might shed light upon the fabled master who had once presided over the residents of this village. For grounds so long untouched and dilapidated by time, it doesn't appear as though even the surrounding elements of the woods themselves dare to reclaim it. He treks up the winding, craggy terrain, passing beneath each of the vermillion gates that frame the way. It's as though the curse of this place has even corrupted the only symbols of anything remotely divine present here, the painted facades of these lintels and their posts well weathered and worn. Likely by generations of neglect, if what the local tales he's been talking about are true. Forsaken by man, nature, and the gods, it would seem.

However, his journey was not based on fables of the land but in reports from scouts from the village. Strange incidents of cannibalistic attacks in the northern forest, which left less than a handful dead. Suspicion rose rampant through the streets of the north pole, whispers of the cult being active again had many speculating those were the culprits behind the attacks. Now, this is where Akaime was included. While he was asked to investigate the occurrence, he was more intrigued learning about the history of the forsaken place.

The entire structure's facade appears to tower before him once he finds himself standing at its final gate. He takes in the lengths of the perimeter walls and the height of the elegantly sloped roof—its angled corners still ornately lined by the indiscernible, votive guardian figures perched like sentries overlooking this barren passage. The marvel inspired by the majesty of these grounds makes it appear more like a temple that had once housed spirits than a domicile that quartered mere humans.

He spots remnants of scorching along these exterior walls—hardly burned down, as the words of one of his many guides had claimed. Though the evidence of deliberate abuse and vandalism inflicted here is clear. What manner of violence must have befallen such a place; he can only wonder at. As he idles upon his awe and enthrallment, the sudden, violent gust of the chilling winds tosses the ends of his hair, the hood of his woolen outer cloak, and her cloak worn beneath it. He feels the touch of winter upon his face. Its sharp breath now threatens to plunge even deeper beneath his skin, cutting through to his bones.

The snow had not fallen again for nearly a week until now, as he feels its gossamer kiss in brushes against every inch of his flesh exposed to the elements. Akaime had hoped it wouldn't come for at least several more days. But he peers down at the trail of tiny tracks left in the powdered white behind him, leading back down the pathway. Then up and towards the blurred, gray horizon just above the treeline. The clouds that had lingered at what seemed to be a safe distance there have all now caught up with him. Even among the swiftest as he'd been of all earthbound beings, this small, frail creature wouldn't outrun the very breath of the heavens.

'Perhaps, though, this served to be an omen from the gods themselves. Fool. Tread no further. Turn back, child. This place is not meant for mortals like you.' Akaime thought. They had only cast their gale winds down on him once he'd set foot upon these grounds. But as ever, even a warning from the gods proves difficult to interpret. To turn back would mean almost certain death against the tides of the coming storm at his heels. What he needs now is shelter from it. Food, as well, perhaps. If he can even manage any means of finding it in this white wilderness.

Yes—he must press on. Pass the threshold. Step forward into the shadows. Akaime passes over the few stone steps that lead beneath the crumbling wooden signboard fixed overhead at the center of the roof's edge. He can almost make out the eroded characters.

'Eternal...' is all he can recognize from its faded letters. This first set of doors are heavy and hinged. He pushes through them and shuts them behind him as he slips inside, pulling down their latch for good measure against the gaining winds. Immediately, he notes the depth of just how insanely warm this place is. Even though the tales reported no one has lived here for centuries, someone must have been keeping it warm. Especially, since it is located in such a frigid area. However, these wooden walls are so far cursed that they look like they have lost any capability of protection against the elements beyond them. The air hangs like a thick shroud. Like the unassuming passage of phantoms. Like death. He can't help the barest flutter of his heart as this stale air sinks to the very pit of his lungs and warms his body. This makes him grateful for the light of day still luminous through the glass of the stained windows, however subdued.

And it strikes him, then, how odd this is. How odd everything about this place is. A century of neglect, and its stained-glass windows remain intact. Yet the burn scars left behind by the fire of decades past are left unamended. There are no cobwebs about. No rot, no ruin. A bit of dust, though, perhaps. There aren't signs of any upkeep. But so, too, are there no signs of decay. In this first hall and the few initial alcoves he silently breezes through, there are hardly any assets to be seen. No furniture, other than perhaps a table or two. Not a single decor in sight giving any indication of human habitation. And he doubts the lack of such things is due to plunderers. Rarely do their likes leave a place so pristine in their wake.

