Anime Crossover: Eating Evil in a Daily World — Chapter 111

Chapter 111: The Nurarihyon Displays His Strength, The Exorcist’s Unlimited Blade Works

A deafening blast shattered the night.

As Yozora pulled the trigger, the shotgun bucked violently in his grip. Dozens of dark steel beads erupted from the barrel, tearing through the air straight toward Nurarihyon. With his calf previously pierced by a bullet, the yokai commander should have been entirely incapable of dodging such a wide spread at close range.

Yet, in the face of almost certain death, both he and Gyuki in the distance simultaneously curled their lips into meaningful smiles.

“I found an opportunity,” Nurarihyon whispered.

His wide kimono fluttered. A sudden flurry of illusory cherry blossom petals swirled into existence, and in the blink of an eye, his physical form vanished from the spot, leaving the steel pellets to punch through empty air.

“Underestimating the Commander…” Gyuki let out a long, heavy sigh of relief as he watched Nurarihyon instantly materialize directly behind Yozora, the legendary blade Nenekirimaru already poised to plunge into the exorcist’s back. “…will come at a painful price.”

The sluggishness and pain Nurarihyon had displayed after taking that pistol shot earlier had been a complete fabrication.

In the countless legends woven through Japan’s history, the Supreme Commander of the yokai was never feared for his brute strength, but for his unmatched cunning and elusive agility. Feigning weakness to draw the enemy into a false sense of security, only to deliver a single, fatal strike from the blind spot. This was the essence of the Nurarihyon.

Had Yozora fired bullets purely condensed from evil spirit power, the damage to a yokai of his caliber would have been severe. But the weapon in his hands was merely a standard Metropolitan Police Department firearm. The physical trauma inflicted by ordinary metal could be healed by a great yokai in less than a breath. If that were not the case, the yokai race would have been wiped out centuries ago by simple human armies firing volleys of arrows.

Nurarihyon was, after all, an old man. He no longer possessed the endless stamina of his youth to fight for days on end. Ending the battle in one decisive stroke was the most logical approach.

Clang.

Just as the tip of Nenekirimaru was a hairsbreadth away from piercing Yozora’s spine, the dark blade of Onimaru Kunitsuna suddenly ripped itself from the scabbard at his waist. The cursed sword snapped horizontally through the air, perfectly parrying the inevitable assassination strike.

Nurarihyon quickly bounded backward, putting several paces between them. He stared at the hovering blade, his grip tightening on his own hilt. He had never expected his flawless counterattack to be thwarted in such a bizarre manner. The human had both hands occupied with the shotgun. To block that strike, he would have needed to drop the gun, draw his sword, and perfectly calculate the trajectory of an attack he could not even see.

Nurarihyon had accurately judged that Yozora surpassed him in raw spiritual energy and destructive power, while he held the absolute advantage in instantaneous speed and technique. But no amount of centuries-old wisdom could have predicted that Onimaru Kunitsuna would act on its own to protect its master.

Was it some advanced sword control technique?

Yozora casually turned around, his eyes locking onto the yokai commander. “You disguised it well. But unfortunately, you overlooked one crucial detail.”

“What detail?”

“Don’t underestimate the bond between me and Onimaru Kunitsuna.”

Nurarihyon felt a headache coming on. They were in the middle of a life-or-death struggle. Why was this human spouting such passionate, dramatic lines? It made Yozora sound like a righteous hero, which inadvertently framed Nurarihyon as the villain.

Wait. He had just led hundreds of nightmarish creatures, including a subordinate known for slaughtering humans, to invade the city of Kyoto.

Am I the villain? Nurarihyon thought, his expression turning somewhat complicated.

“You are very strong,” Yozora said. He allowed the black shotgun to dissolve into mist, extending his right hand to grasp the hilt of the floating Onimaru Kunitsuna. “I am very satisfied.”

Nurarihyon’s movements and sword strikes were terrifyingly fast. So fast that the old adage about guns beating swords at a distance completely lost its meaning. Against an opponent who could cross the gap in a heartbeat, holding a bulky firearm with both hands was practically begging to be sliced to pieces.

Seeing Yozora discard the gun and take up a proper stance with the cursed blade, Nurarihyon abandoned all pretense of relaxation. He stared at the pitch-black steel of Onimaru Kunitsuna, his voice dropping to a serious register.

“You… actually gained Onimaru Kunitsuna’s recognition? And you even managed to fuse your own bizarre power into its steel?”

“Your phrasing is incorrect.” Yozora shook his head, repeating the exact sentiment he had once shared with Yagami Soichiro. “It is not that I gained Onimaru Kunitsuna’s recognition. It is that Onimaru Kunitsuna gained my recognition. Do not reverse the primary and secondary relationship.”

Yozora leveled the dark blade, his left hand gently trailing along the cold metal. A faint smile touched his lips.

