Tales of a Ninja Magician: Of Journeys We Make

From The Hole A Madman Crawls

"Oh! There are combatants climbing out from the crater!" the announcer pointed as a lone, gloved hand appeared from the shady hole through which Signal Man's searchlight beamed earlier. The chunky hand grabbed hold of the cracked tiles of sandstone and began pulling a humanoid shape out.

"Wow, I thought those fighters were all knocked out," Signal Man observed to himself, shocked because one of the beaten warriors would recover this fast. He didn't put it aside that they would recover eventually, he was fighting to ensure their survival, but not even in his brightest, most hopeful hour could Signal Man imagine someone making out of that nightmare this quick.

The giant that dragged himself out from the hole was a formally dressed samurai warrior with a light-blue haori decorated in sharp, triangular mosaics and, judging by the subtle chink as he dragged himself through the roughed-up arena, he wore a light chain mail underneath the robe and over his chest. The man had an armored headband hanging over his forehead, though his chonmage-style shave was fully visible and exposed to the elements.

"Oh... Oh no!" the announcer howled out, leaning onto the railing of his stand with the tension of the perceived situation, only adding to the reasons to sweat profusely. "I'm not surprised that this man is too angry to die! This wouldn't be the first time that this warrior dragged himself from the grave by simply refusing to kick the bucket! This is the Man the Devil Disowned–Okurimi Mibu!"

As if intending to be as theatric as possible, the crawling samurai in a formal lawman's uniform tilted his head off the ground, revealing a severely disfigured face that must have suffered the punishment of a thousand slashes to where his right eye was missing the upper eyelid and Mibu's lips had been so chopped up they simply hung like dry slips over the rotten gums and yellow, chipped teeth. True to his reputation of simply refusing to die, Okurimi Mibu looked like an actual zombie.

"One of the Iron Country samurai, are you?" a woman with tanned skin and a long, red and golden dress glared at the risen swordsman with deep, green eyes and pointed an accusatory finger with a pointy, red fingernail targeting the Man the Devil Disowned.

"I'm afraid you are wrong, that you are, my lady," a pink-haired ronin in a plain night-blue kimono halted his duel against another warrior to turn to the misinformed mercenary of the Fennec's Crew. "It is true that Okurimi Mibu hails from the Iron Country, is a trained samurai, and worked as a lawman for over twenty-two years. However... In this tournament, Okurimi Mibu fights as a serial killer. The mad manslayer delivering the souls of those he deems wicked for heaven's judgment."

"A serial killer?" the woman in red gulped, realizing her folly. Not that long ago that one of the serial killers gutted and chopped up one of their strongest mercenaries–the Scarecrow of Swords.

"Correct, Okurimi Mibu hasn't received his orders for over eight years. Like a ghost, he haunts the Iron Country lands and cuts up criminals and those that stand in the way of his heavenly judgment. Okurimi Mibu serves no Feudal Lord and the Iron Shogun actively hunts him for his reputation as a merciless manslayer. Since he makes a habit of crawling out from his grave, even the devil must have disowned him, hence his monicker," the pink-haired swordsman sheathed his sword and looked straight at the maddened eyes of the Manslayer of Soji. As if perpetually suffering excruciating agony, the mangled goliath's head twitched and shook subtly while his eyes remained wide and bloodshot.

The mercenary in red drew her swords. They were square-shaped, handsaw-like things with gold and copper decorations on the dull side of the blade with ring-like openings for the hands to grip them. Based on how the woman wielded them vertically, one wasn't meant to wield them like conventional swords. They looked almost like kunai dispensers when clenched in the hand.