Chapter 1

THE MAN-EATING REDCAP, BISCO AKABOSHI, read the piece of paper in ridiculously huge writing. The man depicted in its center had spiky red hair, a pair of cracked goggles on his head, and a feral expression, as though he might leap off the page at any moment. There was a bright-red tattoo around his right eye. The image of his face made it clear he was a man to avoid. Below was written: AGE: 17. HEIGHT: APPROX. 180 CM. REWARD: 800,000 SOLS, marked with the sign of Gunma Prefecture. The flyer hung beside the checkpoint window, fluttering in the Rust Wind, as a young pilgrim eyed it carefully. “Interested?” asked the checkpoint guard, an overweight, hairy-faced individual, looking up from his papers. The pilgrim looked back at him and nodded. His head was wrapped in inscribed bandages, obscuring his face. “Any place he passes through becomes infested with mushrooms. That’s why they call him the Redcap. He’s all anyone ever talks about down at the office. The base of Akagi Mountain, one of our greatest tourist attractions, is just a mess of mushrooms now, thanks to him.” “And what about the Man-Eating part?” asked the pilgrim. “Well, that’s because he eats people, of course!” The guard quaffed some cheap booze and, evidently amused by his own words, gave a boisterous laugh. “Nah, but seriously, he’s a real scoundrel, that one. You wanderers might not be aware, but his mushrooms are no joke. He just fires his bow, like this…” The guard leaned out the window and performed an exaggerated motion. “…Aims it wherever, soil or steel, doesn’t matter. And then, boom! This huge mushroom springs up outta nowhere! No land is so sacred that those Mushroom Keepers won’t wreak their havoc. I mean, just look at him! Don’t he look like he’d take a bite outta ya given half the chance?” The pilgrim simply stared at the guardsman laughing his hairy face off before turning his attention back to the flyer. “The Man-Eating Redcap, Bisco Akaboshi…” “But anyway, you don’t need to worry about him. There ain’t never been a scoundrel who could escape the Gunma police. The Redcap’s reign of terror ends here. He’ll be no danger to your pilgrimage.” The guard tore the flyer off the wall and eyed it closely. “Heh, his name’s Bisco, apparently. What a joke. Kid musta had some lousy parents.” Then, losing interest in the outlaw, he tossed it away. Returning to the pilgrim’s papers, he took the final page and attempted to run it through a grimy old scanner. When the smudges and fingerprints made it impossible for the barcode to scan, he stood up, audibly frustrated. “Ota! I thought you fixed this piece o’ junk! It ain’t giving me shit!” The pilgrim heaved a brief sigh and waited, watching the wanted poster as the desert wind swept it up and carried it over the sands. The southern checkpoint connected the prefectures of Gunma and Saitama, and very few people frequented it. After passing through, travelers were greeted with nothing but the sprawling iron sands of the Saitama Desert, beyond which, in the place once called Tokyo, was an enormous hole in the ground. Relations between Gunma and the neighboring prefectures of Niigata and Tochigi were strained, and the checkpoints in the north and east had long since been closed off. Travelers heading east were forced to take this southerly route, pass through the Tokyo Crater, and cross the Desert of Death into the prefecture south of Tochigi: Imihama. This route was a critical path for religious groups like the Allspiriters and Flamebound, whose teachings mandated a pilgrimage across the entire country, and there was immense pressure on the Gunma government to keep it open. Beyond the checkpoint, there was no cover to protect you from the Rust Wind that spewed forth from the hole. Whatever happened to you out there, whether the wind eroded your body away or the Scorched Eels got to you first, wasn’t the government’s concern. That much was known. The pilgrim squinted into the dusty wind and tended to the bandages around his skin. His mummy-like garb was not particularly unusual, as these were the traveling clothes of the Flamebound, whose monks were a familiar sight farther west. However, with the July sun bearing down on him, even he was feeling the heat, and he wiped away some sweat from around his right eye. “Right, young man. Sorry about the wait,” said the border guard, returning to his seat. The pilgrim stopped examining the dull-white wall that protected the checkpoint from sandstorms and returned to the window, not once compromising his pious demeanor. “Eugh… Destination: Imihama. Purpose: pilgrimage. You’re a long way from Kansai, son,” said the hairy guard, shifting his gaze between the