“In the half-month it has been with me, the evil spirits it has devoured far outnumber everything it had slain in its entire existence combined. A sword meant to butcher evil spirits naturally belongs in the hands of the one who butchers them best. What do you think, Old Deng Nura?”

Nurarihyon let out a quiet breath, feeling utterly speechless. The kid used polite honorifics while simultaneously calling him by a ridiculous street nickname. This human was an absolute anomaly.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the shrine grounds, Miko and Futaba were locked in a chaotic struggle alongside Hachishaku, the Golden Goat-Head God, and the two Kitsune Face God Envoys. They were holding the line against hundreds of screeching yokai from the Nura Clan.

Despite the overwhelming numbers, the most dangerous threat among them, Gyuki, remained entirely paralyzed.

Having been seized by the Pale Ghost Hand for over twenty minutes, Gyuki felt a suffocating, unnatural chill burrowing deep into his marrow. His massive body trembled uncontrollably. He could not comprehend the nature of the entity that had gripped him. It did not feel like a mere technique. It felt as though his very soul was being stripped bare and scrutinized by an unfathomable existence from a higher plane of reality. It was a psychological torture far worse than physical death.

“Hone-Onna!” Futaba called out over the din of battle.

The skeletal woman in the loose kimono immediately reacted. Dozens of stark white bones erupted from her body, interlocking to form a dense, calcified shield just in time to intercept Kubinashi’s flying assault. The headless yokai’s attack merely scraped against the bone barrier, failing to reach Futaba.

Miko simply called out Futaba’s name.

Futaba nodded, her analytical mind already in sync. “Got it.”

A massive, jagged bone spike nearly two meters long slid out from the depths of Hone-Onna’s kimono. Futaba grabbed it and tossed it directly to Miko.

Catching the heavy projectile, Miko shifted her stance, drawing her arm back like an Olympic javelin thrower.

“Come, Hyakume,” she whispered.

The moment the words left her lips, a grotesque eye pattern manifested across her fair right wrist. Deep within her golden pupils, a vibrant crimson hue bled into the iris, looking like liquid rubies threaded through gold. It was a beautiful, heart-stopping display of dangerous power.

Miko hurled the bone spike. The projectile tore through the air with a vicious shriek.

“Watch out!” Kubinashi’s eyes widened in shock. Without a second thought, he retracted his floating head and rapidly intertwined the thick, supernatural strings of his neck to form a desperate defensive net.

In the span of a single breath, the momentum of the battlefield completely inverted.

This was the highly coordinated tactical formation developed by Futaba and Miko. Though to look at the calm, focused expressions of the two girls, one would think they were simply running a routine drill.

Miko, possessing far greater spiritual power and actual combat experience, had already learned to partially merge with her spirit avatars, much like Yozora. Futaba had not yet reached that level of synchronization. However, the chief brain of the Supernatural Society had her own distinct advantages.

Hone-Onna boasted superior raw combat power compared to Hyakume. Her bone spikes could be detached and used as physical weapons, carrying a natural suppressive aura against supernatural entities. Futaba had designed this exact tactic to maximize their efficiency. It kept Hone-Onna close to protect Futaba’s fragile human body, while providing devastating medium-to-long-range ammunition for Miko, who acted as the primary artillery.

Coupled with Hachishaku serving as a terrifyingly durable, loyal meat shield at the front lines, it was a flawless defensive and offensive loop. Compared to Yozora’s habit of wandering off to fight alone, these two girls and their spirits operated as a true, cohesive unit.

The bone spike slammed into Kubinashi’s string shield with the force of an artillery shell. The resulting shockwave sent dozens of lesser yokai tumbling backward across the dirt.

The Golden Goat-Head God reared up to its full, towering height, letting out a deafening, triumphant roar to intimidate the recovering horde.

Before the echo could fade, a thoroughly unimpressed voice drifted over the battlefield.

“Stop faking it. Get to work when it’s time to work.”

Hearing Yozora’s dry command, the terrifying Goat-Head God instantly shrank in on itself, lowering its massive shoulders and looking utterly docile, like a domesticated puppy caught barking at the mailman.

Having confirmed that Miko and Futaba were perfectly fine, Yozora turned his attention back to the yokai commander standing a short distance away.

“So, do you still have the energy to continue?”

Nurarihyon offered a cold scoff. His youthful, muscular physique suddenly withered, shrinking back down into the hunched form of an old man. Without a word, he spun on his heel and darted away into the shadows of the trees.

Watching the old yokai flee, Yozora shook his head, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “Still acting, even now. Truly worthy of the Nurarihyon title.”

Since his opponent was so dedicated to the performance, Yozora decided to play along. He dashed after the retreating figure. The two blurred through the forest, covering nearly three hundred meters before arriving at a desolate, empty clearing far behind the main shrine.

