Silas stepped forward, clearing his throat as he flicked his wrist and activated the projection on his datapad. A spiral of luminous waveform patterns shimmered in midair, casting eerie reflections across the lacquered floor of the Yokai King's hall.
"This," Silas said, voice firm despite the absurdity of the moment, "is the signal we've been tracking. It's destabilizing mutant DNA across the continent... and it's nearly identical to the arcane frequency detected in your domain."
Nurarihyon sipped his tea, unfazed. "Ah yes. That's mine."
Silas blinked. "Wait—yours?"
"Well," the Yokai King clarified, placing his porcelain cup down with maddening grace, "it bears my signature. My flavor, if you will. Like tasting miso soup and knowing who cooked it. But that..."—he gestured vaguely toward the projection—"that did not come from me."
Professor Langley narrowed his eyes. "Then how does it carry your arcane imprint?"
Nurarihyon gave an amused shrug. "Counterfeiting is the sincerest form of flattery."
Veymar frowned. "You're suggesting someone forged a Yokai signal—your signal?"
"Not just forged," Nurarihyon said, folding his hands. "Mimicked. Which narrows the list of suspects quite dramatically."
Silas crossed his arms. "You know who it could be?"
"Oh, I know many who could," Nurarihyon said with a wry smile. "But would? That's a different question."
Professor M leaned in, tone sharp. "If that energy is being used to mutate sentients or rip dimensions, you need to stop sipping tea and help us trace it."
The Yokai King raised a brow. "Oh, Professor. You still think like a scholar. Not everything begins in a lab. Some threats—some truths—are born from stories. Myths. Regrets older than your institutions."
Veymar exhaled. "Then tell us the myth. Help us chase the regret."
Nurarihyon stood, his shadow stretching long behind him. "Then follow me. There's a temple beneath Mount Kurokiba that was sealed by my hand centuries ago. If the signal's being mimicked, it might be coming from within."
Silas muttered, "Of course it's in a cursed temple. Why is it always a cursed temple?"
Daji, lounging nearby, smirked. "Because cursed temples make better stories, Commander."
Langley rolled his eyes. "And get more people killed."
Veymar added dryly, "We brought teenagers, Langley."
Nurarihyon smiled darkly. "Then let's hope they grow up fast."
Silas tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at the Yokai King's cryptic remark. "What do you mean 'grow up fast'? What kind of temple are we walking into?"
Before the question could properly land, Barry stepped in, fangs slightly visible under the pressure of his jaw. "Silas, shut up. For once in your military-bricked skull, just don't ask the damn question."
Nurarihyon, ever composed, only smiled. That same cold, ancient smile that didn't belong to any living age. He leaned back, swirling his tea as the soft chime of distant bells echoed through the hall. "Oh, dear Barry," he said with indulgent amusement, "he doesn't understand yet. But he will."
Suddenly, the air thickened. The walls no longer felt like walls but the edges of a throat about to swallow. All around them, the once-charming Kitsune maidens froze mid-motion, their gazes shifting—no longer playful. Each of their glistening eyes now burned with cold intellect and hunger.
And above, the shadows on the ceiling moved. Dozens—hundreds—of figures clung to the ornate beams above. Long, feathered limbs folded like blades. Tengu, their black beaks slightly ajar, their clawed feet coiled for the kill. Crimson sashes fluttered faintly with the windless air, their obsidian eyes fixed straight on the intruders. Each one of them a master of one perfect act instant death.
Nurarihyon's voice dipped low. "If I wanted you dead… we wouldn't be speaking. You'd be tales told around the campfires of frightened children, wrapped in whispers and warnings."
Barry muttered, "Yeah, well, we won't be telling any damn tales if you keep poking the god-fox with a stick."
Silas, remarkably, didn't blink. He simply exhaled, muttering, "Well… I've had worse welcomes. Once got stabbed with a fish bone by a siren queen. Still hurts when it rains."
Professor Langley facepalmed. "Silas, for the love of science—"
Nurarihyon chuckled, the tension breaking slightly. "You've still got that same suicidal charm from your academy days, Commander."
Veymar sighed, "He was voted 'Most Likely to Provoke a God and Die in Style'."
"Second place, actually," Silas corrected with a smirk. "First was that bastard with the Alben pride skin."
Nurarihyon's smile widened. "Then shall we all try not to die stylishly today?"
Silas groaned low, the kind that rumbled deep from behind clenched teeth. "Alright, enough of this bedtime story bullsh—" he snapped his fingers and pointed. "Sentinels, lock target. Now!."
The two upgraded CPG Sentinels—taller than normal Sentinels, forged with reinforced mutant alloy and synaptic AI—let out a mechanical shriek. Their core turbines flared bright blue as they launched forward like twin juggernauts, limbs shifting into plasma blades. The Kitsunes around Nurarihyon didn't flinch. He didn't even stand. He merely exhaled.
Then, without so much as blinking, he raised his right hand—palm facing the oncoming assault—and flicked his wrist in the air with a graceful, almost lazy crack. Crkkk. The air itself seemed to snap. The Sentinels seized mid-flight. Then—shkkrrkkk!
Both machines exploded inward as if crushed by invisible fingers. Their arms twisted in impossible directions, cores imploded, and pieces of them clattered across the marble floor like toy parts in the hands of a furious child. The glow in their visors died with a soft whimper.
