Anime Crossover: Eating Evil in a Daily World — Chapter 108

Chapter 108: The Giant and the Windmill

The arena fell into a dead, heavy silence.

The bloody, visceral aftermath of the match forced a collective shudder through the spectators. Even Haruno Yukinoshita felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. When Yozora slaughtered evil spirits, he was undeniably ruthless, often looking like he was savoring a fine meal—but those were monsters.

This was a human being.

Wait.

Haruno’s sharp mind quickly rewound the events of the match. At the very beginning, Yozora and Kure Reiichi had exchanged blows evenly, trading strikes in a seemingly balanced rhythm. Yet, given the overwhelming, terrifying strength Yozora had just unleashed, he could have crushed Reiichi the moment the bell rang. There was absolutely no need to drag it out.

So why play along?

Haruno refused to believe Yozora would do something entirely pointless just to toy with his prey. He always had an angle.

Did he deliberately suppress his power to bait Reiichi into using that monstrous secret technique?

Anyone with eyes could see the severe psychological toll the technique took on its user. Once Reiichi activated his Removal state, his mind fractured. He devolved into a rabid beast driven purely by slaughter.

Was this Yozora’s script all along?

He held back, fed Reiichi a false sliver of hope, and pushed him into activating a forbidden technique that stripped away his sanity. That loss of control led Reiichi to attack even after the referee had called the match.

If that was the case…

Even with Reiichi’s brutal death, not a single person in the arena could point a finger at Yozora. Reiichi had broken the rules first. He was the aggressor.

What Haruno deduced, Kure Erioh naturally pieced together as well.

However, the current patriarch of the Kure Clan had never witnessed Yozora’s true nature as an exorcist. His assessment was grounded purely in martial arts.

Erioh assumed Yozora had fought at his normal peak initially, and when Reiichi unleashed his Removal, Yozora was forced to counter with a secret technique of his own. That ghastly, deathly pale right hand was the obvious proof.

Erioh had never heard of a martial arts technique that could physically mutate a human arm into such an eerie, spectral state, but the world was vast. Even as the head of the legendary Kure Clan, he wasn’t arrogant enough to claim absolute knowledge of every obscure discipline. There was always a higher mountain.

As a family of assassins, if a Kure failed a mission and died, the clan would simply send more until the target was erased. But this was a sanctioned underground match. They were competing as the affiliated fighters for Kyoto Municipal Bank; they were bound by the rules. Against the collective weight of the corporate underworld, the Kure Clan couldn’t afford to act recklessly.

…

Erioh slowly approached Yozora. He cast a heavy glance at Reiichi’s mangled corpse, let out a deep, weary sigh, and spoke.

“Thank you for showing mercy. He was the one who broke the rules.”

Truthfully, Erioh felt the young man had been exceedingly generous. If the roles were reversed—if Yozora’s joints had been shattered and he was left defenseless—would Reiichi have stopped? Would the blood-crazed Kure have waited for the referee?

Absolutely not.

Therefore, Yozora had given them enough face. Reiichi’s death was his own fault, a fatal consequence of his unstable psyche. Erioh also carried a heavy burden of guilt, knowing his own leniency toward the boy had paved the way for this tragedy.

“Great-Grandpa.”

Kure Karura, dressed in her crisp JK uniform, trotted over with a bright, entirely unbothered expression. She spoke as casually as if discussing the weather.

“Actually, the guy Reiichi picked a fight with last time was this same person. Before he left, he told me to make sure Reiichi got out of Kyoto as soon as possible. I even passed the message on to you, Great-Grandpa.”

Hearing Karura’s cheerful reminder, Erioh felt a sharp sting of shame.

This young man standing before him was barely out of his teens, yet he carried the magnanimous grace of a grandmaster. During their previous altercation, Yozora hadn’t gone for the kill. Instead, he had asked Karura to warn them, trying to defuse the situation before it escalated.

He must have seen the cracks in Reiichi’s mental state back then and wanted to avoid a lethal confrontation.

What was this, if not the highest caliber of martial virtue?

He had given the Kure Clan every possible chance.

