With Tremulous Cadence 

Three days. For three days he had hidden in the bowels of the castle, slowly making his way towards his goal. He snorted at the guards’ stupidity; each group guarded a separate sector of Houtou Castle, isolated from all of the other squadrons. They didn’t even communicate. Sanzo knew that if not for this he would have been dead within hours.

He had barely slept; intense paranoia roiled in the fore of his mind and he caught a couple of hours of sleep where and when he could, which was not often.

The castle was colossal and labyrinthine, at least on the inside; stairs that should lead to the dungeons lead to the roof, stairs to the roof led to the second-floor guest rooms. The castle had no sense of dimension and Sanzo had the sinking feeling that there was a lot of space crammed into only a modest-sized castle. The ensuing confusion made him feel like gouging his own eyes out.

He was becoming increasingly worried about the number of youkai that he had killed; Sanzo knew that he was no saint, even before coming here, but he had a terrible, growing feeling of unease that he was rapidly reaching the one-thousand mark.

He pulled up out of his crouch, pushing the dismembered body of yet another guard into the handy alcove behind him. He swore; the movement had jolted the body, shooting a spurt of arterial blood into his eye. Squinting around cautiously, to check for observers, and satisfied that no one was watching, he scrubbed at his eye in a panic, the irritation causing the reddened eyeball to tear up in retaliation.

When he was able to see again, he kicked the body angrily.

Sanzo had been using his bullets sparingly, from the small supply he had kept inside his robe. He had run out and his gun was finally useless. What was he going to use it for now, bludgeoning someone to death? He winced at the picture that would make.

He had mainly been relying on the weapons that he had been able to steal from his victims. His two swords hung uncomfortably across his bare back, the straps running crosswise across his chest and finishing at the twin scabbards behind him. The swords were long; each designed to be drawn over the opposite shoulder. This meant that he could unsheathe them smoothly and simultaneously without extending his arms unnecessarily. He was growing fond of them, or as fond as you could grow of swords, but he was faintly disturbed by the cross the straps made over his chest – what was he, a bloodthirsty Christian missionary, destined to convert heathens by whatever means necessary?

Sanzo had discarded his robe very early on, realising how impractical they were. It chafed, but he would rather be cold than dead. Of course, it seemed like the largest sacrifice that he would have to make at the time, but he had had to eventually discard his arm guards and shirt as well; youkai blood had a slightly corrosive property, especially on leather.

He wondered what Gojyo would say, Sanzo wandering the halls of Houtou Castle dressed in little more than his jeans and boots, festooned in weaponry and slick with blood, some of it his own. Probably nothing; the incredulous laughter would say it all for him.

He ducked into a doorway as a pair of guards sauntered past complacently, more interested in getting off their watch than staying alert for intruders. He waited for them to turn the corner, his muscles tense, the deep wound in his shoulder aching.

Come on, hurry up…Don’t you have a girl to fuck or something? In his nervous agitation, he accidentally slipped against the doorframe, the scabbard of his sword causing a dull thud.

One guard turned to the other, his ears pricking up. “Hey, did you hear something?”

The older guard nodded and together they cautiously proceeded through the doorway.

Sanzo’s breath rasped loud in his ears. He had secreted himself beneath a silken daybed, a ridiculous piece of furniture, overblown and extravagant. From the way it was reinforced underneath, it seemed that the person who had once occupied it had displayed both the clumsiness and carriage of a small elephant.

The guards had their backs turned to him, inspecting the inside of a large mahogany wardrobe. Good. Now, while they were distracted…

He slunk out from beneath the bed, his boots cat-quiet on the thick rug that insulated the floor. He rose into a crouch, unsheathing his swords with a silken rasp of metal. The guards spun, cursing, but in one movement he had severed the first from his knees and held his unbloodied sword at the throat of the younger. The oldest guard gibbered in pain, the stumps of his legs twitching as blood gushed out in a crimson river. In his horror, the remaining guard was distracted, and with that, Sanzo cleaved head from body. He felt an unusual pang of pity for the dying guard and slit his throat, if only to end the unsettling animal shrieks that issued from it.

Sanzo had found, after a while, that it was best not to think too much about what he was doing. He just reminded himself that it was necessary. All of it. He wiped his swords clean on the rug and tried to remove the worst of the blood from his body, only succeeding in rubbing it in further. His hair was riddled with the stuff, matted into hard chunks of rust and gold, his chakra nearly obscured by more of it. The thick, metallic reek hung in the air, rich and profane.

The wound in his shoulder bled sluggishly and he rebound it with silk – fuschia! – ripped from the bed. It was a dull ached now; nearly every inch of him had been torn open in some way. He knew that if he survived he would be a bed of scars, top to toe.

He felt a sick satisfaction as the silk slowly darkened to red. It was better than pink, he felt.

He somehow didn’t think that he would retain his post after this, blessing of Kanzeon or not. With every youkai that he killed his heart beat louder in his ears, reminding him of the price of his – fah! – compassion. Nonattachment was taught for a reason – so that you didn’t get into situations like this one.

