By Shawn Carman

The Shadowlands, one thousand years ago…

Kuni Nikoma carefully finished the circle, using the last few drops of dye to do so. It was not perfect, but it should suffice. If his theories were correct, if the knowledge he had so carefully studied and accumulated was all true, then this would protect him when the ritual began. He could not be certain, of course. This was something new, something that had never been attempted before. Others had been horrified at his early suggestions, and so he had pretended to abandon the idea. In secret, however, his research had continued for years. Now, after all this time, he was finally ready.

Nikoma put aside the scroll and the empty bowls in which he had mixed the dye. He had been concerned that it would dry too fast, as much blood as he had used to make it. Unpleasant, yes, but necessary.

That was one secret of magic that no one seemed willing to accept. Nikoma’s grandfather had been a magistrate working with the great Kuni himself, and had learned much about their foes in the Shadowlands. If the documents that Nikoma had found among his grandfather’s possessions when he died were correct, then the Kuni secretly believed that some sort of rift existed deep within the Shadowlands, a gateway that reached into Jigoku, the Realm of Evil. If that was true, and Nikoma believed very much that it was, then the entire Shadowlands was suffused with the essence of another world. That would certainly explain the bizarre nature of the place.

A man who was willing and strong enough could tap into that essence and draw upon it, gathering great power in the process. Nikoma would be such a man. He used his own blood, the life-force of the material world, to create wards that could contain creatures of spirit. Now, he would use his magic to reach into that essence, that dark blood of another realm, and draw something to him. Something he could control. Something that could grant him power such as the fools back in Crab lands could never understand.

It was time. Nikoma’s hands shook, but he would not permit the entity he summoned to see fear in his eyes. He would be the master, never the slave. He began reciting the spells he had created, and reached out through the shadows.

There. Something just beyond this world, thrashing at the boundaries, lusting for the mortal world. It was huge, so incredibly powerful. He reached for it, seized it, and drew it toward him.

Nikoma finished the final words of his spell with a shout and threw his hands forward. The light from his lone lantern dimmed to almost nothing, and a billowing sense of presence filled the room. A thick, oily voice filled the tiny cave where Nikoma had hidden away to complete his ritual. “Who summons me?”

“I summon you, demon,” Nikoma said with a confidence he almost felt. “Kuni Nikoma, master shugenja of the Crab Clan.”

There was a deep chuckle. “Master shugenja, indeed,” the voice said with a hint of amusement. “What is it you wish, wretch?”

“Your obedience!” Nikoma said. “Your subservience!”

The laughter was much longer and more genuine this time. “You have no inkling of what you do, little one,” the voice said. “Oni do not serve, nor obey. We dominate. We destroy.”

“I have summoned you. You will obey me!”

“Summon me you did. An impressive feat. But oni do not offer their fealty lightly. We traffic in power and blood. Souls are our coin. What do you offer me for this service, tiny creature?”

“Blood,” Nikoma returned. “Rivers of it. The blood of my enemies.”

“Blood must be given freely, at first,” the demon returned. “Your blood, if you wish me bound to you. Your blood, and your name, which I will share.”

Nikoma frowned. He had expected the matter of a name, but the request for blood was unusual. It would more fully bind the creature to the mortal world. Was that necessary? He could not be certain. Fortunately, he had created a second ward beyond the first, using the blood of his deceased comrades. That blood, at least, should contain the beast if things went awry. “So be it,” he answered. He lifted his knife and drew it along his forearm, spilling blood onto the floor. “I give you my name, demon, of my own free will.”

A hand, huge and covered with black scales, jutted out from the darkness and seized Nikoma by the chest. Its talons bit deeply into his flesh, causing him to cry out as more of his blood coursed onto the floor, washing away his inner wards. “Souls are my coin, as I said,” the beast whispered, “but spilling your blood as you grant me your name only destroys its ability to protect you.”