Noticing the shift in her great-grandfather’s demeanor, Karura peeked out from behind Erioh’s broad back and flashed a cute, playful face at Yozora.

Initially, Yozora was mildly confused. Weren’t Reiichi and Karura relatives? He had just slaughtered her family member, so why was she actively smoothing things over for him?

Then the realization clicked into place.

Did a rabid dog like Reiichi really inspire familial warmth? Even within a clan of assassins, a lunatic entirely consumed by bloodlust with zero capacity for rational thought was a massive liability.

A madman wasn’t the scariest thing in the world. A madman with superhuman strength was.

Objectively speaking, by killing Reiichi, Yozora had essentially taken out the trash for the Kure Clan.

“Alright.”

Yozora had zero interest in exchanging pleasantries with an old assassin. He gave Karura a brief nod of acknowledgment, then turned on his heel and walked straight toward Haruno.

“Are you free tonight?”

A sudden flush of crimson bloomed across Haruno’s elegant face. The abruptness of the question left her completely flustered.

Weren’t you being a little too direct?

Naturally, Haruno was more than willing to spend the evening with him. The glaring issue was…

Her mother was standing right there!

Haruno frantically, yet subtly, gestured toward the imposing figure of Mrs. Yukinoshita standing just a few feet away.

“My mother is still here.”

“Oh, my apologies.” Yozora smiled, a picture of perfect, shameless politeness. He shifted his gaze to the matriarch of the Yukinoshita family. “Mother, would you care to join us? We could make it a three-person date.”

The entire VIP section plunged into a suffocating, absolute silence.

Haruno’s pupils shrank to pinpricks of pure shock.

Several agonizing seconds ticked by. Then, Mrs. Yukinoshita’s voice broke the quiet. Her tone was as noble and composed as ever, yet there was a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in it—a strange undercurrent that sounded genuinely tempted.

“I won’t be going tonight.”

Haruno exhaled a sharp breath of relief.

But a moment later, her brain processed the exact phrasing. Wait, what did that mean?

‘I won’t be going tonight’?

Did that imply she was open to the idea if her schedule was clear?!

“Alright, alright, let’s go, let’s go!” Haruno’s face was burning hot. Terrified of what else might come out of either of their mouths, she grabbed Yozora’s hand and practically dragged him into a sprint, fleeing the newly renovated Yukinoshita corporate building.

She didn’t stop until they were several hundred meters down the street, leaning against a wall and panting softly.

“Sigh… you really are something else.”

Once she caught her breath, Haruno looked up at Yozora, who was watching her with a lazy, half-amused smirk. She let out a helpless sigh.

Frowning slightly, she retrieved a silk handkerchief from her pocket. Rising onto her tiptoes, she leaned in close, carefully wiping the stray flecks of blood from his cheek and collar.

“How could you say something so outrageous? Calling my mother ‘Mother’ right to her face… I don’t even have the words.”

She was still reeling. Yozora’s sheer audacity was staggering, though upon reflection, it was perfectly in character for him. What truly shattered Haruno’s reality was that her mother had actually permitted her to leave with him.

That completely defied Mrs. Yukinoshita’s strict, controlling nature. Had Yozora’s abstract, unhinged logic short-circuited her brain before she could object?

“So, about tonight…” Haruno murmured, finishing her task. She flashed him a captivating, charming smile. “Are we heading back to a hotel?”

Yozora smiled back, his tone casual. “Actually, I have some business to take care of tonight.”

Haruno’s delicate brows knit together, a flash of genuine displeasure crossing her features. “Then what was the point of asking me out in front of all those people? Were you just teasing me?”

“Hey, what kind of accusation is that?” Yozora replied, feigning deep offense. “I figured you didn’t want to deal with the corporate vultures from Kyoto Municipal Bank, so I threw you a lifeline. Why are you biting the hand that feeds you?”

Haruno blinked, momentarily stunned.

He was right. She despised high-society networking, especially with entities like Kyoto Municipal Bank, whose superior status demanded endless, nauseating sycophancy. Being exceptionally good at wearing a mask didn’t mean she enjoyed it. Inwardly, her disgust for the political theater rivaled Yukino’s.