He notes now the eccentricity of this space. It isn't that it simply feels otherworldly, but it looks just as unfamiliar. In ways that stepping through the world of one's dreams might feel. Or as one's mind envisions the fantasies projected through the words of any storybook or spoken tale. The devil lurking in the details. But there is nothing as fantastical as such here. Nothing so wondrous in its enchantment. Akaime feels the tightening grip of the air amidst the cavernous emptiness. The sheer absence of life.
             
The tall, rounded beams of this main hall reach so high above as his eyes follow them upward toward the ceiling. It is too dim to discern, but he glimpses the geometric silhouette of some decorative latticing carved into the woodwork overhead. Akaime traces their crisscrosses in his sights as he paces along, forward and back down the walls to then scan the perimeter. Observing more extensive fire damage to the right, he drifts instead across the stone-tiled steps the opposite way, proceeding on through the corridor at the hall's end.

Only his footsteps faintly echo down this walkway does he note that the masonry beneath them seem to expand throughout these grounds. There is no wood flooring, no tatami panels. He rounds the corner at its end to a wider hall lined with smaller rooms. Pushing aside the apartment doors in his cursory inspection, he finds even this deep within the interior, there are only some sparsely laid carpets over more stone flooring. It isn't any wonder why this place is as warm as it is, he reasons. But he isn't sure if these are signs of just how antiquated his surroundings are, or if they are the out-of-place elements of odd, perhaps even foreign touches.

The stillness calls his eyes beyond just what lies ahead, inviting them to rove around and above as well. There is a worn grandeur to these halls. Though empty of furnishings, he sees traces of painted moldings along the decorated wooden framework all around. The doors, too, are rather strange. They are narrow and mostly wooden, folded on hinges along their tracks rather. The rows of doors and wall paneling to his left all bear intricate motifs of tessellated knotted medallions that continue, repeated along the lintel beams overhead, and mirrored again in the frames of the window screens that line the corridor to her right.

There is a beauty to this kaleidoscope of patterns woven into the architecture that might even project an illusion of tranquility. But the woodwork that separates him from the battering wind and snow of the open air beyond begins to rattle, and he is swiftly pulled back from this fleeting calm. Akaime walks this route until it reaches its end. There are two exterior doorways that appear to lead out of the wing at this corner. It's difficult to see through the translucent window panels, but those along the shorter wall in front of him are darkened by the cover of tall, enshrouding shadows—likely those cast by the obstructing walls of this place. The windows to his right that border the length of the corridor are all evenly lit by the dimming light of the day, and he concludes that there has to be an open court on the other side.

Drawing a deep breath, he places his hand on the door and braces himself for the trumpeting blast of the natural air once he slides it open. Even prepared, its sudden burst doesn't fail to knock the lesser wind from his own lungs in its merciless rush. If he recalls his knowledge, the main entrance of this mansion faced north, and he has just emerged from the eastern wing. Directly across the expansive courtyard, past the covered, labyrinthine breezeway paths, is the western wing, nearly identical in its facade to the building he has just explored. In all four cardinal directions are structures much like the main hall at the entrance. They all uniformly bear the same ornate, sloping roofs and the extravagant knotted tessellated motifs that line the halls inside and out.

What beckons his curiosity, however, even amidst the chilling outdoor veil, is the detached building at the center of this courtyard. It is noticeably different from the rest of this complex. The only part of it that resembles something even remotely familiar in aesthetic. Quite bizarre and seemingly discordant with its surrounding confines. The covered breezeway he has stepped out into allows him only a glimpse of its exterior at eye level, so he ventures off the paved path and onto the open grounds toward its broader, north-facing entrance. As he circles this pavilion, its construction reveals itself to be rather domestic in appearance. Like a private sanctum around which this entire sanctuary has been designed and built.

Akaime tugs his cloak even tighter as he ascends the paved steps to the raised porch of the pavilion. It may have appeared domestic, but it is by no means humble or plebian. Its roof stands just as high as that of the hall at the entrance, possibly even boasting an entirely separate upper level. The stone walls before him appear simpler by design, and when he tries for the entrance, the wide doors here open. He wastes no time in crossing the threshold and shutting its doors again behind him. Scraping out any shred of warmth to be had, he breathes into his hands. What he sees next in this hall brings his attention to a standstill.