“This should be far enough, right?” Yozora asked, his tone completely devoid of exertion or surprise.

Nurarihyon slowed to a halt. He slowly turned around, his hunched back straightening as his flesh expanded, once again taking on the imposing, handsome visage of his prime.

“It seems you think the same as this old man,” Nurarihyon said, his voice dropping an octave.

Yozora smiled, his fingers tightening slightly around the hilt of Onimaru Kunitsuna. “Just the ambient shockwaves of our clash would be unbearable for the ordinary yokai of your clan. And naturally, I prefer not to risk my own people getting caught in the crossfire.”

Yozora stared directly into Nurarihyon’s eyes, his voice turning razor-sharp. “Which means… you are going to start getting serious now, right?”

“Just as you thought.”

Nurarihyon took a slow, deep breath, letting his eyelids fall shut. When they snapped open a second later, his golden-brown pupils burned with an ancient, terrifying sharpness. It was the exact same gaze that had severed the head of the great yokai Hagoromo Gitsune centuries ago.

“This is the Nurarihyon I wanted to see.” Genuine excitement finally bled into Yozora’s voice.

A soft breeze rustled the grass.

In the very next fraction of a second, Nurarihyon was already standing directly in front of Yozora, his kimono billowing wildly from the displaced air.

An oppressive, suffocating aura erupted from the yokai commander, so heavy it felt difficult to even look directly at him. The surrounding air currents violently shifted direction, bending to his will. The very atmosphere of the clearing seemed to become his personal domain, the wind howling in perfect synchronization with the trajectory of his blade.

“Interesting,” Yozora noted calmly.

He raised Onimaru Kunitsuna to meet the descending strike.

Boom.

This was no longer the crisp, ringing sound of clashing steel. It was a thunderous, bone-rattling detonation, like two freight trains colliding head-on.

Nenekirimaru and Onimaru Kunitsuna ground against each other. The sheer kinetic force of the impact shattered the earth beneath their feet, sending a massive cloud of pulverized stone and dust exploding into the night sky.

Nurarihyon did not pause for breath. Because his rejuvenated state was only temporary, he was fighting against the clock. He needed to end this immediately.

“Mirror of Tranquil Waters…”

With an impossibly agile slide, Nurarihyon vanished from the blade lock, reappearing instantly on Yozora’s unprotected left side. A brilliant, scorching flame ignited along the length of Nenekirimaru.

“…Slash.”

Facing the blazing arc of the legendary blade, the smile vanished from Yozora’s face. He raised his empty left arm and spoke a single word.

“Shield.”

Thick, viscous black mist surged from his sleeve, instantly solidifying into a massive, heavy tower shield.

The flaming edge of Nenekirimaru slammed into the dark construct.

For a brief moment, the clearing fell dead silent. The only sound was the violent crackling of supernatural fire trying to consume the condensed evil spirit power.

Less than two seconds later, the flames on Nenekirimaru flared with blinding intensity. Nurarihyon’s golden-brown eyes glowed like embers in the dark.

With a guttural roar, the yokai commander forced the blade forward. The impenetrable black shield was violently torn open, a massive gash splitting it down the center. The flaming sword bypassed the defense entirely, carving a deadly path straight toward Yozora’s neck.

Nurarihyon expected the human to retreat. Instead, Yozora did something utterly beyond understanding.

He simply raised his left arm, using his own flesh and bone to horizontally block the impossibly sharp, fire-wreathed steel.

The heavy black shield had failed to stop the Mirror of Tranquil Waters. The protective black clothing formed from the Mask’s power offered no resistance. Nenekirimaru sliced cleanly through Yozora’s forearm, burying itself deep into the limb until it finally lodged against the dense, unyielding bone.

“Ah, that hurts,” Yozora said.

Any normal human would have been screaming on the ground, their face contorted in absolute agony, drowning in cold sweat.

Nurarihyon stared at Yozora’s incredibly calm, slightly amused expression. He listened to the serene, conversational tone of his voice, and a deep frown creased the yokai’s forehead.

Is this guy a monster?

A mere human, taking a crippling, burning strike directly to the bone, and he didn’t even let out a grunt of pain? What kind of terrifying willpower was this?

“It hurts too much. It’s a bone injury.” Yozora looked down at his ruined left arm, casually assessing the damage as if inspecting a scratch on a car door.

Then, he made a move that would be burned into Nurarihyon’s memory for the rest of his immortal life.

“Forget it. I’ll just get another one.”

Yozora released his grip on Onimaru Kunitsuna, letting the sword hover beside him. He reached over with his right hand, the Pale Ghost Hand, and clamped his fingers down hard onto his own left shoulder.

Crack.

With a sickening sound of snapping bone and tearing sinew, Yozora violently ripped his entire left arm out of its socket. He casually tossed the bleeding, severed limb onto the dirt.

