HP: Spirit Talker

POV Junko Hoshino

At first frozen in surprise, the old men turned to be greeted by burning lilac eyes and wide, toothy grins. The old woman in the pink kimono began waving her arms, throwing out battle amulets as fast as lightning, commanding them to attack.

 Three other old men assisted her, but the woman's body did not forget its old instincts and responded instantly to the mind's commands. And the magic her son had infused into the weapons easily destroyed any sorcery.

The despair of the old men only gave strength to the woman's hand, they themselves were weakened and erased more effective techniques from their memory. This could not last long, and the elders ran out of talismans. Such an easy victory only confirmed the elders' desire to flee: they retreated. The woman grinned even wider, though it seemed far too wide.

— You will not escape, creatures! Today is your end! — With a growl in her voice, the woman spoke. — Today, I am your Shinigami!

The old men screamed in terror, scattering to the sides, trying to delay their death, dreaming of escape. The Huntress herself, despite her appearance, held back, delaying the execution of the elders for a good half hour. She had forgotten her son and left him there alone, absorbed in revenge.

As she was about to return, the woman looked at the work of her hands, unhappy with the easy fate of those responsible for the death of her clan. She turned and headed for the exit. When she had entered these rooms, Junko had not paid any attention to her surroundings, but now she was able to examine the "exhibits".

There were only three closed things in the glass cases, but seeing them, the woman felt that the items were vaguely familiar to her. No, she hadn't seen them before, but somewhere she had seen either pictures or descriptions. The woman examined the most beautiful, heavy, festive long-sleeved kimono.

The peach hue of the fabric, silvery in the light of magical lamps, was mesmerizing in its beauty. An unfolded graceful fan, also very beautiful and feminine. An ornate barrette adorned with everlasting little flowers and berries.

A sudden realization shot through her body like an electric arc, paralyzing her. Afraid to look away, the woman stared greedily at the objects and immediately found the unique symbolism. The woman's legs involuntarily buckled and she sank to the stone floor, unable to tear her stunned gaze from the Attributes.

— How could they...? — a low whisper escaped her dry lips.

It took her a few minutes to come to her senses, to think. She remembered that her son had given her another artifact, a second thin ring, and that it had, among other things, a spatial pouch in which she had hidden the broken sword and the Attributes, and she placed the tanto on her belt. Only then did she fully regain her senses and quickly moved away from the dungeons.

As she approached the broken door, Junko heard a woman's screams, lamentations, even faint but discernible howls of grief. Trying to move quietly and cautiously, she approached the passage and carefully peered out. The first thing she saw was her son, his clothes badly damaged and bandaged — on his left arm, his left hip, his ribs and his forehead. But from the look on his sharp face, he didn't seem to care.

He twirled something in his hands, examining it, sometimes even sniffing at it. The woman smiled against her will — her son's bloodline was very strong, and her child accepted it easily. Next, she looked around.

There were more bodies in the hall, one wall had been breached and the other had charred marks on it, just as the fire and lightning had done above the breach. A short distance from the son sitting on the ceremonial pedestal, charred and melted battle staffs lay on the floor.

Wiggling her nose, Junko could only smell the scent of her son on them. Her eyebrows raised in surprise: to be able to create an artifact weapon at such an age was a huge achievement!

The wounds on the new bodies only confirmed the proud mother's thoughts. And besides, there were no weapons or staffs left anywhere, nothing, it looked like he had collected trophies as well, as the expensive wristwatch on his left hand suggested.

The woman smiled again, for her clan had a right to battle trophies, and she herself had worn a necklace made of the fangs and horns of an "oni" for several years, killed when she was a girl of fourteen.

— And you took your time... — the boy muttered, not taking his eyes off his work.

— I'm sorry? — Junko was surprised by her own answer.

— It's okay. — The guy waved his hand, looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and went back to his work. — They were weaker than I thought and I was enough for them.

— I see. — The woman nodded. — But now we have to get out of here before the main force of the clan guards arrives. — Junko's voice was focused and determined, but the guy didn't even tense up, still sitting relaxed as before.

— Forget it. — The guy gave her a sidelong glance. — Turns out we got lucky and most of the fighting force was sent somewhere else and the rest is over there. — The guy nodded at the bodies. — The Miyazaki clan has no head, no heir, and no elders, — he looked questioningly at his mother, who nodded in agreement. — Here. The head of the guard lies in the street. Headless, like his deputies. Private soldiers lie within a hundred meters of here. You don't have to worry about the vigilantes, either: the older generation, who could give the younger ones such an idea, has been completely wiped out, as well as the overzealous teenagers. The central building of the mansion has been destroyed. However, I didn't touch the source. — The monotonous voice gave me goosebumps because it didn't match the meaning of what I heard.

— How did you manage it? — Junko's voice trembled and her mouth was dry.

— Ba-san helped me with the last ones. By the way, get to know her, she's my guardian spirit. — The guy nodded his head somewhere to the side.

Turning her head, the woman saw a neat old woman surrounded by a faint mist that emitted a deadening glow. Even though the spirit reeked of cold and death, the woman bowed respectfully in acquaintance and received the same bow in return.

— But you're right, we should leave — there's no point in pulling the whiskers of death. — The strange words and the smile raised questions in the woman's mind, but her boy didn't look crazy and he didn't smell crazy.

Well, she had to admit, she didn't know her son at all. What does he think? What does he like, what does he dislike? What does he aspire to, dream of? What kind of girls does he like? But that's okay, now they have a chance to get to know each other. Maybe she would even understand the meaning of his last expression. Leaving the manor was no longer a problem.

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