Chapter 12 - Supernatural Fight!

Chapter 12 - Supernatural Fight!

Frontlines against the Deep Ones - Near Shibuya

The cold rain fell in torrents, an icy curtain over the battleground, but the heat rising from the frontlines was almost unbearable. Private Yamato crouched in the mud, his hands trembling as he clutched his rifle. It wasn't fear that made him shake, but the exhaustion gnawing at his bones. His muscles burned, every inch of his body strained from hours of relentless fighting. The air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and charred flesh. 

Ahead of him, the line of soldiers fired endlessly into the encroaching horde of Deep Ones. The creatures moved like shadows in the rain, their grotesque, fish-like faces illuminated only by the occasional flash of muzzle fire. Bullets cut through the air in deadly volleys, but they were little more than annoyances to the hulking, otherworldly creatures. The soldiers knew it. Every shot that rang out only slowed the Deep Ones' advance, barely scratching their slimy, grayish hides.

Machine guns rattled, their barrels glowing red-hot from overuse. Some had already jammed, steam rising from the overheated metal. Soldiers frantically tried to unjam them, their faces streaked with mud and desperation. Others screamed for more ammunition, their voices drowned out by the cacophony of battle. Yet, as the rounds continued to spray toward the advancing creatures, Yamato could see it in their eyes—the grim realization that their efforts were futile. The Deep Ones were coming, slow but unstoppable.

Flamethrowers spat arcs of fire across the battlefield, and for a while, the inferno seemed to hold the line. The creatures hissed as the flames licked at their bodies, but even that was only a temporary reprieve. Supplies were running low. The flames that had once formed their most effective weapon began to dwindle. The fuel reserves were almost empty. Yamato knew they were already using vehicle gas in a desperate attempt to keep the fire alive, but even that wouldn't last.

He glanced to his left and right, his fellow soldiers staring out at the sea of advancing monsters with grim faces. They knew, just as he did, that time was running out. If the line fell here, Shibuya would fall. And if Shibuya fell, there would be nothing left to stop the Deep Ones from spreading their terror across Japan.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle pierced the air, cutting through the noise of battle like a knife. Yamato's heart froze. It was the signal—the line had been breached. The flamethrowers had run dry. The final barrier between them and the creatures was gone.

A wave of dread washed over the soldiers as the Deep Ones began their final approach. Their massive, amphibious bodies lumbered forward with a twisted grace, their soulless black eyes glinting in the rain. Though their monstrous faces couldn't express emotion, Yamato could feel the mockery in their movements, the way they seemed to sneer at the human resistance. 

His grip tightened on his rifle, knuckles white. This was it. He steeled himself, forcing down the rising panic. He thought of his captain—brave, unwavering Captain Harada—who had once stood in front of him, inspiring the troops even when the situation seemed hopeless. But Harada was gone, taken down by these same monsters. Now it was up to Yamato and the few remaining soldiers to hold the line. His body trembled with the weight of that responsibility.

Just as the Deep Ones began their final charge, a strange sound broke through the chaos. It was subtle, almost imperceptible at first, like a gentle *whoosh* cutting through the rain. Yamato barely registered it before a figure landed beside him with a graceful thud.

An old man.

Yamato blinked, his eyes widening in disbelief. The man stood tall and calm, his weathered face completely serene despite the storm of battle around him. His back was straight, his posture rigid and dignified. He moved with a confidence that Yamato hadn't seen since his captain had led them into battle.

The old man's presence was like a sudden gust of wind that breathed new life into the soldiers. For the first time in hours, Yamato felt something like hope flicker in his chest. There was something about the man's calmness, the way he carried himself with such quiet authority. It reminded Yamato of warriors from a different age—men who fought not just with weapons, but with their spirit.

The old man looked around at the soldiers, his eyes full of quiet understanding. "You've done well," he said, his voice deep and steady, filled with a sense of ancient wisdom. "You have held the line in the face of overwhelming darkness. You are true warriors."

