Murphy’s Gambit

The junket swayed, its hull creaking like an old man’s knees, the scent of brine thick in the night air. Murphy sat in the shadows of the stern, legs folded, arms resting on his knees. He had spent most of the voyage below deck in the stinking hole—curled in the dark like a mongrel, hiding from the crew, from the sun, from the world. The captain wanted nothing to do with him. A filthy goblin offshoot. A bastard race. A thing not meant for civilized places.

But now, the voyage was over.

Sakana Cove stretched before him—a city of fishmongers and sailors, of salt-stained wood and lantern-lit alleys. Boats rocked in the harbor, their nets dripping, their hulls scarred by barnacles and toil. Wooden houses stacked atop each other like crooked teeth, their rooftops heavy with drying fish. Narrow streets snaked between them, damp and reeking of the tide. Torches flickered in the doorways of izakayas, the scent of grilled eel curling into the evening breeze.

Murphy disembarked, boots thudding against the dock.

Eyes turned toward him, darting quick as rats before scurrying away. Goblins or their kin were uncommon in these parts. He felt it in every sideways glance, in every muttered word. They saw the scars, the roughness. But they did not see the kindness beneath. Not that it mattered.

One man did not look away.

Tengukensei stood on the pier, his silk robes ruffling in the wind. A warrior’s stance, hands folded behind his back, eyes sharp as whetted steel. He had been waiting for someone—Sachiko—but she never arrived. His gaze lingered on Murphy, reading him in an instant. A curiosity, nothing more. Then, just as quick, he turned and vanished into the streets.

Murphy grunted and shouldered his pack. He did not trust townspeople. He had heard whispers that his kitsune mask—his one treasured possession—might have come from the mountains to the east. That was where he would go.

---

The town hummed around him, full of men enslaved to routine, lost in the drudgery of life. Merchants bartered, voices sharp and demanding. Farmers hauled baskets of soybeans, their faces worn and empty. A group of travelers laughed over rice wine, ignorant of the passage of time.

Murphy shook his head. This world was not made for his kind.

On the road through town, three warriors, passed by, they loomed rougher than even him. One astride a horse, the other two riding a supply-laden wagon. They reeked of blood, sweat, and steel—mercenaries, killers. Yet, it was not them that drew Murphy’s full attention. Trailing behind the wagon, a small woman walked, her delicate feet padding along the dirt road. Her blue and yellow sakura-patterned dress was torn, but her bearing was regal. A scroll hung from her neck, dangling from a leather cord, a rope binding her wrists. But it was her eyes that arrested Murphy—the deepest blue he had ever seen, burning with defiance despite her chains. She met his gaze. She said nothing. Murphy’s fists clenched. He knew what it was to be bound, to be less than human in the eyes of men. His lip curled in disgust. But he did not speak. He did not need trouble. He grunted at the warriors, and they nodded back—acknowledging him as one of their kind, a drifter hardened by the road. And then they passed, their wagon creaking, the girl’s silent stare lingering behind them. Murphy exhaled, shaking his head.

The landscape shifted as he left the town center. Wooden homes gave way to sprawling rice paddies, their water shimmering beneath the setting sun. The smell of damp earth and growing things filled the air. Thin dirt paths wove between the fields, where farmers bent low, their straw hats swaying with each careful step. Beyond the paddies, groves of soybeans stretched toward the horizon, their leaves whispering in the wind. Birds darted between the stalks, quick shadows against the fading light.

The mountains loomed ahead. The wilderness taking over where man had relented.

---

Murphy followed the road into the hills, the air growing thin, the land growing wild. Trees gnarled and ancient crowded the path, their roots thick and sprawling. The scent of pine and wet stone filled his lungs. Crickets hummed, their chorus merging with the distant howl of some unseen beast.

One mountain stood above the rest. Mt. Kirama.

It commanded the landscape, its peak wrapped in eternal snow, its presence heavy with unseen power. It was no ordinary mountain. It had a spirit. A will. Murphy could feel it, deep in his bones.

As night fell, the road narrowed. The world was silent but for his footsteps crunching against the dirt. Then, in the darkness ahead, he saw the glow of a campfire.

