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An ancient inscription stood at the entrance of the formidable Duel Arena:
"From here, you enter the land of war."
And yet, the ghastly wars it foisted upon those unfortunate enough to cross its threshold had long come to an abrupt halt.
A massive slash tore through the main hall of its single ferry point, conclusively sealing away the dooming battle grounds high up into the sky of Yamatai.
The living liked to call it freedom, yet the dead knew; this was but purgatory hanging heavy over everyone's head. From the lowest level of the Demons' Tomb up to the Lone Crown's Trial, where the ancient Yamatai king had perished, every grain of dust carried the echoes of slaughter, anguish, and depraved entertainment. But just like wounds that fester and heal unevenly, their fervour had slowly diminished over time. On some days, the lower levels would even submerge in a sepulchral stillness.
The highest level, however, was different.
The thundering roar of combat ceaselessly pierced the skies, where a massive dial's pointer spun the red glow of dusk. Blades swung, clashed, slashed, plunged, and penetrated flesh unlike that of the mortals below. Here, the flow of day and night was a complete anomaly.
The sixth day was drawing to a close. The very sixth day that had drawn to a close hundreds of times by now. Night would soon cast its shadows over the six bloodied execution racks where the same six different body parts always hung. Only the false moon and the golden swallowtail butterflies gathered around each cut would shed their waning glow at nightfall.
Up there on the highest rack hung a man's head, one whose beautiful countenance was at odds with its grisly surroundings. But the sight would not have startled any of the elders of Yamatai. It was the head of none other than General Sunhunter, prodigy of the Taira clan, the last king of Yamatai, who freed everyone from the shackles of the Duel Arena, and the bright guiding light which ultimately became scorching flames that burned everything he had built to the ground.
The same man whose restless phantasm was now parrying the blows of his divine opponent amidst the execution racks. Their movements were swift, vicious and unyielding, far removed from the battles carried out below.
The highest level now belonged only to a once-revered calamitous deity and the ghost of a fallen man who had sealed him there for all eternity. But eternity meant little to Okuninushi. He had endless time to waste, every so often even finding entertainment in this madman's unflinching stubbornness. Masakado had gouged his eyes out, torn through his flesh, bled him dry; it mattered not. The colossal swing of Futsunomitama clashing with his infinite darkness remained an amusing spectacle to the Usurper God.
But perhaps on some days, he wanted to crush Masakado in his grasp like an insect. Maybe the biting slash of that sword chipped away at his boundless patience, and the desire to watch that same patience crumble inside his adversary became overwhelming.
At least that was what Masakado thought when three of Okuninushi's arms suddenly slammed his back into the ground of the arena, and the all-too-familiar sharpness of Futsunomitama's blade broke through the ghostly flesh of his palms. The world spun for a moment.
"You traitor," Masakado snickered at his sword.
A starving lion's fangs will sink into anyone, it retorted. Be more careful next time and don't lose me from your grasp so easily. Futsunomitama went quiet, then added sullenly, His touch is unpleasant. Hurry up.
But the sword sank further, and Okuninushi's hold of his throat, chest and hip grew fiercer. He couldn't move.
"Taira no Masakado," the god said with dangerous calm, "today you have lost."
"Have I? The moon isn't out yet."
His smirk didn't deter Okuninushi. He simply tore at the white garments covering Masakado's legs. "And by then, you will still be stuck beneath the weight of me and your own sword."
Masakado gazed at the giant pointer slowly spinning in the sky, then bit his lip.
The winner can take anything and everything from the loser—that was the age-old rule of the Duel Arena, but also a tacit agreement the two of them have reached after countless battles against each other. It wasn't the first time for either of them.
Two hands grasped and yanked Masakado's legs up. Unable to free his own from the unbudging blade, he just scoffed.
"Too bad you don't have your eyes to enjoy the sight before you."
Like a ripple crossing the still surface of a lake, the god raised his hollow eyes and grinned. "I don't need them to know that soon you will be writhing under me. That babbling mouth of yours shall be my proof."