Yamato felt his heart swell at the words. The old man's praise felt like the approval of a god.

Then, the old man turned to face the Deep Ones. His expression hardened, and his body seemed to shift ever so slightly. "Now," he said, his voice resolute, "it is time for those who fight the darkness to take over."

Before Yamato could fully comprehend what was happening, the old man leapt forward—straight into the heart of the Deep Ones' nest.

---

The fight that followed was unlike anything Yamato had ever seen. The old man moved with an ethereal grace, his body flowing like water, never stopping, never hesitating. Where the soldiers had struggled just to hold the line, the old man danced through the battlefield, his every movement precise, deliberate.

It was Tai Chi, Yamato realized. The old man was using Tai Chi—but it wasn't like any form he had ever seen. This was something beyond human. It was as if the very air around him bent to his will. 

The first Deep One lashed out at him with a massive clawed hand. The old man sidestepped effortlessly, his movement as smooth as silk. With a single, fluid motion, he redirected the creature's attack, using its own momentum to twist its arm at an unnatural angle. There was a sickening crack, and the Deep One howled in pain as its arm snapped like a twig.

The second Deep One came at him from the side, its jaws snapping, ready to tear the old man apart. But before it could even get close, the old man shifted his weight, stepping into the creature's path. His hand moved in a slow, circular motion, and then, with a sudden burst of speed, he struck the creature's chest with the palm of his hand. The force of the strike sent the Deep One flying backward, crashing into a pile of its kin.

It was almost like watching a god at play. The old man moved with the same ease that most people would use to brush away a fly. Every strike he delivered was perfectly timed, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next. He wasn't just fighting the Deep Ones—he was dismantling them, piece by piece.

Yamato watched in awe as the old man took on the entire nest of creatures. One by one, the Deep Ones fell, their bodies crumpling to the ground like puppets with their strings cut. The nightmare that had haunted the soldiers for so long was being destroyed with ease.

The old man moved through the battlefield like a force of nature. His arms and legs, though frail-looking, carried a power that Yamato couldn't comprehend. He flowed between the creatures, redirecting their attacks, using their own strength against them. It was as if he was dancing with the storm itself, bending the chaos of the battlefield to his will.

As the last of the Deep Ones crumbled to the ground, silence fell over the battlefield. The soldiers stared, dumbfounded, at the scene before them. The old man stood in the middle of the carnage, untouched by the blood and rain. He was breathing steadily, his expression calm and composed, as if this had been nothing more than a routine task.

Yamato dropped to his knees, overwhelmed by what he had witnessed. He offered a prayer to the gods. He now understood what this old man represented. There were limits to what humans could do. But when those limits were reached, it was time for the gods to take center stage.

The old man was no mere mortal. He was something greater. And now, as the soldiers stared at him with a mixture of awe and reverence, they knew they had witnessed the divine.

---------------------------------------

In the dim underground base, the tension was palpable. CIA agents stood side by side with Director Kaito Nakamura, all eyes glued to the live footage of the battlefield. What they were witnessing seemed unreal. The Deep Ones—grotesque, nearly invincible creatures—had been a nightmare on the front lines, mowing down everything in their path. Bullets seemed to barely scratch them, and flame throwers only stalled them temporarily. The relentless monsters, products of dark rituals and ancient powers, were considered unstoppable.

But now, the screen displayed something even more shocking. An old man, graceful and composed, was tearing through the Deep Ones with precise, measured movements. His strikes, each slow and deliberate like a Tai Chi master practicing a form, shattered the creatures with unimaginable force. Each time he made contact, the Deep Ones, these unkillable beasts, disintegrated like they were mere sand sculptures being swept away by the wind.

The agents and the Director were in disbelief, their jaws slack. "This... this is impossible," one of the agents muttered. They had seen what the Deep Ones were capable of. The power the old man demonstrated now was terrifying. His slow, gentle motions belied the raw destructive force behind each punch and kick. For a moment, they couldn't help but imagine—what if that power was turned on a human being? The thought alone sent chills down their spines.

