The battlefield was alive—no, it was breathing.
The wind shrieked, an eerie cacophony of whispers, its voice a thousand tortured souls crying out in anguish. The sky above twisted and churned like a living thing, black clouds swirling as if in torment. And in the heart of the storm, slitted eyes blinked in and out of existence—watching. Mocking.
The Wind Shikiban had no fixed form. One moment, a jagged mouth split open in the mist, too wide, teeth sharp as knives. The next, a limb lashed out from the storm—only to vanish into nothingness. It was more than a creature. It was an impossibility.
Reika's breath came in shallow bursts, every inhale an effort against the suffocating pressure of the storm. Her knives, bloodied and battered, felt almost too heavy in her grip. She couldn't afford to falter. Not now.
The storm screamed around her, a torrent of wind, howling with a life of its own. She could feel it—something ancient. Something hungry. The Shikiban was not merely a creature to be slain. It was the embodiment of chaos, and it would stop at nothing until she was nothing.
Fear.
The word echoed in her mind, but Reika pushed it away. Fear would get her killed. It always had. Instead, she focused. Her heartbeat quickened, but her resolve hardened. This battle was like none before. The wind, the air—it wasn't just a force; it was a sentient predator, waiting for her to make a mistake.
Her knife gleamed as she adjusted her stance, her fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt. The world around her was chaos, but in the center of it, there was clarity. This moment was hers. She would make it her moment.
The first Wind Shikiban appeared, not in one place, but in all places. It was everywhere. A mass of wind and shadow, stretching into existence like the manifestation of a nightmare. Reika's heart raced. It slashed at her with invisible blades, its form a shifting, ever-changing blur.
This isn't right.
She moved instinctively, her body reacting faster than her thoughts. She sidestepped, narrowly avoiding a gust that tore through the air, sending a jagged shard of wind towards her throat. It missed by a hair. Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't stop. Her knives sliced the air, aiming where the creature had been.
Gone.
The wind whistled mockingly.
Another attack. A slash of air so violent it tore at her skin, throwing her off balance. Reika's body twisted, falling into the storm's embrace. She gripped her knives tighter, pain shooting up her arm as she tried to hold on. She couldn't afford to lose them. She couldn't afford to lose herself.
The storm raged, battering her with fury, but she fought back. She had fought worse. The knives felt solid, her hands steady, but the pressure... the weight of the Shikiban's unnatural power pressed against her like a vice.
Every movement felt heavier, every breath more difficult. But she fought. She fought because if she didn't, there would be nothing left to fight for.
A deep laugh—unnatural and cold—echoed in the chaos. "You think you can defeat us? We are the storm. We are the wind. You are but a fleeting, mortal thing."
Her mind screamed in defiance. I will not fall to this.
Reika's vision blurred, not from the wind, but from the dark thoughts creeping in. Her knives—they were her life. Her only true strength. But now, even they were being consumed by this dark force.
She slashed through the wind, and with every strike, her knives seemed to absorb the storm. They ate it, but the more they consumed, the stronger the Shikiban grew.
Her heart pounded. If I keep using them... I'll lose everything.
The air thickened with the ominous pressure of the Shikiban's growing strength. It was no longer just a creature. It was a monster—a thing born of pure chaos, fed by her fear, fed by her own weakness.
"No more running," she whispered to herself. The words were a promise. A warning. She would end this.
The next strike came with the ferocity of a hundred storms, its wind like a blade to her chest. Reika barely ducked in time, her knives cutting the air in desperation. But the Shikiban reformed—quicker now, the wind around it coiling, growing thicker. Dark flames began to dance at the edges of its form.
A thought flashed in her mind, one that made her blood run cold: It's feeding off me.
Her knives—they were turning dark. The very power she had been relying on to survive was now betraying her. But she couldn't stop. The wind, the storm, they were becoming one. And she—she was the sacrifice.
Her chest heaved as she threw herself forward, desperation taking over her every movement. Each strike of her knives was a plea for survival. The Shikiban howled, its formless body swirling around her, flickering in and out of existence, until—
She struck.
With a roar of fury, Reika plunged her knife into the Shikiban's core. But instead of feeling the familiar resistance of flesh, her blade was swallowed whole. The wind closed around it, darkening in a malicious spiral. The knife pulsed, absorbed into the storm, and Reika's heart nearly stopped.
"No!"
The Shikiban screeched in response, its form shuddering, the wind screaming louder, wilder. It was evolving. Growing more powerful with every moment, feeding off of her every fear. And now, it was stronger. So much stronger.
Reika's grip tightened. She had no choice. She would not—could not—lose to this thing.
Her hand shot to her waist, grabbing the second knife, and before she even thought, she hurled it into the heart of the storm. The blade sank into the center, its edges glowing, flickering with a malevolent, black fire.
Not again.
With a cry of sheer will, Reika forced herself forward, leaping into the storm, her body moving beyond the limits she had ever known.
Every motion was an instinct. Her knife slashed, cutting through the wind, but it was no longer just about surviving. It was about dominating the chaos. She felt the heat of the black flames, the way it ate at her knife, but she refused to pull back.
Every strike, every move, was pushing against the force that was trying to consume her. She was not just a survivor. She was the one who would end this.
Her final strike came as the Shikiban recoiled, its form flickering in weakness. With a scream, Reika thrust her blade deep into its core. The storm howled, the air tearing itself apart.
And then—
Explosion.
The wind erupted, a violent burst of black fire cascading outward, devouring everything in its path. The Shikiban's form crumbled to dust, but the flames—they remained.
Reika's breath caught in her chest. Her hands shook, the weight of what she had just done settling on her. The knives—her precious knives—now glowed with an eerie, dark light. The flames still clung to them, their power no longer just a tool but a dark, consuming force.
Her heart pounded in her chest, the weight of the battle and the dark power she had absorbed pressing down on her. She had won. But at what cost?
The storm was over. But the battle—had only just begun.