A wagon rested just off the path, its bullock grazing lazily in the tall grass. Two men sat on logs around the fire, a boar slowly roasting over the low flames, its juices hissing as they dripped into the embers. The scent curled into Murphy’s nostrils—rich, fatty, irresistible.

One of the men saw him and let out a yell.

“Hey, stranger! Come join us! The road is long, and men like us should stick together.”

Murphy hesitated. But hunger gnawed at him, and he had learned that sometimes, a friendly fire was safer than a lonely road.

He stepped closer, but something caught his eye.

Tied to the wagon’s wheel, head bowed, silent and still—was the girl.

She lifted her head, and Murphy’s breath caught.

Her eyes.

Deepest blue. Unbroken. Unafraid.

Murphy’s stomach twisted. An outcast all his life, he had seen suffering. He had endured it. But this—this was worse.

He grunted, turning back to the men. They nodded at him, oblivious.

---

He sat across from them, gnawing at a chunk of boar meat. The men talked—loud, careless. They were mercenaries, retainers of some priest. The girl was their burden. Their duty.

“She’s a beast,” one sneered. “A curse. Filth that should be culled.”

The other laughed. “Good to look at, though. Nice little bird. But dangerous.”

Murphy’s grip on his meat tightened. His blood ran hot.

Then, Stargen—the larger of the two—stood.

He ripped the hind leg of the boar straight from the fire, meat sizzling, fat dripping. Staggering toward the girl, he grinned.

Murphy’s pulse pounded.

“Watch this,” Stargen chuckled. And he swung.

The meat club smashed against the girl’s face.

And yet—she did not flinch.

Her head remained still, eyes locked on Stargen. Unbroken. Unyielding.

Something inside Murphy snapped.

"NO!"

He was on his feet before he knew it, fist closing around Stargen’s throat. The mercenary gasped, clawing at Murphy’s grip. Murphy yanked the meat from his hand—and cracked the thick bone across his skull.

Stargen collapsed.

The second mercenary lunged, blade flashing in the firelight. “You goblin bastard!”

Murphy caught his wrist, twisted hard—a snap, a scream, a body hitting the dirt.

Silence.

Murphy turned.

The girl looked up at him, her deep blue eyes boring into his soul. She smiled.

Free.

He reached out, tore the scroll from her neck. It pulsed blue—then burst into flames.

Behind him—the sound of hooves.

The third warrior had returned charged.

Murphy turned—too slow. The horse struck him full-force, ribs crunching, breath gone. The world twisted, the ground vanished. He hit the dirt and everything went black.

The Oni Awakens

The moment Murphy tore the scroll from the girl's neck, a deep hum filled the air, like the vibrating strings of some cursed instrument. The scroll glowed an unnatural blue in his palm before combusting into a brilliant burst of ghostly flame, leaving only the scent of scorched parchment and something ancient, something wrong.

The girl—Sachiko—tilted her head, inhaling deeply as if tasting the air for the first time in centuries. A slow, wicked smile crept across her lips.

Behind them, the thunder of hooves roared closer.

The third warrior—the leader—charged, his katana raised high, his horse snarling with exertion. "FILTH!" he bellowed, aiming to cleave Murphy in two.

But Murphy never saw the strike. The horse slammed into him like a cannonball, his ribs crunching with a sickening pop, his breath vanishing in a painful whoosh. The world blurred and twisted as he hit the dirt, the impact rattling his skull. Stars. Spinning. Darkness closing in.

His last vision was not of the sword falling but of the small, black-haired girl walking forward, unshaken.

And then, the nightmare began.

---

The Transformation

Sachiko stopped in the horse’s path, her delicate frame unnervingly still as the beast bore down on her. She smiled. A flicker of delight.

Then—

A crack of flesh splitting apart.

Her petite form convulsed, her shoulders wrenching backward as her skin deepened from pale ivory to a vibrant, hellish blue. Her body stretched, rippled, muscle swelling beneath her torn silk dress, delicate features warping into something monstrous. Her small horns thickened, lengthening like jagged blades of obsidian, curving wickedly over her skull.