Teeth flashed in the darkness. Nikoma’s scream came to an abrupt, wet end before the creature realized that the outer wards still bound it within the cave

The Shadowlands, four hundred years ago…

Isawa Shokan glanced around at the others. Each met his eyes with a nod and a grim expression. They were ready, even knowing that death awaited them within the small stone building. He hesitated for just a moment, drinking in the sight of his friends, knowing that some would never emerge from the tower. He wanted to remember them this way, full of life, determination, and their duty. He hoped that if he fell, they would remember him the same way. He gripped the emerald seal that marked his status as one of the Emperor’s Magistrates and nodded. “Now,” he whispered.

Ichiro Munemitsu nodded and stepped forward. He swung his massive dai-tsuchi only once, shattering the rotten wooden door into a fine rain of fetid shards. The bushi rushed in, their blades held at the ready. Shokan followed, his fists sheathed in fire. Yojireru was behind him, muttering a prayer in the strange, ancient language used by the Kitsu.

The tower’s interior was stark, with little in the way of furnishings. The entire interior was one large room, reaching upward to the rampart. Shelves filled with scrolls lined the interior and a ramshackle staircase lead up to a series of crude catwalks that allowed access to the shelves. Near the top, Shokan spied their prey. The man had been reading a scroll and now glanced down at the magistrates. His features remained concealed by the thick cloak he wore, but the pale flesh and long, unnatural nails of his exposed hands confirmed that they had finally caught their prey.

“Jama Suru!” Shokan shouted. “Surrender immediately or face the Emperor’s justice here and now!”

The Bloodspeaker sighed. It was an irritable, bored sound. “Fools.”

Suru’s hand moved faster than Shokan’s eye could follow. He unleashed a cascade of gruesome yellow energy that spiraled downward into the tower’s base level.

“Move!” Shokan shouted, but it was too late. The energy enveloped Eriko and Iwane. The two valiant samurai never even had a chance to scream before they were completely reduced to thick, noxious liquid. Shokan ground his teeth in anger and hurled the fire that surrounded his hands upward.

Suru laughed and waved his hand, scattering the flames. The fire leapt about the tower’s upper regions before striking some shelves and igniting the scrolls there. The old parchment burned quickly, and Shokan knew instantly that the tower would be an inferno in a matter of minutes.

Munemitsu charged up the stairs, his enormous form shaking the entire wooden framework. Hasaiki followed him, stopping only long enough to fire one arrow. As always, the Mirumoto’s aim was flawless, and the wooden shaft embedded itself in the Bloodspeaker’s hand. Suru’s growled in pain and fury. Yojireru launched a spell at Suru as well, his explosive blast of elemental water only barely turned away as Shokan’s spell had been. Suru released another of his deadly spells, but this time Shokan’s bodyguard was there, knocking Yojireru aside and saving both their lives.

Munemitsu and Hasaiki were on the stairs. Yojireru and Sentei were on the floor. Eriko and Iwane were dead. For a moment, it was only Shokan and Suru. The two locked eyes, and something happened. Shokan felt Suru’s presence railing at the edges of his mind, assaulting his very being. The prayer on Shokan’s lips died instantly.

“I will die this day,” Suru’s voice whispered, “As I have died before. You, however, will never recover from this day.”

Pain exploded in every inch of Shokan’s body. He tried to scream, but he could not. This was no physical pain. This was something far deeper. He could feel the cold fingers of a man’s hand tearing at the fabric of his innermost being, his soul. Suru’s laughter was distant and silent, and he heard his Shiba bodyguard screaming his name. The pain would never end. It would never stop. This was eternity. This was damnation.

There was a crashing sound, and the sensation withdrew. Shokan fell to the floor, gasping for breath and pressing his hands against his chest so hard that he could not feel his fingers. It felt as though something had broken off inside his ribs, and he would pull it out through his flesh if he must.

Jama Suru spiraled through the open air of the tower, his face broken and deformed, his arm severed below the elbow. Sentei loomed over Shokan, then turned and leaped into the air. He drew his blade and brought it down with every ounce of his strength, cutting Suru apart in midair.

