He is Hachiman, God of War. Where he walks, death follows in his footsteps.

On a moonless night Hachiman walked through the town that lay at the foot of White Lotus Castle, which was called Byakuren-jo. Although he was careful with his tread, still he could not avoid stepping on a single man, a drunkard, who stumbled from an inn and directly into the path of the god's descending foot. As that foot landed upon him the man's body stiffened and his eyes grew wide and wild. As the god walked onward the man stood trembling and then turned his fiery gaze to the door of the inn that he had just left. Hachiman could hear the man's howl of rage and the sound of clay pots and tables being smashed but he paid no attention. There was more bountiful fare to be had.

The guards at the castle gate did not look up as the god's foot fell between them and then swept onward. They felt only the cool wind and remarked to themselves that Autumn was indeed drawing near.

Hachiman stood in the castle courtyard and gazed down at the roof below him, and then through the roof into the high tower room where the Lord Hayashi lay sleeping, and then through Hayashi's body into his peaceful dreams. There, Hayashi played as a boy again in the lotus garden with the companion who would become Lord Kanashiro. The sun was bright and warm in the dream and the scent of the lotus made them giddy. The friendship they forged in the garden of Hayashi's dream would remain firm as both grew to manhood, and even as both assumed the leadership of their respective clans.

Such frailty made Hachiman smile, and he leaned down slowly. His long muzzle passed through the ceramic tiles of the roof, through the wood and the rafters and into the Lord's chamber as Hayashi dreamed on. The god drew in a long breath, smelling the man, smelling his hopes and his desires and his regrets, and then he blew through his nostrils gently over the sleeping figure.

The sky in Hayashi's dream darkened.

The god blew again, softer still. The lotus blossoms curled and crumbled, their stems turning black.

The god blew a third time. Fire danced in the sky and awful screams echoed in the wind.

Hachiman opened his mouth and thrust forth his tongue. It settled upon the sleeping lord and drew slowly upward, tasting him, tasting his terror and his sins and his anger. Before Hayashi's eyes the face of Kanashiro melted like a candle and became that of a demon. Blood poured from Kanashiro's mouth and claws reached forth from his eyes, seizing Hayashi's arms and dragging him toward teeth that ripped savagely at his flesh.

Lord Hayashi awoke with a cry that brought his attendants rushing groggily into the room. He saw at first the fires of Hell in their lanterns before he recognized them for what they were, and then he let forth a bellow and seized his dagger from his bedside. "Gather my generals!" he raged. "Kanashiro Tadashi must die!" The armies met with the sun high overhead. The Hayashi Clan formed ranks near a little shrine where their generals offered up prayers to the God of War, who took little notice as he stood over them. He could smell their worry, all these little armored men who faced the greater Kanashiro army across the field, and he smiled. It was their silent prayers that he heeded, not those of the generals, who wanted only victory. The men in the ranks asked to fight bravely that day. Hachiman would grant them that.

The order was given. The men advanced, their ranks stretching forward in well-spaced lines. Swords were drawn. Lances were lowered to the ready. Hearts pounded and blood rushed behind sweating faces.

The god watched, amused, and then he too started forward. He did not look down as he strode into the ranks of men. They did not feel his weight as his huge foot settled down upon and around them, but with each of the god's steps the men tensed and stumbled, their mouths falling open and their eyes growing hard and angry. As the god walked on, the men upon whom his tread had fallen shrieked and charged forward, rushing past their astonished comrades with savage and relentless fury. Hachiman did not stop after trampling the foremost of the Hayashi ranks, sending them roaring ahead with their swords raised high, but continued on. He could feel the men of the Kanashiro clan trembling beneath his feet, could feel the pounding of their blood through his flesh as their anger rose, and kept walking until he reached the rear. Behind him the shrieking armies clashed, and with a smile he turned and sat down to watch them.

The men fought as never before, the wrath of Hell itself roaring through their veins. Now and again a man would fall and his spirit would rise, writhing in anger, over the field. There the god would gather it closer with his hand, draw it into his mouth, and swallow it with great satisfaction. His belly grew warm from them, their fury sweet on his tongue.

Steel rang throughout the afternoon until the Sun, unable to bear witness any longer to the savagery below, hid her face behind the mountains. In the starless night the god reached for those who tried to retreat. His hand would close around them, halting them in their tracks, squeezing the fear from them and leaving only the rage that sent them scrambling back to battle the moment he released them.

One by one the spirits disappeared forever into the god's hungry jaws, until at last the shouts and the shrieks and the ringing of steel were carried away on the breeze. The only sounds were the faint sigh of a final breath, the rattle of armor as it fell to the grass, and then there was nothing.

Hachiman swallowed the last of his feast and then stood and gazed down upon the motionless figures scattered around him. He studied them carefully, one at a time, until he found the one that he was seeking, the one whose heart alone still quivered, whose breath still gurgled past bloodied lips.

He was called Izumi. He stared at the empty sky as he lay upon the field, listening to the blood -- his blood -- dripping like a soft rain from the many places he had been cut and from where his sword arm had been removed. His prayer to fight well had been answered. Now he wished only to see the moon once more before his eyes closed forever. To his delight that little prayer was answered as above him the clouds parted and the moon shone its soft and white beauty upon his dying face. His eyes smiled, but then grew wide as the moon's glow revealed a looming specter, a tower of fur and muscle that stretched far into the heavens above.

Hachiman smiled down at the quivering, fading life while he drew his sword, then thrust its tip smartly downward, impaling Izumi's body and lifting it to his face for a careful scrutiny. Izumi tried to scream but no sound could escape his throat; he could only wave his remaining limbs as helplessly as a grasshopper thrust by a shrike upon a thorn. The celestial steel was colder than any winter wind and filled Izumi's chest with its icy presence. The chill flowed to his wounds. He could feel the cloven edges of his skin writhing and crawling together, sucking the blood back inside before closing. Where his arm had been a set of grasping fingers emerged, groping their way into the open air as the arm slithered forth from the stump. Izumi felt, but saw none of this. His terrified gaze was locked upon the twin embers that hovered before him in the place where the god's eyes should have been. They burned into his very soul, tormenting him with their cruel mirth and scorn, and then suddenly he was falling...

The god's sword swept downward, flinging Izumi from its tip and slamming him violently against the ground. Izumi coughed and sat up, peering in stunned disbelief at his arm, which was warm and whole, and at the unmarred flesh beneath the gaping holes in his armor. His only scar was a long, angry red line down the center of his chest that held the sting of icy metal when he touched it.

"Gather your army patiently, Lord Izumi," the god said in a thundering voice. "When they are ready, I shall come for them as well."

He is Hachiman, God of War. Where he walks, death follows in his footsteps.

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