The dainty fabric of her sakura-colored dress shredded as her body expanded, revealing corded sinew and raw, pulsating strength. Her once-slender arms were now thick with inhuman power, veins glowing faintly with an inner blue fire. Her nails elongated into jet-black talons, fingertips cracking as her hands became weapons.

The charging warrior barely had time to register the demonic horror before him.

Sachiko’s hand shot out.

She caught the horse by the throat mid-gallop, her fingers sinking into its flesh like steel hooks. The beast screamed, its momentum shattering against her grip. With a single, titanic heave, she whipped the massive animal off its feet, its rider still saddled.

The horse soared through the air like a ragdoll before slamming into the earth, its spine folding backward with a grotesque snap. The warrior beneath it gave a brief, gurgled shriek before his own ribcage exploded under the weight of his dying steed.

Sachiko grinned.

The two remaining mercenaries stood frozen, their weapons halfway drawn.

Then the scent hit them.

Burning hair. The iron tang of blood. The stench of death.

And something else.

The smell of their own piss.

---

The Oni’s Wrath

"Y-you— you’re a cursed thing!" one of them stammered, his voice cracking.

Sachiko's burning blue gaze locked onto them. She reached down, gripping the massive skewer that once held the roasting boar, its wooden shaft still dripping with grease and flame-kissed fat.

She wrenched it from the fire. The boar, its charred flesh tearing, slid off the stake and landed in the dirt with a wet thud.

The flaming spear was in her hands now.

The mercenaries panicked. One finally screamed, swinging his sword wildly in desperation.

Sachiko moved too fast.

With one monstrous stride, she was on him. She caught his wrist mid-swing, squeezing until bone crunched like dry twigs. His scream cut short as she wrenched his arm clean from its socket, the sword still clutched in dead fingers. Blood sprayed, painting the dirt crimson.

The man dropped to his knees, gasping, his mind still trying to comprehend his missing limb.

Sachiko didn’t give him the chance.

With a guttural snarl, she rammed the skewer straight through his open mouth, driving it out the back of his skull. His head snapped back, the skewer pinning him to the wagon like a grotesque festival decoration.

The last man—the one who had first greeted Murphy at the fire—stumbled backward, his face ashen. He dropped his weapon.

"Please," he whispered.

Sachiko snorted.

She grabbed the wagon itself, flipping it over with a single heave. The man tried to run, but the wooden frame crashed down, crushing him beneath it. His legs kicked weakly, only his trembling boots visible.

Sachiko stood among the carnage, steam rising from her sweat-slicked, blue skin, her breath slow and deliberate. Her once-delicate fingers were now caked in blood, her ruined dress fluttering in the wind.

She turned toward the unconscious man a stranger in goblin gear.

A frown.

She knelt.

Sachiko reached down and, with surprising gentleness, lifted** his fallen red headband ** from Murphy’s battered face.

Then she stood.

Her massive form began to shrink, bones compressing, monstrous sinew dissolving. Within moments, the towering Oni was gone, replaced once more by the small, delicate woman in the tattered silk dress.

She smirked, turning away from the firelit ruin of bodies.

Her bare feet left bloody imprints in the dirt as she vanished into the trees.

---

Morning After

Murphy awoke to the sound of morning birdsong. His ribs ached, and his head felt like it had been used for sword practice.

Painfully, he pushed himself upright—and froze.

The camp was a ruin of death.

The rider lay in the dirt, a mangled pulp, his horse’s shattered corpse hanging from the canopy of a nearby tree like some grotesque offering to the gods.

The second warrior was still skewered to the wagon, his dead eyes staring through the flames that had long since died.

The last man’s legs still jutted from beneath the flipped wagon, his boots caked in mud and his final piss.

Murphy sat silent, trying to piece it together.

Then, movement caught his eye.

Near the cold fire, in the dirt, something was written in delicate script:

"Arigatou."

Next to it, a single blue flower.

Murphy exhaled, rubbing his sore ribs. He looked into the fire amazingly the Boars roasted leg lay charred in the coals he reached over, grabbing the discarded meat and tore off a chunk.

He chewed slowly.

Then he smiled.

Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3