Masakado's eyes darkened, his lips tightening into a thin line. No, it won't be, the last remains of his obstinacy hissed.
But then Okuninushi lifted Masakado's hips higher, effortlessly pinning his knees against his chest. The god spat in his palm. Traitorous thrills crept across Masakado's skin, so his stubborn gaze returned to the dial.
He was no stranger to those rough, cold fingers mercilessly ravaging the deepest crevices of his body. What he wasn't used to, however, was feeling them throughout endless rotations of the pointer above his head. Masakado could tell his breath was growing heavier with each finger added.
Was he planning to drag this on until the day was over? A fourth finger slipped inside, and Masakado's breath hitched. Anguish and frustration churned inside him. He bit hard into his lip before anything other than his own blood and breathing could escape it, then finally turned his attention to Okuninushi.
Only then did Masakado realize that his desperate attempts at dismissing his existence thoroughly delighted the deity.
There were no eyes inside those pitch-black sockets, but Okuninushi knew. His chilling grin had never left his face.
"Should I..." he whispered, one of his hands lightly tracing the skin under Masakado's eye with a thumb, "...gouge them out like you did with mine? So that your mind could linger solely on how I make you squirm."
Masakado jerked his face away, then kicked Okuninushi's shoulder despite the hand clutching at his ankle. "Shove your cock inside me already, you bastard," he snarled.
The god's chest rumbled with a low chuckle. Wasting no more time, the grip on Masakado's legs grew vicious, folding him in half as two hands grasped his hips and two others spread his ass open. He rammed himself inside, and Masakado's back arched, breath caught in his throat.
Okuninushi pressed his body closer and closer with each thrust, allowing the obstinate mess beneath him to feel the entirety of his length. Masakado could only throw his head back and grunt through gritted teeth.
Perhaps, if his body didn't welcome his thrusts with such gnawing hunger, the tempest in his mind would quiet.
The blade might have also passed through divine flesh by now if his limbs didn't bend so easily in his grasp.
Perhaps, if he pushed harder against Futsunomitama, he could free himself.
But when one of Okuninushi's hands left his hip to roam the ghostly pallor of his belly, Masakado's eyes inadvertently returned to his towering figure. At last, having found what he desired, the god's grin darkened, relishing the slight swelling he felt beneath his palm every time his thrusts deepened.
Masakado's entire skin burned from the inside at the sight, and he bit his lip harder. In a near fit of pique, he let a scornful laugh slip from his mouth. "What's that pleased look on your face?" he rasped, barely holding his voice together. "Is that all you've got?"
Okuninushi remained silent, his grin baring teeth. Two fingers immediately joined the cock inside to stretch his treacherous body further, and Masakado groaned.
Stupid, he yelled at himself.
Before his hazy gaze could drift back to the dial, a shiver ran down his spine. Okuninushi's hand crept up his neck, tracing the length of that deep gash crossing his throat even in death. He nabbed the golden butterfly burning upon the wound and crushed it between his fingers.
The precise, icy touch of the Minamoto maiden's sword against his throat flashed across Masakado's mind.
Yet, just like snowflakes melting into a blazing fire, Masakado found himself unable to dwell on that sublime, revigorating feeling for too long—Okuninushi's tongue brushed against his wound and slipped inside.
It was a wet, utterly agonizing mockery of tenderness which only clashed with the relentless thrusts and the nails carving marks into Masakado's skin. The god's fingers raked across his chest, down to his abdomen, grazing some of the scales adorning his body. Then it stopped. Before Masakado could take another breath, Okuninushi callously plucked off three scales.
His mind went blank at that moment. The tongue continued to ravage the gash on his throat while a desperate, ragged moan tore from Masakado's lips. He snapped his eyes shut, quivering, then come quickly splattered his chest.
Masakado was out of breath, his long-dead heartbeat loudly thumping in his ears, but Okuninushi tossed the scales aside and roughly grabbed his chin. Satisfied with the state of his throat, the god shifted his attention, shoving his tongue past Masakado's bitten lips instead.