He really had saved her from a miserable evening.

“So, what I said when I was drunk the other night…” Haruno gently bit her lower lip. The desire in her eyes was undisguised as she looked up at him. “You remembered all of it. I thought you weren’t paying attention and were just humoring me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you, huh…” A cunning, predatory glint sparked in Haruno’s eyes. She smiled sweetly. “Then, how about dinner tomorrow night?”

Before Yozora could respond, Haruno leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. Her breath was warm as she whispered, “I bought a very sexy nightgown. And also, these next two days…”

“Are safe days.”

Yozora’s expression remained perfectly stoic, his heartbeat steady, but his words betrayed him instantly.

“Why didn’t you lead with that? See you tomorrow night.”

“You really are a pervert.”

“I try.”

Haruno chuckled, gave his shoulder a light pat, and turned to leave.

The free evening Yozora had carved out for her wouldn’t go to waste. Her primary goal in Kyoto was, of course, to check on her younger sister.

The Yukinoshita sisters were truly a painfully awkward pair. One loved her older sister fiercely but would rather die than admit it. The other quietly moved mountains to protect her younger sister’s stubborn independence, all while playing the villain.

Like mother, like daughters.

“Hmm… finally, some peace and quiet.”

Yozora stretched his arms above his head, letting out a lazy chuckle into the empty street. “It’s getting late, and I’m a bit bored. Might as well take a walk.”

He flagged down a passing taxi.

The moment the taillights faded into the distance, the shadows in the alleyway warped. Several small, grotesque creatures with bat-like wings and sharp beaks materialized from the darkness.

“Track his destination, then report back to Lord Gyuki immediately.”

“Understood.”

…

Half an hour later, on the desolate outskirts of Kyoto.

After parting with a painfully extortionate fare, Yozora stood before the familiar, dilapidated torii gates of the abandoned shrine.

“It’s raining.”

Feeling the cold drizzle against his skin, Yozora pulled out his phone and checked the time.

“Hmm… about an hour and fifteen minutes. To manipulate the weather across an entire city and sustain it for this long… her psychic output is genuinely impressive.”

Yozora found it difficult to accurately gauge Hina Amano’s psychic tier.

According to Rio Futaba’s working theory, psychics fell into four distinct tiers.

The first tier consisted of anomalies like himself and Light Yagami—individuals who spontaneously awakened the “Cognition” to see the supernatural and independently manifested their soul abilities without external catalysts.

The second tier included people like Miko Yotsuya, who possessed flawless “Observation” but required the right external pressure or guidance to awaken a physical manifestation.

The third tier was reserved for cases like Rio Futaba, who only met the “Observation” prerequisite through a bizarre alignment of coincidences before awakening.

The fourth tier was the bottom of the barrel—people like the Godmother and Old Man Oda. They were barely a step above ordinary humans; they were better off sticking to selling cheap trinkets and fake talismans.

So, where did Hina Amano fit?

The fact that she could forge a contract with a weather-controlling deity proved she possessed immense innate psychic potential. There was no debating that.

Yozora just wasn’t sure how much of the meteorological phenomena was her own raw talent, and how much was being subsidized by the deity.

However, one thing was absolutely certain.

Hina Amano’s contracted deity was in an entirely different league than the pathetic Golden Goat-Head squatting in this ruined shrine.

Hers was an ancient, primordial entity capable of altering the climate of all of Japan, one that had existed for centuries.

Just thinking about a spirit of that magnitude made Yozora’s mouth water. He literally had to wipe a bit of drool from his chin.

He strolled leisurely toward the main altar. The wooden offering box he had shattered into splinters during his last visit was still lying in sad, untouched pieces on the dirt.

“You really are pathetic.”

Yozora looked down at the Golden Goat-Head God, who was huddled next to its two fox-masked shrine maiden envoys. He shook his head in deep disappointment.

“How can you live like this? No one worships you. No one cares about you. What is even the point of playing god in this dump?”

The Goat-Head God remained dead silent.

It vividly remembered the last time it had opened its mouth. For every single word it spoke, it had received a brutal, soul-rattling slap to the face.