Kitsu Yojireru was there in a moment. His quick prayer brought relief from the cold fire that raged in Shokan’s chest. The sensation faded slowly, ever so slowly, until finally the Phoenix magistrate struggled to his feet with the help of his two friends. “Well done,” he called up weakly to the Dragon and Badger on the catwalk.

“What is this place?” Sentei mused aloud, glancing around at the scrolls and waving away the smoke. Yojireru’s aborted spell had extinguished the fires from Shokan’s blast, but the smoke was still thick.

“Kuni Nikoma’s laboratory,” Shokan said. “He was an ancient scholar who apparently dabbled in maho before even Nakanu’s time. This is far beyond what I expected to find.”

“Suru was among the most powerful Bloodspeakers,” Yojireru said. “What could he have hoped to find here?”

Shokan shook his head. “I do not know. We have enough jade for six hours before we must return to Crab lands. We will examine everything we can to try and find out. Be cautious, however. Do not imperil your soul with the secrets this tower holds.”

“And when we are finished?” Hasaiki called down.

Shokan looked around and the decades of research. “Burn it all,” he said.

Ten years later…

Isawa Shokan staggered across the rocky landscape as quickly as he could, his sandals cracking loudly against the jet-black rocks. The hem of his robe was tattered, ruined, and blood-stained. He longed for rest. He had not stopped in what seemed like days, but if he did, he would die. The others would never stop hunting him.

How Shokan longed to destroy them. How he wanted to turn and face them, burning the flesh from their bones and crushing what remained into a fine powder. Their smug, arrogant faces burned to ash, their self-righteous attitudes nothing but a memory. How would their honor serve them then? How would their quest to end his madness ever be filled?

A tiny whisper in the back of his mind urged him to take his own life. The voice remembered when the magistrates that chased him were his friends, when they had worked together to protect the Empire. Shokan crushed that voice whenever it appeared. That was all that remained of Isawa Shokan. He was a different man now, a man shaped by the torture that Suru had inflicted upon him. If Suru still lived, Shokan would have hunted him to the ground and tortured him until he died a more anguished death than mortal minds could conceive. And yet, at the same time, he felt some degree of gratitude to the Bloodspeaker for setting him free. In some ways, he was only what Suru had made of him. He supposed that Suru was his father, of sorts, but it did not lessen his hatred.

Shokan tripped and fell, the sharp obsidian edges biting deep into his hands. He cursed at the pain, and struggled to rise. He stopped suddenly, squinting. In the distance, he could just make out a cave set into the obsidian cliffs. He had not seen it before because it blended in so well. If he had missed it, then the fools who chased him would likely miss it as well. Perhaps he could finally rest.

Shokan clamored to his feet and staggered toward the cave mouth. It did not seem far, but it took him some time to reach it. By the time he staggered into the cave’s opening, he was completely exhausted. Shokan pressed on, knowing he only needed just a few more minutes.

The maho-tsukai stopped in his tracks, his fatigue forgotten. He knelt and examined the cave’s floor. There was nothing he could see with the naked eye, but he could sense the blood and magic hidden there. There were powerful wards here, wards that had been inscribed centuries ago. Wards of such strength this far into the Shadowlands… it was unheard of. It was an opportunity. “Who lies imprisoned here?” Shokan demanded.

A deep rumbling filled the cave, and there was a hint of movement from its deepest recesses. “I am here,” the voice answered. “Who seeks me?”

“I am Is…,” Shokan’s voice trailed off. That life was over. A new one had begun. “I am Shokansuru,” he answered.

“Well met, Shokansuru,” the voice answered. “I am Nikoma no Oni, lord of ruin and destroyer of worlds, currently imprisoned within this pathetic cage of stone and blood.”

