The Four Poles Array is an ancient, parasitic technique designed to bridge the gap between common warriors and master warriors capable of setting up Kekkai using their own powers. It requires four distinct conduits, each representing a different elemental aspect: Air, Water, Fire, and Earth.
Once deployed, the natural flow of the world's Reiryoku is forcibly redirected. All the potential, all the raw energy of the three conduits, will be redirected into the central node in this case, that would be Wabonoske.
Wabonoske was born with a weak constitution since birth. A priest had once said that his limit as a warrior would be second rank, and he should give up the path. When he underwent a demonic transformation, he reached the Second Grade instantly. But with the Four Poles, his strength had surged into the Fourth Grade, one grade higher than Yorimitsu currently is.
Had he been sane, he could have crushed Omaru's skull with a single thought. But with madness eating away at him. He didn't want a quick kill; he wanted to taste Omaru's terror.
"This is bad... I have to finish it now," Omaru thought, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I don't have much Reiryoku left. If I waste another drop on defence, I won't have enough to trigger the ritual."
He looked at the battlefield.
"The bamboo stake I threw is jammed into the West. The first statue I marked in the East."
Omaru's eyes darted to the North and South.
"I only need two more poles," he whispered, his hand sliding toward a pouch at his chest.
Doom!
It was a fundamental sensation, its cellular vibration that pulsed through Omaru's marrow. Every nerve ending, every drop of blood in his veins screamed a single, desperate command:
Run.
Within half a heartbeat, Wabonoske was there.
He stood directly in front of Omaru. He was taller now, his frame lean and predatory. His black hair had grown into a wild, tangled mane that swept the forest floor.
"Oho..."
Omaru collapsed. He clutched his chest, his heart beating in a ragged, choppy staccato that felt like it would tear through his ribs.
"Waaaaaahhhhhh!"
A violent surge of bile and blood erupted from his throat, splattering the dirt. His vision swam. Through the haze, he slowly raised his head to look at the thing wearing his friend's skin. Wabonoske was grinning with a wide, frantic expression of absolute, lustful ecstasy.
Shhtsspt!
The familiar, maternal warmth of the Omamori washed over him again. It was the only reason his heart didn't stop entirely. It gave him just enough strength to claw his way back to his feet, even as absolute terror turned his bones to ice.
CRACK!
SPLATTTTT!
Ta... ta... ta... ta...
The sound of dripping liquid rhythmically hitting the dry bamboo leaves was the only noise in the clearing. Omaru blinked, his mind sluggish and detached. He looked to his left.
His hand was gone.
The arm simply ended in a jagged, red ruin. His brain, still trapped in the shock of the speed, hadn't even registered the blow. He reached over with his right hand to touch his left shoulder, searching for the limb that should have been there, but his fingers found only the warm, slick flow of his own life spilling onto the ground.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
A raw, primal cry tore from his throat, a sound of pure agony that shattered the silence of the shrine.
"Hehehehehehe!"
The demon's sadistic laughter rose to meet the scream, drowning it out. Wabonoske stood there, watching the blood pool at Omaru's feet, savouring the moment he had been waiting for.
"Fuck… fuck… fuck! It hurts! It hurts so much! Why am I here?!"
The scream in Omaru's head was louder than the one that had left his throat. As the blood continued to rhythmically hit the leaves, a frail memory slipped back in his head.
"Ha, I never met her, would I be here now?"
Omaru's journey out of the temple started during the long, monotonous days of transcribing texts. A young girl named Fujiwara no Tuura had come to the temple with her family for a washing ritual. For a few brief days, the stone walls of the temple had felt like they were made of light. They formed a bond, the kind that a simple monk and a girl from a great clan should never have.
"You sure are good friends with my sister, ha sconcheon Omaru?"
Omaru's heart had doubled its beat at the sound of that voice.
"Arikuni-dono?!"
"Hahaha, no need to fret. I'm not trying to get you in trouble. I'm just observing..." Arikuni had offered a kind smile, or at least, that is what Omaru had believed then.
"You know, if you want to see her again, you can come to Heian-kyō and become a Hiko warrior. With enough accolades and money, you could join our clan as one of the Fujiwara retainers."
"What?! Really...?" Omaru's face had lit up with the dangerous fire of hope.
"Surely. I see you have the blessing of the Wind deity, Fūjin. With enough effort, you can make it."
"Fūjin ha, but master Arikuni, how do you know that?" Omaru gasped, his gaze still fixed on the young master.
"Hehehe. I have good eyes," Arikuni had chuckled. And for one fleeting second, Omaru thought he saw Arikuni's eyes glint with a green light.
"Ah, yes... that's when it started. I should have listened to the old teaching: Shiranu ga Hotoke... Not knowing is Buddha."
Omaru opened his eyes just in time to witness Wabonoske standing before him. He unhinged his jaw to swallow Omaru's severed arm whole. The sound of crunching bone and tearing sinew echoed through the silent clearing.
"Ggggggmmmmpt….so sweet."
"I am so sorry, Tuura," he whispered, his voice steady. "It seems I will be going first. If there is a next world... I hope to see you there."
Omaru raised the index finger of his remaining hand. At its tip, a sharp, emerald-green flare of his Reiryoku.
"Without both arms, I can't start the ritual properly even if I wanted to," he thought, a dark calm settling over him. "If this is going to be my end, let it at least be on my own terms."
He turned the lethal energy toward his own chest.
STAB!
Omaru drove his finger deep into his own heart.
"Songs of the Wind God... Fūjin Blood Path: OPEN!"