A Day in the Life: The Oni
The Iron Alarm
The sun does not wake the Oni. The smell of brimstone does.
He opens his eyes—wide, bulging, and furious. His skin is the colour of dried blood, a deep, burnished red that seems to absorb the dim light of his cavern. Sitting up on his sleeping furs (piles of bear and tiger skins), he scratches his belly, which is as tough as boiled leather. He stands, revealing seven feet of muscle and malice. Two horns curve wicked and sharp from his forehead, scraping the low ceiling of the cave.
He grabs his breakfast: a wild boar, caught yesterday and left to age. He eats it raw, bones and all, the crunching sound echoing off the stone walls. He dresses in a loincloth of tiger skin—a status symbol that says he is a predator of predators—and straps iron greaves to his shins and heavy iron bracers to his forearms. Finally, he picks up his kanabo, a massive iron club studded with spikes that weighs as much as a man. He swings it experimentally, and the air hisses. Striding out of the cave, he looks down the mountain path where mist clings to the pine trees. It is a good day for discipline.
Patrol of the Pass
The Oni is not a mindless beast. He is a guardian. He owns this mountain. Every rock, every tree, every stream belongs to him.
He walks the mountain pass, his heavy footsteps leaving deep indentations in the dirt. Small yokai scatter as he approaches; a Kappa submerges in a stream, and a Tanuki disguised as a teapot trembles. They fear him. This is good. Fear is order.
He stops at a weathered wooden shrine built by humans to appease him. Inspecting the offerings—stale rice cakes, cheap sake, a few copper coins—he grunts in dissatisfaction. He picks up the stone statue of the guardian lion-dog and crushes it in one hand, dust drizzling from his fingers. He roars. The sound rolls down the valley like a landslide, a message to the village below: Do better.
Finding a fallen cedar tree blocking the path, he sets his shoulder against the trunk. Grunting, muscles bunching like coiled snakes, he heaves the entire tree over the cliff edge. It crashes into the ravine, splintering into matchsticks. The path is clear. His mountain is tidy.
The Intruder
He smells it on the wind. Iron. Sweat. Fear. A samurai.
The Oni smiles, his tusks gleaming. It has been months since a warrior was foolish enough to test him. He waits at the narrowest point of the pass, leaning on his kanabo like a bored gatekeeper. The human appears—young, wearing black lacquered armor, carrying a spear. He shouts a challenge, speaking of honor and duty.
The Oni yawns, picking at his teeth. The samurai charges, fast as quicksilver. The Oni does not dodge. He simply reaches out, catches the spear shaft, and stops the charge with one hand. He twists his wrist, snapping the spear. The samurai draws his sword and slashes, drawing a trickle of black blood from the Oni's leg. The Oni laughs—a deep, rumbling sound. He enjoys the pain; it makes him feel alive. He swings the kanabo low, sweeping the samurai’s legs out from under him. Stepping on the man’s chest, he pins him with the weight of a mountain. Leaning down, he breathes the smell of sake and old blood over the human. "Not today," the Oni rumbles. "Go back. Tell them the Demon King is awake. Tell them to send better sake."
The Sake Feast
The moon is full. The Oni sits by a fire outside his cave, holding a barrel of high-quality sake stolen from a merchant caravan. He breaks the lid open with his thumb and drinks deeply, the liquid burning a pleasant trail down his throat. He eats a bag of plums, spitting the pits into the fire.
Other shadows gather—a Tengu dropping from the pines, smaller goblins creeping closer. The Oni grunts and gestures to the wagon: Take. They scamper forward. The Tengu sits opposite him, accepting a bowl of sake. They drink in silence, watching the moon. They are the monsters of the stories, the nightmares of the village below. But up here, amidst the rocks and the wind, they are brothers, key holders of the wild places.
The Oni drains the barrel and burps—a sound like a thunderclap. He lies back on the stone, closing his eyes. Tomorrow, he might eat a monk. Or he might sleep until noon. It is good to be the King.