It was absolutely not falling for that trap again.

Smack!

The Pale Ghost Hand materialized from the void and delivered a thunderous backhand across the deity’s snout.

“Did you leave your fucking vocal cords at home?!”

The Goat-Head God froze, its grotesque, non-human face twisting into an expression of deep, agonizing injustice.

It got slapped for talking. It got slapped for not talking.

What kind of hellish existence was this?!

More, the deity didn’t dare retaliate. It kept its posture subservient and trembling, terrified to twitch a single muscle.

It could feel it. The human standing before it had grown exponentially more terrifying since their last encounter.

‘Am I moved? I don’t dare move. I absolutely do not dare move.’

Just then, a deep, authoritative male voice echoed from the darkness behind Yozora.

“So, the recent disturbances in Kyoto were indeed your doing.”

Yozora didn’t bother turning around. He simply pressed his palms together, casually offering a mock prayer to the empty shrine.

The Golden Goat-Head God watched from the dirt, bewildered. The actual resident deity had just been assaulted; who the hell was this psycho praying to?

It didn’t dare ask. If it asked, it would just get slapped again. Silence was survival.

Standing at the entrance of the shrine grounds were three distinct, inhuman figures.

At the forefront stood a stern, imposing man with long hair, his bangs obscuring the right side of his face. He radiated the heavy aura of a leader.

Flanking him was a diminutive, avian creature resembling a Karasu Tengu, gripping a monk’s Zen staff.

On his other side stood a handsome, seemingly ordinary blonde youth—until one noticed his head was entirely detached, floating a few inches above his neck. Kubinashi.

All three wore expressions of extreme, coiled vigilance, treating the human before them as a lethal threat. Their eyes occasionally darted toward the trembling Goat-Head God and its envoys in the corner.

Yozora finally turned around. He swept his gaze over the three yokai, let out a dry chuckle, and shook his head.

“Just the three of you? Nurarihyon didn’t bother showing up? I’m genuinely insulted.”

Hearing a mere human casually drop the name of the Nura Clan’s Supreme Commander, the stern-faced man—Gyuki, the ruthless head of the Nura Clan’s militant faction—narrowed his eyes. A cold, murderous glint surfaced in his gaze.

“We are here to invite you to accompany us,” Gyuki stated, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Our Lord has some questions for you.”

Yozora’s response was a sneer dripping with absolute contempt.

“Have you ever read Don Quixote?”

Gyuki remained silent, his grip tightening on his blade.

“Don Quixote strapped on rusted armor, grabbed a shield and a lance, and convinced himself he was a valiant knight. He then charged headfirst at a giant he had conjured in his own delusions—an immovable windmill.”

Gyuki’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Are you determined to fight us to the death? Let me give you a fair warning: we have investigated the people around you. Including the woman you just parted ways with. If you don’t want them to suffer, you will obediently come with—”

“You misunderstand.”

Yozora cut him off with a chilling smile.

A surge of raw, unadulterated malice flooded his eyes.

“You are Don Quixote. I am the giant you cannot hope to shake.”

“It truly took admirable courage for you to march into Kyoto and actively seek me out.” Yozora’s voice dropped to a sinister whisper. “Unfortunately, your courage is the only thing about you worth praising.”

As the final word left his lips, a torrent of pitch-black, malevolent spirit energy erupted from Yozora’s body.

The lingering bloodstains on his clothes evaporated into mist. In less than a heartbeat, his attire shifted, and the pure black mask materialized, sealing over his face.

Beneath the dark porcelain, his eyes burned with an intoxicating blend of bloodlust and euphoria.

Yozora extended his right arm. The Pale Ghost Hand manifested, its ghastly fingers closing around the hilt of the legendary demonic blade, Onimaru Kunitsuna, drawing it from the void.

High above, thick storm clouds swallowed the moon, plunging the shrine into absolute darkness.

The only thing Gyuki and his subordinates could see were Yozora’s eyes—burning through the dark like twin, jet-black flames of madness.

“Let’s see how much entertainment you can provide…” Yozora purred. “…before I rip you apart.”