His breath hitched, and a surge of outrage burst through his muddled thoughts. He bit hard into that disdainful tongue, drawing enough blood to taste it on his own.
Masakado immediately regretted it.
The first time his blade had tasted divine blood, he'd laid the first stone on his road down to madness and disgrace. Having it directly on his tongue now was a free fall. His skin prickled with sweet ruin, growing hotter and hotter, until every spot where skin touched skin overwhelmed his senses. Masakado groaned, writhing under Okuninushi's unbudging grasp. It was dangerously euphoric, as if everything around him was falling apart, leaving behind only his burning desires.
He tried to jerk his face away, but this time it was to no avail. Okuninushi's hand was firm, denying Masakado the grace of hiding any facets of himself.
In his frenzy, his pinned palms clenched tightly enough beneath Futsunomitama to coax the tiniest shift out of its blade. What was the time again? He couldn't check the dial. Okuninushi resumed the bloody kiss, and Masakado whimpered. The taste of metal and a grin against his lips flooded his senses.
It brought Okuninushi immense satisfaction. Thrusting his hips faster, rougher, he basked in Masakado's uncontrollable moans.
"Louder, king, until your screams reach your subjects down below," the god rasped.
He made sure to pluck a few more scales off Masakado's skin before the man's eyes rolled back into his head, come splattering his chest again. Okuninushi continued to fuck him through his climax, and only when heat filled his insides did Masakado's breathy moans come to a slow, ragged stop.
His chest was heaving, gaze drifting aimlessly towards the sky. The giant pointer seemed to spin the shadows of the night at an almost static pace. When Okuninushi's arms loosened their grip, Masakado's eyes lingered on the remaining quarter of red afterglow waiting to be swallowed by nightfall. At that moment, a deafening buzz roared in his head.
He took a sharp inhale.
Then savagely plunged his palms onto Futsunomitama, gripping it through bloodied hands and driving it upward. With one swift and resolute swing, he thrust the sword clean through Okuninushi's back. As tiny drops of divine blood streaked his undone expression, Masakado's lips slowly curled into an exhilarated grin.
The arena fell silent.
At long last, Okuninushi's low chuckle rattled the sword piercing through his chest. The god, looming over Masakado, leaned closer, his delighted mien unperturbed. He brought a finger to Masakado's lips, smearing the blood lingering from their kiss down to his chin and mixing it with the fresh droplets that streaked his pale face. The finger came to a halt at the gash on his throat.
"Is the taste of victory gratifying, Taira no Masakado?"
A shiver unavoidably coursed through his whole body. He said nothing.
One last chuckle stirred the silence in the arena before Okuninushi collapsed on top of Masakado's worn-out body. Like the smoke before a fire, shadowy tendrils began to spill from the god's wound.
Masakado quickly stretched his injured hands in a futile attempt to catch them before they could reach the heavens, but one by one they slipped through his fingers. He watched bitterly as they melted into the final twilight glow.
The Seeds of War—Okuninushi's curse that Masakado's undying ambition never failed to nourish. He used to be able to catch and burn them with his sword's flames, but each battle they fought made it less and less attainable.
At last, the arena swallowed the final traces of twilight as the giant pointer's shadow concluded its rotations. The moon was out now; it had been six days and six nights, and Masakado had defeated the Usurper God once again. The loop would soon begin anew.
His eyes fell upon Okuninushi's breathless figure—his weight pressed heavier on him with every passing second. It pained Masakado to admit it, but he could feel his soul wearing away fighting in the arena. As the seal loosened, how much power would he have left to resist him?
He absentmindedly touched the gash on his throat, trying to recall the feeling of that purifying blade. The sensation seemed so distant now.
Is it gratifying? Futsunomitama repeated the question.
Masakado grimaced at the metallic taste that would continue to linger on his tongue.
"It should be," he muttered to himself. "It used to be."
His voice felt hoarse.
Had it ever been?