Spiritual power and demonic power were two entirely different supernatural forces in this era.
It had been three months since Kōbe Hikaru transmigrated.
He was no longer the rookie—or rather, the fresh corpse—who had first woken up in a pile of dead bodies.
He had already gained a basic understanding of one thing.
Demonic power originated from the turbid qi between heaven and earth and the resentment of living creatures.
It was the foundation upon which yōkai relied to survive.
This power was cold and decaying, carrying a certain instinctive desire for destruction, further mixed with all sorts of worldly desires.
As it circulated within a yōkai’s body, it would naturally erode their sanity and amplify their desires, turning the weak bloodthirsty and the strong insane.
Hikaru himself was a living example.
When he first became a Ghost Samurai, his mind had been flooded with the urge to slaughter.
He had nearly started gnawing on corpses right there on the battlefield.
Fortunately, he wasn’t truly a newborn yōkai.
Thanks to the system’s existence, he was a transmigrator with intact human cognition and memories.
His willpower was tenacious enough to forcefully suppress that instinct and regain his rationality.
However, the influence stemming from the resentment of living creatures still lingered.
The most prominent feature was that, despite being a corpse, he still harbored various desires and instinctive reactions driven by demonic aura—no less than when he was alive.
Dead, yet seemingly alive.
That was why he was a yōkai, both bizarre and monstrous—but ultimately, not truly living.
Spiritual power, on the other hand, was the exact opposite.
It stemmed from humanity’s pure convictions and served as the guardian of order.
Spiritual power was clear and bright, possessing a certain quality that purified all things.
Humans who cultivated spiritual power were called Demon Slayers, Onmyōji, Monks, or Shrine Maidens.
The titles varied, but their essence was the same.
The purer a person’s convictions, the stronger their spiritual power.
They were the natural enemies of yōkai.
Spiritual power naturally countered yōkai, much like boiling water to ice, or a scorching sun to a gloomy haze.
Even if a yōkai was merely grazed by spiritual power, their body would feel a severe, burning pain, as if a branding iron were rolling across their skin.
This was also why Hikaru’s first reaction upon sensing that aura of spiritual power in the distance was vigilance rather than excitement.
“It’s here,” he muttered.
He stood on the hill, his Red Oni Mask revealing absolutely no expression.
Only those crimson eyes locked onto the distant skyline.
That massive demonic aura was already close enough to be visible to the naked eye.
A grayish-green turbid qi swarmed over the mountains and plains like a tidal wave, churning and boiling, nearly dyeing the entire night sky a murky hue.
Countless black dots were densely packed within the turbid qi.
Those dots were moving rapidly, letting out earth-shattering roars and shrieks.
Those black dots were yōkai.
Lesser yōkai.
Fodder even weaker than the five Green-Skin Demons from earlier.
Hikaru narrowed his eyes, attempting to count exactly how many there were.
One, two, three…
ten…
thirty…
fifty…
“Damn.”
He gave up counting.
Because it was simply impossible to count them all.
There were at least three to four hundred of them, packed so tightly together that from a distance, they looked like a giant, writhing mass of grayish-green sludge.
This was the largest group of yōkai he had seen since his transmigration.
Even during the massive battle three months ago—the one that caused him to die instantly upon transmigrating—the number of yōkai born on the battlefield hadn’t been this absurd.
“Where the hell did this Night Parade of a Hundred Demons come from?” he cursed under his breath.
Hikaru’s scalp went numb as he stared at the overwhelming swarm of yōkai.
Although any single one of them was just small fry, enough ants could still bring down an elephant.
He certainly didn’t think he had the skill to fight three hundred enemies alone.
If he really got dragged into that, he would most likely be drowned in the swarm, drained of his demonic aura, and torn to shreds.
But his attention quickly shifted away from the swarm itself.
Because he realized that the aura of spiritual power was right in the dead center of the yōkai horde.
Hikaru’s gaze pierced through the overlapping shadows of the yōkai, landing on an incongruous figure at the core of the swarm.
It was a human.
An old man.
From such a distance, even Hikaru could only make out a blurry silhouette.
The old man wore a grayish-white robe and had a hunched posture.
He seemed to be holding something in his left hand, while his right hand waved continuously.
With every wave, a ring of light would erupt, knocking back the lesser yōkai lunging at him.
Spiritual power constantly radiated from his body, appearing exceptionally glaring in the night.
But that light was already very faint.
Growing fainter by the second.