Nurarihyon slowly stood, brushing off the sleeve of his ceremonial robe as if wiping away dust. "Really?" he said with a sharp smile. "You thought your little wind-up toys could scratch me?"
He began to pace slowly, the lantern light flickering around his elegant silhouette. "I've lived fifteen thousand years. I watched humans discover fire... and promptly try to cook each other with it. I've seen them sharpen sticks, name rocks, melt metal, and call that progress. Then came your mechanical little gods, your flying coffins, and sentinels with all the personality of damp socks."
He turned, eyes gleaming like twin moons. "You dress them in chrome and call it salvation. But I've buried empires deeper than your data streams go."
Silas crossed his arms, jaw tight. "Yeah? And yet here you are, still living in a haunted love hotel with cosplay foxes."
But Nurarihyon only smiled wider, wickedly entertained. "I'll give you that one, Commander. That was almost... cute." He glanced at Daji, who giggled into her sleeve.
Nurarihyon sat back down with an infuriating serenity, crossing one leg over the other. He lifted his porcelain teacup—etched with ancient kanji glowing faintly gold—and took a slow, delicate sip. "Mm," he sighed. "Perfect temperature. Jasmine and crushed moonroot. A blend older than your continents."
He opened one eye lazily, the lantern light dancing in his pupils. "Now... look around, again."
They did. And it hit harder this time. The fox maidens—those graceful, giggling Kitsunes—were not just charming courtesans. Their auras shimmered now, no longer hidden. Some pulsed with elemental fury, others radiated illusion so thick it bent the very light. Their tails—many more than they first noticed—flicked in perfect synchronicity, coiled with suppressed power.
Above, the Tengu warriors hadn't moved. Their black feathers rustled in the still air, every one of them poised on high beams, blades drawn, eyes gleaming with anticipation like wolves before a hunt.
"You're not just outnumbered," Nurarihyon murmured, setting his cup down with a tiny clink. "You're outclassed."
He raised his chin slightly, pointing lazily toward Veymar with one finger, then to Professor Langley with the other. "You two. You seem... competent. So tell me—what level are you in your charming little classification?"
Langley frowned but said nothing. Veymar, still composed, answered with a calm pride. "Level Six. By both Arcaneum and CPG standards."
"Aha," Nurarihyon nodded, almost theatrically. "Level Six. The ceiling of your power scale. So impressive."
He leaned forward just slightly, eyes narrowing like twin eclipses. "But is it enough?"
From behind him, Daji stood in a slow, sinuous motion. Her hair tumbled like silver waterfalls, nine tails curling upward behind her like serpents. She stepped forward with grace that made hearts skip and spines tighten, stopping between the men, placing a single finger on Veymar's chin.
"Well then," she cooed, voice like warm honey laced with poison. "What level do you need to be… to stand a night with me?"
Veymar blinked. Langley turned red for the first time in a decade.
Barry muttered, "Oh hell no—"
Daji winked, then turned to Silas. "Unless you want to try, Commander? I promise I'll leave you a toe as souvenir."
Silas smirked and whispered, "Tempting, but I don't play fetch."
She laughed like a chiming bell, stepping back toward her husband. Nurarihyon's eyes remained closed as the tension curled thick in the room. Then—Fwoom. A flick of air.
No impact. No sound. Just a shimmer, like wind sighing between dimensions. The group blinked in confusion, glancing at one another—unharmed, untouched.
Then Nurarihyon opened his eyes again—black as ink, galaxies spiraling faintly within—and exhaled, "Done. A gift."
"A… what?" Silas asked, hand twitching toward his belt.
"Blessing," Nurarihyon said coolly. "A fractional imprint of my essence. An upgrade, as your people call it. You come into my castle, wave little gadgets, bark questions, and threaten war? You think you could drag me from my throne like a petty warlord?"
He snapped his fingers with a dismissive flick—and four Kitsunes exploded into motion, graceful blurs of silk and claw, launching at the group with speed that shattered the air.
Barry barely had time to snarl before instinct took over. His bones cracked louder than thunder, his muscles rippled in grotesque rhythm, and he transformed. But not into the usual towering werewolf. No. This was new.
Barry erupted—monstrous. His fur blackened like scorched bark. His spine elongated with jagged, ridged bone protrusions cracking through the flesh like serrated armor. Claws curved into obsidian sickles, and his maw stretched wider, fangs layered like a shark's jaws. Even his eyes—blood-red, glowing and seething with an unnatural madness—flared like a demon reborn.
Seraphina staggered back, her voice a shaky gasp: "Barry—that's new. That's so not Yuccavale's friendly neighborhood wolf."
Barry roared—a guttural, thunderous howl that shook the castle walls—then leapt. The four Kitsunes slammed into him mid-air, and with a violent crash of bodies, they all exploded through the walls, shattered glass and enchanted stone flying outward as they vanished outside into the misty night.
Silas stumbled to his feet, stunned. "Did he just—? Did they just—?"
Inside, as the dust settled, Nurarihyon merely poured himself more tea while Daji slid onto his lap, her tails coiling around him like affectionate serpents.
"Mmm, my love," she whispered, brushing her lips along his neck. "You spoil them."
Nurarihyon chuckled, his hand drifting up her thigh. "Let them feel a taste of divinity. It makes the eventual submission all the more... inevitable."