The constant aura of this entire mansion has only thickened with each passing second and step he has ventured, seeming to coalesce within this very heart of these grounds. It isn't the threat of danger or the sinking dread that has become familiar enough to his senses from her years of training. No, quite different rather. More like the inscrutable enigma of what is unknown. The immutable prospect of that which remains unseen. An almost prescient intuition. One that makes it impossible to go anywhere other than forward.

The natural light only wanes with the passing hour as the sun continues to drag across the sky above the cloud cover. He wants to make haste, but he must remain diligent and circumspect as he wanders on. This pavilion hall is mostly vacant, but hardly as empty as any of the spaces he has passed through until now. The floorboards beneath her feet are deathly silent. A peculiar sign for a place so old. He follows the outlined path between the rows of long banners hanging from the rafters, too faded and worn to read anymore, toward the center of the hall. Treading within such a vast space, his ears then catch the sudden, merest, crinkling noise.

Below?

Down at the floorboards, he lifts his foot delicately away. It was not the sound of the wood, but something else beneath his boot, its feeling nearly imperceptible if not for his sensitivities.  He spots the papery shreds crumbling beneath his weight. It's hardly even recognizable anymore, so he lowers himself for a better glimpse. The thing practically dissolves to the touch as he picks up its remnants. Giving it a gentle brush between his fingers, what remains of it falls to pieces in his palm.

His hands know this feeling innately. The sensation is practically memorized in them. He has handled such things countless times throughout his life.

Dried flowers...

Akaime blows the bits of pistil and petals away as he rises back to his feet. It is then that he sees the faint dappling of silhouettes scattered across the floor of the hall. A sparse trail of them strewn about, leading ahead, where his eyes trace over what looks to be some sort of altar. At its foot are droves of them in fallen, disheveled piles. The sight invokes such purity from his sentiments. But with it, he feels an inexplicable sense of terror as well. The dead vestiges of such things so beautiful and hallowed in essence, found at the heart of these unsanctified grounds. He might have even been moved to prayer at that moment. If there had been any gods, he truly believed in to offer them to.

The altar lies as the centerpiece of this hall, and it—the very focal point of this entire complex itself. Yet there are no votives, no vessels or relics of any kind to be seen, possibly lost or even stolen over the decades; this place must have been left abandoned. He paces over for a closer look. There is a single chair at its base. Its cushion bears the neglect of a century's time. He runs his hand delicately over its silken remains, and he can still feel the brocaded pattern woven in its fibers. But upon the sudden remembrance of what this place once was, he retracts his hand as though it'd glanced over an open flame. He cannot forget what unholy manner of being has surely graced this perch in its once sumptuous past. Quickly, he moves on.

Behind this seat and its altar stands a beautiful byōbu, crafted with six wide panels. He glimpses its still polished surface, bright and untarnished—true gold leaf. Doubtless in its rarity and preciousness, it is a testament to the antiquity of his surroundings. Upon closer inspection, he sees in even greater detail its true brilliance. Painted against the gilded faces of the panels is the mural of a pond. From its placid waters are stalks of lotuses climbing high in both buds and full blooms. A vignette of divine paradise itself in all its serene grace.

The pervading, consecrated symmetry embodied in this place is only further echoed within this hall, where two paths lie before him yet again. He thinks, then, to do as he had before and begin to leave. More rooms line this corridor, and they appear more substantial than the humble apartments of the surrounding complex. He paces toward the nearest set of doors and pushes them open. What discovery revealed behind them only renders him in near disbelief as he lingers just beyond the threshold. A mere entryway of timber, more than a century old, entirely unobstructed, separates him and the rows of books and texts lining the walls and free-standing shelves within this chamber.

This—this is what he has been in search of.  Here lie the artifacts of the cult's existence. If there are any traces of them left on this earth, they would be found here. He has resolved to uncover anything in reach, anything in sight, if it would bring him even a footfall closer to finding out the truth. Standing at the center of this room, he peers all around to see that there is hardly any trace of light trickling through. It's getting too late in the day. The roar of the wind tearing across the roofs high above remind him also of the thickening shroud of clouds casting out the sun's radiance. From the conditions he's gleaned, they will only worsen as nightfall approaches.

Perhaps...he could wait out the rest of the day until the height of the morning brings the light back. Spend the remaining time in search for fuel to ignite one of the hearths lying around throughout this complex. No, he can't wait. The sooner he delves into this reservoir, the sooner he can leave these miserable ruins. He doesn't want to spend a minute longer here than necessary. But then the matter of the light...the damned light.