photo on the papers and the man standing before him. “Wataru Watarigani… That really your name?” “It’s my monk name,” replied the monk. “Wataru Watarigani.” “And your real name?” “Long gone.” “Huh… And what’s with the luggage? Can’t see what a monk like you would need with all that.” The monk looked back over his shoulder at the dog-drawn cart behind him. It was as large as a truck and covered with a cloth. “Bodies,” he replied simply. “Not all survive the Death Breath techniques. I am returning their remains to the Rust Wind.” “Blech. You guys creep me out,” grumbled the guard, turning away from the window. “Hey, Ota! Go check what’s under the cloth. He says it’s a pile of stiffs.” As the younger of the two border guards headed out to take a look, the monk called out, “I wouldn’t if I were you. We’ve stuffed the bodies with live centipedes to slow the decomposition. They really don’t like the light, you see, and they’re plenty capable of tearing off a finger or two when they get mad.” The hairy guard looked at his colleague, who was staring back, pale-faced. After a moment’s consideration, he spat in anger and gestured Ota back inside. “Open the gate!” The huge gate rose, loudly scraping off the rust that plagued its mechanisms, and the monk gave a single, silent bow before returning to his cart. The guardsman sat back and watched him go, when suddenly the shortbow on the monk’s back glinted in the light, catching his eye. “…Hey. The Flamebound using bows now?” “Indeed,” said the monk, turning around. “We’re not forbidden from killing, after all.” “I know that, son,” said the bearded guard, pressing the question. “But I heard you weren’t allowed to use projectiles like guns and bows. Something about not feeling the weight of taking a life.” A silence filled the air. The monk did not respond. When the guard stared into his burning eyes through the gaps in his bandages, his fifteen years of experience guarding the checkpoint sent alarm bells ringing. “Listen. It’s been a while since I heard the scriptures. Even an unbeliever like me gets a little nostalgic from time to time.” Behind his back, the border guard gestured the emergency signal to his colleague. “Mind giving us a little reading? No monk would ever refuse a chance to proselytize, would they?” The tension was palpable. Though the wind kicked up sand into the air, the pilgrim didn’t so much as blink. He narrowed his green eyes, and a single fang peeked through the loose bandages around the corners of his mouth. “To help kids grow up big and strong…” “…What?” “Sweet and healthy Bisco.” The pilgrim’s voice became harsh and coarse, like grit. “It’s a good name, filled with loving prayers. You have no right to mock it.” “You’re no monk!” “Say ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Bisco, sir!’” The hairy-faced border guard quickly drew his pistol and fired, but the bullet merely grazed the pilgrim’s ear, undoing his bandages. His scarlet hair burst forth, exposed to the bone-dry air. He cast off his disguise and glared. His green irises glimmered like they could pierce through stone. His blazing-red hair stood on end, fluttering in the dusty wind like a knight’s standard. He didn’t even flinch at the bullet. He simply raised his hand to his face and wiped his sweat-slick skin, clearing away the makeup and revealing the crimson tattoo around his right eye. “It’s the Man-Eating Redcap!” “Who you calling man-eating?!” Bisco drew his shortbow, which glinted emerald in the sunlight. He reached for the quiver beneath his cloak and hastily nocked a scarlet arrow, loosing it toward the checkpoint station. It whizzed past the guardsman’s head, causing him to cry out in fright, before embedding itself in a pinup calendar on the checkpoint wall. Immediately, an enormous crack ran right through the wall, splitting it in two. “Wh-what kind of bow is that?!” “M-Mr. Inoshige, l-l-look at that!” The guardsman followed Ota’s finger and saw a bunch of small, red, round…buds, of some sort, appearing all over the room, spreading out from the crack in the wall. Soon, there was a pop, and they began to grow, unfurling like bright-red umbrellas, their stalks expanding, pushing at the seams of the checkpoint building, until it was obvious even to the untrained eye what they were. “Oh wow! Th-they’re mushrooms!” “Ota, you idiot, get away from them!” Ota reached for his telephoto camera, but the hairy guard grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and ran for the exit. However, before they even made it to the doorway, there was a series of Gaboom! Gaboom! noises as, one by one, the bright-red mushrooms swelled to enormous sizes, blasting the checkpoint to bits.