Like a candle in the wind, it could be extinguished at any moment.
Hikaru could tell that the old man’s situation was incredibly dire.
His movement speed was dropping, his spiritual power fluctuations were weakening, and his injuries seemed to be constantly worsening.
He fought while retreating in a specific direction, but the yōkai around him were multiplying, threatening to swallow him whole.
“Hand it over!”
A shrill clamor echoed from afar, carried into Hikaru’s ears by the night breeze.
“Old man, hand that thing over!”
“Everyone who came out of that bullshit village with you is dead!
What are you still holding out for?”
“Hand it over and we’ll give you a quick death!
Something like that isn’t meant to be monopolized by you humans!”
“I’m in a good mood today, so maybe I’ll even leave your corpse intact!”
Taunts, threats, and roars rose and fell in succession.
The yōkai seemed absolutely determined to obtain whatever the old man was holding.
The old man didn’t respond, merely gritting his teeth and pressing forward.
He seemed to have a clear destination in mind.
Hikaru looked in the direction the old man was heading.
Over there lay a continuous mountain range.
Further ahead, if his sense of direction wasn’t wrong…
There should be a human settlement a few mountains away.
It seemed to be a small province known as Musashi.
As he pondered, the Muramasa in his hand suddenly trembled even more violently.
The entire blade emitted a low hum, like a starving beast whimpering in desire from the back of its throat.
Hikaru glanced down at the system panel.
“Calm down,” he said.
Hikaru pressed down on the hilt, feeling as though he were pacifying a rabid dog.
“That’s three or four hundred of them, not three or four.
If we just charge straight in, we’ll both end up dead out there.”
Muramasa ignored his advice, continuing to vibrate intensely.
“…”
Hikaru fell silent.
‘Is there something wrong with this sword’s thought process?’
‘Besides, you’re a sword!
How the hell would you die?
I’m the one who’s going to die here!’
Too lazy to argue with a sword any further, he shifted his attention back to the distant battlefield.
The old man’s situation was growing increasingly worse.
His spiritual power was nearly depleted.
The ring of light capable of repelling the yōkai was growing smaller and dimmer.
The surrounding yōkai noticed this as well.
Their attacks became fiercer, and their mocking laughter grew louder.
“The old man is about to die!”
“Charge!
Whoever grabs it first gets to keep it!”
Watching this scene unfold, Hikaru fell into a brief moment of contemplation.
He was considering one thing.
To strike, or not to strike?
From a pragmatic standpoint, although the yōkai horde was massive in number, they were all individually small fry.
It seemed that as long as he was careful, he could reap a wave of them and leave without much danger.
Moreover, if he used them to feed his sword…
even just a tenth of them…
He glanced down at the panel.
At 30 Affinity, he could unlock the first special ability.
This was exactly what he needed most urgently right now.
Relying solely on the increased sharpness of the blade wasn’t enough to secure his footing in this demon-infested world.
Only by unlocking a special ability could he truly widen the gap between himself and ordinary yōkai.
Three to four hundred lesser yōkai was a massive, filling feast.
It should be more than enough to grind his Affinity up to 30.
As long as he was careful not to get surrounded, trading movement for space and space for time, there shouldn’t be any issues.
And if things really went south, his [Ghost Step] would ensure he could escape without a hitch.
And if he set aside pragmatism and looked at it from a moral standpoint…
Well, he was a yōkai.
He didn’t have any morals to speak of.
He was doing this purely for profit, perhaps mixed with a slight inability to just stand by and watch, a lingering trait from his time as a human.
Coupled with whatever “treasure” those yōkai were clamoring about, he was quite tempted.
After all, in the few months since arriving in this world, he had wandered through various battlefields left behind by clashes between humans or yōkai.
He had managed to scavenge a few relatively intact items here and there, but he had found almost nothing that even a yōkai would call a treasure.
What his system lacked was precisely these so-called “treasures.”
Besides, those yōkai were simply too loud.
Their clamoring was getting on his nerves.
Since things had come to this, there was no point in hesitating.
‘Time to eat!’
Hikaru stood up and drew Muramasa from his waist.
The blade gleamed with a cold light under the moon.
“I have to grind Affinity anyway.
Saving someone along the way isn’t a bad deal,” he remarked.
Demonic power surged beneath his feet, and his figure instantly vanished from the spot.
[Ghost Step].
The next moment, he appeared at the bottom of the hill, charging head-on into the surging yōkai tide.
“Let’s go!”