Sanzo left the room and continued on through the castle, pausing only to deal with those that crossed his path. He had a theory about how the castle worked: every guard that he had come across so far had wielded a small amount of ki; just enough to make then mildly telepathic – not enough for straight communication, but enough to enforce a command.

It was purpose. Every person in the castle had a purpose for being there, and a destination in mind. If he could just project his firmly enough, he could get to where he wanted to be. It wasn’t like he was lacking in ki energy; on the contrary, he was bursting at the seams. How else could he manipulate the sutras?

He sped up, each ground-eating stride more firmly enforcing his connection to the rock.

He was running now, forwards, a hunter’s lope that took him past the guards and…through the walls. Through the walls, doors and floors, his purpose carried him, an unearthly melding between castle and human that was never meant to work. He was sure that it was only the youkai blood smearing his skin that protected him from instant death, entombed within thick rock or caught in the walls, half in and half out.

With a jolt that seemed to wrench his stomach up through his mouth, he broke into open space, gulping the stale air that was offered. The windows were high and barred, faint sunlight shining down in patches upon the floor. These cells were empty; fetid, rotting remains of prisoners lay discarded on the floor, a testament to Gyokumen Koushu’s cruelty.

He peered around the corner and his eyes widened involuntarily. A single cage dominated the room, open at three sides and fixed to the wall. Within it were Hakkai, Gojyo and Goku, swathed in chains and securely manacled to the wall. The cage was surrounded by a team of guards; twelve by his count. Specialist ones, too; each one wore Gyokumen’s official livery, deep crimson and blue, accented with silver piping.

He slumped against the wall, closing his eyes. How the hell was he supposed to solve this one? He thought that at least one of them would have gotten free by this point; then again, when Gyokumen’s men carried them off they had been well and truly silenced, Gojyo with a knot the size of an egg behind his ear.

He breathed in deeply, readying himself. If he was going to die, he would take them down with him. He drew a throwing dagger from his belt, weighing it in his hand. The youkai he had taken this from hadn’t even had time to use it. Balancing it between thumb and forefinger, he leant around the corner and aimed. 

 Three, two, one… 

He threw, exhaling in satisfaction when it buried itself in the guard’s eye. As one, the remaining guards turned to face the threat. Behind them he saw Hakkai’s eyes flicker open, looking with them. Sanzo wiped sweat from his forehead, leaving a blooding smear on the back of his hand. Now or never.

With an oath, he charged round the corner, drawing his swords with a snick of sliding metal.

He beheaded the first after a flurry of parrying, trying to fend off the guards at his back and sides. No dancing around in line for these guards; they were professionals, not clumsy noble boys looking for a fight. 

Ten. 

He took the next guard out with a backwards thrust to his stomach, trying to buy Hakkai enough time to ready a ki-blast. 

Nine. 

The fourth he stabbed in the neck, twisting awkwardly. He swore, slipping in a pool of blood and grazing his cheek. The pounding of his heart was getting louder now, with every guard he killed. He scrabbled on the floor, struggling to rise as he was stabbed through the shoulder. He got that bastard in the ankle with the dagger he had retrieved, causing him to tumble to the ground. As a shield he was poor; mercilessly, his fellows killed him, giving Sanzo no advantage whatsoever and slashing open his calf in the process.

Eight. 

Hakkai had finally readied his blast; the energy coalesced around his hands, funnelling into a beam that finished off four of the guards as their guts exploded, showering Sanzo with blood and…other matter. He tried not to inspect himself too closely as he stood.

Seven. Six. Five. 

Distractedly seeing Hakkai collapse back against his chains, he winded the next with a roundhouse kick to the stomach, balancing unsteadily on his bad leg. While the guard gasped, he slit its throat from ear to ear.

Four. 

He stabbed with his sword and dragged it upwards, noticing that as it spasmed there was a jingle of metal. He snatched up the ring of keys and slid it over his hand.

Three. 

He used the keys to blind the next with a flick of his wrist, the sharp serrated edges doing his work for him. As it fell he slammed the sword into its mouth and through its spinal chord, kicking the weapon like a spade in unyielding ground. It severed, eventually, but he couldn’t retrieve the sword.

Two. 

The remaining guards came at him from either side, walls of glittering steel. He kicked the feet out from under the one of them, wincing as pain reverberated up his injured leg. He severed its head instantly, worried that any hesitation and the final guard would get to him first.

One. 

He punched it, smiling grimly as its head snapped back. His relief only lasted for a moment; it surged up, raking its claws down his chest and opening four parallel slashes from sternum to navel. He howled and dropped his sword in agony, reaching out blindly to snap its neck with his bare hands. His nails dug into its skin, drawing blood. He could slowly feel the animal surging up in him, his pulse crashing in his ears, but he knew that he wasn’t quite there yet. He still had time.

Just not as much as he had thought.