He is so close. The knowledge is just within reach. He has entered it from the main hall, so his eyes steer toward the wall opposite of the entryway. The calmness of these walls indicate they must be interior walls, but just beyond them are likely those of the building's perimeter. If he can manage to open them up a bit, it might just allow more exterior light to filter through.

Brushing his hand along the wall there, he searches half-blindly for any manner of door know. His fingers trace the outline of what feels like a knob, and he proceeds to open it. Beyond it is the narrow outer corridor, and the heavier exterior siding that lines it. There is a gentle hum of pale light seeping through these windows. Drawn to it, he steps forward into the hallway, hand outstretched, ignoring the chill as he places his palm over the wooden frames. He glances over his shoulder to see that the chamber behind him remains in its darkness. Still not enough to illuminate the room. The light is too diffuse. He then peers at the dark outline of his hand against the soft, cool glow. Plucking it away from the frigid surface, he opens his palm beneath it as though to catch the fading trickle of its glimmer. A thought then—perhaps if he could bring the texts here by the windows. He smiles. This could work.

So fixated on his findings, the delicate padding of faintly approaching steps fails to register with his senses until the very last of its footfalls. His breath halts once he detects its wafting presence in the air. It comes upon him with the spectral touch of a falling fleck of snow. The wraithlike breath of a dying flower as it drops its last petal.

"...Akaime?" Obliterating the silence, the sudden voice smashes his composure to pieces. His eyes widen in a single heart's pulse at the facile, dulcet sound that has resonated through his darkened, lightless dreams. He whips himself around with such violence, his vision nearly spins as he reels backward into the wooden paneled walls behind him.

"It’s about time you showed up,” the man said as left Akaime at a standstill. Even through the obscurity of the waning, near-absence of light in the room before him where he stands, he analyzes those hues that emblazoned so clearly across the unmistakable eyes.

A spectral figure.

Jashin.

One detail came to him was there was a strange emblem marked on his forehead. An upside-down triangle with a circle around it. That emblem, he has seen it before but where? Akaime questioned as he stared at the man's head. That's right, he remembers it from his small village. It was carved in the doors and tattooed on the civilians. However, he wasn't old enough to know what it meant.

"Fear not my child, you will learn soon enough," a booming voice echoed throughout the room. With a blink, Akaime found himself in darkness but with two bright red rings looking straight at him. He could feel the fear rising up in him. Where is he? Is he caught in some type of genjutsu?

‘No, you are not.’ The voice announced.

Dear god, could he read Akaime's mind?

'My child, you the many have the unworthy hurt you. You're family.' A fatherly man's voice filled his head.

'How long have you suffered by those who steal, cheat, and cause chaos in your life,' she continued as vivid images began to flood his mind. It felt like 1,000 years of watching his friends, family, mentors die by the hands of those who didn't hold any doujutsu's. Unfamiliar and familiar individuals dying, having their eyes stolen out of their sockets. But in a split second it was all over.

Akaime was heaving and on the verge of tears. He felt his mind about to break as he dropped to his knees. 'I know more than anyone dear, this is what must be done.' He spoke into Akaime’s mind as a humanoid figure stood between him and the beast. The alien-like man caressed Akaime's face as tears begin to fall from his eyes.

"Now come, we have to free your limitations from your eyes," the woman then spoke out into the open. It was almost like Akaime was a trance, but he wasn't really fighting it. His mind was broken from the things he's seen, he didn't know what else to do, did he even have any other option. Taking Jashin's hand, he helped him stand.

The glow of his smile is perhaps only outshined by that of the hearth he is sitting over. He steers his eyes across the anteroom toward the rows of screens that line the winding entryway to this chamber. His smile deepens in its hues, and like the intrigue of a solitary secret, he is enthralled by the knowing that just beyond them is the only woman who has ever lain in his bed there. For one who never did believe in things like gods, heaven, or divinity, Akaime supposed that this very space was what others would deem 'sacred' to him. A personal something that even he, benevolent and unselfish as he is, was indisposed to open for outsiders.

"One day, you will have the same eyes as I do, but for now, find another like you. Your prophecy interlocks with his. And now you will help him, or you will die just like your clansmen. Don't forget, you are one of Jashin's Chosen. But it is time to merge with the temple" With that, Akaime was brought back to reality. Now he has more questions that need answered too. He was about to go insane and if he remains, there will be no end to the grief. He will become buried so deep, so far removed from the light of day. Cold and dead like the rest of this haunted place.