“Nikoma?” Shokansuru knew the name well. He had carefully studied the documents he had stolen from Nikoma’s tower years ago. He knew much of summoning demons, more than even Nikoma himself had known at the peak of his power. Nikoma had been brilliant, but naïve. His summoning rituals were very advanced, but he had had little understanding of the nature of demons. No wonder the fool had vanished – no doubt this thing had killed him.

“Yes,” the demon answered. “The little man summoned me and imprisoned me here, although that did not save him. His blood was delicious, but I have been hungry for a very long time. The little Crab woman who visits me now and again offers me nothing.”

“These wards,” Shokansuru observed, ignoring the oni’s innuendo, “are powerful, but primitive. I could break them easily.”

Silence followed. “What is it that you desire?”

Shokansuru licked his lips. He had to be cautious, for oni were treacherous, deceitful creatures. It would betray him, if given the opportunity, and he could not hope to stand against its power. But perhaps… yes, there was a way. “Demons such as yourself are summoned from Jigoku, bound to the mortal realm by the power of an individual soul.”

“I am familiar with the process,” the beast growled. “Do not waste my time.”

“Oni can absorb the power of souls. If a single soul shared can grant an oni strength,” Shokansuru mused, “would not more souls grant even further power? You are a demon lord, fully possessing a mortal soul that anchors you here. If you possessed a part of mine as well…” he trailed off.

The demon’s interest was a palpable thing. “My power would become even greater, and you would be protected from me.” The darkness chuckled. “If I destroyed you, then my power would be diminished. Clever, for a human.”

“I will be both human and demon,” Shokansuru hissed. “And you will be free.”

“Yes,” the darkness answered.

“Do you agree?” the maho-tsukai asked. “Is our bargain sealed?”

“It is.”

Shokansuru slit his arm and allowed the blood to wash over the faded wards at the cave’s entrance. He felt the magic ebb and finally break, and then the power of the beast within washed over him like a wave. It was as if a hurricane had appeared in a heartbeat, raging all around him with the unfettered force of nature. “So be it,” the demon’s voice echoed all around him, searing his mind and soul. The power was almost too much to be contained.

The fatigue was gone. Shokansuru could feel his newfound might coursing through him, filling every fiber of his being. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes!”

The massive oni laughed, it’s gaping maw filled with row upon row of black, razor-like teeth. “Well done, little one. You have bargained with an Oni Lord and won.”

“There are samurai chasing me,” Shokansuru said. “Leave them for me.”

The demon laughed again. “My business is with the Crab,” it rumbled. “Their lands have encroached upon the Shadowlands for far too long. It is time for the children of Hida to vanish into Jigoku’s maw. Deal with your pursuers yourself.”

Shokansuru smiled.

The Shadowlands, Fifteen  years ago…

The pen scratched quickly across the scroll, filling it with ancient, arcane symbols that only a handful of beings that had ever lived would understand. Shokansuru finished his notations and rolled the scroll quickly. This new ritual would allow him to hone his craft even further, but he must conduct more research before attempting it. The Kuni village he had destroyed had been the home of a prominent witch hunter, and the summoner had claimed many intriguing scrolls from the woman’s confiscated materials. It would be rapturous when he finally completed his studies and put this new magic to use.

“So it is true, then,” a strange voice said suddenly. “You do exist.”

Shokansuru turned, mentally calling the flock of minor oni that protected his refuge. They moved through the underbrush to surround the newcomer, though he could not see them. He would soon feed their unnatural appetites. “Who dares address me?”

A tall man with long white hair appeared near the edge of the fire’s light. “I apologize,” he said with a bow. “It was not my intent to disturb your work.”

“My work is not for such as you,” the summoner replied, giving the command for his minions to devour the fool.

The stranger waved his hand, and the oni retreated instantly. Shokansuru’s eyes widened. This man bore a bond with demons similar to his own, though not as powerful. He could easily overcome the stranger’s control if he wished, but now he was curious. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am Daigotsu,” the man said with a second bow. “And you are Shokansuru, the mysterious master of demons who haunts the Shadowlands with his glorious creations. I have heard much of you in the short time I have been here.”