Though both grateful that their soldiers—both American and Japanese—were spared from further carnage, the agents couldn't shake their unease. This old man was Chinese, after all. A potential threat to both the U.S. and Japan, if ever he turned on them.

"This is something beyond us," Director Nakamura finally spoke, breaking the silence. His voice was low, thoughtful. "This is not just about national interests anymore. This is about survival."

The agents shared concerned glances, but one among them, an officer well-versed in ancient myths, seemed troubled. "He said he came back with the mystics," the agent mused. "What if there are more of them? What if they're coming back to take over?"

Before Director Nakamura could reply, a deep, authoritative voice resonated throughout the room, causing the men to jump and spin towards the source. "For those who handle the mystics," the voice said with palpable disdain, "mortal disputes are beneath our concern."

The soldiers immediately pointed their guns at the figure that had materialized at the edge of the room. An old Asian man stood there, his posture proud, his eyes dark and penetrating.

Director Nakamura squinted at the man, his mind racing as recognition dawned on him. "An Onmyōji?" he asked in a low, almost reverent tone.

The title caused the Japanese soldiers to immediately lower their weapons and bow their heads in respect. The CIA agents, unfamiliar with Japan's ancient history, watched in confusion as their Japanese counterparts treated the man with deference.

The old man nodded slightly, his gaze shifting towards the Americans. "You have no respect," he said with disdain. "This is not your land, yet you think you can demand answers from those who guard it."

The moment he spoke, an invisible pressure filled the room. The Americans gasped as a wave of dread and unease washed over them, forcing them to their knees. The Japanese remained unaffected, and though they hid it well, a few allowed smug grins to flicker across their faces. They had been waiting for this—for someone to remind the Americans that their power had limits.

The CIA officer who had spoken earlier gritted his teeth. He understood the unspoken message. The Japanese had mystics on their side—something far more potent than guns or military might. Swallowing his pride, he muttered an apology through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, bowing his head.

The Onmyōji snorted, dismissing him with a wave. His attention shifted to Director Nakamura, who approached with a humble, almost reverential air. "Forgive them," Nakamura said softly. "They do not understand our ways. We are grateful for your help. Please, how can we assist you?"

The Onmyōji's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "I am Fujiwara no Seimei," he declared, the name causing even more shock to ripple through the room. The Fujiwara clan was one of the most ancient and revered families in Japan, known for their mystical abilities. The fact that Seimei had reappeared was nothing short of miraculous.

"I have come to help dispel this darkness," Seimei continued. "My friend is also here. Together, we will ensure that the Deep Ones do not spread their corruption beyond Shibuya."

Director Nakamura's heart swelled with excitement. The presence of Fujiwara no Seimei was a gift beyond his wildest expectations. He immediately ordered his men to treat the Onmyōji with utmost respect. They were standing in the presence of one of Japan's greatest historical mystics, and this would change everything.

As the conversation between Nakamura and Seimei continued, another revelation stunned the room. "I have brought reinforcements," Seimei said calmly. "A clan thought extinct has returned to assist in this fight."

Nakamura's eyes widened. "Which clan?" he asked eagerly.

Seimei's lips curled into a slight smile. "The Kōga clan."

Gasps echoed through the underground base. The Kōga clan—legendary ninjas who had faded from history—were said to have vanished centuries ago. Tales of their skills and prowess in battle were the stuff of legend. The mere mention of their name sent shivers down everyone's spines.

The Americans, once again sidelined, felt their frustration growing. The ground beneath their feet was slipping away. Once, they had been the world's most powerful nation, commanding respect and fear wherever they went. But now, here they were, treated as second-class, irrelevant in the face of Japan's ancient, mystical powers.

"Watch your pride," one CIA agent whispered to another. "This isn't our game anymore."

With the Kōga clan's resurgence and Seimei's power on display, they had to admit—this battle was now far beyond anything their guns and technology could handle. The world was shifting, and they had no choice but to step aside and observe the new players on the field.