As he passes again through the rows of ornate screens, past the smoldering irori of the anteroom, through the threshold of this central chamber, the consummate reminder bores even deeper into his being—just how barren this place is. Though there is enough light to make these dark halls visible to his eyes now, everything remains cast beneath a pale shroud. Even the sounds seem unable to permeate through this strange emptiness here, as though the void itself stands as an impenetrable wall between him and the outer world. Nothing of the woodlands or wild beyond even remotely wafts through this still air, swathed completely by the low hums and distant howls of the surrounding, sailing winds. Leave it to these unsparing spirits to remind him of just how small a being he truly was.

This place begins to make more sense to Akaime now. Its quietness, its barrenness revealing its own despondent truth beneath the fractured, mirror surface. Itself an illusive embodiment of a fanciful dream that had always been beyond the reach of all who had ever dwelled within its walls. This place is just like its master. A thing that any vulnerable, dispossessed wretch might become enamored by. That does everything in its being to enchant and beguile—all the beauty of its façade, the perceived peace and tranquility it promises.

The temple's lone revenant who refuses to die like the rest. Who refuses to be a waning memory. So long as his mere existence to live on, these walls stand. He feels the longer he dwells, the deeper he treads, the more he will become like him. Another ghost. Another memory. Another attachment of his to this living world.

All the easier to sever it, then.

And this tether goes both ways. The moon to the earth, and the earth to its sun. Which of them, then, is the solid ground, and which is the celestial body above? He no longer seems to know where he stands anymore. Where his body lies. It is as though he drifts between realms, phasing between states of matter and being. Shapeless and ill-defined. Unconscious. Unwoken. Like a dream.

Is this what he has been?

Is this the poor state in which he has maundered his entire existence?

Only marginally aware and affected, an arm's length away from everything within reach?

A drowning man dying of thirst. A solitary soul inundated in seas of others. A lucid mind afloat amongst ones lost. But he is neither drowning, nor solitary, nor lucid. He ponders upon this ‘god’ more profoundly than he has ever devoted any depth of thought to. He isn’t. He simply isn’t. He convinces himself transparently of this. How could he be? A veritable immortal who cannot die. A golden icon who is beloved and revered by the droves. A consummate wretch who doesn’t even know what he wants, doesn’t comprehend in the least what it is he feels.

He is the enigma that does not deserve understanding. The anomaly that should remain unresolved and unknown to reason. He is a god who should never be looked upon, never invoked, left abandoned and unheeded in the very void that conceived him. As Akaime awakens his new eyes, he knew he they were no different from each other and he would journey to hell with him for good measure, if that is what it takes.

He doesn’t prescribe to any one faith. They all seem equally presumably as they are fantastical. But in each iteration of the endless tales of gods, spirits, and otherworldly realms, there is always hell. And as with all other mortals, there lies an intrinsic fear of it deep within him. A place where compunction, foreboding, and guilt dwell. He bears so much of it, all too intimately aware of its delusively perverse strokes of solace.

And that is why, exactly, he willfully clings to it. Because it means the agony and the torment are real. His pain is real. And it is the only means he has to weaponize himself. To exact the retribution he is owed. If the gods will not do so, then he will. So why, then...? Why does he weep in this silence? Why does the prospect of hellfire itself do nothing to resurrect that starved pyre within his perishing heart?

Across every carefully hewn layer of his being lies a latticework of fractures that have splintered them through and through. They are nearly imperceptible until his next breath that seeps between the infinite hairline veins, and he is made to feel every shattering point within him. The hollows have slowly eroded away at him, leaving so little behind to hold it all together. Hardly any bonds or filaments remain to keep the threadbare pieces from falling apart completely. He has always been so frail. So brittle, so volatile. He loathes this about himself. Curses it, damns it to hell with the rest. How he wishes he could kill it all the same as those abhorrent devils. A mere pierce of a blade. A single drop of poison. If only it were so easy. If only it were so easy to sever these threads. If only it were so easy to kill those monsters. But he knows—it all must begin with a step closer towards hell. Because only the worst of them go to hell.

EXIT
TWC: 5,042
-30,000 Ryo
Claiming:
Ketsuryugan: Inverted Stage

Approved