“Heard much of me?” Shokansuru laughed. “From whom? The mindless hordes that fling themselves against the Wall?”

Daigotsu shook his head. “Your solitude does not serve you well, summoner. There are many among the Lost now who do not embrace mindless violence. They have sworn themselves to me, and together we are building a vast city deep within the Shadowlands. A city where men such as yourself can research their arts without wanting for resources or fearing unwanted interruptions.” He smiled. “Such as this one.”

“Bah,” Shokansuru scoffed. “There is nothing you or your depraved sycophants can offer me. None can appreciate what I do.”

“Perhaps not,” Daigotsu admitted, “but I have a challenge worthy of your talents. I believe it will be of interest to you.”

“Unlikely.” Shokansuru glanced around his meager camp. “What is it?’

Daigotsu smiled. “You excel at binding demons to the souls of mortals. There is none greater at such an art than you. And yet, I wonder… could a demon be bound to something else? The fragments of other souls, or perhaps the dreams of those yet living? Could Jigoku and Yume-do be combined to create a demon of living nightmare, linked to all who share in the stuff of its creation? I have allies who are intimately familiar with the Realm of Dreams. What I require now is someone with the finesse and creativity necessary to help me finish my creations.”

Shokansuru rubbed his chin. The idea was absurd, of course, but would it fail completely? Even if it only succeeded in part, there was much to learn from such an attempt. “Fascinating,” he whispered, his thoughts of violence gone.

Daigotsu smiled again. “I had hoped you would say that.”

The Shadowlands, two years ago…

Shokansuru raced along the blasted plains, sitting comfortably atop the twisted abomination that carried him. The beast had been created for speed rather than power, and had served him well when the City of the Lost came under attack. Daigotsu was gone, driven from his own city by an upstart Bloodspeaker calling himself Iuchiban. Shokansuru was not entirely certain it was the true Iuchiban, but it did not matter. Whoever the sorcerer was, he bore the Lost ill will, and had rejected Shokansuru’s offer of assistance. His minions had even had the gall to attack him, briefly. It was likely this false Iuchiban merely feared the power Shokansuru possessed. Fortunately Shokansuru had planned an escape. He was no fool. He had not bargained with demons for centuries to be undone by some madman.

Ultimately, it mattered little where Daigotsu had gone, or who held sway in the City of the Lost. These things were of no interest to Shokansuru. The development of his rituals was all that mattered. For that, he required seclusion. And thus he headed deeper into the Shadowlands, far deeper than he had ever wandered. Deeper than any dared wander save the oni. This was his realm. He would not fear it.

There was a shimmering in the distance, an indistinct shape that stood out amid the haze and thick, sulfurous gas that clogged the air. Shokansuru frowned and directed his steed to carry him in that direction. The shape had the look of a building, and there were not supposed to be any such things in this place.

The building loomed larger in only a few minutes, towering above Shokansuru and his mount. It was ancient beyond all reckoning, from the look of it, and appeared to have been formed from the land itself rather than sculpted by mortal hands. There was a strange and pressing presence here, as if some awareness hung in the air that he could not quite detect. Something pulled at the demon half of his soul, beckoning him to enter. Shokansuru stepped down from his mount, absently dismissing it with a wave of his hand. Fascinated, he entered the building.

The interior seemed to have no limit or boundaries. Shokansuru turned this way and that, taking in the altars and crude statues, but unable to see any walls or ceiling. Perhaps they loomed so far above him that he could not make them out, but he had an inkling that this place was only partially within the mortal realm.

“Is that you, little Shokansuru?”

The summoner recognized the voice, even after centuries. “It is I, demon lord. Is this the tomb of Nikoma no Oni?”

“That name is forgotten,” the creature said wryly. “Call me by the name mortals gave me, the name that scattered them in fear. Call me the Maw.”

“As you wish, great Maw,” Shokansuru replied. “Is this your tomb, then?”