Nurarihyon froze, his mind struggling to process the sight. What was he doing? Self-mutilation? Was this the activation requirement for some dark, forbidden ritual?

But then the black mist appeared.

A dense, swirling vortex of dark energy erupted from the gaping wound at Yozora’s shoulder. In the span of a single breath, the mist solidified, weaving muscle, bone, and skin back together. The black clothing and glove, manifested from his power, instantly draped over the newly formed limb, leaving it looking as though it had never been touched.

“Oh, right.” Yozora glanced down at the severed arm lying in the dirt. “Can’t waste it. And I shouldn’t leave any traceable evidence lying around.”

He opened his mouth slightly. Had Miko or Futaba been present, they would have instantly recognized the terrifying suction force that followed.

The discarded arm dissolved into a stream of black mist, flowing upward and directly into Yozora’s stomach.

Nurarihyon, the Supreme Commander of all yokai, a being who had lived for centuries and witnessed countless horrors, stood completely paralyzed by shock.

What kind of monster is this?!

Instantaneous limb regeneration? Ripping off his own body parts just to eat them?!

Are you seriously telling me this thing is human?

He acts more like a yokai than an actual yokai!

“The taste is still acceptable.” Yozora rolled his new shoulder, looking up at the dumbfounded commander with a soft chuckle. “You haven’t seen this before, have you?”

He reached out, plucking the hovering Onimaru Kunitsuna from the air.

“Let me show you something even more interesting.”

Before Nurarihyon could process the threat, Yozora turned into a blur of black motion, sprinting back toward the main shrine.

Nurarihyon didn’t have the luxury of hesitation. He immediately gave chase. With that human’s absurd strength and bizarre regenerative abilities, if he were allowed to run rampant among the ordinary yokai of the Nura Clan, it would be a one-sided slaughter. As their commander, he absolutely could not let that happen.

By the time the two of them burst back into the main courtyard, the battlefield had shifted.

The once-majestic Golden Goat-Head God was now semi-transparent, its massive form flickering in and out of reality, clearly exhausted. Hachishaku’s pale skin was marred by several deep, lingering wounds that had yet to heal.

But Miko and Futaba? Aside from the heavy rise and fall of their chests from exertion, the two girls didn’t have a single scratch on them.

The spirits were not stupid. They knew they could regenerate from almost any injury. But if they allowed even a single hair on the heads of the two main wives to be harmed, how would they ever explain it to Yozora? They would be swallowed alive before the night was over.

“I figured you could only hold out until now,” Yozora murmured, assessing the scene.

Kyoto was a high-level battleground. It was entirely unrealistic to expect Miko, Futaba, and their handful of spirits to completely wipe out hundreds of elite Nura Clan yokai. The fact that they had held the line perfectly until his return was more than enough proof of their growth.

Nurarihyon slid his sword back into its scabbard. The youthful vigor drained from his limbs, his body reverting back to the hunched, wrinkled form of an old man. He still had some fight left in him, but it was glaringly obvious that Yozora had barely even warmed up.

“Now, can we talk?” Nurarihyon rasped.

Ignoring the hundreds of hostile yokai surrounding them, Yozora calmly dismissed Onimaru Kunitsuna, letting the blade vanish into mist. He looked at the old commander standing a few paces away.

“Didn’t I say I wanted to show you something?”

Before Nurarihyon could formulate a response, Yozora continued, his voice echoing clearly across the suddenly quiet courtyard.

“I told you earlier that any weapon I understand the structure of can be condensed using my power.”

Yozora slowly raised his right hand toward the heavens, his tone dropping into a chilling, deadpan calm.

“But there is one thing I forgot to mention. I can condense more than just one weapon at a time.”

The moment the words left his lips, the hundreds of yokai, along with Miko and Futaba, felt a sudden, suffocating shadow fall over them. The moonlight vanished.

Everyone instinctively tilted their heads upward, and a collective wave of absolute dread washed over the courtyard.

Swords, spears, lances, heavy broadswords, towering shields, recurve bows, spiked chains, meteor hammers, long-handled battle axes, and even complex halberds.

Thousands upon thousands of cold, medieval weapons, all forged from condensed, pitch-black evil spirit power, hovered silently in the sky above the shrine. They blotted out the stars, forming a metallic canopy so dense that only the faintest slivers of moonlight managed to bleed through the gaps.

Without anyone noticing how he had moved, Yozora was now standing at the very peak of the shrine’s main roof.

He looked down at the paralyzed Nura Clan, slowly spreading his arms wide. Framed against the backdrop of thousands of levitating, pitch-black blades, his dark clothing and the featureless black Mask created an image of overwhelming, god-like oppression.

“This is my exclusive…”

Yozora’s voice drifted down from the sky, cold and absolute.

“…Unlimited Blade Works.”