“No,” the demon answered. Its voice was strangely reverent. “This is the place where a god died, where he was taken into the earth after mortals stripped him of his soul. This is the Forgotten Tomb of Fu Leng, the most sacred temple in the mortal realm.”

“How did you come here?”

The Maw’s voice held no mirth. “I am not here, as you say,” it answered. “I dwell in Jigoku, but here my voice can be heard. Those who stand within Fu Leng’s tomb can touch the Realm of Evil, if they wish.

Shokansuru drew a deep breath. “Here I could bind souls to oni so powerful,” he said, “that they would shake the world.”

“Indeed you could,” the Maw answered. “What would you do with such beasts?”

“I would spread the reign of demons across the Empire,” the summoner answered. “I would bring about the rule of oni over humans.”

“Magnificent,” the Maw answered. “Let us do that.”

Shokansuru was instantly guarded. “What would you gain from such a thing?”

“Only your indulgence,” it answered. “The skull of my physical incarnation hangs suspended over the gates of Kyuden Hida. So long as it remains, I cannot enter the mortal realm. An Oni Lord is meant to rule in Jigoku and Ningen-do, but I am denied half my kingdom by the rituals the Kuni have enacted upon my remains.”

Shokansuru sneered in disgust. “The Kuni are fools,” he spat. “Aid me, and our demons will shatter the skull and break their rituals. You will walk the earth once more.”

“Yes,” the Maw hissed. “But you must be warned,” it cautioned, “by drawing upon the power of Jigoku directly, you will completely incarnate the oni you summon in physical form. They will possess power that rivals, perhaps even exceeds, my own, but they will exist only in the physical realm. Their ties to Jigoku will be severed, and when they are destroyed, all that they are will cease to be. If these demons die, they will not return... though naturally they are quite difficult to destroy.”

Shokansuru smiled. “They will serve their purpose nonetheless. And there will always be more to take their place.”

“So be it,” the Maw intoned. “Do you have souls to which to bind these demons?”

Shokansuru’s smile grew even wider. “I have the first I ever harvested, kept in reserve for centuries. I think it is time my old friends walked the earth once more.”

The Shadowlands, the present day

There was a disturbance. Shokansuru opened his eyes, his meditation upon the dark confines of Jigoku broken for the moment. A scowl formed on his features. Whatever had disturbed him would suffer for its insolence. If it was one of his creations, then they would be punished. He rose from the altar and walked to the gateway that marked the boundary between the Tomb and the Shadowlands beyond. When he reached the doorway, however, he stopped.

A tall, gaunt man in black robes stood near the entrance, holding parlay with an oni almost as large as his own creations. Behind them stood a number of other men, including some he recognized. Shokansuru’s features twisted in disgust at the sight of Omoni, the goblin-man. He had hoped the pathetic little wretch had died in Iuchiban’s service.

“Shokansuru,” a familiar voice said warmly. “I had believed you were dead.”

“Daigotsu,” the summoner returned. “I believed the same of you.”

“No mortal knows of this place,” the demon accompanying the dark lord hissed. “How came you to this place, mortal?” it demanded.

“Be at ease, Suiteiru,” Daigosu said with a smile. “Shokansuru is only partially mortal.”

“I found the Tomb after I fled the City of the Lost,” the summoner explained. “I have remained here, honing my arts.”

“This place has a strong connection to Jigoku,” Daigotsu mused. “The power comes from it in strong, radiant waves.” He turned back to the summoner. “This place has allowed you enormous success, I imagine.”

Shokansuru smiled. “I have created demons such as no man has ever dreamed,” he boasted proudly.

“Delightful,” Daigotsu smiled. “May we see your creations, then?”

Shokansuru reached out and called to the beasts through the connection he shared with all his demons. The ground thundered as they approached the tomb, cracking and shattering with the force of their stride. A loud, alien chittering sound filled the air.

The Dark Lord smiled behind his mask.